The Works of Capt. Alex. Radcliffe :: :: University of Virginia Library

So dark the Night was that old Charon
Could not carry Ghostly Fare-on;
But was forc'd to leave his Souls,
Stark stript of Bodies, 'mongst the Shoals
Of Black Sea-Toads, and other Fry,
Which on the Stygian Shore do lie:
Th' amazed Spirits desire recess
To their old batter'd Carcases;
But as they turn about, they find
The Night more dismal is behind.

Pluto began to fret and fume
Because the Tilt Boat did not come.

To the Shore's side he strait way trudges
With his three Soul-censuring Judges,
Standing on Acherontic Strand,
He thrice three times did waft his Wand:
From gloomy Lake did strait arise
A meager Fiend, with broad blew Eyes;
Approaching Pluto, as he bow'd,
From's head there dropt Infernal Mud;
Quoth he, Atenebris & luto
I come—'Tis well, quoth surly Pluto.
“Go you to t'other side of Styx,
“And know why Charon's so prolix:
“Surely on Earth there cannot be
“A Grant of Immortality.
Away the wrigling Fiend soon scuds
Through Liquids thick as Soap and Suds.

In the mean while old Eacus,
Craftier far than any of us;

For mortal Men to him are silly;
Besides he held a League with Lilly;
And what is acted here does know
As well as t'other does below:
Thus spake, “Thou mighty King of Orcus,
“Who into any shape canst work us;
“I to your Greatness shall declare
“My Sentiments of this Affair.
“Charon you know did use to come
“With some Elucid Spirit home;
“Some Poet bright, whose glowing Soul
“Like Torch did light him cross the Pool:
“Old Charon then was blithe and merry,
“With Flame and Rhapsody in Ferry.
“Shou'd he gross Souls alone take in,
“Laden with heavy rubbish Sin;
“Sin that is nothing but Allay;
“'Tis ten to one he'd lose his way.
“But now such Wights with Souls so clear
“Must not have Damnation here;

“Nor can we hope they'l hither move,
“For know (Grim Sir) they're damn'd above;
“They're damn'd on Earth by th' present Age,
“Damn'd in Cabals, and damn'd o'th' Stage.
“Laureat, who was both learn'd and florid,
“Was damn'd long since for silence horrid:
“Nor had there been such clutter made,
“But that this silence did invade:
“Invade! and so't might well, that's clear:
“But what did it invade?—an Ear.
“And for some other things, 'tis true,
“We follow Fate that does pursue.

A Lord who was in Metre wont
To call a Privy Member C---
Whose Verse, by Women termed lewd,
Is still preserv'd, not understood.
But that which made 'em curse and ban,
Was for his Satyr against Man.

A third was damn'd, 'cause in his Plays
He thrusts old Jests in Archoe's days:
Nor as they say can make a Chorus
Without a Tavern or a Whore-house;
Which he to puzzle vulgar thinking,
Does call by th' name of Love and Drinking.

A fourth for writing superfine,
With words correct in every Line:
And one that does presume to say,
A Plot's too gross for any Play:
Comedy should be clean and neat,
As Gentlemen do talk and eat.
So what he writes is but Translation,
From Dog and Patridge conversation:

A fifth, who does in's last prefer
'Bove all, his own dear Character:
And fain wou'd seem upon the Stage
Too Manly for this flippant Age.

A sixth, whose lofty Fancy towers
'Bove Fate, Eternity and Powers:
Rumbles i'th' Sky, and makes a bustle;
So Gods meet Gods i'th dark and justle.

Seventh, because he'd rather chuse
To spoil his Verse than tire his Muse.
Nor will he let Heroicks chime;
Fancy (quoth he) is lost by Rhime.
And he that's us'd to clashing Swords
Should not delight in sounds of words.
Mars with Mercury should not mingle;
Great Warriours shou'd speak big, not jingle.

Amongst this Heptarchy of Wit,
The censuring Age have thought it fit
To damn a Woman, 'cause 'tis said,
The Plays she vends she never made.
But that a Greys Inn Lawyer does 'em,
Who unto her was Friend in Bosom.

So not presenting Scarf and Hood,
New Plays and Songs are full as good.

These are the better sort I grant,
Damn'd onely by the Ignorant:
But still there are a scribling Fry
Ought to be damn'd eternally;
An unlearn'd Tribe, o'th' lower rate,
Who will be Poets spite of Fate;
Whose Character's not worth reciting,
They scarce can read, yet will be writing:
As t'other day a silly Oafe
Instead of Jove did call on Jofe:
Whose humble Muse descends to Cellars,
Or at the best to Herc'les Pillars.
Now Charon I presume does stop,
Expecting one of these wou'd drop;
For any such Poetick Damn'd-boy
Will light him home as well as Flambeau.

Eacus just had made an end,
When did arrive the dripping Fiend,
Who did confirm the Judges speech,
That Charon did a Light beseech.
They fell to Consultation grave,
To find some strange enlightned Knave.
Faux had like t'have been the Spark,
But that his Lanthorn was too dark.
At last th' agreed a sullen Quaker
Should be this business Undertaker;
The fittest Soul for this exploit,
Because he had the newest Light:
Him soon from sable Den they drag,
Who of his Sufferings doth brag;
And unto Heel of Fiend being ty'd,
To Charons Vessel was convey'd.
Charon came home, all things were well;
This is the onely News from Hell.

As concerning Man.

To what intent or purpose was Man made,
Who is by Birth to misery betray'd?
Man in his tedeous course of life runs through
More Plagues than all the Land of Egypt knew.
Doctors, Divines, grave Disputations, Puns,
Ill looking Citizens and scurvy Duns;
Insipid Squires, fat Bishops, Deans and Chapters,
Enthusiasts, Prophecies, new Rants and Raptures;
Pox, Gout, Catarrhs, old Sores, Cramps, Rheums and Aches;
Half witted Lords, double chinn'd Bawds with Patches;
Illiterate Courtiers, Chancery Suits for Life,
A teazing Whore, and a more tedeous Wife;
Raw Inns of Court men, empty Fops, Buffoons,
Bullies robust, round Aldermen, and Clowns;

Gown-men which argue, and discuss, and prate,
And vent dull Notions of a future State;
Sure of another World, yet do not know
Whether they shall be sav'd, or damn'd, or how.

'Twere better then that Man had never been,
Than thus to be perplex'd: God save the Queen.

Have a care what you do.

I

While Men endeavoured to adorn
The guilded Crest of bloudy Mars,
Poor Love met with contempt and scorn,
Nor had he one Rag to his Arse.

II

His Wings were clogg'd with melting Snow,
Hardly supported by his Legs:

He had no string left to his Bow,
His Arrows too had lost their Pegs.

III

I who had always seen him gay,
Wondered to find him thus distrest;
I told him if with me he'd stay,
He might be welcom to my Breast.

IV

With a faint Smile he shew'd his joy,
And softly to his Lodgings crept,
Where some design disturb'd the Boy,
He prattled all the time he slept.

V

With a large Sigh his Soul I fill'd,
Which made a rumbling in his Guts;
Into his mouth I Tears distill'd,
Tears bigger far than Hazzle Nuts.

VI

His strength return'd to every Limb,
I let him round about me play;
I thought my self secure of him,
Not dreaming he wou'd run away.

VII

But this base perfidious Elf
Ungratefully from me did part,
Not onely stole away himself,
But took along with him my Heart.

VIII

To Cælia then I did repair
With peremptory Hue and Cry,
Being assur'd this stolen Ware
Must light into her custody.

IX

She own'd it with obsequious art,
And drew on me this dire mishap,
'Stead of returning me my Heart
She gave me a confounded Clap.

A Hard Case.

When trembling Pris'ners stand at Bar
In strange suspence about the Verdict:
And when pronounc'd they Guilty are,
How they're astonish'd when they've heard it!

When in a Storm a Ship is toss'd,
All ask, What does the Captain say?
How they bemoan themselves as lost,
When his Advice is onely, Pray!

And as it was my pleasing chance
To meet fair Cælia in a Grove;
Both Time and Place conspir'd t'advance
The innocent designs of Love.

I thought my happiness compleat.
'Twas in her power to make it so:
I ask'd her if she'd do the feat,
But (silly Soul!) she answer'd, No.

Poor Pris'ners may have mercy shewn,
And shipwreck'd men may have the luck
To see their Tempests overblown,
But Cælia I shall never

The Canary Mistress.

Fondling forbear, 'tis Heresie to think
There is a Mistress equal to thy Drink;
Or if in love with any, 't must be rather
With that plump Girl that does call Bacchus Father.
Thou mayst out-look, arm'd with her warm embrace,
Ten thousand Volleys shot from Womans Face,
Who wou'd withstand without this Aid Divine
Ten thousand times as many Tears of thine;
As many Sighs and Prayers would be her sport,
Exalted she so long maintains her Fort.
But when Diviner Sack hath fir'd thy Bloud,
Creating Flames which cannot be withstood;
To which is added Confidence as great
As his, that aim'd at Joves Celestial Seat;

Boldly march on, not granting her the leisure
Of Parly; 'tis the Speed augments the Pleasure.
If she cry out, with Kisses stop her Breath;
She cannot wish to die a better Death.
Tell her the pleasant passages between
The God of War and Loves more gentle Queen.
When feeble Vulcan came, and in a fear
Lest they wou'd not continue longer there,
He chain'd 'em to the sport, with an intent
To keep such Lovers for a Precedent;
Glad to behold a tempting pleasure that
His weak Endeavours never could create.
Then stroke her Breasts those Mountains of Delight,
Whose very Touch would fire an Anchorite.
Next let thy wanton Palm a little stray,
And dip thy Fingers in the Milky Way:
Thus having raiz'd her, gently let her fall,
Loves Trumpets sound, Now Mortal have at all.

