The works of Mr. Thomas Brown :: :: University of Virginia Library

The works of Mr. Thomas Brown

Serious and Comical, In Prose and Verse; In four volumes. The Fourth Edition, Corrected, and much Enlarged from his Originals never before publish'd. With a key to all his Writings

Brown, Thomas (1663-1704)

Volume 1.

THE SECOND VOLUME OF THE WOKRS OF Mr. THO. BROWN. Containing LETTERS FROM THE Dead to the Living, And from the Living to the Dead. Both Serious and Comical.

THE Third Volume OF THE WORKS OF Mr. Thomas Brown, Serious and Comical, In Prose and Verse.

THE Fourth and Last Volume OF THE WORKS OF Mr. THO. BROWN. CONTAINING

[When Eve the Fruit had tasted]

[As moody Job, in shirtless Case]

A Supplement to Tho. Brown's Works.

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

4. THE Fourth and Last Volume OF THE WORKS OF Mr. THO. BROWN. CONTAINING

His Laconics; or, Maxims of State and Coversation.

His Letters, Miscellany Poems, Satyrs, Essays, Fables, &c.

His Translation of the Odes of Horace.

His Translation of Martial's Epigrams.

His Dialogues of the Dead, viz. The Charms of Friendship, a Dialogue.

On Marriage, Love, and Cuckoldom, a Dialogue.

The Belgic Hero unmask'd, a Dialogue.

Parson Alsop's new Regulation of the State of Conformity.

On Liberty of Conscience in 1687, a Dialogue.

Dr. Sherlock's true Reasons for the new Converts taking the Oaths to K. William, a Dialogue.

An Ode on the Death of Viscount Dundee, who was kill'd at the Battle of Gillecrankey.

With a KEY to all his Writings.

To the Honourable Sir Richard Child, Bart.

The Odes of Horace.

Part of the 2d Ode in Horace l. 4. Translated. Beginning at, Dignum laude Virum.

I

From dark Oblivion, and the silent Grave,
Th'indulgent Muse does the brave Hero save;
'Tis she forbids his Name to die,
And brings it to the Stars, and sticks it in the Sky.

II

Thus mighty Hercules did move
To the Eternal Palaces above:
Nor all his twelve Exploits advanc'd him to the Sphere,
But 'twas the Poet's Pain and Labour brought him there.

III

Thus the fam'd Spartan Twins did rise,
From Ornaments of Earth to gild the Skies:
Tho' Heav'n by Turns they do obtain,
Yet in immortal Verse, the Brothers joyntly reign.

IV

And Bacchus too, for all his vain Pretence,
Borrow'd his Crown and Godhead hence:
He with his powerful Juice first taught the Muse to fly,
And she in kind requital gave him immortality.

A Translation of Ode iii. l. 1. in Horace.

Sic te Diva potens Cypri,
Sic Fratres Helenæ lucida Sydera, &c.

Address'd to his Honour'd Friend Mr. B--- going into Turkey.

I

So may the Beauteous Goddess of the Main
Appease the Horrors of the Deep,
And Æolus lock all his blustring Train,
But the auspicious Western Gales, asleep.

II

And thou, kind Vessel, which before this Day,
So great a Charge cou'd'st never boast,
With Care my dearer, better Part convey,
And land him safely on the Thracian Coast.

III

His fearless Heart immur'd with tripple Brass.
The daring Mortal surely wore,
Who first the faithless Main durst pass,
And in a treacherous Bark new Worlds explore.

IV

What Scenes of Death cou'd shake his Soul
That unconcern'd saw the wild Billows rise,
And scaly Monsters on the Surface rowl,
And Whizzing Meteors paint the gloomy Skies.

V

In vain wise Heav'ns indulgent Care
Lands from the spacious Ocean did divide;
If with expanded Sails bold Ships prepare
To plow the Deep, and brave the swelling Tide;

VI

But Man, that busie reasoning Tool,
Cheap Happiness disdains to choose:
Sick of his Ease, the restless Fool,
At his own Cost forbidden Paths pursues,

VII

From the refulgent Orb of Day
A glitt'ring Spark the rash Prometheus stole,
And fondly stampt into a Soul,
T'inform his new-made Progeny of Clay.

VIII

Strait to reward his Sacrilegious Theft,
Fevers and Ills, unknown before,

Their old infernal Mansions left,
And thro' the sickning Air their baleful Poysons bore.

IX

Then Death, that lately travell'd slow,
Content with single Victims, where he came,
Made Haste, and eager of his Game,
Whole Nations lopp'd at one compendious Blow.

X

To what fantastic Heights does Man aspire,
Doom'd to dull Earth; the Sot wou'd clamber higher;
Heav'n he invades with impudent Pretence,
And makes Jove thunder in his own Defence.

An Imitation of the 6th Ode in Horace, l 1. Scriberis vario fortis, & hostium . . . .

In the Year 1685. after the defeat of the Rebels in the West.

I.

Waller , in never-dying Verse,
Your glorious Triumphs may rehearse;
His lofty Muse for Panegyric fam'd,
May sing the Rebel-herd your Valour tam'd.
And all the mighty Blessings show,
Great James, and We to your wise Conduct owe.

II.

My unambitious Lyre tunes all her Strings
To lower Numbers, lower Things;
And Gods, and God-like Heroes do refuse
The Labour of a more exalted Muse.
Had she endeavour'd to relate
Great Alexander's Deeds, or Troy's unhappy Fate,

Or all the Wonders that by Drake were done,
Who travell'd with the Stars, and journey'd with the Sun;
As long a Space had the vain Labour held,
As that fam'd Town the Grecian Force repell'd.
As long had she the tiresom Work renew'd,
As mighty Drake thro' unknown Seas his wondrous Course pursu'd.

III.

The humble Muse too well her Weakness knows,
Nor on her feeble self, dares the high Task impose.
Tho' had not Heav'n the Power deny'd,
No other Theme had all her Thoughts employ'd.
'Tis hence she modestly declines to sing,
The immortal Triumphs of our war-like King;
Lest her unequal slender Vein
Shou'd lessen the great Actions of his glorious Reign.

IV.

Who can with all his boasted Fancy raise
To its just Height, Heroic Arthur's Praise,
Or worthily recount the Trophies won
By our great Edward, and his greater Son?
But oh! what Muse of all the Tribe below
Can mighty Mars in equal Numbers show,
Horrid in Steel, and moving from afar,
With all the solemn Pageantry of War,
Tho' the rough God shou'd his own Bard inspire,
And join the Martial Heat to the Poetic Fire.

V.

Harmless Combats, harmless Wars,
Slender Scratches, petty Jars,
Which youthful Blood, and wanton Love,
Amongst our amorous Couples move,
Employ my time, employ my Muse,
All other Subjects I refuse.

