Vulgus Britannicus :: :: University of Virginia Library

In Spiteful Times when Humane Folly,
Discourag'd all that's Good and Holy,
When Peace and Truth were out of Season,
And Zeal had got the start of Reason;
When Knaves by dint of Inspiration
Diffus'd their Nonsense thro' the Nation;

And when Ill-Nature and Grimace
Were outward Signs of Inward Grace,
When Atheists Preach'd, and Blockheads Writ,
And Scandal only pass'd for Wit;
When Fiery Words like Blazing-stars,
Portended Plagues and Civil Wars,
And Tavern Cavils shew too plain
The Malice and the Pride of Men;
When our Good Sov'reign Lords the People
Were Crown'd by a Republick Cripple,
And by false Logick prov'd to be
The Source of all Authority,
And that from them all Power Sprung
At first, as Pompions do from Dung,
And did on them devolve again,
As oft as they were pleas'd to Reign,
As if a King, the Lord's Anointed,
Was only by the Mob appointed,
And that they rais'd him to a Crown
For nothing but to pull him down;
So active Boys in windy Gales
Mount Paper Kites with Fiery Tails,

And Guide and Lower 'em by their Strings,
Just as Fanaticks would their Kings.

When Bad Designs had Pious Names,
And Holy Looks hid Tricks and Shams,
And those who seem'd the most Upright,
Turn'd all Religion into Spite,
Would frequently at Church Commune,
And rail against her when they'd done,
As if they only kiss'd the Chalice,
To Whet and Sanctifie their Malice.

When Feuds and Discords did encrease,
And Men lov'd War instead of Peace,
That all sides had their New Inventions,
To Feed and Propagate Contentions.

When Men thro' slavish Fear deny'd
Those Truths they should have Justify'd,
For Int'rest sake themselves deceiv'd
And stood by what they Disbeliev'd;

Affirming Points by dint of Tongue,
Which in their Hearts they knew were wrong;
And acquiesc'd with Solemn Lies,
Invented purely for Disguise,
That False Reports might prove a Blind
To what was wickedly design'd,
And gild the Pois'nous Bitter Pill,
Prepar'd not to Relieve but Kill,
So he that does a fraud intend
First treats the Bubble like a Friend,
That he may gain his Knavish End.
The Bawd puts on a Face devout,
To bring her Base Intrigues about,
And can talk Scripture to betray,
The Pious Maid that's Young and Gay;
The Fox will Bask, and Rowl and Stretch,
To bring his Prey within his Reach:
The Cruel Russian and the Traytor,
The Minute that they stab will flatter,
And Proud Fanaticks Fawn and Bend
When they the greatest Ills intend,

And Preach up Safty to the Throne,
Their Treacherous Hands are Pulling down.

When some were Ruin'd, some Enrich'd
And some 'twixt Pride and Zeal bewitch'd
Others infected with a Spice,
Of Atheism, Craft, and Avarice,
Some stupify'd with Wine and Folly,
Others with Spleen and Melancholly;
Some by the Sourness of their Natures,
Perverse and Headstrong Jarring Creatures;
Others by Education spoil'd,
Too Hot and Furious, or too mild,
That most were of some Fruits attainted,
Whether bedevil'd or befainted.

'Twas then the very Dregs or Arse
Of all the Jarring Universe,
Spew'd out of Alleys, Jayls and Garrets,
Grown sturdy with Neckbeef and Carrots;
Some liquor'd well with Foggy Ale,
Others with Glorious Mild and Stale;

Informers, Lab'rors, Brothel-Keepers,
Pimps, Panders, Thieves and Chimney-Sweepers,
And all the rest oth' Heath'nish Race
That do our Grand Processions grace;
More Mad, worse Savage Brutes at best,
Than the Wild Herd the Dev'l possest
And more portentous when they rise,
Than blazing Comets in the Skies,
Unletter'd, Rascally and Base,
A Kingdoms Danger and Disgrace,
The High-born Traitor's noisy Tools,
Govern'd by neither Laws or Rules,
Always by others Craft betray'd
To Ills behind the Curtain laid,
To Mischief by their Stars inclin'd,
Deaf to Advice, to Danger Blind,
Forward and Furious in Extreams,
Fearless of Life, or loss of Limbs,
And lavish of Destructive Pains,
To do Bad Work for Little Gains,
This Monstrous Rout so Loose and Idle,
A Paradox, a perfect Riddle,

To those for whom their Love's most warm,
They always do the Greatest Harm,
And often serve by their Commotions
The Side that feels their Persecutions;
And when they mean to use them Ill,
Do good to those they would despoile
Against their Knowledge and their Will.
Thus oft the Service they intend
Deserves the Curses of their Friend,
And their Revenge much Thanks from those
They Sack and Plunder as their Foes.

When Liberty they loudly cry
Some hidden Danger's always nigh,
And when they're suffer'd most to use it,
They're in the fairest way to lose it.
Justice if e'er th' attempt to shew it,
By Means Unjust they always do it;
Disguise their Ills in Agitation,
With loud Huzza's of Reformation;
And when their Violence runs most high
Mod'ration is their only Cry:

So Rebels do for Peace declare,
When bent to raise a Civil-War,
And cry God save the Church and Crown,
Whilst rushing on to pull 'em down.

When all Sides had their Raving Fits,
And in their Turns grew Bedlamites;
Whilst Foaming Authors of Renown,
Spread New-Infection up and down;
And poison'd Others by their Writings,
As Mad-dogs by their Frothy Bitings,
'Twas then, I say, the Magazine
Of Pow'r who long had silent been;
Mov'd by their Blazing Zeal arose
And happen'd thro' Mistake, God knows,
To deem their Pious Friends their Foes,
Who long had dignify'd the Croud
With Pow'r Supream to make them Proud;
Appeal'd to these their S--- Brutes,
As the best Judge of all Disputes;
And that the Wise Imperial Throng,
Like Papal Chair, could do no Wrong,

But were, as Nob declares in spite,
By dint of Number always Right.

These Mighty Lords, the Gracious Rabble
Who Reign'd long since as Kings of Babel;
Where Jarring Tongues such Discord bred,
That one scarce knew what t'other said,
And angry Heav'n was pleas'd to pour
Confusion round that Lofty Tow'r,
Having of late imbib'd such Notions,
As warranted their vile Commotions;
They thought without Offence they might
Assemble to assert their Right,
And in an awful Manner shew 'em
Their Pow'r who gave it first unto 'em;
So he that when he makes a Feast,
For Friends, inebriates his Guest,
And gives them with an Ill Design
Too great a Plenty of his Wine;
If they Run Mad, and Spew and Spoil
His Parlour, and his Goods defile;

He that first made their Brains so dizzy,
Should bear their Rudeness and be easy.

So he that will entrust a Sword,
With him that's Frantick and Untow'rd,
And then prvoke him, ought to feel,
The Sharpness of the pointed Steel.

These Tuchinites, our Mighty Lords,
According to that Sage's Words,
Arm'd with a Magazine of Power,
Assign'd them by the fam'd Reviewer;
Aspiring in their Noble Thought,
Above the Laws as they'd been taught,
Presum'd to make a Street Convention
To prosecute some new Intention;
The bolder Hero's first began,
Near an Old Ditch, their wise Divan;
Where leaning o'er the Rails they stood,
Consulting Ancle-deep in Mud;
Where Dung-boats sail'd in Dirty Streams,
Beneath their Noses, from the Thames,

Which kindly mix'd with Common-shoars,
As nasty as the Neighb'ring Wh***s.

Here Leathern Approns, Tatter'd Frocks,
With Faces black as Chimny-stocks,
And Raggamuffins who would cut,
For a small Booty Purse or Throat;
Were from their Lousy Huts crept out,
To joyn the bold Lanarian Rout;
Whose Greasy Rags and Brimless Hats,
Were half devour'd by Hungry Rats;
Yet what Remains of Hat they'd left,
Were useful, tho' of Brims bereft;
Adorn'd their Noddles in their Freaks,
At Night were made their Candlesticks.

When this wild Frape, to Mischief free;
The Sons of Blood and Cruelty;
Well arm'd with Oaken Stick and Club,
The Scepters of the Sovereign Mob,
In Loud Huzzas proclaim'd their Coming,
On Stalls and Bulks with Truncheons Druming;

St. Bridget's Lesser Mob advanc'd to meet 'em,
And did with equal Clamour greet 'em;
Much Joyful Madness was exprest,
As if they now were highly blest,
To see their furious Noisy Throng,
So wild, so num'rous and so strong.

When thus according to their Mind,
They all were in one Body Joyn'd;
And equally possest with Devils,
Were ready for the worst of Evils;
Their Helborn Leaders then thought fit,
To call a Council in the Street;
That they might Form some new Example,
More startling than to burn a Temple;
And hammer some Dark Project out,
Worthy of such a daring Rout;
For all Joynt Bodies whether wise,
And Just as Senates who despise,
A Sorded Act, and scorn to break
The Rules they give, or Laws they make,

Or whether Headstrong Wicked Elves,
All aim at what's most like themselves;
For Men of High or Lower Station,
In spite of Wise Ratiocination;
Like less intelligible Creatures,
Pursue the Dictates of their Natures.

And tho' we only walk erect,
Look upwards and are Heav'ns Elect;
And boast our standing on no more
Than two Legs, yet when arm'd with Pow'r,
We prove worse Brutes than those with Four.

After some Whispers pass'd about,
Among the Captains of the Rout,
And those of lower Rank had chose,
Indentur'd Cit in Antick Cloths,
To be their Gen'ral for the Day,
Commission'd by a loud Huzza;
Whose Rakish Impudence prefer'd,
The Hopeful Youth to lead the Herd;

That e'ery Pace the Rake might be
The nearer to the fatal Tree,
Or some more violent Destiny.

Thus those that sit in Peace above,
And pour their Vengeance and their Love,
As they see Just, on Human Race,
Crown some with Wealth, give others Grace;
Do oft Decree the Man of Spite,
To perish in his own Delight;
So he that's guided by his Lust,
Dies by the Vice he loves the most.

When thus the bold Infernal Crow,
Had fix'd the Ills they mean'd to do;
And chose a true Unthinking Leader,
Whose Hot-brain'd Fury knew no Tedder;
Tow'rds Good St. Dunstan then they stood,
And turn'd their Arse on Old King Lud,
Now like the Gad'ret Herd of Swine,
They Ran to forward their Design,

As if they were alike possest,
And could not for the Devil Rest.

Had Hell's Poor Pris'ners snap'd their Chains,
To fly from their Incessant Pains;
And frighting Cerb'rus from the Gate,
Resum'd on Earth their Mortal State;
The 'nfernal Mansions scarce could Spew,
Among us, such another Crew.

Tatter'd and Torn they all appear'd,
And look'd as if no God they fear'd;
But Mad as Bedlamites in Straw,
Despis'd both Heav'n, and Humane Law;
With loud Huzzas they Rent the Skies,
And fill'd the Neighb'ring Streets with Noise;
Put Pious Dames besides their Wits,
And frighted Children into Fits;
Made the Saints tremble at their Cries,
To think at such a time as this;
That after so much Reformation,
Such Brutes should still infest the Nation;

But let us take what Pains we Can,
And use the utmost Art of Man:
Nettles will still grow up to spite us,
I'th' fruitful Gardens of the Righteous;
And the same Fertile Land that Bears
Good Corn, will cherish Weeds and Tares.

CANTO II. A. Continuation of the foregoing Subject.

When the Rude Vulgi thus were met,
And e'ery Moment grew more Great;
Gath'ring fresh Succour to their Throng,
Like Snowballs when they're rowl'd along;
Among which never thinking Croud,
'Twas held a Vertue to be loud;
Whilst here a Shove, and there a Blow,
For Common Jests, pass'd to and fro;
So when the Horned Herd to feed,
Are turn'd into the Fertile Mead;
They Gallup, cock their Tails and Roar,
And growing wild each other Goar.

Now, at the Rabble's great Command,
Each Coach was forc'd to make a stand;
And many tho' of lofty Station,
Submit to their Examination;
And with the Patience of a Job,
Obey their S--- L--- the Mob;
Who now grown mad 'twixt Nob and Tipple;
Declar'd themselves to be the People,
Who had by Natures Law a Right,
To do whate'er themselves thought fit;
So Rebels, when successful grown,
Will Brave and Dare the very Throne;
And rigidly exert their Pow'r,
O'er those that govern'd them before.

As the Rude Rabble now encreas'd,
In various Raggs and Tatters Dress'd;
And tow'rds the Rooks Old College drew,
More Wild and Insolent they grew;
No Gang of Sailors stept on Shoar,
To see some strapping Wappen Whore,

Could in their Frantick Actions better
Express the Freaks of Savage Nature;
Than did the loud tremendous Brood,
Whose Bell'wings seldom bode much Good
Each frighted Dog their Fury felt,
With being either Dock'd or Gelt;
And stubborn Posts were made to Reel,
By Bangs and Knocks they could not feel.
So Men provok'd to Indignation,
By others who despise their Passion:
Discharge their Fury when they're Vex'd,
On Stocks or Stones or what comes next.

When thus the bold Infernal Swarm,
Were boiling-hot for any Harm;
'Twas then a certain Soul Physician,
Just fall'n into a bad Condition,
By vent'ring thro' his Over Zeal,
To probe a Wound he could not Heal;
Was therefore question'd if his Balsam,
Were Stale and Naught, or Good and Wholsome,

Which he'd apply'd so piping Hot,
To Brethren that approv'd it not.

It hap'ning that these weighty Matters,
Between the Doctor and his Betters;
By this time having spread among,
Th' Original of Pow'r the Throng:
To whom the Two Wise Observators,
Those grumbling Twins of Regulators;
And all the Saints of Modern date,
So often have appeal'd of late,
And made thereby, the Frantick Croud,
So Pert, so insolent and Proud;
That our new S--- L--- the Rabble,
Thought they'd a Native Right to Squabble
At all times, on behalf of those,
Their Zeal inclin'd them to espouse,
Believing they had Pow'r sufficient
Giv'n 'em long since by the Omniscient;
To rightly Judge without the Laws,
The Person, or his doubtful Cause:

And therefore might, when set upon't,
Their Lawful Governorus Confront.
These empty Notions and Conceits,
Quite turn'd the wav'ring Rabble's Wits;
And made the slaving useful Creatures,
Grow Proud and Saucy to their Betters;
So Mastiffs kept within our Yards,
Prove safe and serviceable Guards;
But if we suffer them to mount
The Pails, on e'ery light Account;
They'll grow too Headstrong by Degrees,
And Tare and Worry whom they please.

The Rabble, rather Brutes than Men,
Curs'd ab Origine from Cain;
B'ing thus assembl'd in the Street,
For any Sport or Mischief fit;
Whether by some obscure Direction,
Or guided by their own Affection;
The Giddy, Wild, Unthinking Herd,
Resolv'd to be the Doctor's Guard;

And headlong to his Levi Run,
Well arm'd with Club instead of Gun,
And there attended his approach;
T'Huzza him loudly to his Coach.

The Doctor much amaz'd to see,
The Rabble of their Love so free,
Well knowing such unwelcome Kindness,
Caus'd by intemp'rate Zeal or Blindness;
Or by some buisy Faction ment,
To Irritate the Government;
Gave to the Mob a sharp Reproof,
And wisely thought that Thanks enough;
For the Rude Hollows of a Rout,
He had much rather been without;
So forward Fools will Friendship offer,
To Persons that despise their Proffer
Thro' Prudence, not Ingratitude,
Because forc'd Kindnesses are rude.