A happy end thus made of all your sport,
Lead her where every Lover shou'd resort,
Where Madam Sack's enthron'd, the tempting'st
That e'er was seated in a Venice Glass.
Last, that this sense of Pleasure may remain, Lass
Cast away Thought and fall to Drink again.
Drink off the Glasses, swallow every Bowl,
And pity him that sighs away his Soul
For that poor trifle Woman, who is mine
With one small Gallon of Immortal Wine.
To get a Mistress Drinking is the knack;
Love's grand existence is Almighty Sack.

What are you mad?

I'll mount my thoughts to Giant height,
I'm Constellation in conceit.
I'll pluck down Sol, and mount his Sphere;
Then sullen Daphne shall appear,

And seeing me grasp Phœbus Rays,
Shall cringe and crown me with her Bays.
I'll rape the Moon, it shall be said,
Cynthia hath chang'd the name of Maid;
Her twinkling Girles shall all be ta'en,
No Virgin left to bear her Train.
Thus conquering Sun, Moon, and Stars,
'Gainst Gods themselves I'll levy Wars.
Or if on Earth my Mind can rest,
I'll be a Monarch at the least.
Our dull Plebeians shall grow quicker,
Rincing their muddy Brains in Liquor.
The Miser then shall scatter Cash,
For Wine shall change his Balderdash;
And sing and drink, and drink and sing,
Till every Subject turns a King.
The conquer'd Gods shall make us Legs,
Intreating they may sip the dregs.
Thus will we tipple till the World
Into Oblivion is hurld:

And when we feel old Age does come,
We'll post into Elysium;
And there our chiefest Joys shall be
To think of past Felicity.

Money's All.

Beauty is Nature's quaint Disguise,
A Covert for the Game we hunt;
Being pinch'd but once or twice it dies,
And leaves behind a slimy

Honour's the pleasing Cheat of Men,
The White that does discover Blots;
Like to the Plague at height, which then
Produceth gawdy purple spots.

Wisdom the Souls grave penury,
Which he that owns dares not be brave;

But with dull Morals must comply,
Lest the fond Age should call him Knave.

But he whose Wealth ne'er knew a measure,
May be truly termed free;
For while he rules alone in Treasure,
He commands the other three.

Several Late SONGS Burlesqu'd or Varied.

As Amoret and Phyllis sate, &c.

As Tom and I well warm'd with Wine
Were sitting at the Rose,
In came Sir John with dire design
To ply us in the close.

The threatning Bumpers to remove
I whisper'd in his Ear;
Ah Tom, a bloudy Night 'twill prove,
There is no staying here.
There is no, &c.

None ever yet had such an art
In filling to the Brim;
Nor can you e'er expect to part,
If once engag'd with him.

Fly, fly betimes, for at this rate,
We certainly are sunk:
In vain (said Tom) in vain you prate,
I am already drunk.
I am already drunk.

Hail to the Myrtle Shades, &c.

Pitty the private Cabal,
Ah pitty the Green Ribbon Club;
They've cut off poor Strephon's Entail,
And Strephon has met with a rub.

Strephon has still the same Creatures,
Who fill him with many a doubt;
But Strephon won't stoop to his Betters;
Ah Strephon, ah why so stout!

Strephon once caper'd and pranc'd;
Who but Strephon at Masks and at Balls!
Strephon the Saraband danc'd,
But Strephon now leads up the Brawls.
Strephon who ne'er had the skill
To use either Figure or Trope;
For Strephon has no lofty Style,
Nor e'er was cut out for a Pope.

Strephon though not by his Tongue
Has drawn to him Parties and Factions,
People that make the day long
By buzzing of private Transactions.
Strephon has little to say,
But laughs at the Lord knows what;

But the Club meets every day,
And sits with eternal Chat.

The Poor Whore's Song, in allusion to the Begging Souldier, Good your Worship cast an Eye, &c.

Good young Leacher cast an Eye
Upon a poor Whores misery:
Let not my antiquated Front
Make you less free than you were wont.
But like a noble Rogue
Do but disembogue,
And you shall have our constant vogue;
For I am none of those
That a bulking goes,
And often shows
Their Bridewell blows,

Or New Prison Lash,
For filing of Cash,
Or nimming Prigsters of their Trash.

But I at Court have often been
Within the view of King and Queen;
A Guiney to me was no more
Than Fifteen Pence to a Suburb Whore:
And when he did tilt,
I did briskly jilt,
And swallow'd Pego to the Hilt.
A Pox was very near,
For Bubo did appear,
Had not my Surgeon then been there.

Once at the Bear in Drury Lane
The Bullies left me for a Pawn;
But I made my party good,
To Fifteen Guinneys and a Broad.

Oh you wou'd little ween
How that I have been
As great a Jilt as e'er was seen.
But if Mother Bennet came
With a Wheedle or a Flam,
She'd tell you how I cut the Sham.

From thence I march'd to Creswels House,
Under the name of a Merchants Spouse;
And there I play'd the secret Lover,
Lest jealous Husband shou'd discover.
Oh then came in the Rings,
And such like things,
Which eldest Prentice often brings.
But now my poor—
Contrary to its wont,
Must pocket any small Affront.

Now Now the Fight's done, &c.

Now Now the Heart's broke,
Which so long has complain'd;
And Clarinda triumphs
In the Conquest sh'as gain'd.
Love laughs at the sight,
At the mischief does crow;
For a Love-wounded Heart
Is to him a fine Show.
He plays up and down, and he sports with the Heart,
And he shews it about on the point of his Dart.

But since the coy Nymph
So disdainful is grown,

The power of her Charms
We'll for ever disown;
We'll slight the fond Brat,
Love no longer shall wrack us,
We'll shake off his Chains
For the pleasures of Bacchus.
Then fill us more Wine, fill the Glass to the brim;
Thus we'll patch up our Hearts, they shall last our Life-time.

Tell me dearest pr'ythee do, Why thou wilt and wilt not too, &c.

Tell me, Jack, I pr'ythee do,
Why the Glass still sticks with you:
What does Bus'ness signifie,
If you let your Claret die?

Wine when first pour'd from the Bottle
All its strength and vigour flies;
So says ancient Aristotle.
If it stand
In your hand,
It will then disband
All its Spirits in a trice.
Who dares then refuse to swallow
All the Wine that out he puts,
Will find some heavy Judgments follow,
Vinegar,
Single Beer,
Or such dismal Gear,
To torment his wambling Guts.

Since to all subduing Wine
Lofty Arguments resign;
He wrongs himself that sits and prates
Of grave Matters or Debates.

Talk not then of Merchandizes,
Or what Interest may accrue
By Taxes, Subsidies, Excises,
Liberty,
Property,
Or Monopoly;
'Slife 'tis enough to make one spue.
Be as you were ever jolly,
Let it not stick at your door;
Bus'ness is the greatest folly.
Here's a Glass,
Let it pass,
He's a formal Ass,
That e'er talks of Bus'ness more.

Mr. Drydens Description of Night.

All things were hush'd as Nature's self lay dead,
The Mountains seem to nod their drowsie head;
The little Birds in Dreams their Songs repeat,
And sleeping Flowers beneath the Night dew sweat.
Even Lust and Envy slept, &c.

Thus Burlesqu'd.

All things were hush as when the Drawers tread
Softly to steal the Key from Masters head.

The dying Snuffs do twinkle in their Urns,
As if the Socket, not the Candle, burns.
The little Foot-boy snoars upon the Stair,
And greasie Cook-maid sweats in Elbow Chair.
No Coach nor Link was heard, &c.

Disdain, yet still I will love thee; Nothing, &c.

Fill't up, yet still I will take it;
Fill't up, I'll ne'er forsake it:
Although
My doom I know,
This Glass another will usher,
Good faith it must be so,
Though drinking of this Brusher,
I shall neither stand nor go.

Now at last the Riddle is expounded, &c.

Old Beelzebub was Father of Sedition;
Pride and Arrogance began division
In Religion,
And taught men to combine.
Fetch up the t'other double Bottle,
I will wash away design;
Bring a Spinster, though she have a hot Tail,
No Kingdom is enflam'd by Love or Wine.

The busie Party are the idle Fellows,
Fools that are suspicious and too jealous,
Let Hell loose,
The Devil's in 'em sure.
While he that drinks de die & in diem,
And all night hugs a Whore;

What Treason or Rebellion can come nigh him,
Since he's employ'd each minute of an hour?

To the Tune of Per fas per nefas.

A pox o' these Fellows contriving,
They've spoilt our pleasant design;
We were once in a way of true living,
Improving Discourse by good Wine.
But now Conversation grows tedeous,
O'er Coffee they still confer Notes;
'Stead of Authors both learn'd and facetious,
They quote onely Dugdalo and Oats.

A Traytor still gives a denyal,
When a Glass is fill'd up to the best:
By drinking we know who is Loyal,
A Brimmer's the onely Test.

He that takes it's untaunted of Treason,
He from all Impeachment is freed;
He may lose his Feet for a season,
But never shall lose his Head.

An Epitaph upon the Worthy and truly Vigilant, Sam. Micoe Esq

Here Honest Micoe lies, who never knew
Whether the Parish Clock went false or true.
A true bred English Gentleman, for he
Never demanded yet Quel heur est il?
He valued not the Rise of Sun or Moon,
Nor e'er distinguish'd yet their Night from Noon.
Untill at last by chance he clos'd his Eyes,
And Death did catch him napping by surprize.