A Translation of Teucer Salamina, Patremq; Cum fugeret, &c. Hor. Ode vii. lib. 1.

I

Brave Teucer, (as the Poets tell us)
When from his native Clime he fled,
With Poplar Wreaths crown'd his triumphant Head,
And thus he cheer'd his drooping Fellows.

II

Where e'er the Fates shall shew us Land,
(Remote and distant tho' it be)
We'll shape our Course at their Command,
And boldly fix, as they decree.

III

Let no wild Fears your Hopes betray,
Let not Dispair your Courage pall;
When Heav'n so loudly does to Honour call,
And fearless Teucer leads the way.

IV

Phœbus foretold (and he of all the Powers
Commands the mystic Books of Fate)
That fresh Success shou'd on our Actions wait,
And new Salamis be ours.

V

Then drink away this puling Sorrow,
Let Wine each dastard Thought subdue,
Let Wine your fainting Hopes renew,
We'll leave the drowsie Land, and plough the Main morrow.

Hor. Ode 8. l. 1.

Per omnes
Te Deos oro, Sybarin cur properes amando
Perdere? &c.

I

Tell me, O Lydia, for by Heavens I swear,
You shan't deny so just a Prayer.
Tell me, why thus young Damon you destroy,
And nip the blooming Virtues of the lovely Boy.

II

Why does he never throw the manly Bar;
And practice the first Feats of War;
Or gaily shining in his Martial Pride,
With a strong artful Hand the foaming Courser guide.

III

Why does he never grasp the pond'rous Shield,
And meet his Equals in the Field:
Or when the Streams swell with the flowing Tide,
With his soft pliant Arms the Silver Thames divide.

IV

Why does he lurk, for I bewail his Doom,
Like an Alsatian Bully still at Home,
That fears to walk abroad all day,
Lest eager hungry Cits shou'd hurry him away.

Ode ix. Lib. 1. in Horace imitated. Vides ut alta stet nive candidum, &c.

Written in the year, 1685.

To Sir John Bowyer.

I

Since the Hills all around us do Pennance in Snow,
And Winters cold Blasts have benumm'd us below;
Since the Rivers chain'd up, flow with the same Speed,
As Prisoners advance towards the Psalm they can't read,
Throw whole Oaks at a Time, nay, Groves, on the Fire,
They shall be our Sobriety's Funeral-Pyre.

II

Never wast the dull Time in impertinent thinking,
But urge and pursue the great business of drinking;
Come pierce your old Hogsheads, ne'er stint us in Sherry,
This, this is the Season to drink and be merry:
Then reviv'd by our Liquour and Billets together,
We'll out-roar the loud Storms, and defy the cold Weather.

III

Damn your Gadbury, Partridge and Salmon together,
What a puling Discourse have we here of the Weather;
Nay, no more of that Business, but, Friend as you love us,
Leave it all to the Care of the good Folks above us.
Your Orchards and Groves will be shatter'd no more,
If to hush the rough Winds, they forbid them to roar.

IV

Send a Bumper about, and cease this Debate
Of the Tricks of the Court, and Designs of the State.
Whether Brandon, or Offly, or Booth go to pot,
Ne'er trouble your Brains; let 'em take their own Lot.

Thank the Gods, you can safely sit under your Vine,
And enjoy your old Friends, and drink off your own Wine.

V

While your Appetite's strong, and good Humour remains,
And active fresh Blood does enliven your Veins;
Improve the fleet Minutes in Scenes of Delight,
Let your Friend have the Day, and your Mistress the Night.
In the Dark you may try, whether Phyllis is kind,
The Night for Intrieguing was ever design'd.

VI

Tho' she runs from your Arms, and retires in the Shade,
Some friendly kind Sign will betray the coy Maid;
All trembling you'll find the modest poor Sinner,
'Tis a venial Trespass in a Beginner:
But remember this Counsel, when once you do meet her,
Get a Ring from the Nymph, or something that's better:

A Paraphrase on Horace of Vides ut Altæ.

I

The Hills (you see) are cover'd o'er
With a grave Coat of rev'rend Snow,
And Thames that did so lately roar,
Fetter'd in Icy Chains can hardly flow;
A sullen Frost the Ground o'er spreads,
The over-burthen'd Trees hang down their mournful Heads.

II

Come then oblige us with a Fire,
That may substantial Warmth inspire;

Tho' now no drinking in the Plants goes round,
But dull Sobriety's in Nature found;
Think not this shall excuse your Beer
With Men 'tis th'true drinking Season of the Year.

III

For God's-sake let the Powers above
Their Business mind, and govern all below,
If they think fit these Tempests to remove,
No more shall rugged Boreas blow,
No more the frozen Plants decay,
But smile as they enjoy'd a long continu'd May.

IV

To learn your Lot and future State,
Ne'er pry into the Adamantine Books of Fate,
But gratefully those Powers adore,
That added this kind Hour to the old Score;
And be content with what is given,
'Tis all the free and voluntary Gift of Heaven.

V

Ne'er think in your declining Years,
To pay neglected Love's Arrears;
But while fresh Vigour does inflame,
Pursue with haste, the lovely Game,
Your Talent carefully improve,
Indulge the Day in Wine; and spend the Night in Love.

VI

If now some Laughter, or betraying Noise, she flies,
Will shew you where she panting lies;
Then all your store of Rhetorick imply,
The blushing Damsel to enjoy.
If she hold out, then steal at least a Kiss,
And take a Pawn for a substantial Bliss.

The x. Ode in Horace l. 3. Paraphrased.

Extremum Tanaim si biberes Lyce.

I.

Tho' you, my Lyce, in some Northen Flood
Had chill'd the Current of your Blood;
Or lost your sweet engaging Charms
In some Tartarian Husband's icy arms;
Were yet one Spark of Pity left behind
To form the least Impression on your Mind,
Sure you must grieve, sure you must sigh,
Sure drop some Pity from your Eye,
To see your Lover prostrate on the Ground,
With gloomy Night, and black Despair encompass'd all around.

II.

Hark! how the threatning Tempests rise,
And with loud Clamours fill the Skies;
Hark! how the tott'ring Buildings shake,
Hark! how the Trees a doleful Consort make.
And see! oh see! how all below.
The Earth lyes cover'd deep in Snow,
The Romans clad in white, did thus the Fasces woo;
And thus your freezing Candidate, my Lyce, sues for you.

III.

Come, lay these foolish Niceties aside,
And to soft Passion sacrifice your Pride:
Let not the precious Hours with fruitless Questions dye,
But let new Scenes of Pleasure crown them, as they fly.
Slight not the Flames which your own Charms infuse,
And no kind friendly Minute lose,
While Youth and Beauty give you leave to chuse.
As Men by Acts of Charity below
Or purchase the next World, or think they do:

So you in Youth a Lover shou'd engage,
To make a sure Retreat for your declining Age.