However all the Rough Perswasions,
The soft Entreaties and Orations;

The Sober Arguments and Prayers,
That Man could use to Wilful Bears;
Could not prevail upon the Rout,
To stop their Course, and face about;
For Captain Tom of this Fam'd City,
Joyn'd with his Mob are High and Mighty;
Too Wise, too Headstrong, and too Bold,
To be Advis'd, or yet Controul'd;
And like stern Tyrants will Postpone,
All others Measures, to their own.
So Girls that lay their Baits to catch
Some Youth that's not a Proper Match;
If Friends will not their Choice approve,
The more they're Check'd the more they Love.

Thus did the Priest in Triumph Ride,
With Legions shouting by his side;
Punish'd with the untimely Cry,
In spite of Low Church, High Church High;
Which startling Noise, like Winters Thunder,
Fill'd many List'ning Ears with Wonder;

So unexpectedly to find,
The S--- People thus unkind;
Who had so long been sooth'd and flatter'd,
H---ly'd, Review'd, and Observator'd,
And tempted by a Thousand Arts,
To stamp Mod'ration in their Hearts;
Yet that at last upon a Pinch,
They from their Good old Friends should flinch
Who us'd to treat them with whole Barrels
Of Ale, to back them in their Quarrels;
Encourage them long since to Swarm;
Round such that meant the Nation Harm;
And spur'd them on to stand by those,
Who durst to be their Monarch's Foes;
And that they now should hang an Arse,
Or vary from their wonted Course;
Forget Their Favours and Caresses,
Who, by Extreams, and warm Excesses;
Had brought their B---s to a C---s;
Such black Ingratitude must vex,
The G---y and their C---e perplex;

Provoke the mildest S--- to Swell,
And fret and fume like Bottle Ale.

But those who do alas depend,
Upon the Mob to stand their Friend;
And found Dominion not in Grace,
But in the wav'ring Populace;
Must find sometimes the giddy Swarm,
Instead of Good, will do 'em Harm,
And like the Snake exert their Pow'r,
On those that cherish'd them before;
So Rusty Guns if charg'd too high,
Recoil when fir'd, and backward fly,
On those who oft have kill'd their Game,
And sported freely with the same.

There's no Dependance on a Rude,
Destracted giddy Multitude;
Who to each Party's Mutual Sorrow,
Are high to Day, and low to Morrow;
And by an old Tumultuous sort
Of Justice, which they make their Sport.

Turn Foes to whom they have been Friends,
To make the suff'ring side amends;
That those who laugh'd aloud at first,
At last may chance to come by th' worst;
And those have vice versa next,
A turn to Laugh who first were vext;
Thus 'tis the mode in these our days,
To spit our Venom diff'rent ways;
And so by opposite Extreams,
Persuant to our Envious Whims;
Express, according to the Fashion,
Our Spite, by way of Moderation.

So the sweet Babe of Early Wit,
To please Mamma does Daddy beat,
Then lest the Dad the Brat should blame,
It stroaks Pappa, and beats the Man;
Thus are the Infant Rabble taught,
To vex this Party Humour that;
And learn from Father and from Mother,
To please all sides, one after t'other.

When these, the Dregs of Humane Race,
By Nature stubborn Fierce and Base,
Had forc'd themselves without Reward,
Or Thanks, to be the Doctor's Guard;
Attended on him all the Day,
And brought him back with loud Huzza;
Expressing their immod'rate Joys,
In Josles, Scuffles, Shouts and Cries,
And Resolutions to defend,
The Rev'rend Champion to the End;
Who was much troubl'd and surpiz'd,
But could not help what he despiz'd.

So brave Men oft are forc'd to bear,
Those Flatt'ries they abhor to hear;
And humour noisy Crouds they hate,
To back the Policy of State.

E'er Light was spent the Boist'rous Flock,
Convey'd the Pensive Shepherd back;

In such wild Pomp that was unknown,
To those who wear the Sacred Gown;
That no Heroick Royal Victor,
Usurper, Gen'ral or Protector;
Could e'er be plagu'd in their Processions,
With louder Shouts and Acclamations;
As if the loose unchristian Race,
Who'd long been destitute of Grace;
Were now reform'd, and would declare,
To all the Town what Church they were;
In hopes their sanctify'd Pretences,
Would Varnish o'er their Vile Offences;
Or that it might the better Skreen,
Some Mist'ry that was hid therein;
So Jilts wed those they ne'er affected,
Purely t'intrigue the less suspected;
And that the Spouse may bear the Blame,
Of what's transacted by his Dame.

As soon as the Promiscuous Rout,
Had giv'n the Priest a Parting Shout;

And lodg'd their Fav'rite, they withdrew,
Some new Adventure to Persue;
Leaving the Thoughtful Guide to Ponder;
On those Afflictions he was under;
When of that noisy Clamour eas'd,
With which he had so long been teas'd;
So when a Prince has done great Feats,
And rides in Triumph thro' the Streets;
Tho' Farthing Candles please his Sight,
And the loud Mob his Ears delight;
He's glad, when all the Pomp is past,
To find he's got safe Home at last.

CANTO III. On the Mob's pulling down Doctor B---'s Meeting-house.

Th' Infernal Brood being now abroad,
Not Eas'ly to be tam'd or aw'd;
But like the Dev'l in a Passion,
Rais'd by unskilful Conjuration;
Must if they once have got their Head,
B' imploy'd before they can be laid;
Accordingly with Zeal as hot,
As Broth in boiling Porridge-Pot;
When the Fat leaps into the Fire,
And makes the Liquor boil the higher;
After some little Consultation,
Which way or how to vent their Passion;
Whether on him who'd crown'd the Rabble,
To make the Sov'reign Pow'r a Bauble;

And labour'd like a Tom-a-doodle,
To place the Rump above the Noddle,
Or whether they should steer their Course;
And exercise their Evil Force
On him that used much Malediction,
Against a Brother in Affliction;
And like a True-Blew Moderator;
Would Hang him first, and Try him a'ter;
But one, a leader of the Brutes,
To put an end to all Disputes;
Held forth a little to the rest;
And thus in short his Mind exprest.

Should we, like Giddy Fools, Despite
The Priest that does assert our Right;
And gives us Title to Confront
Our Kings, and call them to Account.
To our own Friends we should be rude,
And treat them with Ingratitude;
No, should we prove so rashly blind,
They'd dash it in our Dish you'd find,

And say, as Pow'der in a Flame,
Blew up the Monk that mix'd the same;
So we have made the Priest our Sport,
That gave us Pow'r to do the hurt.

These Arguments convinc'd the Rout,
And made the Scoundrels face about;
Who in a Fury Westward ran,
In quest of such another Man;
Who did thro' Providence escape,
The Rage of the Misjudging Frape;
So that with base unhallowed Hands,
Persuant to the Dev'ls Commands;
Or some curs'd Wretch as bad as he,
That led the vile Mobility;
To the great Shame of Humane Race,
They sack'd the Good Man's Holy Place;
And there, as Fame reports the Matter,
Among his Pews made wicked Slaughter;
Leaving the sacred Conventicle,
Polluted in a shameful pickle;

So Rebels flush'd in Civil Wars,
Who Gallows fear no more than Scars;
To vex the Prince that wears the Crown,
Pull Palaces and Churches down.

The Sacred Fold, b'ing thus defil'd,
And the Flocks, Pens and Hurdles spoil'd;
Wherein the Sheperd's Stiff'neck'd Rams,
And all his pritty Yews and Lambs,
Were by their Good old Nursing Father,
Call'd twice or thrice a Week together;
And Fodder'd e'ery other Day;
With Grace instead of Grass or Hay;
The Mob each laden with their Plunder,
As much as they could well stand under;
Carr'd off the Trophies they had Won
By the bold Hazards they had Run,
And like successful Soldiers flush'd
With Victory away they rush'd,
Into a Neighb'ring Field that there,
They might Refresh in op'ner Air.

And sacrifice their Wooden Spoils,
In hopes their Heath'nish flaming Piles,
Might make Atonement for their Ills;
So Canibals who hold it Good,
To prey on Humane Flesh and Blood,
When they've subdu'd some Wand'ring Wretch,
With Fleshy Chine, and Brawny Britch;
Pick here and there a Bit that's best,
Then offer to the Devil the Rest.

Some who defil'd the Holy Ground,
With sides of Pews their Noddles Crown'd;
Others with here and there a Door,
Whose Heads were only Blocks before;
'Tis therefore to be understood,
They only added Wood to Wood,
And that each Scoundrel had a Skul,
Hard as the Wainscot that he stole,
And e'ery Jot as thick and dull.

Some of the more Revengeful Mob,
Who took the Pulpit for a Tub;

The Sacred Hut in pieces pull'd,
Where Pious D---l oft had loll'd;
And with his Merry Tales diverted,
Despairing Saints half broken hearted;
Who did not Join his Congregation,
Alone for Christian Consolation;
But for the Affable Promotion,
Of Frantick Flirts beside the Cushion;
For tho' perhaps with Thund'ring Voice,
He'd Damn his Hearers twice or thrice,
Yet he'd ne'er fail to treat 'em after,
With a kind healing Mess of Laughter;
So Quacks or Nurses when they give us,
A bitter Potion to relieve us,
Pop something down that's sweet at last,
To carry off the nauseous Tast.

Thus did the Mob's unhallow'd Hands,
The Pulpit turn to Fiery Brands;
And, therefore, to the Flames of Course,
Condemn'd the Pews without Remorse;

As if the Sacred Goods had been,
Made Privy to that Carnal Sin;
Which caus'd the Lady of the House,
Who'd found her Man and Maid too close,
To turn the Lovers out of Door,
And burn the sinful Furniture.

Thus was the Meeting by the Rabble,
Left like Saint Paul's when made a Stable;
The Walls impair'd, the Windows shatter'd,
The Roof and all the Building batter'd;
That now it looks disrob'd of Pews,
And Pulpit, rather like a Stews
Deserted by the Kind and Fair,
Who kept it once in good Repair;
Than like a Meeting, whose Foundation
Stood firm on Rock of Toleration;
And that the Magazine of Pow'r,
Had thus presum'd to pull it lower;
Nor is its suddain Downfal strange,
Since all things upon Earth must Change;

The Strong, the Rich, the Good, the Great,
Must in their Turns submit to Fate,
And holy Places that have been,
Long since the nurseries of Sin;
Perhaps fam'd Dancing Schools before,
May happen to be so once more,
Why not, since sacred Walls by Rebels,
Turn'd heretofore to Barns and Stables;
Are now reform'd from their Abuses,
And so restor'd to Pious Uses.

The Graceless Croud thus carry'd off,
The Good Man's sacred Houshold-stuff;
Wasting his Cordials which they met with
In Vestry Cubboard, kept to whet with;
That e'er he climb'd the Holy Place,
To shed the Drippings of his Grace;
A Coague of some good Houswife's Water,
Might Chear his Spirits, Strengthen Nature,
And make the Guide hold forth the better;
So Pious Matrons when they're past
Intrigue, and grow Devoutly Chast,

Take Drams of Comfort e'ery Day,
As often as they P---ss or Pray;
For most Good Ladies have a Notion,
What warms their Spirits, helps Devotion;
From whence some Saints inclin'd to Fuddling,
Are most Religious when they're Maudling.

Nor did the Rabble spare his Pipes,
Of Mortal Clay, those Brittle Types,
Which often serv'd the Good Old Man,
To Smoak and Moralize upon;
And cool him after two Hours sweating,
With over Pains, and over Prating;
Yet these Rapacious Interlopers,
Turn'd all the crusty Tubes to Stoppers,
And strew'd about the Wicked Weed,
Like Gard'ners when they sow their Seed,
As if they thought it was no Sin,
To ruin what they found therein,
Unless the Fruits of their Abuse,
Should be Carr'd Home to their own Use:

Who came not in such Publick Joy,
To Steal, but only to Destroy;
So Ladies who by seeming Force
Are Ravish'd, think they're ne'er the worse;
Lest they take Mony for their Pains,
And Sin for Mercenary Gains;
Or that they chance to be defil'd,
By getting either Pox or Child;

When each rejoycing Brute had brought
His Trophies to th' appointed Spot;
They cast their Burthens to the Ground,
And with Huzza's their Labour Crown'd,
Believing they had done a Deed,
No prosp'rous Army could exceed;
And that the daring impious Pains
They'd taken for so little Gains;
Deserv'd the thankful Approbation,
Of all Well-wishers to the Nation,
Except the Saints of Toleration.

So Pious Rebels who begun,
The glorious Work of Forty One;

Thank'd Heav'n for all their Hellish Murders,
And Joy'd amidst their vile Disorders,
That Zealous Fools might loudly Praise,
The Work of those Reforming Days;
And think their Wickedness was meant,
T'at length produce some good Event.

In mighty Order now they laid,
The Spoils their Wicked Hands had made;
Pews upon Pews with Art they Pil'd,
That what they'd Plunder'd and Defil'd,
Might first be purify'd by Fire,
And then in Smoak to Heav'n aspire;
As if they thought the Wicked Prize,
They'd stol'n, a pleasing Sacrifice;
So Hodmontots, because their Feasts,
Chiefly consist of Gutts of Beasts;
They think they merit Bliss not Blame;
In off'ring to their Gods the same.

When thus they'd pil'd their Plunder up,
And with the Pulpit crown'd the Top;

As if those Heathens who were nigh it,
Wish'd th' Owner there to Occupy it;
That he and's Meetings-house together,
Might both ascend the Lord knows whether;
And like the Monk to Heav'n aspire,
Against his Will in Smoak and Fire;
So Rebels in Religious times;
When Blood and Theft were thought no Crimes;
With others Lives and Goods made Sport,
Yet meant poor harmless Souls no hurt;
Sought only Profit and Applause,
By pushing on the Good Old Cause.

When thus the Holy Goods they'd spoil'd,
Were into one High Mountain pil'd;
And ready to receive the Fire,
By which th' were destin'd to expire:
A flaming Torch was handed to't,
By some bold Sacrilegious Brute;
Whose Malice no Distinction knew;
Between a Babbin and a Pew;

Or any Difference in his Maggot,
Betwixt a Pulpit and a Faggot;
But thought as long as both would burn,
That both alike might serve their turn;
And make a Bonfire for the Rout,
To Hollow, Sport, and Dance about;
So those who, hating all that's Papal,
Ransack'd the Spanish Popish Chappel;
Made no Distinction in their Malice,
'Twixt Common Silver and the Chalice;
But like a true Reforming Rabble,
Ev'n Plunder'd the Commanion Table.

CANTO IV. On the Mob's Revels round the Bon-fire.

The Sacred Pile b'ing now in Flames,
To th' Grief of many Pious Dames;
Who wept to see the Rabble use,
Their Consecrated Seats and Pews;
Like Crazy Chairs with broken Backs,
And Beadsteads full of Bags and Cracks;
Disabl'd by the sinful Follies,
Of Common Strumpets and their Bullies;
And from some Brothel torn away,
Upon an Easter Holyday;
At such a Merry time to please,
The Cropear'd London 'Prentices;
That they might learn when Young and Bold,
To Mob with better Grace when Old.

Have we, said they, on Powder-Treason,
When Bonfires are the most in Season,
Collected broken Tubs and Hōops,
To burn their Devils, and their Popes;
Supply'd their Wants with thin Old Groats,
To chear their Hearts and wet their Throats;
That they might Revel, Whoop and Hollow,
With more undaunted Zeal when Mellow;
Break Popish Windows where no light,
Appear'd to celebrate the Night;
Stop Coaches, and exact a Fee,
For crying, Down with Popery;
And Worry those that would not stand,
To hear and answer their Demand;
And have they now at last turn'd Tail,
On us that always wish'd 'em well;
And set them up so oft to be,
The Bulwark of our Libertie.