But first he thus spoke to the King of Fears,
Have I in Taverns spent my blooming years,
Outsate the Beadle nodding in his Chair,
Outwatch'd the Bulker and the Burglarer;
Outdrank all measure fill'd above the Seal,
When some weak Brethren to their Beds did reel;
And there when last nights Bottles were on board,
When Squires in Cloaks wrapt up in corners snoar'd;
I onely clad in my old Night Campain,
Call'd for more Wine and drank to 'em again?
Have I made Sir John Robinson to yield,
Sent haughty Langston staggering from the Field?
And unto meager Death now must I sink,
Death that eats all without a drop of Drink?
You steal my Life (grim Tyrant) 'cause you knew
Had I sate up I'd kill'd more men than you.

Quoth surly Death, Statutum est, sic dico;
Sat vigilasti—Bonos Nochios Micoe.

Upon Mr. Bennet, Procurer Extraordinary.

Reader beneath this Marble Stone
Saint Valentine's Adopted Son,
Bennet the Bawd now lies alone.

Here lies alone the Amorous Spark,
Who was us'd to lead them in the dark
Like Beasts by Pairs into the Ark.

If Men of Honour wou'd begin,
He'd ne'er stick out at any Sin,
For he was still for Sticking't in.

If Justice chiefest of the Bench
Had an occasion for a Wench,
His reverend Flames 'twas he cou'd quench.

And for his Son and Heir apparent,
He cou'd perform as good an errand
Without a Tipstaff or a Warrant.

Over the Clergy had such a lock,
That he could make a Spiritual Frock
Fly off at sight of Temporal Smock.

Like Will 'ith' wisp still up and down
He led the Wives of London Town,
To lodge with Squires of high renown.

While they (poor Fools) being unaware,
Did find themselves in Mansion fair,
Near Leic'ster Fields or James's Square.

Thus Wotthy Bennet was imploy'd;
At last he held the Door so wide,
He caught a cold, so cough'd, and dy'd.

To a late Scotch Tune.

Thomas did once make my Heart full glad,
When I set him up to rule at the Helm:
But Thomas has prov'd but a naughty Lad,
For Thomas I fear has betray'd my Realm.

I gave him a House, I gave him Grounds,
I gave him a hundred thousand pounds,
I gave him the Lord knows what Gadzounds:
But Thomas, &c.

The finest Courtier that e'er was seen,
He prais'd my Port, and he prais'd my Meen,

He prais'd all the Ladies at Court but the Q---
Yet Thomas, &c.

I gave him all Christian Liberty,
I let him sometimes lig by me,
I let him feel my Duchesses Knee,
Yet Thomas, &c.

Upon a Bowl of Punch.

The Gods and the Goddesses lately did feast,
Where Ambrosia with exquisite Sawces was drest.
The Edibles did with their Qualities suit,
But what they shou'd drink did occasion dispute.
'Twas time that old Nectar shou'd grow out of fashion,
For that they have drank long before the Creation.

When the Sky-coloured Cloth was drawn from the Board,
For the Chrystalline Bowl Great Jove gave the word.
This was a Bowl of most heavenly size,
In which Infant Gods they did use to baptize.

Quoth Jove, We're inform'd they drink Punch upon Earth,
By which mortal Wights do outdo us in mirth.
Therefore our Godheads together let's lay,
And endeavour to make it much stronger than they.
'Twas spoke like a God,—Fill the Bowl to the top,
He's cashier'd from the Skies that leaveth one drop.

Apollo dispatch'd away one of the Lasses,
Who fetch'd him a Pitcher from Well of Parnassus.

To Poets new born this Liquor is brought,
And this they suck in for their first Mornings draught.

Juno for Limons sent into her Closet,
Which when she was sick she infus'd into Posset;
For Goddesses may be as squeamish as Gipsies,
The Sun and the Moon we find have Eclipses.
These Limons were call'd the Hesperian Fruit,
When vigilant Dragon was set to look to't.
Six dozen of these were squeez'd into Water,
The rest of the Ingredients in order come after.

Venus, th' Admirer of things that are sweet,
And without her Infusion there had been no Treat,
Commanded two Sugar-loaves white as her Doves,
Supported to th' Table by a Brace of young Loves.

So wonderful curious these Deities were,
That this Sugar they strain'd through a Sieve of thin Air.

Bacchus gave notice by dangling a Bunch,
That without his Assistance there could be no Punch.
What was meant by his signs was very well known,
So they threw in three Gallons of trusty Langoon.

Mars a blunt God, who car'd not for dis-course,
Was seated at Table still twirling his Whiskers:
Quoth he, Fellow Gods and Celestial Gall-ants,
I'd not give a Fart for your Punch without Nants;
Therefore Boy Ganimede I do command ye,
To fill up the Bowl with a Rundlet of Brandy.

Saturn of all the Gods was the oldest,
And you may imagine his Stomach was coldest,
Did out of his Pouchet three Nutmegs produce,
Which when they were grated were put to the Juice.

Neptune this Ocean of Liquor did crown
With a hard Sea-Bisquet well bak'd by the Sun.

The Bowl being finish'd, a Health was began;
Quoth Jove, Let it be to our Creature call'd Man;
'Tis to him alone these Pleasures we owe,
For Heaven was never true Heaven till now.

Upon the Pyramid.

[_]

To the Tune of Packington's Pound.

I

My Masters and Friends, and good People draw near,
For here's a new Sight which you must not escape,
A stately young Fabrick that cost very dear,
Renown'd for streight body and Barbary shape;
A Pyramid much high'r
Than a Steeple or Spire,
By which you may guess there has been a Fire.
Ah London th' adst better have built new Burdellos,
T'encourage She-Traders and lusty young Fellows.

II

No sooner the City had lost their old Houses,
But they set up this Monument wonderfull tall;
Though when Christians were burnt, as Fox plainly shews us,
There was nothing set up but his Book in the Hall.
And yet these men can't
In their Conscience but grant,
That a House is unworthy compar'd to a Saint.
Ah London, &c.

III

The Children of Men in erecting old Babel,
To be saved from Water did onely desire:
So the City presumes that this young one is able,
When occasion shall serve to secure them from Fire.

Blowing up when all's done
Preserves best the Town,
But this Hieroglyphick will soon be blown down.
Ah London, &c.

IV

Some say it resembles a Glass fit for Mum,
And think themselves witty by giving Nicknames:
An Extinguisher too 'tis fancied by some,
As set up on purpose to put out the Flames.
But whatever they shall
This Workmanship call,
Had it never been thought on 'thad been a Save-all.
Ah London, &c.

V

Some Passengers seem to suspect the grave City,
As men not so wise as they shou'd be, or so;
And oftentimes say, 'Tis a great deal of pity
So much Coin should be spent and so little to show.
But these men ne'er stop
To pay for going up,
For all that's worth seeing is when y'are atop,
Ah London, &c.

[vi]

But O you proud Nation of Citizens all,
Supposing y'had rear'd but onely one stone,
And on it engrav'd a stupendious Tale,
Of a Conflagration the like was ne'er known:
It had been as good
T'have humour'd the Croud,
And then y'had prevented their laughing aloud.
Ah London, &c.

Upon a Superannuated Couple lately married.

I

An Aged Couple have combin'd,
And stock of years together joyn'd,
To vie with Time 'tis now design'd.

II

Old Emblem with thy Sythe and Sand,
Thy canker'd power they do withstand,
Nor Fate it self shall here command.

III

In vain will all their Projects be;
Great Time, they must acknowledge thee,
When they endeavour Rem in Re.

IV

They represent (each tedeous night,
When they their feeble force unite)
Methusalem th' Hermaphrodite.

V

Of the grave Posset made with Sack
A holy Sacrament they make,
Which they with like devotion take.

VI

The dancing Guests like Lightning flew,
This venerable Brace mov'd too
As Cripples in the Jovial Crew.

VII

While Musick play'd this solemn Pair
Kept time to every sprightly Air,
With deep-mouth'd Cough and hoarse Catarth.

VIII

And now their wishes are complete,
With chaste desires in Bed they meet;
The Wedding seems a Winding sheet.

IX

There let us leave them, there they're safe,
The next remove is to their Grave;
Epithalamium proves their Epitaph.

On the Protestants Flail.

In former days th' Invention was of Wracks,
To dislocate mens Joynts and break their Backs:
But this Protestant Flail of a severer sort is,
For Lignum-vitæ here proves Lignum mortis.

The Narrative.

I

Come prick up your Ears, if they are not gone,
For this Deponent hath lost his own;
His Neck goes next 'tis forty to one,
Which no body can deny.

II

Now this Deponent doth depose,
That he was once one of the Kings Foes,
But now he thanks God he's none of those:
Sure our Deponent will lie.

III

He swears that once there was Harry the Eighth,

Who was divorc'd from's first Wife Kate,
And that he cut off anothers Pate,
Which no body can deny.

IV

Even so (quoth he) I can witness bring,
That the Q--- did consent to the death of the K---
But we are inform'd there was no such thing;
For our Deponent will lie.

V

He swears that before the Tower of Babel
Kain knock'd out the Brains of his Brother Abel;
Here he swears to a Truth and not to a Fable;
Which no body can deny.

VI

Even so (quoth he) some bloudy work

Was carried on by his Brother of Y---
But His Highness is neither a Jew nor a Turk
For our Deponent will lie.

VII

He swears that once in Noah's time,
There was a great Floud that brought a great Stream,
And all were drown'd that cou'd not swim;
Which no body can deny.

