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

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.