O Shame on this Ungrateful Croud,
The Scandal of the Multitude;

Who never fail'd, we must allow,
To be our faithful Friends till now;
But always readily agreed,
To serve us at a time of Need.

Who'd think that in these Pious Days,
They should be so depriv'd of Grace;
Who always us'd to lend the Nation,
A willing Hand tow'rds Reformation;
And at all Seasons were so free,
To pull down Popish Tyranny.

But now they're sunk into a State,
That's Wicked, Base and Reprobate;
And are no longer to be trusted,
When Matters come to be Adjusted.

By this, alas, it is too Plain,
There is no Confidence in Man;
O Neighbours! Flesh and Blood we see,
Are Wanton, Frail, and Slippery;

And never truly as they shou'd,
Stand long to any Cause that's good;
But soon Draw-back, and fall at length,
For want of Constancy and Strength.

Alas, I'm almost spent, for why,
Much talk has made me wond'rous dray;
If you're not faint, I vow I am,
Here Neighbour, 'tis a Cordial Dram;
E'en let them take their own ill way,
The Wind will turn and so may they.

The sober Brethren too beheld,
With Shaking Heads the Shining Field;
And with full Hearts and flowing Eyes,
Bemoan'd the Burning Sacrifice;
One would cry out in Indignation,
What means this suddain Alteration;
Good L---d who would have though the Rabble;
Were so ingrateful and instable;
Have we for many Reigns together,
Tutor'd and Nurs'd 'em like a Father;

Made them the Curb of Sov'reign Pow'r,
Religion's strong defensive Tow'r;
Taught them by Clamour how to give
A Check to the Prerogitive;
To hunt down Pop'ry when we meant,
To fall upon another Scent;
That is, to Chase the Government:
And can they now O Brutes declare,
For what we know they never were;
And tune their Old Republisk Throats,
To such Prophane ill-boding Notes;
That threaten all we have projected,
With Disappointments unexpected;
So Good Intents in Holy Times,
Of old were often constru'd Crimes;
And by the People set at naught,
When to a hopeful Crisis brought.

Have we bestow'd such Annual Boons,
And Stipends on Apollo's Sons;
Our gifted Brethren of the Pen,
Those Pious, Learn'd and Honest Men;

Who spread their Morals up and down;
In e'ery Corner of the Town,
That those who would Instructions seek,
Might read their Duty e'ery Week;
And o'er their Coffee for a Penny,
Ferment their Zeal in Case they've any;
And grow as wise in State Affairs;
As City Aldermen and Mayors;
That e'ery Novice might be taught;
To tell his Brother Dunce what's what;
And thwart a Man of twice the Sense,
With Modish Noise and Impudence.

And has all this Expensive Pains,
The Cost of Mony and of Brains;
Fix'd no more Justice in the Rabble,
Than if our Prints on Coffee-house Table,
Had been no more than Bibble Babble.

O Brethren! 'tis a Burning Shame,
Our Holy Things should end in Flame;

And that the Seats of our Devotion,
Thro' our Old Friend's Mistaken Notion;
Should thus be Plunder'd and Confounded,
By such a Mob, which if well sounded,
Are not true Cavalier, but Roundhead.

For look ye, Brethren, pray consider,
Altho' they've stretch'd beyond their Tedder;
Perhaps, Poor Lambs, they might revolt
For Int'rest, then it was no Fault;
Because we cannot but allow,
That's a strange Plea, as things go now:
You know sometimes for Interest sake,
We take an Oath we mean to break;
Step a few Yards within the Door
O'th' Church, to gain a Customer;
Submit to th' Sacramental Tye,
When e'er we see good Reason why,
Yet never think we're Bound thereby.

For since the Wicked do agree,
'Tis best for their Security;
To fence their Intrest round about,
With Oaths, to keep the Righteous out;
It always ought to be our Care,
To make a Gap that we may share,
Th' Advantage they would fain ingross,
By keeeping all that's gainful close,
In case we had no Ways to Break,
Or Leap those Fences which they make.

Therefore, as Profit is a Plea,
For all Out-side Conformity;
And Men may Quarrel or Comply,
According as their Int'rests Lie.

On second Thoughts, we should excuse,
The People's playing Fast and Loose;

Provided in the end 'tis found
That Mony made them change their Ground;
For Int'rest cannot be withstood,
By those who're Conscious of their Good;
No more than Wantons can refuse,
Those Pleasures they delight to use.

The End of the Fourth CANTO.

2. Part the Second.

CANTO V. The burning of the Clock, and the Speech of a Holy Brother to the Poor Machine, before it was committed to the Devouring Flames.

The growing Flame now thriv'd apace,
And spread its Lustre round the place.
In Ruffling Sheets arose on high,
And stain'd with Red the Distant Sky;

That Learn'd Astrologers might know,
By th' Heav'ns what was done below;
And in the Bright Reflexion see,
The Graceless Rabble's Cruelty;
Who danc'd and hollow'd round the Flame,
And loudly glory'd in their Shame;
Whilst fiery Flakes and Sparks were cast,
From Crackling Planks that spit their last
Upon their Sweaty Heads and Faces,
Who'd torn them from their Sacred Places;
So Foxes when they're weary grown,
And by the Dogs quite hunted down;
At last when all Resistance fails,
They Dung and Piss upon their Tails,
And dying, whisk it in the Eyes
Of their voracious Enemies.

As the proud Flames the fiercer grew,
Around the Pile more Rabble drew;
Rattling their Broomslaves, and their Clubs,
That Foes might dread their Knocks and Drubs;

Expressing in a Gen'ral Voice,
Their mutual Madness and their Joys,
Jossling and thumping one another,
In Jest, to try each Hardy Brother;
That they might guess by this their Clubbing,
Who would, or would not stand a drubbing;
In case that they should meet and squabble,
With some resisting Low Church Rabble;
So Bully Hectors and Bravadoes,
Those Hotbrain'd, Drunken Desperadoes,
Whose Looks are seldom free from Scars,
Acquir'd in Tavern-Broils and Wars;
Fall out among themselves to try,
The Courage of their Friends thereby;
That they may know how far they'll Run
A Risque, when they're depended on.

The Rabble taking much delight,
To see their Trophies shine so bright;
Did the same Frantick Joy express,
As on the Day of Good Queen Bess;

Or when th' assemble to remember,
The Fourth or Fifth Day of November;
The Kingdom sav'd upon the one,
On t'other like to've been undone;
So neither Prince or Powder-Plot,
Should be by Protestants forgot;
Since most Men do affirm I know,
That we as many Blessings owe,
To One's Successes and Anointment,
As to the other's Disappointment;
We therefore ought, who can't deny
The wondrous Good we've reap'd thereby;
T'express our Joy so much the rather,
'Cause two such Days thus Jump together.

Whilst each lin'd Pew, and matted Form,
That kept the S---s Posteriors warm;
Long Occupy'd by Pious Dames,
Were now consuming in the Flames;
The Faithful Clock which oft before,
Had pointed to the Pudding Hour;

And told the Preacher many a time,
When Pig and Goose were in their Prime;
And when the Liss'ning Saints and Sinners,
Were ready for their Courser Dinners;
Was now advanc'd upon a Rail,
Near Neighbour to the Flaming Pile;
That as the Hand with leisure turn'd,
The Mob might see how fast it burn'd;
But as the costly Engine stood,
Lock'd up in Transitory Wood;
A sad relenting Son of Grace,
With weeping Eyes and Meager Face,
Fetch'd a deep Sigh before he spoke,
And thus bemoan'd the Moving Clock.

Ah Poor Machine, how oft alas!
Have I beheld thee thro' thy Glass;
And watch'd thee with a Wishing Eye,
Till th' hungry Hour of Twelve drew nigh;
That thou might'st tell our faithful Pastor,
Who long had been thy Careful Master;

When the Fowls waited for my Lady,
And Alewife's Buttock Beef was ready;
When Night Cap Bakers were about,
To draw their Pies and Puddings out;
And when his own Cook-Maid began,
To Curse him o'er the Dripping-pan;
And fret and fume for fear the Boil'd
Young Cockribs should, alas, be spoil'd;
Or that the Turky, Goose, or Pheasant,
Sent by some Hearer as a Present,
Should by his over painful Teaching,
To her Disgrace that rul'd the Kitchin;
Be pall'd, o'er roasted and unfit,
For such a Fine-mouth'd Saint to eat;
Who does not only truly know
What's Good for th' Soul, but Body too;
And tho' he rails at those Ill Men,
As Hirelings, who have One in Ten;
He can be Merry, Brisk and Blith,
O'er a Fat Pig that is no Tyth;
Tho' sent him by some Holy Brother,
Who can't afford himself another.

But 'tis allow'd our Guides may dine,
On Dainty Bits, and costly Wine;
Whilst we beneath their Nursing Care,
Content our selves with Courser Fare.

O Useful Engine! after all
Thy Service, must I mourn thy Fall;
Thou that hast not one erring Wheel
Within thee, made of Popish Steel;
Nor in thy Wheels one High Church Tooth,
To make thee vary from the Truth;
But by thy Motions shews thou'rt full,
Of Revolution Principle;
And that in spite of Pope thou art,
True Protestant in e'ery Part;
Ne'er Ran too fast, or mov'd too slow,
But did with Moderation go;
Nor didst thou like designing Brother,
Proceed one way, and point another;
But by thy constant Course Proclaim,
Thy Hand and Heart were still the same.

O wretched Prodigy of Art,
I wish I could thy Doom divert;
How gladly would I take thee Home,
And place thee in my finest Room;
Pray by thee twice or thrice a Day,
And Watch thee too as well as Pray;
Make thee the darling of my Wife;
Preserve thee as I would my Life.

But Ah, thy Melancholy Tick,
That sounds, alas, so Death-watch like;
Does to my frighted Ears foretel,
Thy Fate is irrevocable;
And that the Varnish'd Case you wear,
Japan'd with so much Art and Care;
Must soon be made, to please the Croud,
Your Mourning Coffin or your Shroud;
And that you've only now the Pow'r,
To point out the unhappy Hour;
Wherein your Motion must expire,
In this Revengeful Wicked Fire;

And you be made the Sport and Mock
Of Fools, and cease to be a Clock;
So fare thee well, I must forsake thee,
The Rogues are coming now to take thee.

No sooner had he whisper'd forth
These words, and told the Clock its Worth;
Which on the Rail preserv'd its motion,
Till snatch'd from thence to execution,
But Captain Tom with Boatswain's Voice,
Commands a File of Jolly Boys,
To bring the poor condemn'd Machine,
To th' flaming Pile, and cast therein
The costly Timist, loudly Crying;
'Twas given to Fanatick Lying,
And therefore ought, says all the Scrubs,
To perish with the Tub of Tubs;
So in they heav'd, Time's Mensurator,
Who never mov'd one Moment a'ter;
But like a gentle Low-Church Lamb,
Submitted to the High-Church Flame;

At parting gave the time of Day,
And then in silence slid away.
Thus what much Time and Pains had Cost,
Was in one fatal Minute lost;
So when the Roundhead Rabble Reign'd,
And Holy Things were much profan'd;
They burnt all Popish Trinkets, also
Whate'er themselves were pleas'd to call so;
That should this prove a Popish Plot,
As some say 'tis, and others not:
They've but return'd in all this stir,
A Rowland for an Oliver.

The Tub, the Clock, the Forms and Pews,
Which Calvin's Saints were wont to use;
The Rafters, Beams and Window Frames,
Were all catch'd hold of by the Flames;
So that the Fruits of this their Rapine,
Were now past danger of escaping;
In Case the Brawny Guards from Court,
Had come to interrupt their Sport;

For, lo, the Ornamental Wood,
That once in beautious Order stood,
And e'ery stubborn Timber-piece,
Began to crackle Smoak and Hiss,
That none could snatch away the Firing,
Without the hazard of Expiring;
Tho' some Good Men, who little thought,
To see so sad a sight G---d wot;
In doleful Dumps, stood sighing by,
And view'd the Fire with watry Eye;
As if they meant to weep a Flood,
That should have rescu'd if they Cou'd,
From Wicked Flames the Sacred Wood.

So Bunting Bess, and Oyster Nan,
Behold with Grief the handsom Man;
Who from the Villain's Dismal Gate,
Is riding backwards to his Fate;
Attend the Wretch with mournful Cries,
Set off with dripping Blubber'd Eyes;
And wring their Hands with great Devotion,
But cannot stop the Execution.

When now the Holy Goods were past
Relief, and bound to see their last;
And to the Noisy Mob's desire,
The Carcase of the Raging Fire;
That flaming Product of their Fury,
Was in the Zenith of its Glory;
The Croud to farther Mischiefs bent,
Began to think their time mispent;
Therefore with Captain Tom their Leader,
They call'd a Council to consider,
What further Work they'd left undone;
That might that Night be carry'd on;
So the State Fox, who with Success,
Has Crown'd one daring Wickedness;
Consults with some assisting Brother,
Which way to perpetrate another.

No sooner had their Heads been laid
Together, and Proposals made;
But they concluded to divide,
And then more Tubs the Rabble cry'd

When the Herd, likeing this Advice,
Had loudly hollow'd twice or thrice;
To shew their Joyful Approbation,
Of some new Whim in Agitation;
The Captains of the bold Rapscallions
Next, form'd 'em into four Battallions;
That being sev'rally imploy'd,
Divers at once might be destroy'd;
And the more Holy Places feel
The sad effects of Frantick Zeal;
Some shouting in a Boistrous Throng,
Tow'rds Nevel's Ally march'd along;
Others as loud and mad as they,
To Alesb'ry Chappel made their Way;
A third detachment of the Herd,
For Black Fryars Meeting-house declar'd;
The Fourth Division in a heat,
Cry'd one and all for Kerbystreet;
Thus wilder far than Unback'd Horses,
They hollowing steer'd their sev'ral Courses;
With equal Resolution bent,
To further shew their Ill intent;

And not to leave one Shop of Grace,
They met with standing in its Place;
No wonder so Robust a Crew,
Should such Infernal Work persue;
Since those in higher Stations blest,
Make all Religion but a Jest;
And by the Disregard they shew it,
Teach Others to be Foes unto it.

CANTO VI. Their further Mischiefs, and the suppressing of the Rabble, by the Guards.

No sooner were each noisy Rude
Division of the Daring Croud
Brought, by their furious Chiefs before,
A Meeting-Window, or a Door;
But Clubs and Staves, and other Tackle,
Soon forc'd the Boarded Tabernacle;

And serv'd the roaring Desperadoes,
Instead of Bombs and Handgranadoes;
For e'ery strong revengeful Stroak,
And eager bold destructive Knock;
Were given with so good a Heart,
They made a Board or Pannel start;
No artful Strength of Bar or Bolt,
Could stand so vigorous an Assault;
Where willing Hands in Concord Joyn'd,
Soon finish'd what the Brutes design'd;
Who ne'er stood musing shilly shall I;
But when they'd enter'd Meeting Ally,
Like Furies nimbly fell to work,
And did strange Wonders with a Jirk;
Such that amaz'd the Suff'ring side,
That nothing but the Pope some cry'd,
Or Devil, could bewitch the Mob,
To perpetrate so base a Job;
Thus Sathan often bears the blame,
When Man alone deserves the shame;
For some to Good are so averse,
They need no Dev'l to make 'em worse.