VIII

And now (God bless us) we're all in a fright,
For we had like t'have been ruin'd quite,
Our Throats should all have been cut in the night;
But our Deponent will lie.

IX

Further he swears that S. Peter from Heav'n,

Had such an absolute power given,
That whom he pleas'd were condemn'd or forgiven,
Which no body can deny.

X

Even so (saith he) Commissions went out
From the Pope to raise both Horse and Foot,
That whom he pleas'd he might slash and cut;
But our Deponent will lie.

XI

Some where or other S. Paul does aver,
That an Oath puts an end to all bustle and stir,
By which he confirms it is lawful to swear;
Which no body can deny.

XII

There was foolish swearing in former days,

But our Deponent has alter'd the case,
For 'has made more mischief than ever there was,
For our Deponent will lie.

The fourteenth Ode of the Second Book of Horace.

Eheu fugaces, Posthume, Posthume,
Labuntur anni ------

See, Posthumus, how years do fly;
Nor can the smoothest Piety
Fill up one wrinkle in the Face,
Or stop Old Ages certain pace,
Or quell Mortality.

When dying if thou shouldst design
To offer up at Pluto's Shrine,

As many Bullocks fat and fair,
As th'are days in every year,
One hour would not be thine.

See the thrice bulky Geryon stand,
Shackled in Ropes of Stygian:
On 't'other side the doleful Pool
See the extended Tityus roul,
Where all Mankind must land.

This irksom Shore must entertain
The greatest Prince that e'er shall reign:
As great a welcom shall be there
Made to the meanest Cottager;
Distinctions are in vain.

In vain we shun the chance of War,
Where the most frequent dangers are.

In vain we do secure our selves
From troubled Seas, or Sands, or Shelves,
Or a cold Winter fear.

By all the Human Race at last
Muddy Cocytus must be past;
Where th' impious Daughters fill a Sieve,
Where Sisyphus in vain does strive
To stick the Rowler fast.

We bid Farwell to Land and House,
To th' joys of an untainted Spouse;
And to the silent Groves and Trees,
Whose Height and Shade at once do please:
But there sad Cypress grows.

Then shall rich Wines brought from Campain,
Which you with Locks and Bolts detain,

Be by your worthy Heir let loose,
To give a Tincture round the House,
Where he does entertain.

The tenth Ode of the second Book of Horace.

Rectiùs vives, Licine, neque altum
Semper urgendo ------

That thou mayst steer thy course with greater ease,
Plunge not far amidst the deepest Seas:
Or fill'd with horror when the Ocean roars,
Press not hard upon unequal Shores.

Who ever does admire the Golden Mean,
Is not pent up in Cottages unclean;
Inhabits not obscure and sordid Cells,
Nor courts the lofty Hall where Envy dwells.

The Pine Tree's vex'd by winds because 'tis tall;
The higher the Tower, the greater is its fall.
By Heavens Artillery are Mountains shook,
And mightiest Hills are soonest Thunder strook.

In adverse Times a well prepared Mind
With reason hopes a better change to find;
In prosp'rous days wishes no further good,
But modestly does fear Vicissitude.

Heaven doth disfigure Earth with Winters Rain,
And the same Heaven guilds the Earth again.
If at one instant things succeed not well,
There follows not an everlasting Ill.
From Bow and Dart Apollo doth retire,
And sometimes takes in hand his charming Lyre,
And by soft Notes excites the Female Quire.

When in some dangerous Straits your Barque shall ride,

Let never failing Courage be your Guide:
But if your Fortune blow auspicious Gales,
Let Wisdom then contract your strutting Sails.

Horace's well wishes to a scurvy Poet gone to Sea, Epode 10. in Mævium.

Mala soluta navis exit alite,
Ferens olentem Mævium, &c.

With an unhappy Freight that Ship is stor'd,
That took the fulsom Mævius aboard.
Auster remember what you have to do,
'Tis in your power to split the Ship in two.
Eurus the Black, this your Command shall be,
To spoil the Tackle, and disturb the Sea.

Aquilo rise, and be your Fury shown,
As much as when you Trees have overthrown.
And in dark night no friendly Star appear,
As when Orion leaves the Hemisphere.
Nor more of Calm at Sea let him enjoy,
Than conquering Grecians when they sail'd from Troy;
When Pallas to avenge the sin of Fire,
By water made Ajax's Crew expire.
What sport 'twoud be t'observe the Sailers sweat,
And see thy Earthen Face look paler yet!
To hear thy Howlings and unmanly Cries,
In vain beseeching angry Deities!
Or let the Southern Winds drive thee away
Into the bellowing Gulph of Adria.
But if thy Carcase should be cast on shore,
That Cormorants the Carrion may devour:
To th' Tempests then a Holyday we'll keep,
By offering up a Ram or some black Sheep.

A Call to the Guard by a Drum.

Rat too, rat too, rat too, rat tat too, tat rat too,
With your Noses all scabb'd and your Eyes black and blew,
All ye hungry poor Sinners that Foot Souldiers are,
Though with very small Coyn, yet with very much Care,
From your Quarters and Garrets make haste to repair.
To the Guard, to the Guard.

From your sorry Straw Beds and bonny white Fleas,
From your Dreams of Small Drink and your very small ease,
From your plenty of stink, and no plenty of room,
From your Walls daub'd with Phlegm sticking on 'em like Gum,
And Ceiling hung with Cobwebs to stanch a cut Thumb,
To the Guard, &c.

From your crack'd Earthen Pispots where no Piss can stay,
From Roofs bewrit with Snuffs in Letters the wrong way;
From one old broken Stool with one unbroken Leg,
One Box with ne'er a Lid to keep ne'er a Rag,
And Windows that of Storms more than your selves can brag,
To the Guard, &c.

With trusty Pike and Gun, and the other rusty Tool;
With Heads extremely hot, and with Hearts wondrous cool;
With Stomachs meaning none (but Cooks and Sutlers) hurt;
With two old totter'd Shooes that disgrace the Town Dirt;
With forty shreds of Breeches, and no one shred of Shirt,
To the Guard, &c.

See they come, see they come, see they come, see they come,
With Allarms in their Pates to the call of a Drum;
Some lodging with Bawds (whom the modest call Bitches)
With their Bones dry'd to Kexes, and Legs shrunk to Switches;

With the Plague in the Purse, and the Pox in the Breeches,
To the Guard, &c.

Some from snoring and farting, and spewing on Benches,
Some from damn'd fulsom Ale, and more damn'd fulsom Wenches;
Some from Put, and Size Ace, and Old Sim, this way stalk;
Each mans Reeling's his gate, and his Hickup his talk,
With two new Cheeks of Red from ten old Rows of Chalk,
To the Guard, &c.

Here come others from scuffling, and damning mine Host,
With their Tongues at last tam'd, but with Faces that boast
Of some Scars by the Jordan, or Warlike Quart Pot,
For their building of Sconces and Volleys of Shot,
Which they charg'd to the mouth, but discharg'd ne'er a Groat,
To the Guard, &c.

They for Valour in black too, the Chaplain does come!
From his preaching o'er Pots now to pray o'er a Drum.

All ye whoring and swearing old Red Coats draw near,
Like to Saints in Red Letters listen and give ear,
And be godly awhile ho, and then as you were,
To the Guard, &c.

After some canting terms, To your Arms, and the like,
Such as Poysing your Musquet, or Porting your Pike;
To the right, To the left, or else Face about;
After ratling your Sticks, and your shaking a Clout,
Hast your Infantry Troops that mount the Guard on foot,
To the Guard, &c.

Captain Hector, first marches, but not he of Troy,
But a Trifle made up of a Man and a Boy;
See the Man scant of Arms in a Scarf does abound,
Which presages some swaggering, but no bloud nor wound;
Like a Rainbow that shews the World shan't be drown'd;
To the Guard, &c.

As the Tinker wears Rags whilest the Dog bears the Budget,
So the Man stalks with Staff whilest the Footboy does trudge it

With the Tool he should work with (that's Half Pike you'll say;)
But what Captain's so strong his own Arms to convey,
When he marches o'er loaden with ten other mens Pay?
To the Guard, &c.

In his March (if you mark) he's attended at least
With Stinks sixteen deep, and about five abreast,
Made of Ale and Mundungus, Snuff, Rags, and brown Crust for,
While he wants twenty Taylors to make up the cluster,
Which declares that his Journey's not now to the Muster,
But to the Guard, &c.

Some with Musquet and Belly uncharg'd march away,
With Pipes black as their Mouths, and short as their Pay;
Whilest their Coats made of holes shew like Bone-lace about 'em,
And their Bandeliers hang like to Bobbins without 'em,
And whilest Horsemen do cloath 'em, these Footscrubs do clout 'em,
For the Guard, &c.

Some with Hat ty'd on one side, and Wit ty'd on neither;
Wear gray Coats and gray Cattle, see their Wenches run hither,
For to peep through Red Lettice and dark Cellar doors,
To behold 'em wear Pikes rusty just like their Whores,
As slender as their Meals and as long as their Scores,
To the Guard, &c.

Some with Tweedle, wheedle, wheede; whilest we beat Dub a Dub;
Keep the base Scotish noise, and as base Scotish scrub:
Then with Body contracted, a Rag open spread,
Comes a thing with red Colours, and Nose full as red;
Like an Ensign to the King, and to the Kings Head,
Towards the Guard, &c.

Two Commanders come last, the Lieutenant perhaps,
Full of Low Country Stories and Low Country Claps.
To be next him the other takes care not to fail,
Powder Monkey by name that vents stink by whole sale,

For where should the Fart be but just with the Tail
Of the Guard? &c.