IV.

Let meaner Souls by Virtue be cajol'd,
As the good Grecian Spinstress was of old;
She, while her Sot his youthful Prime bestow'd
To fight a Cuckold's Wars abroad,
Held out a longer Siege, than Troy,
Against the warm Attacks of proffer'd Joy,
And foolishly preserv'd a worthless Chastity,
At the expence of ten Years Lyes and Perjury.
Like that old fashion'd Dame ne'er bilk your own Delight,
But what you've lost ith' Day, get, get it in the Night.

V.

Oh! then if Prayers can no Acceptance find,
Nor Vows, nor Offerings bend your Mind;
If all these pow'rful Motives fail,
Yet your Husband's Injuries prevail
He, by some Play-house Jilt misled,
Elsewhere bestows the Tribute of your Bed;
Let me his forfeited Embraces share,
Let me your mighty Wrongs repair.
Thus Kings by their own Rebel-Powers betray'd,
To quell the home-bred Foe call in a foreign Aid.

VI.

Love, let Platonicks promise what they will,
Must, like Devotion, be encourag'd still;
Must meet with equal Wishes and Desires,
Or else the dying Lamp in its own Urn expires.
And I, for all that boasted Flame
We Poets and fond Lovers idly claim,
Am of too frail a Make, I fear,
Shou'd you continue still severe,

To brave the double Hardships of your Fate,
And bear the Coldness of the Nights, and Rigor of your Hate.

Hor. Ode 11. l. 2.

Quid Bellicosus Cantaber, & Scythes,
Hirpine Quincti, cogitet, Adria,
Divisus objecto, remittas
Quærere, &c.

I

What the Bully of France, and our Friends on the Rhine,
With their stout Grenadiers this Summer design,
Cease over your Coffee, and Wine to debate:
Why the Devil shou'd you, that live this side the Water,
Pore over Gazettes, and be vext at the Matter?
Come, come, let alone these Arcana's of State.

II

Alas! while such idle Discourse you maintain,
And with politick Nonsense thus trouble your Brain,
Your Youth flies away on the Back of swift Hours,
Which no praying, no painting, no sighing restores.
Then you'll find, when old Age has discolour'd your Head,
Tho' a Mistress be wanting, no rest in your Bed.

III

Prithee do but observe, how the Queen of the Night
Still varies her Station, and changes her Light:
Now with a full Orb she the Darkness does chace,
Now like Whores in the Pit, shews but half of her Face.
These Chaplets of Flowers that our Temples adorn,
Now tarnish and fade, that were fresh in the Morn.

IV

But to leave off Similes for Curates in Camblet
To lard a dry Sermon, for grave Folks in Hamlet,
While our Vigour remains, we'll our Talents improve,
Dash the Pleasures of Wine with the Blessings of Love.
Here, carelesly here, we'll lie down in the Shade
Which the friendly kind Poplars and Lime-Trees have made.

V

Your Claret's too hot . . . Sirrah, Drawer go bring
A Cup of cold Adam from the next purling Spring.
And now your Hand's in, prithee step o'er the Way,
And fetch Madam Tricksy, the brisk and the gay.
Bid her come in her Alamode Manto of Sattin,
Two Coolers, I'm sure, with our Wine can be no false Latin.

The 13th Ode in Horace l. 4. Paraphrased.

Audivere Lyce Dii mea Vota: Dii
Audivere Lyce; fis Anus & tamen
Vis formosa videri, &c.

I

Long have my Prayers slow Heaven assail'd;
But Thanks to all the Powers above,
That still revenge the Cause of injur'd Love,
Lyce at last they have prevail'd.
My Vows are all with Usury repaid,
For who can Providence upbraid,
That sees thy former Crimes with hasten'd Age repaid.

II

Thou'rt old, and yet by awkard Ways dost strive
Th'unwilling Passion to revive;

Dost drink, and dance, and touch thy Lyre,
And all to set some puny Heart on Fire.
Alas! in Chloe's Cheeks love basking lies;
Chloe great Beauty's fairest prize,
Chloe, that charms our Ears, and ravishes our Eyes.

III

The vigorous Boy flies o'er the barren Plains,
Where sapless Oaks their wither'd Trunks extend;
For Love, like other Gods, disdains
To grace the Shrine that Age has once profan'd.
He too laughs at thee now,
Scorns thy grey Hairs, and wrinkled Brow,
How should his youthful Fires agree with hoary Ages snow?

IV

In vain, with wondrous Art, and mighty Care,
You strive your ruin'd Beauty to repair;
No far-fetcht Silks one Minute can restore,
That Time has added to the endless Score.
And precious Stones, tho' ne'er so bright,
That shine with their own native Light,
Will but disgrace thee now, and but inhance thy Night.

V

Ah me! where's now that Mien! that Face!
That Shape! that Air! that every Grace!
That Colour! whose inchanting Red
Me to Love's Tents a Captive led.
Strange turn of Fate! that she
Who from my self so oft has stol'n poor me,
Now by the just revenge of time, stol'n from herself should be.

VI

Time was when Lyce's powerful Face
To Phyllis only gave the place;

Perfect in all the little Tricks of Love.
That charm the Sense, and the quick Fancy move.
But Fate to Phyllis a long Reign deny'd,
She fell in all her blooming Beauty's Pride,
She conquer'd whilst she liv'd, and triumph'd as she dy'd.

VII

Thou, like some old Commander in Disgrace,
Surviving the past Conquests of thy Face,
Now the greater Business of thy Life is done,
Review'st with Grief the Trophies thou hast won.
Damn'd to be parch'd with Lust, tho' chill'd with Age,
And tho' past Action, damn'd to tread the Stage,
That all might laugh to see that glaring Light,
Which lately shone so fierce and bright,
End with a Stink at last, and vanish into Night.

The xv Ode in Horace Lib. 3. Imitated

Uxor pauperis Ibici,
Tandem Nequitiæ fige Modum tuæ,
Famosisq; Laboribus, &c.

I

At length, thou antiquated Whore,
Leave trading off, and sin no more;
For Shame in your old Age turn Nun,
As Whores of everlasting Memory have done.

II

Why shouldst thou still frequent the Sport,
The Balls, and Revels of the Court?
Or why at glittering Masks appear,
Only to fill the Triumphs of the Fair?

III

To Ghent or Brussels strait adjourn,
The Lewdness of your former Life to mourn,
There brawny Priests in Plenty you may hire,
If Whip, and wholesom Sackcloth cannot quench the fire.

IV

Your Daughter's for the Business made,
To her in Conscience quit your Trade.
Thus, when his conquering Days were done,
Victorious Charles resign'd his Kingdom to his Son.