By their first Rapine made expert,
They plunder'd now like Men of Art;
With so much readyness run thro' it,
As if they'd been Apprentic'd to it;
And did their sev'ral Meetings gut,
I'th' time a Monkey cracks a Nut;
The sturdy Pannels tho' of Oak,
And stubborn Beams and Boards they broak,
With as much ease when Warm and Angry,
As they do Pie-Crust when they're Hungry;
The Doors from off their Hinges flew,
And Nails o'th' biggest Size they drew;
More nimbly with their Knocks and Thumps,
Than Tonsor Quack draws Rotten Stumps;
And when the active Brutes had done,
The Second Work they'd thus begun;
The Sacred Spoils they glean'd abroad,
They brought into the Western Road;
And there among the Chanc'ry Inns,
Where Sins are punish'd oft with Sins;
And spiteful Knaves that love Disputes,
Give earnest for their Endless Sutes;

They laid their broken Plunder down,
Gather'd from sev'ral Parts oth' Town;
That in the mid'st of that High-street,
Where Rogues their dying Comrades Greet;
As the Pale Wretches backwards slide,
In Carts and Sledges to be ty'd;
They might erect a second Holy
Bonfire, to gratify their Folly;
That they might Revel to their Shame,
Like sporting Insects round the Flame;
And bid Defiance to the Law,
That does the Sword of Justice draw;
By doing such Abominations,
Before the Lawyers Habitations;
So hardy Rogues to shew their Fellows,
How little they regard the Gallows;
Make fatal Tyburn but their Scoff,
And Rob sometimes in sight thereof.

By that time they had brought enough,
Of the Old Holy Housholdstuff;

T'express their Gladness in a Blaze,
For these our happy Halcyon days;
And that a second Fire might shew,
Their Dogstar-Zeal still the hotter grew;
The Court appris'd of all the Pains,
They'd taken, for no Thanks or Gains;
Order'd the Guards with speed to Run,
And pay 'em for the Work they'd done;
Lest in the height of their Destraction,
They should attempt some Nobler Action,
And seize the Bank for Satisfaction.

For tho' the Rabble mean no hurt,
And only play the Rogue for sport;
Untile a Meeting or a House,
As Monkeys will when broken loose;
And not thro' Malice, but for Pleasure,
Do such unlucky Tricks as these are;
Yet the Dev'ls Children oft, 'tis fear'd,
Steal in among the Harmless Herd;
And lead the thoughtless Tools sometimes;
To perpetrate most scurvy Crimes;

Such that are shameful and unfitting,
For a true Mob of ancient Britain;
Who in past Ages us'd to be,
The Guard of English Liberty;
And would not stir against the Laws,
Except 'twas in a Pious Cause;
Such that our Holy Brethren hold,
And stand by, to be Good and Old,
Which has so oft involv'd the Nation,
In sad Domestick Tribulation;
A Cause so Righteous and Transcending,
That 'tis well worth the Saints defending.

But the stanch Mob who heretofore,
Were us'd to cry down Popish Pow'r;
Run headlong now beyond their Tedder,
As if the Devil was their Leader;
So those who in their Godly Labours,
Shew more Religion than their Neighbours;
Ne'er Bicker, Murmur or Repine,
But with a Pious good Design;

Yet when Old Sathan that sly Wolf,
Ascends from his infernal Gulf;
And does without suspicion creep,
Among the Over-righteous Sheep;
He sooths them oft by seeming Friendships,
To Sins that misbecome their Saintships.

The Guards, each mounted for the Fray,
Like George that did the Dragon slay;
On Bobtail Prancer, fat and plump,
Dock'd close unto his Sturdy Rump;
With shining Whinyard now advanc'd,
From Whitehall, to the City pranc'd;
In search of those who had transgress'd
The Law, and ought to be suppress'd;
For he that does delight to see,
The Mob exert their Tyranny;
Deserves by way of Fellowfeeling,
To have the Rabble sack his Dwelling.

The Guards by watchful Spies and Scouts,
Being told by this time whereabouts

The Buisy Rout were now imploying,
Their Hands in Thieving and Destroying;
Suppress'd the Brutes in sev'ral places,
With loaded Backs and sweating Faces;
And in the Borders where they found 'em,
So guarded the Avenues round 'em,
That when they saw themselves betray'd,
Some Skulk'd, and others scour'd like mad;
Some threw their Burthens down much frighted,
And cry'd Peccavi, and submitted;
Some fled like Debtors scar'd by Baliffs,
In quest of bie ungarded Allies;
Whilst others dodg'd among the Horse,
And stood a pritty shifting Course;
Till a flat stroak upon the Crown,
Or cut of Broad-sword fetch'd 'em down;
Some Cowards quite confounded stood,
And Mercy, Mercy bawl'd aloud;
Whilst others trembling in the Fray,
Beneath the Horses Bellies lay;
Like the Poor Dragon that we Paint,
Born down by th' Capadocian Saint;

Some Crafty Zealots cut and wheadl'd,
And lying vow'd they never meddl'd;
That they were only Lookers on,
And humbly beg'd they might be gone;
Whilst others by their Sweaty Looks,
Driping like buisy Dog Day Cooks;
And by their Hands with Dirt made filthy,
Appear'd beyond Objection Guilty.

Thus some escaped and sav'd their Bacon,
Whilst others in the Fact were taken
In Rowling up Blackfryar's Hill,
A Pulpit tow'rds the Flaming Pile;
As if the Sacred Hut from whence,
The Teacher did such Truths dispense,
Was no more vallu'd by the Mob,
Than if 't'ad really been a Tub;
So Rebels when they've storm'd a Town,
They make Church Riches all their own;
For when they've Pow'r, they're too invidious,
To think what's gainful Sacraligious.

Others were catch'd with Heavy Packs,
Of Pews they'd pillag'd, on their Backs;
As if they thought to steal and feed
The Fire, a Meritorious Deed;
So those that do at Skittles play,
Will take more Pains to lose and pay,
Than at their Labour for Reward,
Altho' it is not half so hard;
And all the Reason they have for't;
One they call Work, the other Sport;
Thus the most buisy Knaves they seiz'd,
And the less Guilty Fools dismiss'd;
That those who most deserv'd the Blame,
Might punish'd be with Publick Shame;
And those unthinking Slaves go free,
Drawn in by meer Curiosity;
For he that with a Base intent,
Begins those Ills he should prevent;
Is far more culpable than he,
Wh' offends thro' meer Conformity;

Or Madman like, at random sins,
Without first knowing what he means.

Thus Captain Tom and his Adherents,
Were by the Guards at one Appearance,
Frighted from farther Perseverance;
For those who did in Triumph Roar,
And act such Ills but Just before;
Were to their safty now inclin'd,
And fled like Chaff before the Wind;
For tho' the Rabble are as fierce,
Whilst un-oppos'd as Wolves and Bears;
Yet when a Lawful Force draws near,
It turns their Brutish Rage to Fear.

The Guards thus having soon supprest,
This monstrous many Headed Beast;
And scar'd them back to stinking Allies,
From whence at first they made their Sallies;
Return'd and left the Streets as quiet,
As if there had been no such Riot;

Whilst those Justitiary Tools,
Old Headboroughs and Constables;
To Neighb'ring Prisons lead away,
Th' Offenders taken in the Fray;
Treating the Tatter'd Rakes and Clowns,
With scornful Pulls, and Haughty Frowns;
As if the Moody Slaves had been,
Beneath the Dignity of Men.
So when successless Victims yield,
To their proud Victors in the Field;
Each Conqueror looks sternly Brave,
On his dejected Captive Slave;
Whose Courage vanishes when crost
By Fortune, and his Hopes are lost.

CANTO VII. Captain Tom's Speech to his Dispersing Brethren.

The Mob thus scouring in a Hurry,
T'escape the Guards tremendous Fury;
Some tatter'd Fragments chanc'd to meet,
As flying in a mighty heat;
That by their Heels they now might shun,
The Dangers that attended on
Those Impious Deeds their Hands had done;
For they that make a daring push at
Such Evils that the Devil would blush at;
Must never on their Cause rely,
But from the Sword of Justice fly.

Among the rest thus running Home,
Was that fam'd Hero, Captain Tom;
Who in past Reigns in spite to Kings,
Had done so many wond'rous things;
And in perverse Rebellious Ages,
Committed such bold Sacriledges;
And with undaunted Hands effected,
Strange Works by wiser Heads projected.

No sooner were these scatter'd Troops
Of Mob (that now were past all hopes,
Of further Mischief) reunited,
Who'd been so very lately frighted;
But following their Leader's Heels,
Into the midst of Lincoln Fields;
The sturdy Champion, then aloud,
Cry'd halt to the Dishearten'd Croud;
And being gravely fac'd about,
Made this Oration to the Rout.

My Brethren, Countryman, and Friends,
We who should scorn ignoble ends;
And with our Clubs wherein our trust is,
Without Reward do Publick Justice;
Should Recollect when o'er our Tipple,
That we are now the Sov'reign People;
No Rabble without Grace or Brains,
Like those that punish'd Former Reigns;
No foolish Croud, no Scoundrel Pack,
To be at e'ery Statesman's Beck;
No Owls to hollow up a Fool,
That is some plotting Parties Tool;
Nor yet such Heath'nish Brutes (G---d bless us)
As some will by our Practice guess us;
No, all our Advocates aver,
We're now the Original of Pow'r;
That is, the People, and have Right,
When e'er we please, to vent our Spite;
And hope the Kingdom will become,
In time, a glorious Peopledom;

That we once more aloft may mount,
And none dare call us to account.

But then, my Friends, you'l ask, no doubt,
How I thus came to lead you out,
Against their Meetings who assert,
Our Pow'r, and always take our Part;
In Answer to the Knotty Quere,
I never to your Hurt ensnare ye;
And as to that amusing Point,
I own there is a Mist'ry in't;
Which tho' at present, I conceal it,
For Reasons, yet will time reveal it;
And plainly show, our only Ends,
Were not to wrong but serve our Friends;
Altho our good Intentions had,
A Face, that look'd so very bad;
So the Fair Dame does oft disgrace,
With Ugly Mask her Beauteous Face;
That when she's pleas'd to shew what's under,
Her Charms may raise the greater wonder.

Besides, we find, that even Watchmen,
Who lay so many Traps to Catch-men;
Break their own Lanthorns in the Scuffle,
To have a fair Pretence to Ruffle
Those Hot-brain'd Persons in the Squabble,
The Croaking Knaves design to Bubble.

Nay, some will scratch their very Skins,
Break their own Heads, or bruise their Shins;
Then on their Adversaries Charge
The Crime, to make the Damage large.

Ah, Brethren, Int'rest mix'd with spite,
Give wrong, sometimes, the Face of Right;
And free the Guilty from the Error,
Of which the Innocent's the Bearer.

However, should our Friends mistake,
And think we do their Cause forsake;
To th' Scandal of the Mob agree,
We're guilty of Inconstancy;

Yet granting what they thus suppose,
And that we really are their Foes;
Yet still we're fix'd and only run,
The Course that we have ever done;
And therefore from their own Assertions,
Shall clear our selves from their Aspersions.

For do not all their Scribes declare,
The High Church but a Faction are;
Who counter run to all those Rules,
Call'd Revolution Principles;
And then suppose we had been Guided,
By them, and with their Int'rest sided;
'Tis plain, we still had done no more,
Than what we'd ever done before;
For we at all times have been true,
To Faction, and they must allow,
By their own Rules we are so now.
In Case we really stand affected,
To th' side of which we are suspected;
How then can those of Conventicle
Assert, we're giddy, false and fickle,

Since we've been ever true, they know,
To Faction, whether High or Low;
Therefore let them think what they will,
I say, My Boys, we're steady still;
To the same Cause they're always hearty,
Who strive against the Rising Party,
And still, whene'er they're vext and crost,
Oppose the side that's uppermost.

But now, my Friends, 'tis time to March,
The Guards are coming on the search;
Let's Scour, my Lads, to save our Bacon,
For Woe be to us if we're taken.

FINIS.

3. Part the Third.

CANTO VIII. The beating up for the Trainbands; the City's Preparation for raising the same. The Watch and Ward, with their Character and Deportment.

Now City Calvskin roar'd aloud,
Thro' London Streets, to scare the Croud;
And still the more 'twas beat or plaid
Upon, the greater Noise it made;

Before the Masters of the Dub,
Surrounded by a Beardless Mob;
Advanc'd a Red-fac'd squabby Fellow,
As odly shap'd as Punchionello;
Most nobly crown'd with Hat and Feather,
And dress'd in Buff or other Leather;
With Truncheon rais'd against his side,
To shew his Office and his Pride;
And now and then extended further,
To keep the little Boys in order;
Behind him came some Halberdiers,
With Feathers flapping round their Ears;
And on their Shoulders did they bear,
Their desp'rate Instruments of War;
Kept at the Killing end as bright,
As sturdy Steel of Errant Knight;
As if they'd been just scour'd with Whiting,
Or dust of Brick, against their Fighting;
Their Bodies hoop'd with Sashes round,
As tyte as Hogsheads Iron bound;
That they might hold, in case of Thirsting,
More Drink, without the fear of Bursting;

Each Hero's Stockins, Sash and Feather,
All seeming to be dy'd together;
That Men or Boys, who were beholders
Of these the Beaters up for Soldiers;
Might know by th' Colour of their Knots,
That hung in splendor on their Hats;
Or by the Strings that ty'd their Hair,
Of what fierce Regiment they were;
So Whifflers on a Lordmayor's-Day,
Who walk before to clear the Way;
Shew by the Ribbons that are hung to
The Noddies, who the Fools belong to.

Thus round their proper Bounds they march'd,
Like waxwork Figures stiff and starch'd;
That by repeated loud Alarms,
Of Drum, the Cits might scour their Arms;
And send their Hireling Heroes to
The usual place of Rendevou;
That such a brave surprizing Train
Of Sworded Boys, and armed Men;
Might scare the bold tumultuous swarm,
From madly doing farther harm;

Or that at least it might induce,
The Mob who were before so loose;
To change their Shapes for better Pay,
And now, for half a Crown a Day,
Take Arms, and for the present hide
Themselves among the strongest side;
So Joining with the lawful Force,
Wisely suppress themselves of Course;
For when in Arms they shew their Faces,
How should they be in other Places;
So cunning Villains that commit,
By Night a Robb'ry in the street;
If once they find they're close persu'd
They slack their Speed, and Join the Croud;
And running on the self-same way,
Cry out stop Thief as well as they.

No sooner had the Marshal Dub,
Thus giv'n a Challenge to the Mob;
And call'd each Trader to prepare
His Arms for this Non-fighting War;

But e'ery willing Hero laid
His Business by, to whet his Blade;
And scour his Firelock, and his Barrel,
Upon this unexpected Quarrel;
That he might come himself or Hire
Some Man as Brave, that durst to fire
A Musquet that should do no hurt,
And never start at the Report;
But stand in Wet or Windy Weather,
At Corner Post an Hour together;
And boldly guard it in the Night,
That none should reel or stagger by't;
Without first shewing to the Guard,
Good Reasons why he drank so hard;
And that he was no Mob tho' mellow,
But a good honest Drunken Fellow;
So tatter'd Slouch that guards the Street,
And crys the Hour in Wind and Wet;
Will know by careful Inquisition,
Who runs for Midwife or Physician;

The Hour appointed being come,
The Heroes met at beat of Drum;
And Coblers, 'Prentices and Porters,
Forsook with Joy their Winter Quarters;
Like valliant Troops to undergo,
The Hazard both of Frost and Snow,
Besides the danger of the Foe;
Thus Lazy Louts and Drousy Fellows,
Who love to hug their Downy Pillows;
Think sitting up a Night in Buff,
Hard Service and sufficient Proof;
They've as much Fortitude to brag on,
As Champion George that slew the Dragon.