And now hey for the King Boys, and hey for the Court,
Which is guarded by these as the Tower is by Dirt;
These Whitehall must admit and such other unhouse ye,
Each day lets in the drunk, whilst it lets out the drowsie,
And no place in the world shifts so oft to be lowsie.
Thank the Guard, &c.

Some to Scotland-Yard sneak, and the Sutlers wise kisses;
But despairing of Drink till some Countryman pisses,
And pays too (for no place in the Court must be given)
To the Can-office then, all a Foot-Soldier's Heav'n,
Where he finds a foul Fox, soon, and cures Sir—
On the Guard, &c.

Some at Sh---house publick (where a Rag always goes)

At once empty their Guts and diminish their Clothes.
Though their Mouths are poor Pimps (Whore and Bacon being all
Their chief Food) yet their Bums we true Courtiers may call,
For what they eat in the Suburbs, they sh--- at Whitehall,
For the Guard, &c.

Such a like Pack of Cards to the Park making entry,
Here and there deal an Ace, which the Jews call a Centry,
Which in bad Houses of Boards stand to tell what a clock 'tis,
Where they keep up tame Redcoats as men keep up tame Foxes,
Or Apothecaries lay up their Dogs Turds in Boxes.
Oh the Guard, &c.

Some of these are planted (though it has been their lucks
Oft to steal Country Geese) now to watch the Kings Ducks;
While some others are set in the side that has Wood in,
To stand Pimps to black Masques that are oft thither footing,

Just as Housewives set Cuckolds to stir their Black Pudding.
Oh the Guard, &c.

Whilest another true Trojan to some passage runs,
As to keep in the Debtors, so to keep out the Duns;
Or a Prentice, or his Mistress, with Oaths to confound,
Till he hyes him from the Park as from forbidden ground,
'Cause his Credit is whole, and his Wench may be sound,
And quits the Guard, &c.

Now it's night, and the Patrole in Alehouse drown'd,
For nought else but the Pot and their Brains walk the round;
Whilest like Hell the Commanders Guard-chamber does shew,
There's such damning themselves and all else of the Crew,
For though these cheat the Men, they give the Devil his due,
On the Guard, &c.

Whilest a Main after Main at old Hazard they throw,
And their Quarrels grow high as their Money grows low;

Strait they threaten hard (using bad Faces for Frowns)
To revenge on the Flesh, the default of the Bones,
But the Blood's in their Hose, and in Oaths all their Wounds.
Like the Guard, &c.

In the Morning they fight, just as much as they pray;
For some one to the King does the Tidings convey
For preventing of Murder; Oh 'tis a wise way!
Though not one of 'em knows (as a thousand dare say)
That belongs to a dead man, unless in his pay
For the Guard, &c.

With their Skins they march home no more hurt than their Drums,
But for scratching of Faces, or biting of Thumbs;
And now hey for fat Alewives, and Tradesmen grown lean;
For the Captain grown Bankrupt, recruits him again,

With sending out Tickets, and turning out Men
From the Guard, &c.

Strait the poor Rogue's cashier'd with a Cane, and a Curse,
Fall from wounding no Men, now to cut ev'ry Purse:
And what then? Man's a Worm; these we Glowworms may name:
For as they'r dark of Body; have Tails all of flame.
So tho' those liv'd in Oaths, yet they die with a Psalm.
Farewell Guard, &c.

Dr. Wild's Humble Thanks for His Majesty's gracious Declaration for Liberty of Conscience, Mar. 15. 72.

No not one word can I of this great deed
In Merlin or old Mother Shipton read!
Old Tyburn take those Tychobrahe Imps,
As Silger, who would be accounted Pimps
To the Amorous Planets; they the Minute know
When Jove did Cuckold old Amphytrio,
Ken Mars, and made Venus wink, and glances
Their close Conjunctions and Midnight Dances;
When costive Saturn goes to stool, and vile
Thief Mercury doth pick his Fob the while;
When Lady Luna leaks, and makes her Man
Throw't out of Window into th' Ocean.
More subtil than th' Excisemen here below,
What's spent in every Sign in Heaven they know.

Cunning Intelligencers, they will not miss
To tell us next year the success of this;
They correspond with Dutch and English Star,
As one once did with CHARLES and Oliver.
The Bankers also might have (had they gone)
What Planet govern'd the Exchequer known.
Old Lilly, though he did not love to make
Any words on't, saw the English take
Five of the Smyrna Fleet, and if the Sign
Had been Aquarius, then they'd made them Nine.
When Sagittarius took his aim to shoot
At Bishop Cosin, he spied him no doubt;
And with such force the winged Arrow flew,
Instead of one Church Stag he killed two;
Glocester and Durham when he espy'd,
Let Lean and Fat go together he cry'd:
Well Wille Lilly, thou knew'st all this as well
As I, and yet wouldst not their Lordships tell.
I know thy Plea too, and must it allow,
Prelats should know as much of Heaven as thou.

But now, Friend William, since it's done and past,
Pray thee give us Phanaticks but one cast,
What thou foresawst of March the Fifteenth last;
When swift and sudden as the Angels fly,
Th' Declaration for Conscience Liberty;
When things of Heaven burst from the Royal Brest,
More fragrant than the Spices of the East.
I know in next years Almanack thou'lt write,
Thou sawst the King and Council over night,
Before that morn, all sit in Heaven as plain
To be discern'd, as if 'twere Charles's Wain.
Great B, great L, and two great AA's were chief,
Under great Charles to give poor Fan's relief.
Thou sawst Lord Arlington ordain the Man
To be the first Lay-Metropolytan.
Thou sawst him give Induction to a Spittle,
And constitute our Brother Tom Dolittle.
In the Bears Paw, and the Bulls right Eye,
Some detriment to Priests thou didst espy;

And though by Sol in Libra thou didst know
Which way the Scale of Policy would go;
Yet Mercury in Aries did decree,
That Wooll and Lamb should still Conformists be.
But hark you Will, Steer-poching is not fair;
Had you amongst the Steers found this March-hare,
Bred of that lusty Puss the Good Old Cause,
Religion rescued from Informing Laws;
You should have yelp'd aloud, Hanging's the end,
By Huntsmens rule, of Hounds that will not spend.
Be gone thou and thy canting Tribe, be gone;
Go tell thy destiny to followers none:
Kings Hearts and Councils are too deep for thee,
And for thy Stars and Dæmons scrutiny.
King Charles Return was much above thy skill
To fumble out, as 'twas against thy will.
From him who can the Hearts of Kings inspire,
Not from the Planets, came that sacred Fire
Of Sovereign Love, which broke into a flame;
From God and from his King alone it came.

To the King.

So great, so universal, and so free!
This was too much, great Charles, except for thee,
For any King to give a Subject hope:
To do thus like thee would undo the Pope.
Yea tho his Vassals should their wealth combine,
To buy Indulgence half so large as thine;
No, if they should not onely kiss his Toe,
But Clements podex, he'd not let them go:
Whilest thou to's shame, thy immortal glory,
Hast freed All Souls from real Purgatory;
And given All Saints in Heaven new joys, to see
Their Friends in England keep a Jubilee.
Suspect them not, Great Sir, nor think the worst;
For sudden Joys like Grief confound at first.
The splendor of your Favour was so bright,
That yet it dazles and o'erwhelms our sight:
Drunk with her cups my Muse did nothing mind,
And untill now her Feet she could not find.

Greediness makes prophanness i'th' first place;
Hungry men fill their bellies, then say Grace.
We wou'd have Bonfires, but that we do fear
The name of Incend'ary we may hear:
We wou'd have Musick too, but 'twill not do,
For all the Fidlers are Conformists too:
Nor can we ring, the angry Churchman swears
By the Kings leave the Bells and Ropes are theirs;
And let 'em take 'em, for our Tongues shall sing
Your Honour louder than their Clappers ring.
Nay, if they will not at this Grace repine,
We'll dress the Vineyard, they shall drink the wine.
Their Church shall be the Mother, ours the Nurse;
Peter shall preach, Judas shall bear the purse.
No Bishops, Parsons, Vicars, Curates, we
But onely Ministers desire to be.
We'll preach in Sackcloth, they shall read in Silk;
We'll feed the Flock, and let them take the Milk.
Let but the Blackbirds sing in Bushes cold,
And may the Jackdaws still the Steeples hold.

We'll be the Feet, the Back, and Hands, and they
Shall be the Belly, and devour the prey.
The Tythe-pig shall be theirs, we'll turn the Spit;
We'll bear the Cross, they onely sign with it.
But if the Patriarchs shall envy show
To see their younger Brother Joseph go
In Coat of divers colours, and shall fall
To rend it 'cause it's not Canonical;
Then may they find him turn a Dreamer too,
And live themselves to see his Dream come true.
May rather they and we together joyn
In all what each can; but they have the Coyn;
With prayers and tears such Service much avail;
With tears to swell your Seas, with prayers your Sails;
And with Men too from both our Parties; such
I'm sure we have can cheat or beat the Dutch.
A thousand Quakers, Sir, our side can spare;
Nay two or three, for they great Breeders are.
The Church can match us too with Jovial Sirs,
Informers, Singingmen, and Paraters.
Let the King try, set these upon the Decks
Together, they will Dutch or Devil vex.
Their Breath will mischief further than a Gun,
And if you lose them you'll not be undone.
Pardon, Dread Sir, nay pardon this course Paper,
Your License 'twas made this poor Poet caper.

ITER BOREALE.

These for his Old Friend Doctor Wild, Author of the Humble Thanks, &c.

