University of Virginia Library

Now blessings on ye all, ye Vertuous Souls!
Who boundless Mankind brought to Laws and Rules.
Eternally may hallowed Incense burn,
In Sacred flames, around your pious Urn:
Your rational Laws gave Piety its rise;
And your dread hand first struck the Monster Vice.
We (thanks to Heav'en and you) can plainly see
The modern cheat of grave Iniquity.
But blest (and more if Heav'en can do't) be you,
Who naked Virtue boldly did pursue:
When Swords, and direful Spears before you lay,
You greatly trod in the Imperial Way:
And grizly Death triumphantly did meet;
Faggots your Grave, and Flames your Winding-sheet.
To make your ratio'nal Tenents true and good,
You bravely seal'd 'em with your dying blood.

Vice, thou first born of Hell! and blacker far,
Than the black Fiends, damn'd Pluto's Subjects are:
Supinely thou hadst slept in thy dark Cell,
Where mighty Sinners in oblivion dwell;
And ne're untimely had this monstrous Birth,
Had not some Devil brought thee up to Earth:
Soon thou hadst been deposed from thy Reign,
And ne're hadst seen the lightsome world again;
Had not some Earthly Fiends ador'd thy rise,
And settle'd on its Throne the Monarch Vice.
Now though the Scepter's in thy impious hand,
And like a potent Prince thou dost command;
Amongst the Fools thy Empire's bound does spread,
And 'mongst the solid Wise, near show'st thy head:
To the lewd Stews thou hast thy great resort,
And meanly sneak'st to the lascivious Court:
Pimps, Bawds, Buffoons, and all the numerous throng
Of wanton Lechers guard thee all along:
Lewd noisome Courtezans support thy raign,
And fill the crowd of thy inglorious train.

Tell me, ye Lordly Sots, who Vice adore,
You, who a Patent have to Lust and Whore;
Who mighty Sins, and great Estates bring forth;
Rare pompous things to agrandize your worth:
Tell me, wherein your mighty pleasure lies;
The sweet delicious good of charming Vice;
That makes you thus the Strumpet Vice adore,
And make each Sot your Pimp, & Bawd your Whore?
Factors for Hell, of the right stamp and kind,
The younger brood of the Infernal Fiend,
For Vice's traffick all alike design'd.
Sinners of all degrees come rowling on;
From Earls, and Dukes, even down to Fop Sr. John.
Sinners of little Wit, and great Estates,
Of mighty bulks, your first and second Rates:
On whose lewd stock such numerous branches grow,
And from whose loins such goodly thousands flow;
Would make one think, to re-assume his reign,
The Malmesbury Devil's come again.

He, the bold Hector of the Gods, could Write,
Rail, and explode the Powers above in spite.
The Atheists Monarch, and the Courtiers tool,
The Scholars Laughing-stock, and Heavens Fool.
Always unwilling, still unfit to die;
The very dregs of damn'd Philosophy.
Irrational Brute! in whose gross Brain we see
Nonsence digested in Epitome.
Couldst contradictions joyn, and couldst perswade
Th' immortal Gods are unimmortal made?
Arm'd with thy Pen, with direful brow wast seen,
Just like some God-defying Maximin.
Out from thy Mouth a threatning Bullet flies;
And God-like Curses scale th' impartial Skies.
The echo of thy breath the Woods repeat,
Its violent storm makes the strong Tides retreat,
And puffs the very Gods from off their seat.
As if thou Sins Columbus meant'st to be,
Thou view'dst the Orb of large Iniquity.
And having view'd each Creek, thy fatal breath
Thou didst resign to Chance, that made thy Earth.
And thus our mighty Atheist liv'd, thus fell
The goodliest Brand that ever burnt in Hell.

Ah! Had I Wit but equal to my Spite,
With what a learned malice would I write?
Not one of Lusts lewd Company should be
From my more generous rage and passion free.
No, not those Kingly Sots, those Vertues Rods,
Who for their sinning have been counted Gods.