No sooner were these Men of War,
In valiant Order met to scare,
The Hairbrain'd Rabble from persuing,
Those startling Ills they had been doing;
But the Mob vanish'd as 'twas thought,
Thro' fear of being Kill'd or Caught;

When in reality the Apes,
Had Proteus like, but chang'd their Shapes,
For those that were the Tatter'd Slaves
Before, who with their Clubs and Staves,
Knock'd down with so much Spite and Passion,
The Synagogues of Toleration;
Had now thro' Fear of being taken,
Like cunning Knaves to save their Bacon;
Transform'd their Broomstaves and Battoons,
To Backswords, Bandaliers and Guns;
And so from a Rude Mob became,
The fierce Suppressors of the same.

So those who for one side declare,
That they the Publick Wealth may share;
And such abusive Frauds commit,
That put the Nation in a Heat;
When once they've largely made their Fortune,
By Secret means behind the Curtain;
They always then espouse that cause,
And give that Party most applause,
That best can skreen 'em from the Laws.

Jack Presbyter in times of Yore,
Who pull'd down Church and Sov'reign Pow'r;
When Restauration did appear,
Turn'd tail on their own side, thro' fear;
And then cry'd hey for Cavalier.

To back their Military Guard,
They added now the Watch and Ward;
Wherein the Midnight Parish Croakers,
Old Tiplers and Mundungus Smoakers;
Swaddl'd in Rags hoop'd round with Leather;
To keep their tatter'd Frize together;
With Faces stern as frightful Vizards,
And Beards that made them look like Wizards.
Were Join'd with some more young and lusty,
With Skins like Bacon Fat when rusty;
Who seem'd to be a part of those,
'Gainst whom they now appear'd as Foes;
And that they'd still more Inclination,
To Join the Rabble on occasion;
Altho' their Brainless Head had chose 'em,
In case they met 'em to oppose 'em.

So the same Gang that steal a Brace
Of Bucks from Forrest, Park, or Chase;
If they're but unsuspected Neighbours,
That gain their Livings by their Labours;
The Keeper will in friendship call 'em,
To go in quest of those that stole 'em;
Who join him laughing in their Sleeves,
To think themselves the very Thieves.

Each Parish Watch-house now was lin'd,
With Crazy Sots, some Lame, some Blind;
And lazy Louts more fit to play
The Rogue, than scare the Rogues away;
From whence sometimes they made their Sallies,
And walk'd their Rounds thro' Streets and Allies;
Lead now about i'th' Face oth' Light,
By the stern Rulers of the Night;
Who look'd almost as much like ill Men,
As Judas and his train of Billmen;
When going to betray his Lord
And Master, for a small Reward;

Some Dirty, others Drunk and Drousy,
Some Scarecrows shrugging as if Lousy;
Some in Fur Caps, in which they lay
At Night, and wore the same by day;
All arm'd with mighty Staves whose strength
Appear'd in thickness and in length,
Which as they crept along, the Drones
Knock'd down so hard upon the Stones,
As if they us'd their Clubs for Hammers,
To serve instead of Paviers Rammers;
Or that each surly tatter'd Slave,
Meant by the noisy Thumps they gave;
To signify themselves to be,
The Riff Raff of Authority;
So Tinkers who Repair old Bellows,
And mend our Pots and Sausepans tell us,
By thumping loud on Brasen Kettle,
The sturdy Knaves are men of Mettle.

The City and Suburbian Borders,
Thus fill'd with Soldiers and with Warders;

Who like stern Heroes march'd about,
In quest of the Rebellious Rout;
Resolving if they could but meet 'em,
To take 'em or at last to beat 'em;
But all their Searches were in vain,
The Mob were now Low-Church again;
And all the Jesuits and Priests,
Were safely crept into their Nests;
That looking out for High-Church Plotters,
And those that were the Rout's Promoters;
Was now but seeking we may say,
A Needle in a Truss of Hay;
'Tis plain because the silly Elves,
Forgot to look among themselves;
For Watching, Warding, and Trainbanding,
Tho' Customs of an ancient standing;
Are thought by some but little better,
Than Mobing in another Nature;
Therefore whene'er those crafty Sirs,
That are the Cities Governours;
Think fit to raise their armed force,
All other Mobs must cease of course;

For those that Mob, like noisy Knaves,
Against the Law, with Clubs and Staves;
When the Drum beats, will gladly run
To Mob more safe with Sword and Gun.

CANTO IX. The Peoples Clamours at the Charge of Warding and Trainbanding.

Fresh Clamours now arose about,
The Charge occasion'd by the Rout;
Which gave the Mod'rate Saints a Handle,
To Curse the Priest, Bell, Book and Candle;
Charging the long expensive guarding,
Their Double Watching, and their Warding
On him; when 'twas their Moderation
That gave the very first Occasion:
So Country Knaves that Love the Law,
Break their own Fence to have a Claw,

Against some Neighbour, and to pound
Whate'er they catch within their Ground.

The Constables now rang'd their Wards,
To collect Mony for their Guards;
And huff'd and strutted at the Doors
Of all their Poor Parishioners;
Opprest the needy with Pretences,
Of being at such vast Expences;
That should their Pay be still more large,
It would not half defray the Charge;
When their own Pockets daily shar'd,
Much more than all their Drowsy Herd;
The Poor they hector'd to Complyance,
Whilst the Rich bid the Knaves Defiance;
And wisely knew the cunning Cheat,
Because themselves had practis'd it;
When in their Parishes they bore,
The self-same Office heretofore;
Thus always those that have the least
To guard themselves, are most opprest;

Whilst he that's Rich tho' ne'er so base,
Shall favour find in e'ery Case.

Long Staves were now set up by Scores,
Without side of their Watch-house Doors;
To make all those that chanc'd to view 'em
Believe they'd Men belonging to 'em;
When all the Feeble Parish Guard,
The careful Constable had hird,
Were four or five poor crazy Wretches,
Who scarce could crawl without their Crutches;
But wanted Staves to walk about,
Because they could not go without;
Yet Midnight Magistrate to gull
The Parish, make them pay their full,
As if their Watch and Ward were able,
To thrash the Jackets of the Rabble;
When they're too crazy in a Fray,
To stand, or yet to run away;
But if attack'd by three old Wives,
Must cry out Mercy for their Lives;

Therefore how grand a Cheat it is,
To pay for such a Guard as this;
Who in a dang'rous time of need,
Have neither Courage, Strength or Speed,
To help themselves or us, in case,
We want Assistance in Distress;
I therefore hope with all Submission,
'Twill not amount to a Digression;
If by the way I give a Sketch,
Of a true Smoak-dry'd City Watch.

They commonly consist of Fellows,
At first made Beggars by the Alehouse;
Where day by day they us'd to sot,
At All-fours, Cribidge or at Put;
And Range Moorfields sometimes to find,
A set of Ninepins to their Mind;
Or run a Mile to spend a day,
At Shovel-board, or such like play;
Till by their Guzling and Neglect
Of Work, for what they more affect;

100

They lose their Business, and at length
Their Credit, and when old their Strength;
Then when they're Crazy, stiff an Crippl'd,
Quite surfeited with Belch they've tippl'd,
And to the Parish must become,
Thro' Age and Weakness burthensome;
And have thro' carelessness been thrown
From Houses, once perhaps their own;
They're chose by the Parochial Powers,
To be a hopeful Guard to Ours;
When from their own they run away
By Night, not minding them by Day;
But who would trust a Bankrupt Knave,
Not worth a Groat, with all they have;
Or make him Guardian of his Child,
Whose own had by himself been spoil'd.

Thus thro' Compassion when decay'd,
They're Staff and Lanthorn Champions made;
And now they take themselves to be
Strange Scarecrows of Authority;

101

Like Bats and Owls they shun the Light,
And prove most noisy in the Night;
In Holes and Cocklofts sleep by day,
And in the Dark look out for Prey;
Grow proud and saucy which they learn
Of Parish Beadle stiff and stern;
Sworn in a Constable to save
From Midnight Damps, some Wealthy Knave.
Who scorns the Wooden Chair of State,
That keeps the Bulbeef Magistrate,
From his Wife's warmer Arms so late.

When thus the Poor Nocturnal Elves,
Have got a Leader like themselves;
They triumph then at past Eleven
O'er all that to the Cup are given;
By saucy Provocations cause,
Mad drunken Rakes to break the Laws;
And by warm irritating Words,
Excite them to unsheath their Swords;
That when they scarce can stand alone,
Their Merc'less Staves may fetch 'em down;

102

Break their own Lanthorns to recover
More Damage when the Fray is over;
Then haul 'em in like Dogs before
The Hireling Deputy in Pow'r,
Who Knits his Magisterial Brow,
And after asking where and how;
Knocks his Staff hard upon the Floor,
And sternly crys, I'll hear no more;
What draw their Swords; go see 'em strait,
I charge you, in at Counter-Gate;
And I shall find a way to morrow,
To tame their Courage to their Sorrow;
Thus are they hurry'd over Night
By th' Watch, to Jayl by Candlelight;
And the next Day when brought before
Sir Grim, must pay for many more
Rash Oaths and Curses than they swore;
Nay, and make Good before they're freed,
Those Damages they never did;
Pay saucy Watch and Conywobble,
Full Satisfaction for their Trouble,
And so Good-morrow Mr. Bubble.

103

These are the honest means they use,
Not to protect but to abuse;
Nor do they watch but with intent
To do those Ills they should prevent;
The Thieves in London seldom Rob
By Night, or undertake a Job,
But that they may the better do it,
They make a Watchman privy to it;
The Whore that plies at Tavern late,
And to her Lodging Carr's her Mate;
Is always with the Watch in see,
Within her stroling Liberty;
That she at Twelve or One may lead,
Some drunken Cully to her Bed;
Without the fear of being hurry'd
To have her sinful Back new curry'd:
So he that holds a gainful place,
Where Riches may be got apace;
Bribes him that is a Check upon him,
That when he once by Gold has won him,

104

He then may play the Knave securely,
Deceive and pinch the Publick hourly,
As many do that look demurely.

CANTO X. The Disputes and Squabbles of different Parties in a Tavern-Kitchin.

When thus the Rabble were become
A Lawful Mob by Beat of Drum;
And many who by Pains and Sweatings,
Had gutted and until'd the Meetings;
Were now imploy'd as careful Warders
To hinder and suppress Disorders;
'Twas then all sides began to shew
Their Teeth, and their old spite renew;
And with invet'rate Tongues express,
Their Jarring Zeal and Eagerness;
Each Tavern-Kitchen where Old Sots
Were us'd to nod, o'er Half-pint Pots;

105

And Amicably chat together,
About the Wars, or else the Weather;
Grew now as noisy to the full,
As Billingsgate or Hockley-Hole;
When Fishwives in a Rage are prating,
Or when the Bull or Bear are baiting;
So Nations which have long been blest
With Ease, and Downy Peace possest;
By suddain Strife, and Tongue Contention,
Become the Nurs'ries of Dissention.

In a warm Corner near the Rang,
Sits one, perhaps, just come from Change;
Who when he speaks is proud to show,
If he's of any Church, 'tis Low;
No sooner has he drank a Glass,
But to proclaim himself an Ass;
The Rev'rend Doctor to be sure,
Must be revil'd for Half an Hour;
And fifty Lies let loose to Blacken
The Man they had so much Mistaken;

106

Hoping, in vain, by such Discourse,
To make his Cause appear the worse;
And thro' his Sides to wound the Church;
Th' Apostate Tool had left ith' Lurch;
So he who leaves a Virtuous Wife,
To indulge a loose and Vitious Life,
Tho' she be prudent, Just and Holy,
Will charge his Baseness on her Folly.

Perhaps another Hungry Sinner,
Preferring Bus'ness to his Dinner;
Has got before him for Relief,
A Cutlet, or a Steak of Beef,
To stay his Craving Stomach till
He marches Home t'a better Meal;
But being highly pleas'd to hear,
What mighty Crimes were made appear,
Against the Man at whom they Level'd
Their Spite, as if they were Bedevil'd;
His swelling Malice and his Heat,
Scarce gives him time to chew his Meat;

107

But some Opprobrious Word's between
Each bit, must ease his rising Spleen;
Now down one hasty Mouthful goes,
Then up some envious Lie he throws;
Till betwixt eating fast and Lying
He's Choak'd with Food, and Falsifying:
So she wh' against her Spouse Rebels,
And Scolds and Chatters at her Meals;
When she's inclin'd to make a Fraction,
Will rather lose the Satisfaction
Of eating peaceably in silence,
Than Curb her Tongue, and check her Vi'lence.

A Third, perhaps, takes this Occasion
Of setting forth what Veneration
He has for that Learn'd Guide that writ,
To shew his Head, in spite of Wit,
As weak and crazy as his Feet;
Crying alas, 'twas wondrous hard,
Such Merit should have no Reward;
For giving to the People more
Than even God had given before;

108

And for discov'ring to Mankind,
Those Truths we in no Scripture find;
Affirming Crowns were first bestow'd,
Not by Good Heav'n, but by the Croud;
That from their Voice all Pow'r descended,
And on their Whimsies still depended;
So crafty Scholars may by force
Of Logick, prove a Man a Horse;
But when they've done, he is no more
A Horse or Gelding than before.

Next these perhaps the surly Spawn
Of some Rebellious Puritan;
Whose Heath'nish Principles unbounded,
Declare him to be truly Roundhead;
Sits growling o'er his Wine alone,
Like a Curs'd Mastiff o'er a Bone;
Expressing e'ery thing he says,
In true Fanatick Calv's-head Phrase;
Railing at Bishops and at Kings,
As Popish Antichristian Things;

109

As if he thought the strength of Reason,
Consisted in Notorious Treason;
And that it gave convincing Force,
To his dull scandalous Discourse;
So she that from the Brewhouse brings
Small Tiff in Tub's that hang on Sliings,
Believes the louder still she Scolds,
The stronger Argument she holds;
And that the greater noise she makes,
The more she to the Purpose Speaks.

Among these Church and Monarch Haters,
Perhaps a brace of Moderators
Sit tippling as we oft have seen 'em,
With little Buffet-stool between 'em;
These are the Janus looking Fools
The Faction work with as their Tools,
Who with Church Discipline Concede,
Yet strongly for Dissenters plead;
And for the sake of Peace and Union;
Altho' they're of the Church Communion;

110

Comply with e'ery thing that shows
They're Friends to them that are her Foes,
And prove ill enemies to such,
As they think love the Church too much;
Rail at those Men who venture most,
To save her when in Storms she's tost;
And on their Shoulders lay the blame,
Of others that deserve the shame;
Join with the Saints in Tavern Squabbles,
To pelt 'em down with Lies and Fables;
And with impatient Warmth decry,
Their Vertue and Integrity;
Yet can with wondrous Zeal assert,
They Love the Church with all their Heart;
Tho' they serve God but little better,
Than those that think there's no Creator;
So Libertines we find will swear
Much Love unto the Spotless Fair;
When all their Ends are to deceive 'em,
First to debauch 'em, then to leave 'em:

111

So those who stile themselves the Low,
To Church instead of Meeting go,
Only to bend Her to their Bow.

Among this Kitchin Crowd of Sinners,
Who love to be the Warm Beginners
Of such Disputes, from whence arise,
Hard Words and Animosities;
Perhaps there sit some Friends that show
Themselves as high as th' other Low;
Who hating the Fanatick short-pot
Are gather'd round the noble Quart-pot;
That they may Drink a Health to those
Who love the Church, and not her Foes;
And wish Conversion unto all,
Who strive in vain to Work her fall;
Yet shew as great a Detestation,
Of Pope and Popish Innovation,
As any down-look'd Son of Grace
That wears his Conscience in his Face;
And fills his Breast where that should be,
With Malice and Hypocrisy;

112

So a close Stool with Cedar Case,
May for a Nest of Drawers pass;
But if you look within you'l find,
'Tis but with Odious Balsam lin'd;
And tho' without set off and painted,
It is not what it represented.