SIR,

Had I believ'd report, that said
These Rhymes by Doctor Wild were made,
I long before this time had sent
Some symptoms of our discontent.
For since y'have left off being witty,
Your humble thanks deserves our pitty.

I can't imagine what you'l do,
Your Muse turn'd Non-conformist too?
And will not easily dispence
With the old way of writing sence!
She hath receiv'd, if that be true,
As much Indulgence then as you.

Surely (Dear Sir) you did not pray
Since you convers'd with Tycho Brah.
Jove play'd the wag, and Luna pist,
Do these things with Free-Grace consist?

Celestial Signs serve to express
The good man's heav'nly mindedness;
There are but Twelve of them in Heaven,
Yet he'll name one by one eleven;
And if you're not in too much hast,
'Tis ten to one, he names the last.

You had been horribly put to't,
If Sagittarius could not shoot:
Aquarius and the Smyrna Fleet,
I'll swear, a very good conceit.

But, Doctor, let us know, why will ye
Thus vex your self at William Lilly?
'Tis true, he could not find it out,
That March would bring all this about;

But on that day you well might gather
That there would be some change of weather:
And change of weather in a Nation
Portends a kind of alteration.

This favour, you do say, did come
Fragrant and full of all perfume,
Like Eastern Spices (it should seem)
This had done rarely in a Theme.
To the next Column—let us see
How you discourse His MAJESTY.
Where every solemn Epithite
Does look like Grace before you eat,
Which being said, as rudely you
Do take the Boldness to fall to,
With Rhymes most reverently sent
About Pope Clement's Fundament,
And Puns that would provoke the hate
Of any under Graduate.

Peter Non-con (it seems) must pray,
And Judas Church must take the Pay.
Some angry men would call him rude Ass,
That calls the Church of England Judas,
You'l be no Bishop, nor no Curate,
'Tis only Minister that you're at.
Minister! It sounds, methinks,
Like Pastor Clark of Bennet Fynks.

These Favours which the King doth heap
Upon your Head, hath made you leap.
And since y'have found your feet again,
The Gout's got up into your Brain:
If cap'ring be so fine a thing,
Pr'ythee come over for the King.

Your humble Servant, OBEDIAH.

[Ill Painters when they make a Sign]

Ill Painters when they make a Sign
Either of Talbot or of Swine,
To satisfie all Persons rogant,
That they might make a Hog or Dog on't;
Do never think it any shame
To underwrite the Creature's Name.
WILD made some Verses you must know,
ITER BOREALE is below.

THE RAMBLE.

While Duns were knocking at my Door,
I lay in Bed with reeking Whore,
With Back so weak and P--- so sore,
You'd wonder,

I rouz'd my Doe, and lac'd her Gown,
I pin'd her Whisk, and drop't a Crown,
She pist, and then I drove her down,
Like Thunder.

From Chamber then I went to dinner,
I drank small Beer like mournful Sinner,
And still I thought the Devil in her
Clitoris,

I sate at Muskats in the dark,
I heard a Trades-man and a Spark,
An Atturney and a Lawyer's Clark,
Tell Stories.

From thence I went, with muffled Face,
To the Duke's House, and took a place,
In which I spu'd, may't please his Grace,
Or Highness;

Shou'd I been hang'd I could not chuse
But laugh at Whores that drop from Stews,
Seeing that Mistris Marg'ret—
So fine is.

When Play was done, I call'd a Link,
I heard some paltry pieces chink
Within my Pockets, how d'ee think.
I' employ'd 'em?

Why, Sir, I went to Mistriss Spering,
Where some were cursing, others swearing,
Never a Barrel better Herring,
per fidem,

Seven's the main, 'tis Eight, God dam 'me,
'Twas six, said I, as God shall sa' me,
Now being true you cou'd not blame me
so saying,

Sa' me! quoth one, what Shamaroon
Is this, has begg'd an Afternoon
Of's Mother, to go up and down
A playing?

This was as bad to me as killing,
Mistake not Sir, said I, I'm willing,
And able both, to drop a shilling,
Or two Sir:

Goda'mercy then, said Bully Hec—
With Whiskers stern, and Cordubeck
Pinn'd up behind, his scabby Neck
To shew Sir.

With mangled fist he grasp'd the Box,
Giving the Table bloody knocks,
He throws—and calls for Plague and Pox
T'assist him;

Some twenty shillings he did catch,
H'ad like t'have made a quick dispatch,
Nor could, Time's Register, my Watch
Have mist him.

As Luck would have it, in came Will,
Perceiving things went very ill,
Quoth he, y'ad better go and swill
Canary,

We steer'd our course to Dragon Green,
Which is in Fleetstreet to be seen,
Where we drank Wine—not foul—but clean
contrary.

Our Host, y'cleped Thomas Hammond,
Presented slice of Bacon Gammon,
Which made us swallow Sack as Salmon
Drink water,

Being o'er-warm'd with last debauch,
I grew as drunk as any Roch,
When hot-bak'd-Wardens did approach,
Or later,

We broke the Glasses out of hand,
As many Oaths I'd at command
As Hastings, Sabin, Sunderland,
Or Ogle,

Then I cry'd up Sir Henry Vane,
And swore by God I would maintain
Episcopacy was too plain
A juggle.

But oh! the damn'd confounded Fate
Attends on drinking Wine so late,
I drew my Sword on honest Kate
O'th' Kitchin,

Which H---'s Wife would not endure,
I told her tho' she look'd demure,
She came but lately I was sure
From Bitching.

A Club there was in t'other Room,
I bolted in, being known to some,
Such men are not in Christendom
For jesting,

They use a plain familiar stile,
Appearing friendly all the while,
Yet never part without a Broil
Intestin.

The first as Steward did appear,
A strange conceited Barrister,
Who on all Matters will infer
His Reading,

A Band 'had on, that's very plain,
A Velvet Coat, a shining Cane,
Some Law, less Wit, and not a grain
Of Breeding.

The Company were in a fit
Of talking News about Maestricht,
How that the Prince's leaving it
Was sudden,

Quoth he, (because they should say
That he knew less of this than they)
Just such a case I read this day
In Plowden.

An angry Captain that was there,
Could Indignation not forbear,
'Zounds, sayes he, did Man e're hear
Such Non-sence?

We talk of Sieges, Camps, and Forts,
This Fool's a keeping Country Courts,
With musty Law and dull Reports,
Damn'd long since,

Go bolt your Cases at the Fire,
From Plowden, Perkins, Rastal, Dyer,
Such heavy stuff does rather tire
Than please us:

Tell not us of Issue Male,
Of Simple Fee, and Special Tail,
Of Feofments, Judgments, Bills of Sale,
And Leases.

Can you discourse of Hand-Granadoes,
Of Sally-Ports and Ambuscadoes,
Of Counterscarps and Pallizadoes,
And Trenches,

Of Bastions, blowing up of Mines,
Or of Communication Lines,
Or can you guess the great Designs
The French has?

The Barrister began to start
To hear such bloody terms of Art,
And did desire with all his heart
A Farewel;

Till younger Member of the House,
Resenting this as an Abuse,
Thought it convenient to espouse
His Quarrel.

This was a spruce young Squire that
Knew the true Manage of the Hat,
And every morning ty'd Cravat
With Project:

One that was sure he knew the Town,
To men of Fringe and Feather known,
'Mongst whom all Law he wou'd disown,
And Logick.

Captain, quoth he, I'll tell you thus:
You are mistaken much in us,
With dint of Sword we can discuss;
'Tis true Sir,

You trail'd a Pike, or some such thing,
In Holland, here you huff and ding:
And all the Town (forsooth) must ring
Of you, Sir.

I can remember you at Lambs,
Whither you'd come with forty shams;
And swore you wou'd renounce all Games
But Tennis:

Last night (such luck ne'r man had yet)
You play'd with Countess at Picquet,
And that she did (by Jesus) get
Twelve Guinnies;

Nay worse—just parting with my Lord,
He fancy'd much your Silver Sword,
And you wear his not worth a Turd—
—A Bawble;

But for the Hilt he's like to pay,
For you will have his Iron Grey:
A swifter Nag is not this day.
In stable.

And all the great design of this
Is but to borrow half a Piece,
Or be excus'd (if Ready miss)
From Clubbing:

The Captain swell'd, yet did not know
Whether the Youth would fight or no,
Or if 'twere safe to give the Foe
A drubbing.

Company's here, and for their sake,
Quoth he, some other time I'll take,
For I did never love to make
A Bustle,

Even when you please, quoth Younker, then
I'm every Evening to be seen
'Mongst witty Coffee-drinkers in
Street Russel.

One that was Doctor, Rook, and Quack,
With whom the Captain us'd to snack,
Because he'd make the first attack
On Bubble.

Did think it fit to do him right,
Altho' he knew he would not fight,
Yet Cully he would sore affright
And trouble.

Therefore the Captain's part he took;
Home Lad, quoth he, unto your Book,
If Letters fail, Go Bully-rock
The Carrier,

For here you must not vent your stuff,
We understand you well enough:
You must not think to rant and huff
A Warrier.

I knew when Animal and Ens
Was once the chief of your pretence,
But now you think y'ave sprucer Sense
And Knowledge.

When first this Town y'arriv'd unto,
The only Bu'sness y'ad to do
Was to enquire out those that knew
Your Colledge.

Certainly Mortal never saw
A thing so pert, so dull, so raw,
And yet 'twou'd put a Case in Law,
If they wou'd,

Then it began to visit Playes,
And on the Women it wou'd gaze,
And looked like Love in a Maze,
Or a Wood.