Here, Bawdy Cupid, I would have thee know,
I scorn thy Quiver, and contemn thy Bow!
Thou the great God of Lust! whose Empire spreads
Where Courts & Stews erect their ominous heads.
Grand Fiend! who art invok'd for mighty aid;
And for thy fatal help with Sins art paid:
False as thy Children, Whores, whose every Prayer
And plighted Oaths, like thine, dissolve in Air.
Cruel as Tyrants, when to Empire brought,
Puff't up with Blood, with direful Vengance fraught.
Who slew the mighty Turnus, I can tell;
And by whose hand great Agamemnon fell;
Why weeping Phillis slew Demophoon's Bride,
And in the Waves the lov'd Leander dy'd;
Why sad Oenone through the shady Groves
Laments for Paris, her unhappy Loves;
Why mournful Philomel does tell her tales
For absent Tereus through the hollow Vales.
'Tis you, God Cupid, and your Mother's Doves,
Do make the Scenes of all our Tragick Loves.
Thou stain'dst with Mortal Blood, thy self to please,
The Marriage-Bed of the Danaides.
Old Polyphemus had the Stone from you,
With which the Wretch his Rival Atis slew.
You made the poison and the fatal strife,
Which took away fair Sophonisba's life.
'Tis you invent what bloody Lovers act,
And laugh at Mischief and a cruel Fact:
Nay, your own Priests, the gladsome Bards, you wrong,
And give 'em Tears for Mirth, and Groans for Song.
Thou exil'd Ovid didst to Scythia send,
The best of Bards, the Muses dearest Friend:
By thy disdain he'd lost his Poets Name;
But from his hand some mournful Letters came:
Came, but unbound, ungilt, of colours bare;
The genuine off-spring of a wanderer.
Though at thy hand one Bard did mercy find,
Thou mad'st him wretched e're Castara kind.
One of his Gloriana does complain;
And Daniel woes his Delia but in vain:
Nay, greatest Cowley did his Love survive,
And all his life without his Mistress live.
If ever pity from thy bowels came,
It was to crown some base adulterate flame.
Each wandring Leecher does thy shrine adore,
Enjoys his Mistress and ten thousand more.
Thou thy descent hadst never from above;
Thou art the God of Lust, and not of Love.
If ever mortal shall thy God-head owne
Curst be the hand rebuilds thy bankrupt Throne;
Plague, Pestilence, and Fire, and what is worse,
Thy own dear Pox attend him with a Curse.
And you, fond Maids, if e're again you dare
On's Altar lay a bawdy Hymn or Prayer;
Heaven blast your Beauty and your native Pride,
'Till you're abhor'd, and he undeify'd.
May you with Curses be in triumph born;
The universal hiss of publick scorn.
May all your glances unsuccessful prove,
And force Men's Envy when you would their Love.

Hence, hated Vice, from our once happy Land,
E're thy ignoble tribe did here command:
Here no triumphal honours shall be paid;
Altars to Vice, and Sacred Unction made.
The grand Imposture here will ne're prevail:
With thy polluted breath swell full thy Sail;
Steer thy lewd Ship to some damn'd peoples coast,
Whom God has curst, and have their reason lost:
There thou may'st temples build & bear the sway;
And with auspicious pride may'st rule the day:
There may'st impose thy rigorous commands;
Have converts numerous as Arabian Sands:
There uncontroul'd thou may'st in safety dwell,
Blest with th' influence of powerful Hell.
Much happier we, thy Empire disavow,
Abjure thy Precepts, and contemn thy Law:
Let gawdy Prowess, for grave Sloth be seen;
Let Virtue strut, where creeping Vice has been:
Let no fantastick fool obstruct its way,
Or with vile Clouds obscure its ardent ray;
But in imperial guise let it march on,
And view around the British Horizon:
Then to our fair Augusta bend its way,
And there in sweet repose its blessing lay:
Our fair Augusta, once the Nations pride,
To whom new honours brought each flowing Tide;
Now, by its peoples crimes, a Desart made,
And though a well built Town, a very shade.
Once more, damn'd lewdness, I invoke thy name!
Shew me some mystick Art to spread thy shame;
No more a peaceful name I e're can use,
'Tis spite and madness shall inspire my Muse.
Damn'd be your Plays, and all Stage-Fops that write!
Immortal Satyr is my whole delight:
Let all your Stygian Votaries adore,
And find new Paint for this Lethæan Whore;
I'll of her crimes a just resentment get,
And plague, and scourge her with the force of Wit.