When thus the Tavern-Kitchen's throng'd,
With Men so differently tongu'd;
Some tipling Claret, others Whitewine,
In both but very little Rightwine:
No sooner does God Bacchus steal,
Into their Brains and warm their Zeal,
But each sets up himself to be
Down right Infallibility;
And talks as if he was at least,
A Judge, a Statesman, or a Priest;
And that he knew much more than they,
Whom 'twas his Duty to obey;
One in the Scriptures would be dabbling;
And about saving Grace be squabbling;

113

Till he had o'er his Pipe and Pint,
Knock'd all Religion out of Joint;
And turn'd his Saintlike Moderation,
To Madness, Folly, Spite and Passion;
So she that does her Vices skreen,
With Puritannick Dress and Mein;
And shews us in her study'd Face,
Dissembled Modesty and Grace;
Warm her with Wine and you'll discover,
The Saint to be a Whore all over;
For no designing Knave or Lass
Can stand the Test of Bowl or Glass.

A second then with spiteful Mouth,
Most gravely tells you for a Truth;
That the late rising of the Rout,
Does plainly prove, beyond all doubt,
To be a Wicked Popish Plot,
Contriv'd by a Rebellious Knot
Of Papists harb'ring in the Nation,
To spoil the Peace in Agitation;

114

That the High Church did also Join
To carry on the Grand Design;
And that five Jesuits who were known,
Were seen to lead the Rabble on;
And to excite 'em to go thro'
The Mischiefs they had then in view;
And that for certain some we'd taken,
Would tell the Truth to save their Bacon;
Thus Bastard Mischief never wants
A Father here whilst we have Saints;
Who always swear the Wicked Brat,
Upon the Party that they hate.

A Third Man in a mighty Passion,
Forgetting all his Moderation;
Charges the Rising of the Mob,
Point blank upon the Holy Robe;
And consequently does not fail,
To maul the Doctor Tooth and Nail;
And with much Pleasure Jirks the Church,
As if his Words were Rods of Birch;

115

Yet all the time that he's so warm,
Will cry he means the Church no harm;
So the Base Coward have I heard
Abuse the very Man he'as feard
Behind his Back, and yet pretend,
In the same Breath to be his Friend.

At length the High Church take Offence
At so much wild Impertinence;
And with a stern and manly heat,
Their Low Church Argument defeat;
Now Pro and Con they Talk and Rattle,
Till their warm Words presage a Battle;
Provoking Healths two are begun
To spur the growing Contest on;
And large Confronting Bumpers pass
To shew their Spite in e'ery Glass;
Till at length Drunk and Mad between,
The heat of Wine, and that of Spleen;

116

Their mutual Rancour fiercer grows,
And then they fall from Words to Blows;
One with a stout S---l Cuff,
Soon gives his Low Church Foe enough;
Another High Church Friend as proudly,
Subdues a Saint that cry'd up H---y;
Thus those who by reviling first
Begot the Fray, came off by th' worst;
And stood convinc'd their Cause was bad,
By the shrewd Knocks and Thumps they had;
For Blows we find sometimes prevail,
When other Arguments shall fail;
As Laws severe, well us'd in Season,
Convince the stubborn more than Reason.

FINIS.

117

IV. Part IV.

CANTO XI. Of Libels, Authors, and the several sorts of Persons who are the heightners of our Divisions.

The Fleet street Presses now grow bold,
And num'rous Lies in Print were told;
One Libel gave another chase,
And Paper Wars came on a pace;

118

Hawkers, like Wild-geese flew along
In Trains, and cackl'd to the Throng;
Stretch'd wide their Throats, and strain'd their Vitals,
To tempt both Parties with their Titles;
Adding to all their senseless Stuff,
S---l's Name to push it off;
That Fame unsully'd might disguise,
And give a Sanction to their Lies;
So he that at a publick Table,
For Truth reports some monstrous Fable,
Fathers th' incredible Narration,
On some Great Man of Reputation;
That his own wild and senseless Fiction,
May pass more free from Contradiction.

Some wand'ring Scriblers for the Cause,
Skreen'd from the Danger of the Laws;
Now took the Low-Church Cudgel up,
To give their High-Church Foes a Wrap;
And brandish'd it Hand over Head,
Not caring what they did or said;

119

Perhaps “No Drunkards or Vain Swearers,
Yet given to more sinful Errors;
Fraud, Malice, Lying, Defamation,
Revengeful false Insinuation;
And Crimes to their Eternal Shame,
Too black and scandalous to Name;
Thus Villains of the deepest Blot,
May freely tell us what they're not;
But they are only Just that dare,
To truly shew us what they are.

These arm'd with Impudence and Spite,
Began to Rail, that is, to Write;
For no Fanatick Riming Brother
Can well do one without the other;
Since Scandal is to Low-Church Wit,
The very same as Salt to Meat;
Therefore no Reader ought to wonder,
If the Goose Sause should serve the Gander.

But now, as I before was saying,
The spiteful Asses would be braying;

120

And e'ery Low-Church Scribe to Mall,
The Doctor, dip his Pen in Gall;
That with Ignoble Heat and Passion,
They might lay hold of this Occasion,
To spit their Venom and their Hate
At him, beneath the Frowns of State,
So the brave Stag that stands at Bay,
Unwilling to become a Prey;
When once the stanch old Dogs have thrown him,
The Puppies then fall in upon him.

The Coffee Tables now were spread,
With all the worst that could be said;
And the two Good old Cause Asserters,
Read most by Coblers and by Porters;
Were by the Saints kind Intercession,
Receiv'd again on this Occasion,
By Houses here and there from whence,
They had been Kick'd and Spew'd long since;
Hoping their Talents might prevail,
At such a time to turn the Scale;

121

And that their Mutual Forces Join'd,
Harnass'd with Wit so much refin'd;
And so adorn'd instead of Sense,
With Trappings of Falsiloquence,
Might draw misjudging Fools to be,
In Love with their Sincerity;
That they might send a Hand to save,
A Cause that would themselves enslave;
Which Pious Work as carry'd on,
Might soon effectually be done;
Would we for Scripture read Reviews,
Con H---y's Works instead of News,
And Pin our Faith in all State Matters,
On Wise North Brittish Observators;
But those who once have got a Name,
For trading with Fallacious Fame;
When they speak Truth, 'tis thrown away,
'Cause none will Credit what they say.

However, num'rous Lies like Weeds,
Sprang up from Old Fanatick Seeds;

122

And tho' they little Rooting had,
The thriving Cockle spread like mad;
Audacious Scandals now were thrown,
By Atheists, at the Rev'rend Gown,
Who basely Labour'd to revile
The Priests with Craft the Church with Guile;
And rav'd and rattled in their Heat,
As if they really did conceit,
Religion but an Ancient Cheat;
So he that is to Vice resign'd,
And does no Law Eternal mind;
Would fain believe to mend the Matter,
There is no Punishment herea'ter.

Each Coffeehouse where the Saints were wont
To read dull News, and Preach upon't;
Was now into a Bedlam turn'd,
Where one side Laugh'd, and t'other Mourn'd;
As if the sober plodding Knave
That look'd disconsolately Grave,
Was grown quite Melancholly Mad,
To see his Opposites so glad;

123

Who in return were laughing wild,
To see the Saints so tame and mild;
After they'd been so crowing sure
Of winning All some Weeks before;
So he that does at Hazard play,
And stakes his all at best oth' lay;
If Fortune treats him with Disdain,
And sends the Chance before the Main;
The Purblind Gipsy he reviles,
Scratches his Ears, and bites his Nails;
Whilst he that Wins with Pleasure Smiles.

Some Saints, whose mod'rate Zeal extended,
Before the Tryal quite was ended,
To Hanging, Gelding, so untow'rd
A Doom, their very Wives abhor'd;
Or Banishment, the Lord knows whither,
And that to be at least for ever;
When all was over were again,
Become such soothing mod'rate Men;
That now they tun'd their Tongues and Throats
Another way, and chang'd their Notes;

124

As if the Ventholes of their Passion,
Were double Cruits on occasion;
That as they pleas'd to Frown or Smile,
Could pour out Vinegar or Oyl;
So Esop's Satyr we are told,
With the same Breath, blew Hot and Cold.

Others as Resolute and fierce,
As Bull-dogs scorn'd to hang an Arse;
And since they'd shewn themselves so violent,
Would neither Modest prove or Silent;
But even rend their Spiteful Jaws,
To rail at those that try'd the Cause;
Because they would not be severer,
In punishing so great an Error;
And shew themselves more rash than they
That hop'd to make the Church their Prey;
And by triumphing o'er the Priest,
Turn Sacred Truths into a Jest;
Because not model'd to the spite,
Of each Fanatick Hypocrite;

125

Who always were too Warm to hear,
Their Failings with a Patient Ear;
So he that knows himself a Knave,
If call'd so, will in Passion Rave,
And in his Vindication Cry;
Tho' true, 'tis a Nororious ly,
And to preserve, when vex'd and mad,
His good Name, which he never had;
Will Sue the Man with all his might,
For only saying what is Right.

Another sort of Men there are,
Who neither Love or Malice bear
To any Side; but dull as Brutes,
Without Concern hear all disputes:
And void of thought as Lifeless Clay,
Sit and say nothing either way,
Because they nothing have to say;
Passive in e'ery thing they seem,
Their Lives are one Continu'd Dream,
As if their Parents drunk or sick,
And Natures forces very weak;

126

Had in their Sleep begot 'em a'ter,
A Drousie dose of Poppy Water;
And that they'd never truly been
Awak'd, since first Conceiv'd in Sin;
These never any diff'rence knew,
Betwixt the Christian or the Jew;
But would be equally Content,
With any Church or Government;
Yet for their harmless Temper pass,
With e'ery mild unthinking Ass;
For Prudent Men of Peace that Hate
Contention, Squabble and Debate;
When all their Calm indifference,
Ascrib'd to Modesty and Sense,
A Man of Brains may plainly see,
Is but profound Stupidity;
So he that Padlocks up his Chaps,
May pass for a Wise Man perhaps,
Who if Examin'd would be found,
An Empty Vessel full of Sound.

127

Others there are Nurss'd up in Craft,
Of all that's truly Good Bereft,
Who guess Religion but a Mode,
Ordain'd by Man and not by God;
And therefore think that they may Chuse,
Or Change their Faith as Men their Shoes;
And that it is most safe to trust,
In what so e'er Climbs uppermost;
Believing Int'rest is the Root,
Of all Opinions now on Foot;
And that the Man that does but say,
His Pray'rs to her, can never Stray,
Or be a Sinner in the Main,
That measures Godliness by gain;
These with the Stream in Consort Glide,
And humour each Revolving Tide:
Appear in Puritannick Dresses,
And Cheat the World with Holy Faces;
The Saints in full Communion join
Not thro' Devotion but design;

128

And in their looks and mean display,
Full as much Sanctity as they;
Yet darling Int'rest still persue,
In er'e thing they say or do,
Ne'er talk with heat to give Offence,
But Coax all sides to gain the Pence;
That should some unexpected Blow,
Restore the High and crush the Low;
They might forsake when Int'rest calls,
Their Modish meeting for St. Pauls,
Yet by their timely knocking under,
Give us no mighty Cause of Wonder;
So the Sharp Blade that falls in League,
With a Rich Lady of Intrigue;
And only does pretend to Love her,
To make the most he can do of her,
Ne'er binds himself with Oaths and Uows,
So close but that he may Espouse,
The Woman that he likes much better,
Whose Fortune or whose Charms are greater.

129

Next to this wav'ring wick'd Race,
In no Part Christian but in Face,
Who tast Religion like False Zealots,
With Vitious Atheistick Pallats;
There are a sworded Whigish Train,
That hold all Vertue in disdain;
Hector like Ruffins Swear and Rattle,
And damn the High-Church o'er the Bottle,
Whore on like Bullies, drink like Dragons,
Call themselves Whigs, but talk like Pagans;
Toast Healths to this and that great Lord,
And cause he's High-Church damn the Third;
By Raving turn the House or Room,
T'a Bedlam where so e'er they come;
In Tavern Kitchens roar and Bellow,
And Spit their Poyson when they're Mellow;
Fright Modest Men with blustring Words,
And awe the Tim'rous with their Swords;
Pick Shameful Quarrells o're the Quart,
With those that do their Nonsense Thwart;

130

Make Sport with all that's good and Holy,
And bear down truth with Noisy Folly;
Worry o're Wine Superiour Sense,
With Partial Heat and Impudence,
And broach a Thousand Bugbear lies,
That greater Fools may think 'em Wise;
At Random talk what would have been,
High Treason in another Reign:
And he that hears and won't Submit
Must be at least a Jacobite.
And all because he can't Comply,
To pin his Faith upon a ly;
These for the Low-Church too declare,
All tho' they to no Church repair;
Or do they ever fake their sitting,
In any but a Tavern meeting:
Yet Tooth and Nail they will defend,
That Church to which they do pretend;
Tho' 'tis believ'd they ne'er could say,
Their Creed or know they how to pray;
Except Witch like the Backward way;

131

So worthless Mungrils that are bred,
Among the Hounds and with them Fed;
All tho' the Puppies have no Noses,
They'l with them Hunt thro' Woods and Closes;
Persue the Game the self same way,
And spend and Yelp as well as they.

But still there are a far worse Sort,
Of Whigs who do the Church more hurt
Than these; and by their restless Tongues,
And busy Pens do greater wrongs,
To true Religion than the Rest,
Because of Keener Parts possest,
These with a double meaning Write,
To shew their Wit and next their Spite
That betwixt Tickling and their Teasing,
Their Malice may be render'd Pleasing;
And that the Calumny and Satyr,
With which they do the Church bespatter;
May stick the Closer, Wound the deeper,
And in a low Condition keep her;

132

The Cheif of these whose Books of late,
Were Justly Censur'd by the State;
Enrag'd by the provoking Flame,
The Hangman Kindled for the same,
Has since by new Invectives Shown
How much he Values Church or Throne;
In laying at the Roots of both,
The Ax of Malice and untruth,
That by Perverting Solid Sense;
With artfull querks and Impudence,
And by opposing Real Fact,
With Study'd lies together Pack'd;
He might Insinuate to the Nation,
The Church in Law has no Foundation,
And that Exemption's Tolleration.
So Strenously infer from thence
To Couzen Fools and please the Saints;
That they're on such a Legal Footing,
As gives their Worship, better Rooting;
Than the Establish'd Church Divine,
That's Built upon the Thirty Nine;

133

The Stuborn Turk or faith less Jew;
May say their own Opinion's True,
And Scribble, Wrangle, Lie, and Bluster,
To make the Alcoran pass Muster;
Or use a Crafty Strenuous Plea,
In Right of Infidelity:
But shall we to our wick'd Shame,
For sake our Faith to Humour them
Give up Christianity to please,
Such Heathenish Miscreants as these;
No, to the Church let's stick the closer,
When such bold Enemies oppose her:
And never heed what 'tis they Write,
Or say against her in their Spite;
Nay, tho' some Pharisees that join her,
To only Rob and undermine her;
Who praise her Worship but in Part,
And hug her but with half a Heart;
Should Scruples raise and be offended,
At this or that to have it mended;

134

We should distinguish 'em the same
With those, who at her Ruin aim:
And look on each Fanatick Cavil,
To be some base infectious evil;
Rais'd by her greatest Foe the Devil.
Church Enemies are ne'er at rest,
And when they Solemnly protest,
They mean, alas, no Harm unto her,
Most Mischeif they're about to do her;
Like Subtile Jilts they play their Parts,
And Skreen their Ills by private Arts:
Seem most devout when 'tis to hide,
Their Plots their Malice and their Pride;
And when they have most hurt design'd:
Give out a quite Contrary Blind,
Adress the Prince they would betray,
And Fawn the most to clear the Way;
That by pretence of being Friends,
They may the better gain their Ends,
Cry out for Liberty aloud;
To gull the poor unthinking Croud,

135

When 'tis their hidden base intent,
T'enslave 'em by their own Consent,
Disguise all Ills in agitation
Against the Church, with Reformation:
And always seem the most devout,
When they've the worst designs on Foot;
Just so the Subtile Crocadile,
That lurks upon the Banks of Nile;
Does by dissembl'd Tears betray,
Poor harmless Creatures in his way;
And weeping takes his Heedless prey.
Who then would such a Brood believe,
That Fawn and Whine when they deceive;
And charge on others those designes,
Themselves drive on in hidden Mines.