Into Fop-corner you wou'd get,
And use a strange obstreperous Wit,
Not any quiet to the Pit
Allowing:

100

And when my Lord came in, you'd spy,
If toward you he cast an Eye,
Y'had lucky opportunity
Of bowing,

At last you got a swinging Clap,
Which ran upon you like a Tap,
And lay for Cure of this mishap
At Tooting,

Then you writ Letters of Advice
To Parent, for some fresh supplies,
Pretending to the exercise
Of Mooting:

At length you understood a Dye,
Carry'ing in Fob variety
Of Goads, of Bars, of Flats, of High
And Low-Dyce.

101

But when you hear the fatal doom,
That Father shall remand you home,
It hardly will appear you come
From Studies.

The Youth was just a throwing Glass
Of Wine into the Doctor's Face,
When Barrister took Heart of Grace,
And courage:

Doctor, sayes he, you are a Cheat,
A greater Knave walks not the Street,
A verrier Quack one shall not meet
In our Age.

Doctors of Physick we indeed
Do most abominably need:
If you are one, that scarce can read
A Ballat,

102

You serv'd a Doctor,—true, from whom
You stole Receipts, being his Groom,
Or waiting on him in his Room,
As Valet.

On Serving-men you us'd to cut,
Giving 'em the high Game at Put,
And made the Fellows still run out
Their wages,

With Chamberlain you quit old scores,
Ruin the Tapster at all Fours,
And still observe the Carriers hours,
And Stages.

T'Apothecary next you go,
To whom your stollen Receipts you show,
That y'ave no Learning he does know,
And small Parts:

103

Yet for Advantage does proclaim
You as the eldest Son of Fame,
And swears your Cures have got a Name
In all Parts.

Then take your Lodgings at his House,
With care and secrecy to chouse
Those Fools incurable, that thus
Are minded,

If y'are desir'd to write a Bill,
Your Eyes have a defluxion still,
That if you do but touch a Quill,
You're blinded.

'Mongst gilded Books on shelves you squeeze
Old Gallen and Hippocrates,
For such learn'd men (say you) as these
I'll stickle.

104

Tho' what they were you cannot tell,
Giants they might have been as well,
Or two Arch-Angels, Gabriel,
And Mich'el.

In short, you are an empty Sawse—
Before this word quite out he draws,
The Doctor struck him cross the Jaws,
God bless us!

The Student then propos'd a slap,
Which on Quack's best of Eyes did hap,
With might and main—on Youth fell Cap-
tain Bessus.

I'th' Room was Justice Middlesex,
Who understanding Statute Lex,
Being unwilling to perplex
A Riot,

105

Softly as he could speak, did cry,
(Which no Body observ'd but I)
My Friends, in Name of Majesty,
Be quiet.

The Youngster first desir'd a Truce,
Because Cravat from Neck hung loose,
Captain, quoth he, your Weapon choose,
I'll fight 'ee:

Nay then, thought I, if so it be,
You're very likely to agree,
There's no Diversion more for me,
Good night t'ee.

And having now discharg'd the House,
We did reserve a gentle Souse,
With which we drank another rouse
At the Bar:

106

And good Christians all attend,
To Drunkenness pray put an end,
I do advise you as a Friend,
And Neighbour.

For lo! that Mortal here behold,
Who cautious was in dayes of old,
Is now become rash, sturdy, bold,
And free Sir;

For having scap'd the Tavern so,
There never was a greater Foe,
Encounter'd yet by Pompey, No
Nor Cæsar.

A Constable both stern and dread,
Who is from Mustard, Brooms and Thread,
Preferr'd to be the Brainless Head—
O'th' Poople,

107

A Gown 'had on by Age made gray,
A Hat too, which as Folk do say,
Is sirnam'd to this very day
A Steeple;

His Staff, which knew as well as he,
The Bus'ness of Authority,
Stood bolt upright at sight of me;
Very true 'tis,

Those louzy Currs that hither come
To keep the King's Peace safe at home,
Yet cannot keep the Vermin from
Their Cutis.

Stand! stand! sayes one, and come before—
You lye, said I, like a Son of a Whore,
I can't, nor will not stand,—that's more—
D'ye mutter?

108

You watchful Knaves, I'll tell what,
Yond' Officer i'th May-pole Hat,
I'll make as drunk as any Rat,
Or Otter,

The Constable began to swell,
Altho' he lik'd the motion well:
Quoth he, my Friend, this I must tell
Ye clearly,

The Pestilence you can't forget,
Nor the Dispute with Dutch, nor yet
The dreadful Fire, that made us get
Up early.

From which, quoth he, this I infer,
To have a Body's Conscience clear,
Excelleth any costly cheer,
Or Banquets;

109

Besides, (and 'faith I think he wept)
Were it not better you had kept
Within your Chamber, and have slept
In Blanquets:

But I'll advise you by and by,
A Pox of all advise, said I,
Your Janizaries look as dry
As Vulcan:

Come, here's a shilling, fetch it in,
We come not now to talk of Sin,
Our Bus'ness must be to begin
A full Can.

At last, I made the Watch-men drunk,
Examin'd here and there a Punk,
And then away to Bed I slunk
To hide it,

110

God save the Queen,—but as for you,
Who will these Dangers not eschew,
I'd have you all go home and spue
As I did.

The Lawyers Demurrer argued.

[_]

By the Loyal ADDRESSERS (the Gentlemen) of Grays-Inne, against an ORDER made by the Bench of the said Society.

[_]

To the Tune of Packington's Pound, Or, The Round-head Reviv'd.

I

Dear Friends, and good People, with Gowns, and with none;
I'll tell you a Tale of a parcel of Whiggs,
The Spawn of some Rebells in year Forty One,
Who, like their damn'd Sires, pursue their Intrigues:

111

It occasions amazing,
That some Members of Grays Inn,
Turn Tail to their King, from whom they'd their Raising:
You Mortals of Law be confounded for ever,
Who refuse an Address made to your Law-giver.

II

By a musty old Custom, call'd Order of Pension.
Giving Thanks to the King was judg'd an Affray,
And straight they Decreed, 'twas just to Disbench One,
For shewing himself more Loyal than they:
So thus the Dom. Com.
Speak loudly for some,
But propose the King's Int'rest the word shall be Mum.
You Mortals of Law be confounded for ever;
Who refuse an Address made to your Law-giver.

112

III

Men of the Sword they say make a Division,
And militant Lawyers their Wisdoms disown,
So that from the King to have had a Commission,
Does not consist with a tatter'd old Gown:
These men make pretence,
Both to Law and to Sense,
Yet say the Law's broke, if you fight for your Prince,
You Mortals of Law be confounded for ever,
Who refuse an Address made to your Law-giver.

IV

From th' Ancients (they urge) this Order comes out,
And therefore expect a ready Obedience,
But how can that be, since their Masterships doat,
And they themselves have forgotten Allegiance:
Therefore let's pray,
Both by Night and by Day,
That they may Conform, and then we'll Obey.

113

You Mortals of Law be confounded for ever,
Who refuse an Address made to your Law-giver.

V

But wou'd it not move a Heart made of Flint,
To think that a House must continue no longer,
Since the grave Gubernators refus'd to consent,
Except 'twere propos'd by a Bar-Iron-monger;
Or else by a Brewer,
Who serves them with Beer,
So small, that they'r fill'd with Suspicion and Fear.
You Mortals of Law be confounded for ever;
Who refuse an Address made to your Law-giver.

VI

Now some of the younger disconsolate fry,
As if they'd been still at—Quæso Magister,
Under such strange Apprehensions did lye,
They desir'd to consult the Chappel-Minister,

114

One of the young men,
Wou'd not handle a Pen,
For my Lord and my Father won't take me agen.
You Mortals of Law be confounded for ever,
Who refuse an Address made to your Law-giver.

VII

The number of those who refus'd to subscribe,
Are fitly compar'd to the days of poor Job,
Few and Evil—and of a Satanical Tribe,
Who scandalize all the rest of the Robe;
Those of the Bar-mess,
Who cry'd—No Address,
Found their Party of Faction were two to one less:
You Mortals of Law be confounded for ever,
Who refuse an Address made to your Law-giver.

115

VIII

Now you have heard of these Lawyers Demurrer,
And how their weak Arguments are over-rul'd,
Without all Dispute will think an Abhorrer,
Of them and Petitions, are loyally bold.
For such Impudence,
Both at Bar and at Bench,
Proceeds from those Men who their King would Retrench;
You Mortals of Law be confounded for ever,
Who refuse an Address made to your Law-giver.

116

The SWORD's Farewell, upon the approach of a Michaelmas-Term.

Health to my Friends, a terror to my Foes,
Revenging Wrongs, impatient of blows,
Couragious Metal, truest of all Steels,
Sure to thy Master, always at his heels;
Ready to jog him by the Elbow, when
He is confronted by the Sons of Men.
Soul of my Weapon, thou shalt take thy Rest;
And acquiesce within thy Sable Nest,
One Month must fix thee in a certain Station,
Thy Master's Term must prove thine own Vacation:
Till that's expir'd (his Honour be thy Pawn)
Though here thour't hang'd yet thou shalt not be drawn,
Thou shalt not now too late at Night appear,
T'incense the King's Almighty Officer,
Nor vex his Watch, lest by his great Command,
They knock thy Master down, and bid him stand:

117

Nor fly at Mortal wight, though ne're so tall,
Who passing by Surrenders not the Wall,
Nor push at Bayliffs stout denouncing War:
We know no Sergeants now but at the Bar.
They're fix'd (but with such moveable devotion,)
Come when you will, you'l find them in a Motion.
Not willing any Man should be opprest,
'Tis only Judgment that they would Arrest.