V

Alas! ne'er thrum your long disus'd Guittar,
Nor with Pulvilio's scent your Hair,
But in some lonely Cell abide,
With Rosary and Psalter dangling at your Side.

A Translation of Ode xxiii. lib. 1.

Vitas Hinnuleo me similis, Chloe,
Quærenti pavidam Montibus aviis
Matrem, &c.

I

Why flies Belinda from my Arms?
Or shuns my kind Embrace?
Why does she hide her blooming Charms?
And where I come forsake the Place.

II

Like some poor Fawn, whom every Breath
Of Air does so surprize;

In the least Wind he fancies Death,
And pants at each approaching Noise.

III

Alas! I never meant thee ill,
Nor seek I to devour thee,
Why should'st thou then with Coldness kill
The dying Slave that does adore thee.

IV

Leave, leave thy Mothers Arms for shame,
Nor fondly hang about her,
Thou'rt now of age to play the Game,
And ease a Lover's Pain without her.

The xxvi. Ode in Hor. l. 3. Paraphras'd.

Vixi puellis nuper idoneus,
Et militavi non sine Gloria: &c.

I

Tis true, while active Blood my Veins did fire,
And vigorous Youth gay Thoughts inspire,
(By your leave, Courteous Reader, be it said)
I cou'd have don't as well as most Men did;
But now I am (the more's the Pity)
The veriest Fumbler in the City.

II

There, honest Harp, that hast of late
So often bore thy sinful Master's Fate,
Thou a crack'd Side, and he a broken Pate;
Hang up, and peaceful Rest enjoy;

Hang up, while poor dejected I,
Unmusical, unstrung like thee, sit mourning by.

III

And likewise all ye trusty Bars,
With whose Assistance heretofore,
When Love engag'd me in his Wars,
I've batter'd, heaven forgive me, many a Door;
Lie there, till some more able Hand
Shall you to your old pious Use command.

IV

But, oh kind Phœbus, lend a pitying Ear
To thy old Servant's humble Prayer,
Let scornful Chloe thy Resentments feel,
Lash her all o'er with Rods of Steel;
And when the Jilt shall of her Smart complain;
This 'tis, then tell her, to disdain
Thy sacred Power, and scorn a Lover's pain.

Hor. Ode 27. l. 1.

Natus in Usum lætitiæ Scyphis
Pugnare, Thracum est.

I.

To fight in your Cups, and abuse the good Creature,
Believe it, my Friends, is a Sin of that Nature,
That were you all damn'd for a tedious long Year
To nasty Mundungus, and heath'nish small Beer,
Such as after Debauches your Sparks of the Town,
For a pennance next Morning devoutly pour down,
It would not attone for so vile a Transgression,
You're a Scandal to all of the drinking Profession.

II.

What a pox do ye bellow, and make such a Pother,
And throw Candlesticks, Bottles, and Pipes at each other?
Come keep the King's Peace, leave your damning and sinking,
And gravely return to good Christian drinking.
He that flinches his Glass, and to drink is not able,
Let him quarrel no more, but knock under the Table.

III.

Well, Faith, since you've rais'd my ill Nature so high,
I'll drink on no other Condition, not I,
Unless my old Friend in the Corner declares
What Mistress he Courts, and whose Colours he wears:
You may safely acquaint me, for I'm none of those
That use to divulge what's spoke under the Rose.
Come, part with't . . . What she! forbid it ye Powers,
What unfortunate Planet rul'd o'er thy Amours?
Why Man she has lain (Oh thy Fate how I pity!)
With half the blue Breeches and Whigs in the City.
Go thank Mr. Parson, give him thanks with a Curse,
Oh those damnable Words, For better for worse.
To regain your old Freedom you vainly endeavour,
Your Doxy and You no Priest can dissever,
You must dance in the Circle, you must dance in't for ever.

The same Ode imitated.

Natis in usum lætitiæ Scyphis, &c.

What Boys, are ye mad? is the Dutch Devil in ye?
Must your Quarrels as long as your Glasses continue?
Give it o'er, ye dull Sots! let the dull-pated Boors,
Snic or snee, at their Punch-Bowls, or slash for their Whores,

We'll be merry and wise, but for Bloodshed we bar it,
No Red shall be seen here but your Port and good Claret,
What a P--- should we fight for? No Bayonets here
But the Sconces all round and the Bottles appear.
Look, the Wine blushes for us! while it gently disgraces
Our unnatural Freaks and our mortifi'd Faces.
Come let's do what we came for! let the Brimmers be crown'd,
And a Health to all quiet Good-fellows go round!
Must I take off my Glass too? then Jack prithee tell us
Thy new-Mistresses Name: What a Mischeif! art Jealous?
Must her Name be a Secret? Alons, then I've done,
Hang the greedy Curmudgeon that eats all alone,
Come discover, you Block-head! I'm sure I mistook ye,
Else in these Amours Jack was us'd to be lucky
Well, but whisper it then! I'll keep Counsel, ne'er fear it,
Is it she? the damn'd Jilt! Gad let no Body hear it;
Why, Faith Jack thou'rt undone then, 'twas some Witchcraft I'm sure
Could betray thee to th'Arms of a Pockified Whore,
Well, 'tis vain to repine Boy; let us drink away Sorrow,
Use thy freedom to Night Man, let the Punk reign to Morrow,

An Imitation of the 14th Epod in Hor.

Mollis Inertia cur tantam diffuderit imis
Oblivionem sensibus,
Pocula Lethæos ut si ducentia Somnos
Arente Fauce traxerim,
Candide Mæcenas, occidis sæpe rogando, &c.

I

Ask me no longer, dear Sir John,
Why your Lampoon lies still undone,
'Fore George my Brain's grown addle;

Nor bid me Pegasus bestride,
Why should you ask a Sot to ride
That cannot keep his Saddle?

II

This was the poor Anacreon's Case,
When doting on a smooth-chinn'd Face,
He pin'd away his Carcass.
To tune his Strings the Bard essay'd,
The Devil a String the Bard obey'd,
And was not this a hard Case?

III

If you a constant Miss have got,
Thank heaven devoutly for your Lot,
Such Blessings are not common.
While I, condemn'd to endless Pain,
Must tamely drag Belinda's Chain,
Yet know she's worse than—Woman.

A Translation from Horace of Mollis inertia, February 85.

I

How such a fit of Lethargy,
My Senses has possest,
As if a Dose of Opium
Had buried me in rest!

II

With often asking what's the Cause
You weary me your Friend,
The Satyrs which I promis'd you,
I cannot bring to end.

III

So poor Anacreon, as they say,
Bewitch'd by powerful Love,
Complain'd him often of his Wound,
In Melancholy Grove.

IV

The Mistress that you court, my Friend,
Tis fit you should adore,
I like a Fool am Phygia's Slave,
Yet know she is a Whore.

MARTIAL'S EPIGRAMS.