The Church-men tho' sincerely true,
To God their Queen and Country too;
Because they wont Submit to be,
Enslav'd by Factious Tyranny;
Must be call'd Perkenites and Traytors,
And made most wick'd Odious Creatures;

136

Be Charg'd with Plots against the State,
And all those Ills they truly hate;
Be stil'd rank Papists by their Scriblers,
And bear the dirt of all their Libelers;
Tho' they're fix'd Enemies to Pop'ry,
As well as to Fanatick Fop'ry;
And are the Nations only Friends,
That have prevented both their Ends;
And stop'd we hope by Countermining,
The Mischeifs both have been designing.

But in return of all their heat,
And flagrant Malice they have Spit;
Should the same Church the Truth disclose,
And tell their undermining Foes;
What Wise Men think, they'd rave and Huff,
And Swear 'twas only Popish Stuff,
That notwithstanding all their thin,
Pretences which they use to Skreen;
Their dark Intrigues that 'tis too plain,
The Game of old's begun again;

137

And that they shew themselves to be,
Rank Enemies to Monarchy;
Republicans who aim by stealth,
To change us to a Common Wealth:
That when the Nations thus betray'd,
Their own dull Teachers may invade
The Church, and in her Pulpits Preach
Such Tenets up that sute therewith,
Whilst leading Knaves, as once before,
By Craft Usurp the Regal Power,
Kill, Hang, Sequester and Oppress,
To glut their Pride and Avarice,
This is their aim and their persuit;
Altho' they want the Pow'r to do't,
But should we still Sleep on in Silence,
They plainly shew us by their Violence,
That they'l be Vigilant to gain,
Those ends they're lab'ring to obtain;
We therefore equal care should take,
To Baffle the Efforts they make;

138

And not thro' too much Coufidence
In them, neglect our own defence;
For Slothful Negligence, we see,
Th' effect of Vain Security,
Oft makes the stranger Fortune's sport,
And gives the Weaker Pow'r to hurt;
What People then when once allarm'd,
Would quit their Sheilds and Sleep unarm'd.

CANTO XII. Of Mens Deportment in the Coffee-Houses, of the Mine-Adventure, The Affrican-Company, of those who desire War, and others Peace, with a Prayer for the Queen and Church.

Now Warm debates were carry'd on,
In e'ery Coffee-House Pro and Con;

139

Where Whigs of e'ery sort and size,
Began aloud to Tyrannize;
Some Grave old Cits Nurs'd up in Trade,
Betwixt the Church and Meeting bred;
Amphibeous Christians who can run
To either, but be true to none;
Whose Dealings long have prov'd too plain,
They scarce know any God but Gain;
That Gold's the Standard of their Faith;
And Int'rest their Celestial Path;
Yet these will o'er their Jewish Liquor,
About Religion Jar and Bicker;
And rave till grown as Piping Hot,
As the dull Grout o'er which they sot,
But still they take all Modish Care
To tell what Sorts of Saints they are;
And by their Loud Revilings Show,
They're true Blew Protestants, but Low;
Affirm they Love with all their Souls,
The Church, but yet like Knaves or Fools;
Reproach all Goodmen that defend her,
And fain would make her bad to mend her;

140

Thus those who've neither Will or Grace,
To mend themselves but still are Base;
We see cannot forbear pretending,
To reform that which needs no mending:
Tho' they're attended with the Curse,
Of allwayes making better Worse;

One by the Mine adventure Bit,
Will o'er their Coffee Railing sit;
Against the canting cunning Knight,
Who tho' a Rank old Jacobite;
Found out a lucky way to shew 'em,
In their own Art he could out do 'em:
And unsuspected Pitkinise,
The Crafty Saints Fanatick-wise,
Altho' they knew no Mortal fitter,
Than Good Sir Mac to Bite the Biter:
But sure those Saints had quite forgot,
Themselves who were so Wondrous hot;
To trust their Money in the Pow'r,
Of one who'd flown so high before,

141

And oft Oppos'd in Books and Speeches,
Their sly Intrigues and Cunning Fetches;
But 'tis no Wonder since we find,
That Int'rest often makes Men blind;
And Tempts 'em by a Golden Bait,
To trust and Flatter those they Hate;

Others with Equal Warmth Arraign,
The Company call'd Affrican,
And with the World ill Temper'd grow;
To See their Stock so very low,
Charge on the Managers the Blame;
Sip, Frown, and as they Smoak Exclaim,
Because they find the Junto Blest
With Wit enough to Fool the Rest,
Thus among those that turn the Penny,
One Thrives upon the Loss of many,
And some Mens Folly 'tis that makes,
Others prove Knaves that hold the Stakes.

Some who are in Accounts Exact,
Demonstrate plainly that the Act,

142

Which was of Late so timely made,
To Regulate the Size of Bread;
Has left it still i'th' Bakers Pow'r,
To Cheat their Customers much more,
Then e'er they us'd to do before;
Which shews how hard 'tis to Restrain,
The Knavish Practice of such Men;
Who will in Spite of Law persue it,
Because theyv'e been Accustom'd to it;
So the Sly Lass that has been Beded,
Before She's to her Lover Wedded;
Will alwayes after ready be
T'Improve an opportunity.

Some full of News Collected from,
The Prints Abroad and lies at Home;
Sit Gravely setting forth the whole,
That's said and done 'twixt Pole and Pole;
Tell you the very Day and Hour,
When we shall all our Foes o'erpow'r
What lucky Steps we wisely take,
And e'ery Progress that we make;

143

When we shall give the French a Shock,
And at the Gates of Paris Knock;
What Wonders will at last befal,
And be the great Event of all;
Thus some in Earnest some in Jest,
With Groundless Whims Amuse the rest;
And what the Busy Knaves Invent,
The Foolish take upon Content.

Others come Puffing in to tell
The Tidings of the last New Mail;
That Peace is fresh again on Foot,
And all Sides are Inclining To't;
That France is forward to Comply,
And does no Terms we ask deny;
This vexes some who long have made
Advantage of a Secret Trade;
And Startles others who are for
No Peace, because they gain by War;
But highly pleases all the Rest,
Who truly wish the Nation Blest;

144

And that Britanina's aweful Queen,
Who has in War so prosp'rous been;
May long enjoy in Downy Peace,
A sweet and unmolested Ease;
And those Calm Blessings that arise,
From all her Glorious Victories;
That then or sooner may She see,
Her Subjects from Contention free;
And all those Quarrels, Fewds and Heats,
That now Perplex her Throne by Fits;
And e'ery Breach our Foes improve,
Unite in Frindship and in Love;
May both the Names of High and Low,
To e'ery Party Odious grow;
Till by all Sides they're given o'er,
And ever Cease to be no more;
May we from Anna's Vertues Learn,
That good we no where else Discern;
And Labour to return the Throne,
Those Blessings She has made our own;

145

May those who would invade or Lower,
The Lawful Rights of Sov'raign Pow'r;
And Struggle by designes Nefarious,
To make the Royal-Throne, Precarious;
Whether they're Jacobites or Whigs,
Be made as Black as their Intrigues;
Render'd unquailifi'd to be,
Entrusted with Authority;
And by the Reins of Human Law
Be alwayes Curb'd and kept in Awe.

May all good Men who ever lov'd
Their Queen and Country stand unmov'd;
And alwayes truly be agreed
To defend both in time of need,
Against all ill designes began
By Papist or Republican;
That no Attempt 'gainst Church or State,
May ever be oppos'd too late;
But in its Early Progress meet,
A timely and Intire Defeat;

146

That Pride and Avarice may see,
In Spite of Man God still will be;
Th' all Powerful Guardian of the Throne,
He only makes the Monarch's own.

Since Bountious Heav'n, we must agree,
Knows no Impossibility;
Within this Realm may all Mankind,
In Rules of Faith be of one Mind;
That none may need within this Nation,
The Tender grant of Tolleration;
Nor any grumbling Party Vex,
The Throne, or human Peace Perplex;
No Vile Sedicious Seeds be sown,
No Name but Brother Christian known;
But all beneath Bright Anna prove
As happy to us as her Love,
And we to shew how much we are,
Indebted to her Nursing Care,
Do all thar in a People lies,
To make her Throne a Paradise.

147

May the True Church her safety owe,
To God above, the Queen below;
And Flourish in Eternal Peace,
In Spite of all her Enemies;
Subdue by Preaching and by Pray'r,
All those who with her Doctrines jar;
Use no Severity to those,
Who bred awry, her Rites oppose;
Nor may she ever find the same,
From such who Spite her to their shame;
Or Bow her Everlasting Head,
To those by Crafty Guides misled;
But still preserve from Errour Free;
Her Apostolick Purity;
That the True Christian Church, no other,
Beneath the Queen her Nursing Mother;
May Flourish to the last degree,
And stand up with Eternity.

118

FINIS.

149

V. Part V.

CANTO XIII. The Kingdom alarm'd. The Practices of the Whigs. The D M**l hinted. The Addresses touch'd upon: With some seasonable Reflections on the Factious Party.*

The Nation much surpriz'd to find,
The Saints so Bold, and yet so Blind;
And that the People call'd the Godly,
Should manage their Intrigues so odly;

150

Began to guess from Matters past,
How Things were like to prove at last;
Unless the Threat'ning Mischiefs were
Prevented by some timely care;
So wise Astrologers that know
By Stars, that do our Fate foreshow,
How great Affairs are mov'd below;
By timely Caution should fore-arm us,
Against those Ills they think will harm us.

The Church-men, now, began to ponder,
On Mist'ries that had rais'd their wonder;
And to examine what the Whigs
Intended, by their dark Intriegues;
And what their plotting Heads could mean,
By op'ning such a frightful Scene,
That even scar'd the very Rabble,
And turn'd the Town into a Babel;
Nay, puzzl'd wiser Heads to guess,
The true intent of their Excess;
When they'd so long amus'd the Nation,
With canting Cries of Moderation;

151

As if the Church was bound in Honour,
To silent sit till they'd undone her;
And that it was an open breach
Of Peace and Unity to teach
That very Doctrine which the Mouth
Of Heav'n has warranted for Truth;
Only because it disagrees
With their Nefarious Practices;
And thwarts that old but cursed Cause;
That strikes at God's Eternal Laws;
As if their Aim was to dethrone
All Pow'r, to make the World their own;
And like the Impious Gyants, fight
With Heav'n it self to shew their Spight;
Or that at least they meant to be,
The bane of Church and Monarchy;
And had determin'd if they cou'd,
To drown them in a Sea of Blood;
And by an universal fray,
Make all but one Aceldema;
So Mad-men may affirm they're Kings,
And dream and talk of Mighty things;

152

Fancy they have a Right by Birth,
To all the Regions of the Earth;
But when the Wretches once begin,
To shake their Fists, and rave and grin,
'Tis time they should be chain'd or ty'd,
To curb their silly Frantick Pride.

When a strange frenzy full as bad
As this, had made the Whigs run mad,
And Zeal, Ill-nature, and Ambition,
Had fill'd the Nation with Sedition;
That those, who had implor'd of late
The kind Indulgence of the State;
For e'ery Saint with tender Conscience,
To Pray according to his own Sense;
Were now for giving Laws to those,
Who'd hurt their own for their Repose;
And sacrific'd their Ease and Safty,
To raise a thankless Tribe too lofty;
Who now according to the black
Returns, Fanaticks us'd to make,

153

Were for subverting those that gave 'em,
The Pow'r to injure and enslave 'em;
And grew too stately to endure
Those Laws that made the Church secure;
And too superb to yield or own,
A just Obedience to the Throne;
But at the Root of both were striking,
To bring them lower to their liking;
So the proud Hogen State we see,
That once complain'd of Poverty;
Were by one Gracious Queen reliev'd,
When much opprest, distrest, and griev'd;
But now when High and Mighty grown,
To the next Q*** their Thanks are shown;
In D****s s****al******y rude,
By way of Fl****ish Gratitude;
Or else the Whigs have forg'd a Sham,
In Hopes to mend their Losing Game;
And make themselves notorious Lyars,
T'amuse the People call'd High-Flyars.

154

When Royal Favour thus had warm'd
Some Snakes with pointed Venom arm'd;
That they began to hiss and bite,
And spit their Poison and their Spite;
At all Men that they found devising,
Just Ways to stop their Tyrannizing;
And had in publick manner try'd,
Those Doctrines which themselves deny'd;
And taught us to despise the Bible
By B--- G--- for a Libel;
The Nation then began to see,
Their Justice and Sincerity;
And what a strange new Reformation,
The Saints were bringing into Fashion;
What Pains they took, what Zeal they shew'd,
To please their own ill-natur'd Brood;
What good old Arguments they brought
Long since by Pryn and Peters taught;
Those worthy Martyrs for the Cause,
One learn'd in Gospel, 'tother Laws;

155

Both mighty Favourites of the Rout,
And Sainted now, we need not doubt;
To make their Arguments pass Muster,
When e'er the Whigs are pleas'd to bluster;
Yet tho' they're honour'd at this Day,
For their Good Deeds, we cannot say;
They have not left behind their Fellows,
To grace the Pill'ry or the Gallows;
Because we've many now in play,
As meritorious full as they.

Now Whig and Saint, to make us love 'em,
Ran on as if the Devil drove 'em;
And spur'd the Cause with so much Violence,
That the most Patient broke their Silence;
Much nettl'd and provok'd to find,
That all was going down the Wind;
For that the Whigs did now Conceit,
Their Harvest for the Sickle fit;
And thought 'twas time that they had mown,
What Old Achitophel had sown;

156

No sooner were the Tribe prepar'd,
But all began to labour hard;
Endeav'ring as they always wou'd,
To Cheat the Parson if they cou'd;
That Tyth and Truth might cease together,
And Souls be lead the Lord knows whither.

This put the Nation in a Flame,
When Good Men saw their wicked aim;
And forc'd the Church upon addressing
Our only Safty and our Blessing;
Some were so impious to Prophane,
That Sacred Word Republican;
As if those Saints of Common Wealth!
Such pious Zealots would by stealth,
Prove dang'rous to the Kingdom's Health;
Or that Republicans could be,
Such Enemies to Monarchy;
As to Subvert or Circumvent,
So Just and Blest a Government;
O Fy! It never can be thought,
The Supposition's weak and naught;

157

Smells rank of Pop'ry only fit,
To please each grumbling Jacobite.

Who ever knew the sober whining
Fanatick's giv'n to undermining;
Or that they ever strove to Tower,
Above the Church, or Sov'reign Power;
By any boist'rous Deviation,
From the strict Rules of Moderation.

Who but High-Flyers can suppose,
The Whigs to be the Church's Foes;
Or that such Loyal Sons would strive
To Pare the Crown's Prerogative?
Who are for fixing both upon
Perpetual Revolution;
That they themselves the Land may bubble,
And rule, to save the Prince the trouble.