Thou shalt not now be bare, when Hector cloaths,
And backs the Lye with rags of swelling Oaths,
Now such great words admit a Period,
He must speak only truth, so help him God;
The Stile is chang'd, (the Season so will have it)
If he will swear, 't must be by Affidavit.

Thou must not now come forth in view, as once,
To fright a Rev'rend Bawd, and build a Sconce,
Nor make a Drawer stand all Night to Skink
Full cups, and watch to fill thy Master Drink,
To rubisie his Cheeks, though when he will,
He can take out a Fieri Facias still.
Or Presidents (if common Writs do fail,)
Direct to me a special Writ of Aile.

118

(Whilom at such a Sign conven'd the Wits;
But now no Sign is known except for Writs)

Thou must forbear a while at Inn and Inn,
T'out-brave whom thou suspectest like to win:
No jogging chance must now blind mortal Eyes,
We'll find fresh Bail of Men and not of Dice.
Pray for an Action now, and not an Ace,
Let every Deuce Produce a Debtor's case:
And in the stead of every Trey that's thrown,
So many Tryals may we call our own.
To cast a Quatre now we must forget,
And call to mind a Quare Impedit.
Each Cinque a Capias, and for every Size
Wish that a Scire Facias may arise.
Now we must think Hazard brings little gain,
Throw a Mandamus rather than a Main;
On certainties 'tis safest to rely,
More's gain'd by Bill, than gotten by the By.
To Play-Houses thou now shalt bid adieu,
Although the Farce be gay enough and new,
Ne're before Acted, brings thee not among
Those that sell Two and Six-pence for a Song.

119

No Idle Scenes fit busie times as these,
Instead of Playes we now converse with Pleas;
And 't's thought the last do savour more of Wit,
For those have Plots to spend, but these to get.

(Give way, Great Shakespear, and immortal Ben,
To Doe and Roe; John Den, and Richard Fen.)
Farewel (dear Sword) thour't prov'd, and laid aside;
Thy youngest Brother, Penknife, must be try'd;
That thou art best, needs but a thin dispute,
Thou woundest skin of Man, he skin of Brute,
'Tis pity such an Urchin long should Reign
To raze a Line, when thou can'st prick a Vein.
'Tis thou can'st make such horrid bloody work
Will fright the Pope, and scare the biggest Turk;
Thy very name will make a Cripple run
Swift as a Courtier from a City Dunn.

Now Tom (in Acres rich, is come to Town)
To change the Title of a Yeoman's Son,
Thou bid'st him kneel, and stroak'st his empty Skul,
And mak'st him rise Sir Thomas Worshipful:
Thus thou mak'st special Knights of common men,
When he hath made his best 'tis but a Pen;

120

Yet such a Pen, that when't has learn't it's Trade,
It may undo the Knight which thou hast made.

That thou art monstrous valiant is too certain,
For instance this, in fine (as saith Sir Martin)
Th' hast kill'd—But soft, some wiser are than some,
I should Marr-all if I discover whom.
In point of Honour this, (deny't who can)
Thou never turn'dst thy Back to any Man:
The short and long on't's thus, I'll safely say,
Though thou should'st break, thou would'st not run away:
Yet 'twould not wound thy credit long, for when
The Term is done, I'll set thee up agen.

Cedant ARma togæ, concedat laurea linguæ.

121

Wrote in the Banquetting-House in Grayes-Inn-Walks.

Here Damsel sits disconsolate,
Cursing the Rigor of her Fate,
Till Squire Insipid having spy'd her,
Takes Heart of Grace, and squats beside her.
He thus accosts,—Madam, By Gad
You are at once both fair and sad.
She innocently does submit
To all the Tyrants of his Wit.
The Bargain's made, she first is led.
To the three Tuns, and so to Bed.

But yonder comes a graver Fop,
With heavy Shoe, and Boot-hose-top;
To him repairs a virtuous Sir,
Whose Question is, What News does stir?
With Face askrew, he then declares
The probability of Wars:

122

And gives an ample satisfaction
Of English, French, and Dutch Transaction.
Thus chattering out three houres Tale,
They tread to th' Mag-pye, to drink Ale.

Death and the old man.

[_]

A Paraphrase upon one of Æsop's Fables.

A poor old man, who had by cleaving wood,
Full threescore years procur'd a livelihood;
He never ran the various risques of Fate,
Each day his shoulders bore an equal weight,
Till now at last of Age he did complain,
And thought each Load did weigh as much again.

One Evening coming home he made a stop,
And wanting strength, he let his Burden drop;
Then sate upon it, with a proud neglect,
And ner'e till now did on himself reflect.

What Being's this call'd Man, and what am I?
One of the Drudges of Mortality.

123

I've cut down Wood enough, now Death attend,
And to my Life and Labour put an end:
With that the Grisly Skelleton appear'd,
And the old man was from his Senses scar'd:

Quoth Death, Old fellow, if you'd speak with me,
I'le give a period to your misery:
Oh No, sweet Sir, quoth the amazed Grandsire,
I wish it not, as I'me a living man Sir;
I only did desire, because I'me weak,
And cannot lift this Burthen to my Neck,
That you'l be pleas'd, to lend a helping hand,
And I'am yours, hereafter, to command.

Moral.

Silly old Wretch, who living art opprest,
Yet dar'st not venture on Eternal rest.

124

Upon the Death of Edward Story, Esq; Master of the Pond, and Principal of Bernards-Inn.

Let all that read these Lines in Tears be drown'd,
Since Story's dead, the Master of the Pond;
What idle Tales fantastick Poets feign
About God Neptune, and his stormy Main,
That his Dominion's great, 'tis no such matter,
What great Command can there be over Water?
To Story's power 'twere Non-sence to compare it,
For he was Master of a Pond of Claret:
And he this Scarlet Sea, like Moses,—did
To all his Club of Israelites divide:
And when too late at night some came in doz'd,
The Pond o'er them, as o'er th' Egyptians clos'd.

This Pond was Helicon, where Story sate
Like mighty Phœbus, in his Chair of State:
His Tongue made Musick like Apollo's Lyre,
Which when he us'd, he silenc'd, all the Quire;
He had his Muses too, but more than Nine,
Besides, they're of the Gender Masculine:

125

Of different Subjects every Muse did sing,
Which they from Johns, or Grays-Inn Walks did bring.
Some Foreign Matters sang, another Muse,
In humble Stile, sang of Domestick News;
Some sang of bloody Plots against the Throne
And Government; another sang of none;
Till by some sign his pleasure was exprest,
Then all were quiet while he told a Jest.

And as this witty Club he kept in awe,
He headed too, a Body of the Law;
Yet for all that, as skilful as he was,
Death brought his Action without shewing Cause.
And ran him to the Utlary with such speed,
He had not time enough to supersede.
With all Mankind Death must his Interest clear,
But to call in the Principle's sovere.

126

Upon the Memory of Mr. John Sprat, late Steward of Grayes-Inn.

Can any man in reason think it fit
That Death should eat a Steward at a Bit?
And in one long Vacation should devour,
What, in all Conscience, might have serv'd for four?
Had it been Term-time he'd have taken course
To have repell'd both him and all his Force.
Villainous Death! he would have plac'd a Chop
With every Dart that thou hast in thy Shop:
Thou durst not then attempt him (meager Glutton)
When he and's men were arm'd with Beef & Mutton;
Thou wert afraid to nibble at John Sprat
While Barrel-Cod and Whitings were in date,
His Voice disbanded thee, and all thy Troop,
When gracefully he gave the word, Serve up.
'Twas cowardly to take him, when Raw Fruits,
When Turneps, Cucumbers, and Cabbedge Roots
Had chill'd his Blood: he had defi'd being sick,
Had he surviv'd the time they call Tres Mich'.

127

But why had not thy hungry Maw been eas'd,
If Tosborough or Taylor thou hadst seiz'd;
Those single parts of Middle-piece and Rump,
Insatiate thou! to fall upon the Chump.
Since busie Sprat (our Lives Trustee) is dead,
The Bottled Joyes of Norfolk too are fled:
The Thetford-Ale, which won the hearts of Youth,
And made them chant his praise with open mouth:
Whom afterwards he'd greet in friendly sort,
Your Chamber, Sir, I think's in Coney Court.
When will't be opportune—to bring my Bill?
D'slife, ne'r talk of that man; when you will.
Then he (good man) who alwayes knew his time,
To Chamber-door would in the Morning climb.

Now trusty Sprat is gone, there will not come
So Generous a Steward in his Room:
He would in younger Brothers still confide:
Whose Parents do in Foreign Lands reside:
He entertain'd them well; yet did not know
Whether their Friends were living there or no.
They scorn'd to come as Commoners to eat,
But took it as the Noble Steward's Treat.

128

Ah cruel Hag! (though Muse be out of breath,
Yet see! she'l have one parting blow at Death)
Were there not equal Standers of the Hall,
That thou didst call Sprat in a private Call?
And, which is worse, by Tyrannous permission,
He did go out before he did petition.
Some Presidents 'tis likely we shall find
Upon the Roll of Commons left behind;
Which his surviving Friends (without a Bribe,
It is believ'd) are willing to transcribe:
Therefore 'tis hop'd (lest Youth should be perplext)
That his Executors may Go out next.

His Epitaph.

Beneath this Stone, Reader, there lieth flat
Upon his Back the trusty Steward Sprat:
Disturb him not, for if he chance to stir,
He'll say, When shall I wait upon you, Sir?