Translated by Mr. Tho. Brown.

The PREFACE.

Without formal Petition
Thus stands my Condition,
I am closely block'd up in a Garret,
Where I scribble and smoak,
And sadly invoke
The powerful assistance of CLARET.
Four Children and a Wife,
'Tis hard on my Life,
Beside my self and a Muse,
To be all cloath'd and fed,
Now the Times are so dead,
By my scribbling of Dogg'rel and News.
And what I shall do,
I'm a Wretch if I know,
So hard is the Fate of a Poet;
I must either turn Rogue,
Or, what's as bad Pedagogue,
And so drudge like a Thing that has no Wit.

My Levee's all Duns,
Attended by Bums,
And my Landlady too she's a Teazer,
At least four times a day
She warns me away,
And what can a Man do to please her?
Here's the Victualler and Vintner,
The Cook and the Printer
With their Myrmidons hovering about, Sir.
The Taylor and Draper,
With the Cur that sells Paper,
That in short I dare not stir out, Sir.
But my Books sure may go,
My Master Ovid's did so,
And tell how doleful the Case is;
If it don't move your Pity
To make short of my Ditty,
'Twill serve you to wipe your Arses.

Mart. Epig. 5. l. 2.

Ne valeam si non totis, Deciane, diebus,
Et tecum totis Noctibus esse velim.

In some vile Hamlet let me live forgot,
Small Beer my Portion, and no Wine my lot:
To some worse Fiend in Church-Indentures bound,
Than ancient Job, or modern Sherlock found.
And with more Aches plagu'd, and Pains, and Ills;
Than fill our Salmon's Works, or Tilburgh's Bills;
If 'tis not still the burden of my Prayer
The Night with you, with you the Day to share.
But Sir, (and the Complaint you know is true)
Two damn'd long Miles there lie 'twixt me and you;
And these two Miles, by help of Calculation,
Make four, by that I've reach'd my Habitation.
You're near Sage Will's, the Land of Mirth and Claret;
I live stow'd up in a White-Chappel Garret:

Oft when I've walk'd so far, your Hands to kiss,
Flatter'd with Thoughts of the succeeding Bliss,
I'm told you're gone to the vexatious Hall,
Where with eternal Lungs the Lawyers bawl?
Or else stole out, some Female Friend to see;
Or, what's as bad, you're not at Home for me.
Two Miles I've at your service, and that's civil,
But to trudge four, and miss you, is the Devil.

Advice to a Vintner. Mart. Epig. 19. l. 1.

The Hint taken from Quid te Tucca juvat.

What Planet distracts thee, what damnable Star,
To dash honest Bourdeaux with vile Bar a Bar?
Why should innocent Claret be murder'd by Port,
Thou'lt surely be sentenc'd in Bacchus's Court.
As for us Drunken Rakes, if we hang, or we drown;
Or are decently poyson'd, what loss has the Town;
But to kill harmless Claret, that does so much Good,
Is downright Effusion of true Christian Blood:
Ne'er think what I tell you is matter of Laughter,
Thou'lt be curst fort in this World, and damn'd for't hereafter.

Mart. Epig. 23. l. 1.

Si memini, fuerant tibi quatuor, Ælia, dentes.

I

When Gammar Gurton first I knew,
Four Teeth in all she reckon'd:
Comes a damn'd Cough, and whips out two,
And 'tother two, a second.

II

Courage, old Dame, and never fear
The third, when e'er it comes;
Give me but t'other Jugg of Beer,
And I'll ensure your Gums.

An Imitation of an Epigram 44. in Mart. lib. 3.

Occurit tibi nemo quod libenter, &c.

That Cousins, Friends, and Strangers fly thee,
Nay, thy own Sister can't sit nigh thee;
That all Men thy Acquaintance shun,
And into Holes and Corners run,
Like Irish Beau from English Dun,
The Reason's plain, and if thou'd'st know it,
Thou'rt a most damn'd repeating Poet.
Not Bayliff sow'r, with horrid Beard,
Is more in poor Alsatia fear'd,
Since the stern Parliament of late
Has stript of ancient Rights their State:
Not Tygers, when their Whelps are missing;
Nor Serpents in the Sun-shine hissing;
Nor Snake in Tail that carries rattle;
Nor Fire, nor Plague, nor Blood, nor Battle,
Is half so dreaded by the Throng,
As thy vile persecuting Tongue.
If e'er the restless Clack that's in it
Gives thy Head leave to think a Minute,
Think what a Pennance we must bear
Thy damn'd Impertinence to hear.
Whether I stand, or run, or sit,
Thou still art i'th' repeating Fit;
Weary'd I seek a Nap to take,
But thy curst Muse keeps me awake.
At Church too, when the Organ's blowing,
Thy louder Pipe is still a going.

Nor Park, nor Bagnio's from thee free,
All Places are alike to thee.
Learn Wisdom once, at a Friend's instance,
From the two Fellows at St. Dunstan's;
Make not each Man thou meet'st a Martyr;
But strike like them but once a Quarter.

The 63d Epigram in Martial, Lib. 3.

Cotile, Bellus homo es, &c.

Oh Jemmy you're a Beau: not I alone
Say this, but 'tis the talk of all the Town.
Prithee be free, and to thy Friend impart
What is a Beau—Ay Sir, with all my Heart.
He's one, who nicely curls and comb's his Hair,
And visits Sedgwick monthly all the Year:
Sings baudy Songs, and humms them, as along
Flanting he walks thro' the admiring Throng;
All the Day long fits with the charming Fair,
And whispers pretty Stories in their Ear.
Writes Billets doux; shuns all Men as he goes,
Lest their unhallow'd Touch shou'd dawb his Cloaths.
He knows your Mistress: Nay, at every Feast
He'll tell the Pedigree of every Guest.
Is this a Beau? Faith Jemmy, I'll be plain,
A Beau's a Bawble, destitute of Brain.

The Contented Whore.

An Imitation of Epig. 66. in Mar. l. 12.

Formosa Phyllis nocte cum mihi tota.

I

To Charming Cælia's Arms I flew,
And there all Night I feasted;
No God such Transports ever knew,
Nor Mortal ever tasted.

II

Lost in the sweet tumultuous Joy,
And pleas'd beyond expressing;
How can your Slave, my Fair, said I,
Reward so great a Blessing?

III

The whole Creation's Wealth survey;
Thro' both the Indies wander:
Ask what brib'd Senates give away,
And fighting Monarchs squander.

IV

The richest Spoils of Earth and Air;
The rifled Ocean's Treasure;
'Tis all too poor a Bribe by far
To purchase so much Pleasure.

V

She blushing cry'd—My Life, my Dear,
Since Cælia, thus you fancy,
Give her, but 'tis too much, I fear,
A Rundlet of right Nancy.