Who, tho' they hear the Saints extol,
The glorious Reign of Plous Nol;

158

And bless the Rump for pulling down
The Sacred Head that rul'd the Throne,
Can be such dull High-flying Slaves,
Such Jacobites, such Fools or Knaves;
To think so mild a Tribe should aim
To bring about the very same?
No, no, it ne'er can be suspected,
Unless by Persons disaffected,
Such Popish Traitors that would bring,
The Mob to be below the King;
And by their dang'rous Plots betray
The Sov'reign People to obey;
And force those Mighty Lords to shew
Allegience where it's justly due;
But who that loves his Native Land,
Will allow Monarchs to Command,
When Whigs have got the upper hand?

159

CANTO XIV. The Loyalty of the Church; the import of their Addresses; the Impatience of the Whigs; and Modesty of the Review.

Addresses now flow'd in apace,
To th' best of Q---s from e'ery place;
That Royal Pow'r might timely see,
Which side maintain'd True Loyalty;
And who most likely to assert
The Throne, that bears an English Heart;
That they who never fear to own
Their lawful Duty to the Crown;
Might be distinguish'd from those few,
Whose Works their Disobedience shew;
And always Murmur and Complain
The most, when the best Princes Reign;

160

So Bullies shew their Impudence,
To those least apt to take Offence;
And Faction ever thrives the better
For a good Kings forgiving Nature.

The Churchmen, who can never be
Unsteady in their Loyalty;
To those of Ancient Royal Blood,
Who Reign and Govern as they shou'd;
That do to Heav'n their Scepters owe,
And not to Scum and Dirt below;
When once they saw the restless Whigs
So bare-fac'd in their vile Intrigues;
That threaten'd our Old Constitution
With some new Monstrous Revolution;
They thought 'twas time to shew they meant
To stand by English Government;
That is, th' Establish'd Church and Throne,
And the blest Q---n that sits thereon;
Against all Popish Innovators,
And base Republican Translators;

161

Of that blest Form we now possess,
Into a State of Wretchedness,
That no Reviews Insinuation,
Of all Good Men, or all the Nation,
Should perswade Fools that the Whole Land,
Were at the Whigish Tribe's Command,
Who are, alas, but at the best,
A worthless handful to the rest;
Meer Upstarts, who with Shams and Lies,
Would stop our Ears, and blind our Eyes;
And broach such Principles that must
Extirpate all that's Good and Just;
Bring true Religion to disgrace,
That Atheism may usurp its place,
And make the British Throne become,
The tott'ring Jest of Christendom;
Endanger e'ery Subject's Right,
And turn Fraternal Love to Spite;
That a few Reprobates may be,
The glorious Head of Anarchy;

162

For what can follow but Confusion,
If we translate our Constitution,
Into an endless Revolution.

These are the Blessings they are for,
And these are what the Church abhor;
These are the Great and Glorious Ends,
Our Whigs, the Nations only Friends;
Have Tooth and Nail, altho' in vain,
Been wisely lab'ring to obtain;
These are their Drifts, wherein we see,
Their Love to Church and Monarchy;
And this is all we must expect,
By their Success, and our Neglect;
Then who that knows their Pious Aim,
Would stop their present Blessed Game;
That gives us such enticing Hopes
Of Sequestrations, Jayls and Ropes,
Without the help of Kings or Popes.

The Churchmen taking no great Pleasure
In Heav'nly Prospects, such as these are;

163

With all Humility Addrest,
And in the mildest Words exprest
Their ancient Duty to the Throne,
And Love of Her that sits thereon.
Asserting that with all their Might,
They would maintain Her Royal Right;
Deriv'd as well of long Descent,
As from the Act of Settlement;
'Gainst Papists, and that Factious Clan
Of Rebels, call'd Republican;
And that they ne'er would leave i'th' lurch,
The Apostolick Mother Church,
Or change her Doctrines old and true,
For any that are false and new;
But abhor, drive-out, and disown,
All Tenets against Church or Crown;
And e'ery Whigish Innovation,
Gilt o'er with Shams of Reformation,
That tend to hurt our Constitution,
By any further Revolution;
Affirming that they'll always stand,
By Church and Queen, with Heart and Hand,

164

Against all Deists, Atheists, Whigs,
And all their Commonwealth Intrigues;
Those Wicked Principles oppose,
Broach'd lately by the Nations Foes;
And with their Lives, and all that's Dear
Defend when any Danger's near,
The Queens just Title to the Throne,
'Gainst all Pretenders to the Crown.

These are the Sum my Muse professes,
Of all the Honest Church Addresses;
That give such wondrous Provocation,
To those that would betray the Nation.

Here's Popish stuff, says poor D--- F---
Whose Pen is like his Party, Low;
Now Countrymen, I hope you see,
How the Church aims at Tyranny,
What Pains they take to raise the Throne,
Above the Revolution;
And how they'd bring us to adore,
That Golden Badge of Sov'reign Pow'r;

165

The Crown which they porphanely say,
We must bow down to and obey,
Tho' the Gilt Bauble's only given
By us the People, not by Heaven;
And may be snatch'd away again,
When we find one more fit to Reign
But the High Church, you see, would have us,
Worship those Scepters that enslave us,
As Papists do their Lifeless Saints,
In Statues, Paintings, and in Prints,
Set up our Idols on the Throne,
And then adore 'em when we've done;
Tell 'em they have a Right Divine,
And Deify their Royal Line;
Advance them to a Heavenly Distance,
And bind our selves, by Non-Resistance,
To be their Slaves, and to endure,
The Scourges of Tyrannick Pow'r;
This is the Scope, says the Review,
Of what the Jacobites persue;
As e'ery flored Line expresses,
In all their Perkinite Addresses.

166

I Vow a rare interpretation,
Of Church Obedience and Submission;
And of that Loyalty which ought
To alwaies be maintain'd and Taught;
A fine Construction to be made,
Of that due Veneration paid
To our good Queen, to whom we owe,
That Safty we enjoy below;
Whose Vertues are by all belov'd,
And Wisdom makes her Reign approv'd;
Which has been blest in Spite of Jars
Domestick, well as Foreign Wars;
Altho' her Lenity has been,
Too great for such a Pow'rful Queen;
And more especially to those,
By Principle Impatient Foes
To Monarchy, who ne'er could rest,
Tho' with the Best of Prince's Blest
But would be gaining still upon 'em,
Till they'd much wrong'd 'em or undone 'em;

167

So Ivy Suffer'd to Embrace
The Oak, Climbs up and Thrives apace;
And if not Pran'd in time of need,
Will Choak the Tree, that rais'd the Weed.

What a Strange dull Infatuation
Must Numb and Stupify the Nation;
If Men for justly Setting forth,
Their Duty and their Sov'reign's Worth;
The Joy and Comfort they have in
Th' Establish' Church and rightful Queen;
Affirming by their utmost Troth,
That they're resolv'd to stand by Both;
Against all Popish Plots and Traytors,
And vile Republick Innovators;
Must for such Solemn Vows as these,
Such timely good Assurances;
Be Counted Jacobites by Knaves,
Who want to make the Land their Slaves;
Be mumbl'd by their Bull-dog Writers,
Those fiery Barkers tho' no Biters;

168

Who with their Foolish Rage alarm
Poor Zelous Fools to keep 'em Warm,
Whilst their own Party do the Harm;
So Whigs of old, when they were bent,
To undermine the Government,
They still Amus'd the giddy Town,
With Popish Plots to hide their own.

Since to be Loyal to the Throne,
And faithful to the Corner-Stone;
Friends to our Ancient Constitution,
Against all further Revolution;
True to the Int'rest of the Nation,
Without the least Prevarication;
Obedient Peaceful well Content,
With the late Act of Settlement;
Is to be what, the Whigs in Spite,
Are pleas'd to call a Jacobite;
I wish themselves but half as Just,
As those they'd have the Throne Distrust;
And that they had no worse Designs,
Carr'd on in their Republick Mines;

169

Against the Kingdom than by those,
Their Scriblers call' the Nation's Foes;
Then might they say we had Abus'd 'em,
And not like Brother Christians us'd 'em;
But 'tis the old Fanatick Cunning,
When they themselves full tilt are Running
Into a Common-Wealth, to Cry,
Beware of Popish Tyranny;
Just so they Serv'd that Pious Prince,
Whose fall the Traitors work'd long since;
Blam'd him, when they were basely bent,
To blow up Kingly Government;
Because he would not freely lay,
His Sceptre down and so betray
That Power, which they Snatch'd away.

170

*CANTO XV. The former boastings of the Review groundless, the Whiggish Story of the D*****h threatning the Bank of England, the Whigs Addresses, and the purport thereof.*

The Whigs were now Enrag'd to see
The Church express such Loyalty;
And give such Solemn Protestations,
Against their Sly Insinuations;
And those ill Principles the Brood,
Were introducing if they Cou'd;
By giving e'ery Heathnish Notion
The Saanction of the Revolution;
As Cunning Knaves by gilding Brass,
For Gold, make Worthless Mettle Pass;

171

But wiser Heads found out the Cheat,
And prov'd their Tenets Counterfetr;
By rubbing off the outward Case,
And shewing all within was Base;
This blest discov'ry, timely made,
Thro' all the Kingdom quickly spread;
And open'd the deluded Eyes,
Of Trimming Fools and pleas'd the wise;
Frighted the Magazine of Pow'r,
Which they'd long boasted of before;
And tho' for Years their Scribes had Courted,
Old Legeon yet the Knave deserted;
And left their Pious Cause to shew,
The Rog'ry of their fam'd Review;

Where are his pow'rful Magazine,
With which he threatn'd Church and Q****n,
And frighted poor unthinking Fools,
T'Espouse their Odious Principles;
Where are his Whiggish Legeons fled,
Those Windy Fantoms in his Head;

172

That were to worry all High-Flyers,
And pull down Organs, Bells and Quires;
That Presbiterian Ordination,
Might Crown our further Reformation;
And Sacred Lawn become the Joke,
Of each Fanatick Band and Cloak.

Where's all the People all good Men,
And his alls o'er and o'er again;
That were so fully well agreed,
The Church should with the Whiggs Concede;
And yield her Worship and her Rites,
To Saints more mad than Bedlamites;
Why truly all his mighty Alls,
Which to his Aid so oft he Calls;
His Low Church Legeons and his Mobs,
His London Swarms and Country Hobs;
His Men of Sense and Mag- of Pow'r,
Prove High and so they were before;
So bouncing Knaves will oft set forth,
Their Stock, their Credit and their Worth;

173

Who if Examin'd will be found
So far in Debt, so run a Ground,
They cant' pay Three-Pence in the Pound.

The Whiggs beginning now to see
The Church had Strip'd their Falacy;
Of all that Politick disguise,
That Skreen'd their Tricks from weaker Eyes,
Grew very much Disturb'd to find
Their Cause was going down the Wind;
That all their Boasted Moderation
Was now too weak to hide their Passion;
And only Serv'd to let us know,
They cry'd up what they ne'er would Show;
And Recommended, to Amuse
The Kingdom, what they could not use;
So the Learn'd Æsculapian Brothers,
Are forward to Prescribe to others;
Those Doses which themselves can't take
For their own Health and Safty's Sake.

Now Whiggish Lies about were thrown,
T'Amuse and terrify the Town;

174

And all their little vain Efforts,
Were back'd with Insolent reports;
Malicious Scandalous Romances,
The Dregs of their Invet'rate Fancies;
So groundless that each Man of Sense,
Blush'd at their daring Impudence.

Some broach'd a Monstrous Tale relating,
To H*****d and the Bank of Britain;
And so improv'd the Whiggish Fable,
At Change and e'ery Coffee-House Table;
That some believ'd the Threatning Story,
To th' less'ning of the Kingdom's Glory;
And fancy'd that we must thro' fear,
Be Steer'd and Bully'd by Minhier;
When all was but a Wiggish Sham,
Contriv'd on this side Amsterdam;
A poor Fanatick Low-Church Shift,
To give the Sinking Cause a lift;
Thus Men of restless Disposition,
Spurr'd on by Envy and Sedition;

175

If once they Aim at others hurt,
And fail in their unjust Effort,
Make Lies their Refuge and Support.

But had we been so low reduc'd,
By being Treach'rously abused;
As really to have been affear'd of,
Those Threats we have so lately heard of;
And that our Rulers had been aw'd,
By Saucy Dictates from aboard;
Who are the Traytors, who the Tribe,
That brought us to so low and Ebb?
And are the same still fit to be
The props of Church and Monarchy?
Who have by breaking down their Fences,
Expos'd them to such Insolences?
No sure 'tis time to stop the Gap,
That we may further ills escape;
And pinion those that have undone us,
By Basely letting in upon us
A Flood of Mischiefs that must Drown
The Church, the Kingdom and the Crown;

176

Unless prevented e'er they flow
Too fast and too Tempestious grow;
The Farmer timely mends the Breach,
He finds in either Hedg or Ditch;
And sends those Cattle to the Pound,
That makes a Trespass on his Ground;
Like Measures are the only way,
To Tame more headstrong Brutes then they;
Who if not Curb'd and Manag'd duly,
Will grow still more, and more, unruly;
But if once handl'd shrink like Snails,
And draw their Horns into their Shells.

What Noisy Clamours, do they make?
What disobedient Freedoms take?
What Liberties their Writers use?
How modest are their fam'd Reviews?
Where Sov'raign Pow'r is made their Sport,
And Pelted with such Factious Dirt;
That all of Modesty or Sense,
Who read his matchless Impudence,

177

Bulsh at his rude and daring Pen,
So vile reproachful and Prophane;
And Judge by his Fanatick Spite,
He's Curs'd above all Men that Write;
And doom'd to be a wretch'd Tooll
To Knaves that would Usurp the Rule;
Who are to weak to bear the Sway,
And too Rebellious to Obey.

The Whiggish Tribe were now agriev'd
To see the Church so well receiv'd
At Court, for standing by the Throne,
When Faction was so Rampant grown;
So Pert, so Insolent and Warm,
That they were Aiming to disarm
The Church, of Doctrines that agree,
With Scripture, well as Mornarchy;
That by that means the Sov'raign Pow'r,
Might be left weak and insecure;
And all Obedience to a King
Become a wild Precarious thing;

178

Depending on the various minds
Of those more fickle than the Winds;
Yet these good Whiggs we must allow
The only faithful Subjects now;
Tho' e'ery step they take we see,
Encroaches on the Monarchy;
And on the Church that does defend
The Throne, and is its surest Friend;
But if ye dare give Credit to
That modest Libel the Review;
Where you may find the Whigs to be
The only Sons of Loyalty;
Because their works have made it known,
They alwayes were for pulling down
The Church Establish'd and the Crown,
What Sov'raign therefore can distrust
Subjects so Pious and so Just?
Who keep their old Opinion, still;
And when they durst Rebel they will.

However now to shew they were,
As Loyal as they say they are;

179

The Saints began with all their art,
To vouch their Zeal to Q*****n, and Court,
In such Addresses as might best
Open the Windows of their Breast,
That Sacred Majesty might see
Their Ancient Love and Loyalty;
And that they now ador'd their Prince,
Just as they us'd to do long since,
And were, unto our G****s Q****n,
The same as they had ever been;
Pointing most Loyally to those
They would have deem'd the Nations Foes,
Meaning the Church, least they themselves,
Should now be thought those wicked Elves;
Who by their Malice, Heat and Fury
Had rais'd up the Tempestous Flurry,
Which blew with such Precipitation,
Against the Sons of Moderation,
That many meetings met with harm,
And suffer'd greatly in the Storm;

180

Whilst those that rais'd the Wind so High,
Beheld the danger with an Eye
Of fear, unable to foresee,
What the strange Consequence might be;
Thus Conjurers of Common Weal,
who do with Restless Spirits deal;
In Spite of all their cunning may
Raise Devils that they cannot lay.

The end of the Fifth and last Part.