An Imitation of Uxor vade foras. In Mart. l. ii. Ep. 105.

I

Sweet Spouse, you must presently troop and be gone,
(Or fairly submit to your betters;)
Unless for the Faults that are past, you attone,
I must knock off my Conjugal Fetters.

II

When at Night I am paying the Tribute of Love,
(You know well enough what's my Meaning,)
You scorn to assist my Devotion, or move,
As if all the while you were dreaming.

III

At Cribbage and Put, and All Fours I have seen
A Porter more Passion expressing,
Than thou, wicked Kate, in the rapturous Scene,
And the Height of the amorous Blessing.

IV

Then say I to my self, is my Wife made of Stone,
Or does the old Serpent possess her;
Better Motion and Vigor by far might he shown
By dull Spouse of a German Professor?

V

So Kate take Advice, and reform in good Time,
And while I'm performing my Duty,
Come in for your Club, and repent of the Crime
Of paying all Scores with your Beauty,

VI

All day thou mayst cant, and look grave as a Nun,
And run after Burgess the surly;
Or see that the Family business be done,
And chide all thy Servants demurely.

VII

But when you're in Bed with your Master and King,
That Tales out of School ne're does trumpet,
Move, riggle, heave, pant, clip me round like a Ring,
In short, be as lewd as a Strumpet.

Mart. Epig. 61. l. 11.

Sit Phlogis an Chione Veneri magis apta requiris?

I

Nothing than Chloe e'er I knew
By Nature more befriended:
Cælia's less Beautiful, 'tis true,
But by more hearts attended.

II

No Nymph alive with so much art
Receives her Shepherd's firing,
Or does such cordial drops impart
To love when just expiring.

III

Cold niggard Age, that does elsewhere
At one poor offering falter,
To her whole Hecatombs wou'd spare,
And pay them on her Altar.

IV

But Chloe, to Loves great disgrace,
In Bed nor falls, nor rises,
And too much trusting to her face,
All other Arts despises.

V

No half form'd Words, nor murmuring Sighs,
Engage to fresh performing
Her breathless Lover, when he lies,
Disabled after storming.

VI

Dull as a Prelate when he prays,
Or Cowards after listing,
The fair Insiensible betrays
Loves rites by not assisting.

VII

Why thus, ye powers that cause our smart,
Do ye Love's gifts dissever;
Or why those happy Talents part,
That shou'd be joyn'd for ever.

VIII

For once perform an Act of Grace,
Implor'd with such Devotion,
And grant my Cælia Chloe's Face,
Or Chloe Cælia's Motion.

To a Gentleman that cut off his Hair, and set up for a Spark in his old Age. Out of Martial. Epig. 43. lib. 3. Mentiris Juvenem, &c.

Thou that not many Months ago
Wast white as Swan, or driven Snow,
Now blacker far than Æsop's Crow,
Thanks to thy Wig, set'st up for Beau.

Faith Harry, thou'rt in the wrong Box,
Old Age these vain Endeavours mocks,
And time that knows thou'st hoary Locks,
Will pluck thy Mask off with a Pox.

The Epigram in Martial L. Imitated.

Quæris sollicitus diu, rogasq;
Cui tradas, Lupe, filium Magistro, &c.

When e'er I meet you, still you cry,
What shall I do with Bob, my Boy.
Since this Affair you'll have me treat on,
Ne'er send the Lad to Pauls or Eaton.
The Muses let him not confide in,
But leave those Jilts to Tate or Dryden.
If, with damn'd Rimes he racks his Wits,
Send him to Mevis or St. Kit's.
Wou'd you with wealth his Pockets store well,
Teach him to pimp, or hold a door well.
If he has a head not worth a Stiver,
Make him a Curate, or Hog-driver,

An Epigram out of Martial imitated Book 3. Epig. 54.

Sir Fopling, you're a Man of Fashion grown;
The most accomplish'd Blade in all the Town,
'Tis all the Ladies talk; but tell me this,
What a fine Man of Mode and Fashion is.
'Tis he that's all the Morning at the Glass,
To put each Curle in its most proper place,
And in affected Forms to set his Face,
That smells of Essence, and the best Perfume,
Which does from India or Arabia come.
That when one speaks (as if he did not hear)
Hums o'er some wanton Song, or modish Air;

That Legs and Arms in various Postures throws,
And seems to dance at every step he goes,
That sits among the Women in the Pit,
And that he may be thought a Man of Wit;
He Whispers to the next as to a Friend,
That in loud Laughter does his whispering End,
That reads and writes Love-Letters to and fro,
And does each Gallants Wench and Mistress know.
Who, tho' unbidden is a constant Guest,
At Ev'ry Mask, at ev'ry Treat, and Feast.
But sits in Pain for fear the next should stir,
And so displace his Dress or Garniture.
Who knows New-Market Breed, so well, that he
Can tell you Jack-a-Dandy's Pedigree;
And down from long Descent pretends to trace
The famous Swallows, or Fleet Dragon's Race.
How Sir, What's this you say; Is this Buffoon
Admir'd so for a Spark throughout the Town?
Believe me Sir, on Earth there cannot be
A more ridiculous trifling Thing than he.

EPIGRAMS.

An Epigram under the Picture of a Beau.

The vain thing set up for Man,
But see what Fate attends him,
The poud'ring Barber first began
The Barber Surgeon ends him.

An extempore Epigram on Death.

If Death does come as soon as Breath departs,
Then he must often die, who often farts.
And if to die; be but to lose one's Breath,
Then Death's a Fart, and so a Fart for Death.

Thus merrily turn'd over a Glass.

The Crab does oft the tufted Ring possess,
And crawls unseen about the heav'nly Place;
From whose soft Banks the whizing Waters fall,
And Show'rs of Love perform the Dev'l and all.
But when old Time has stretch'd the Channel wide,
And stop'd the Flux of the refreshing Tide,
'Tis Drudg'ry then in such a Pool to sail,
One Moment makes us glad to say, Farewel.

Mr. Brown's Extempore Version of two Verses out of Martial, occasion'd by a Clamorous Dun, who vow'd she would not leave him 'till she had her Money.

Sextus thou nothing ow'st, nothing I say,
He something owes that something has to pay.

An Epigram by Mr. Tho. Brown.
35

De Parnasso.

Thus paraphras'd.

O Phœbus! Father of the rhiming Crowd,
Doom'd to be poor, yet destin'd to be proud;
Bright Ruler both of Poetry and Light;
'Tis true, you give us Wit, but starve us by't.
Behold us struggling in those slippery Ways,
Which lead from Profit to the Hopes of Praise;
That tempting Shadow which such Swarms pursue,
Tho' sooth'd by many, merited by few;
Yet oft by Fools, and Flatterers enjoy'd,
And to the more Deserving still deny'd,
But thy Son Homer, liv'd in better Days,
And shone in Wit, as glorious as thy Rays;
With Honour justly clim'd the lofty Hill,
And rul'd with Joy the sacred Pinacle;
Where none his ancient Title must dispute,
Or after him presume to set a Foot.
Inspir'd by these, he took so vast a Flight,
That modern Ages ne'er could reach his Height.
His Works forbid us to molest his Reign,
And shew that all Attempts would prove in vain.

Yet since all Ages have their certain Best,
And one has Right to tow'r above the rest;
God-like, from Cares exempt, I'll sit at Ease,
And jest with humane Follies as I please:
Ne'er pine in vain, or languish o'er my Wants,
But leave to whining Coxcombs such Complaints.
And as no earthly Monarch will admit
A rival Prince in his Imperial Seat;

So o'er Parnassus will I reign as King,
And whilst the envious Criticks rail, I'll sing.
The bending Arch of Heav'n shall be my Crown,
And thus unequall'd, will I rule alone,
'Till more aspiring Wit shall justly claim
Apollo's Kingdom, and surmount my Fame.

FABLES.

The Fable of the Bat and the Birds.

In imitation of that of the Buzzard in the Hind and Panther. In the Year 1689.

In ancient Times, as learned Æsop shows,
'Twixt Birds and Beasts a fatal War arose.
But whether this from State-Intrigues did flow,
Or to some Church-Pretence its Birth did owe,
Or depredations made, concerns us not to know.
Weighty, you may be sure, the Cause was thought
Which such an universal Tumult wrought.
Picqueering Parties first began the Fray,
A sad Presage of the ensuing Day.
At last the War was solemnly proclaim'd,
The hour of fighting set, and both the Leaders nam'd.

The foolish Bat, a Bird obscure and base,
The scorn and jest of all the feather'd Race;
Or by fantastick Fears, and Scruples led,
Or by Ambition mov'd his Party fled,
Joyn'd with the Beasts, and eager to engage,
With popular Harangues urg'd on a feeble Rage:

As Fortune wou'd, on an ill-fated Day,
The Beasts drew out their Forces in Array:
The different Kinds their Grudges laid aside,
And for the common Safety now provide.
Ev'n their old Piques, and warm Disputes forgot,
The Hind and Panther joyn'd upon the Spot;
And by one mutual League of Friendship held,
Prepare for the rough Business of the Field.

When lo! the Birds in numerous Bands appear,
And with repeated Crys attack the Rear;
Give a fierce Charge, and back like Parthians, fly,
To repossess the patrimonial Sky;
Then strait descending, with redoubled Might,
They spend their Fury, and renew the Fight.
Pale Victory, all trembling and dismay'd,
With doubtful Wings the purple Scene survey'd.
At last, propitious to her fether'd Kind,
Declar'd her Favour, and the Scale inclin'd.
Whole Hecatombs the cover'd Field possest.
And gave their Foes at once a Triumph and a Feast.
Their slaughter'd Young the Rachel-Dams deplor'd,
And many a Widdow'd Cow mourn'd o'er her Horned Lord.

The generous Eagle (so his Stars ordain)
Chases th'affrighted Lyon from the Plain:
Their General gone, the Rest like Lightning fly,
A cheap unfighting Herd, not worth the Victory.

And now the Birds with eager Haste pursue,
Thro' Lanes, and devious Tracks, the scatter'd Crew.
Among the Rest, beset with Dangers round,
The trembling Bat was in a Cellar found:
'Tis pity Fame ne'er Chronicled his Taker,
But all Records agree, they found him near Long-acre.
Percht on a Pole, they brought him to the Bar,
Where the full House sat talking of the War.
Strait at the sight, a various Noise began,
Which thro' the spacious Hall, and neighb'ring Lobby ran.
Each Member in the publick Mirth concurr'd,
And droll'd upon the poor Apostatizing Bird.
First, Parrot Settle open'd wide his Throat,
Next Cuckow Rimer always in a Note;
And Peacock Chetwood, of the Clergy kind;
But his Poetick Feet disgrac'd the Train behind.
And Creech, and Norris, Blackbirds of Renown;
And Corm'rant Higden, for devouring known.
Nay, to augment the Hardship of his Woes,
Owl Durfy clapt his Wings, and hooted in the Close.

When now their Raillery began to spare,
(And faith 'twas too much for one Bird to bear)
The Eagle order'd silence in the Room,
And thus aloud pronounc'd the shiv'ring Lubber's Doom.

Beast of a Bird, thus to desert thy Friends,
And joyn the common Foe, for base ungenerous Ends;
What Punishment can suit so black a Crime?
Hear then, and stand accurst to all succeeding Time.
From all our Diets be thou first expell'd,
Or those in flow'ry Groves, or those in Steeples held,
When our gay Tribes in youthful Pomp appear,
To joyn in Nuptial Bands, and meet the smiling Year.
Nay more, to make thee mortifie and grieve,
To Buzzard Shadwell we thy Places give.
Him we appoint Historian of our State,
And Poet Laureat of the Woods create.
Outlaw'd our Realms, and banish'd from the Light,
Be thou for ever damn'd to steal abroad by Night.

The Fable of the Horse and the Stag.

I

The Horn-arm'd Stag deny'd the Horse
The priviledge of the Common,
Till starv'd, for want of equal Force,
He begg'd Assistance from a Man.

II

For why? resolv'd at any Rate
To get his Share of Pasture;
He rather chose to champ the Bit,
Than leave the Stag sole Master.

III

With Man astride he march'd to fight
A Foe that durst not face him;
For he with Strangeness of the Sight
Was frighted from his grazing.

IV

Nor had Sir Palfry much to brag
He got by his Adventure;
Since Man, from routing of the Stag,
Commenc'd perpetual Centaur.

The Fable of the Wolf and Porcupine. In answer to the Argument against a Standing Army.

I

Isgrim with Hunger prest, one day
As through the Woods he posted,
A Porcupine found on the Way,
And in these Terms accosted.

II

Our Wars are ended, Heav'n be prais'd,
Then let's sit down and prattle
Of Towns invested, Sieges rais'd,
And what we did in Battle.

III

The Plains a pleasing Prospect yield,
No Fire, nor Desolation;
While Plenty reigns in every Field,
And Trade restores the Nation.

IV

Yet you your Quills erected wear,
And tho' none seeks to harm ye,
In time of Peace about you bear
Methinks a Standing Army.

V

Friend, quoth the Porcupine, 'tis true,
The War's at length decided,
But 'gainst such tricking Blades as you,
'Tis good to be provided.

VI

Censorious Fame shall never say
That too much Faith betray'd me;
Who thinks of me to make a Prey,
Must at his Cost invade me.

VII

Let him, that thinks it worth the while,
Tempt Knaves to make a Martyr,
The Sharpers, that wou'd me beguile,
Shall find they've caught a Tartar.

The Fable of Apollo and Daphne.

I

Apollo once finding fair Daphne alone,
Discover'd his Flame in a passionate Tone;
He told her, and bound it with many a Curse,
He was ready to take her for Better for Worse.
Then he talk'd of his Smart,
And the Hole in his Heart,
So large, one might drive thro' the Passage a Cart.
But the silly coy Maid, to the Gods great Amazement,
Sprung away from his Arms, and leapt through the Casement.

II

He following cry'd out, my Life and my Dear,
Return to your Lover, and lay by your Fear.
You think me perhaps some Scoundrel, or Whoreson,
Alas! I've no wicked Designs on your Person.
I'm a God by my Trade,
Young, plump and well-made,
Then let me caress thee, and be not afraid.
But still she kept running, and flew like the Wind,
While the poor pursy God came panting behind.

III

I'm the Chief of Physicians; and none of the College
Must be mention'd with me for Experience and Knowledge;
Each Herb, Flower, and Plant by its Name I can call,
And do more than the best Seventh Son of 'em all.

With my Powders and Pills,
I cure all the Ills,
That sweep off such Numbers each Week in the Bills.
But still she kept running, and flew like the Wind,
While the poor pursy God came panting behind.

IV

Besides I'm a Poet, Child, into the Bargain,
And top all the Writers of fam'd Covent-Garden.
I'm the Prop of the Stage, and the Pattern of Wit,
I set my own Sonnets, and sing to my Kit.
I'm at Will's all the Day,
And each Night at the Play;
And Verses I make fast as Hops, as they say.
When she heard him talk thus, she redoubled her Speed,
And flew like a Whore from a Constable freed.

V

Now had our wise Lover (but Lovers are blind)
In the Language of Lumbard-street told her his Mind,
Look Lady what here is, 'tis plenty of Money,
Odsbobs I must swinge thee, my Joy and my Honey.
I sit next the Chair,
And shall shortly be Mayor,
Neither Clayton nor Duncomb with me can compare.
Tho', as wrinkled as Priam, deform'd as the Devil,
The God had succecded, the Nymph had been civil.

MISCELLANIES.

An Elegy on that most Orthodox, and Pains-taking Divine, Mr. Samuel Smith, Ordinary of Newgate, who dy'd of a Quinsey, on St. Bartholomew's Day, the 24th of August, 1698.

Tyburn , lament, in pensive sable mourn,
For from the World thy ancient Priest is torn.
Death, cruel Death, thy learn'd Divine has ended,
And by a Quinsey, from his Place suspended.
Thus he expir'd in his old Occupation,
And as he liv'd, he dy'd, by Suffocation.

Thou, reverend Pillar of the tripple Tree,
I would say Post, for it was prop'd by thee;
Thou Penny-Chronicler of hasty Fate,
Death's Annalist, Reformer of the State;
Cut-throat of Texts, and Chaplain of the Halter,
In whose sage presence Vice it self did faulter.
How many Criminals by thee assisted,
Old Smith, have been most orthodoxly twisted?
And when they labour'd with a dying Qualm,
Were decently suspended to a Psalm?
How oft hast thou set harden'd Rogues a squeaking,
By urging the great Sin of Sabbath-breaking;
And sav'd Delinquents from old Nick's Embraces,
By flashing Fire and Brimstone in their Faces?

Thou wa'st a Gospel-Smith, and after Sentence,
Brought'st Sinners to the Anvil of Repentance;
And tho' they prov'd obdurate at the Sessions,
Could'st hammer out of them most strange Confessions,
When Plate was stray'd, and Silver Spoons were missing,
And Chamber-maid betray'd by Judas kissing,

Thy Christian Bowels chearfully extended
Towards such, as by their Mammon were befriended.
Tho' Culprit in enormous Acts was taken,
Thou would'st devise a way to save his Bacon;
And if his Purse could bleed a half Pistole,
Legit, my Lord, he reads, upon my Soul.
Spite of thy Charity to dying Wretches,
Some Fools would live to bilk thy Gallows Speeches.
But who'd refuse, that has a taste of Writing,
To hang, for one learn'd Speech of thy inditing.
Thou alway'st had'st a conscientious itching,
To rescue Penitents from Pluto's Kitchen;
And hast committed upon many a Soul,
A pious Theft, but so St. Austin stole.
And Shoals of Robbers, purg'd of sinful Leaven,
By thee were set in the high Road to Heaven.

With sev'ral Mayors hast thou eat Beef and Mustard,
And frail Mince-pyes, and transitory Custard.
But now that learned Head in Dust is laid,
Which has so sweetly sung, and sweetly pray'd:

Yet tho' thy outward Man is gone and rotten,
Thy better part shall never be forgotten.
While Newgate is a Mansion for good Fellows,
And Sternbold's Rhimes are murder'd at the Gallows;
While Holborn Cits at Executions gape,
And Cut-purse follow'd is by Man of Crape;
While Grub-street Muse, in Garrets most sublime,
Trafficks in Doggerel, and aspires to Rhime;
Thy Deathless Name and Memory shall reign,
From fam'd St. Giles, to Smithfield, and Duck-lane.
But since thy Death does general Sorrow give,
We hope, thou in thy Successor will live.
Newgate and Tyburn jointly give their Votes,
Thou may'st succeeded be by Doctor Oates.

An Epitaph upon that profound and learned Casuist, the late Ordinary of Newgate.

Under this Stone
Lies reverend Drone,
To Tyburn well known;
Who preach'd against Sin,
With a terrible Grin,
In which some may think, that he acted but odly,
Since he liv'd by the Wicked, and not by the Godly.
In time of great need,
In case he were free'd,
He'd teach one to read
Old Pot-hooks and Scrawls,
As ancient as Pauls.
But if no Money came,
You might hang for old Sam,
And founder'd in Psalter,
Be ty'd to a Halter.

This Priest was well hung,
I mean with a Tongue,
And bold Sons of Vice,
Would disarm in a trice;

And draw Tears from a Flint,
Or the Devil was in't.
If a Sinner came him nigh,
With Soul black as Chimney,
And had but the Sense
To give him the pence,
With a little Church-paint
He'd make him a Saint.
He understood Physick,
And cur'd Cough and Ptifick;
And in short all the Ills
That we find in the Bills,
With a sovereign Balm,
The World calls a Psalm.
Thus his Newgate-birds once, in the space of a Moon,
Tho' they liv'd to no Purpose, they dy'd to some Tune,
In Death was his Hope,
For he liv'd by a Rope.
Yet this, by the way,
In his praise we may say,
That, like a true Friend,
He his Flock did attend,
Ev'n to the World's end,
And car'd not to start
From Sledge, or from Cart,
'Till he first saw them wear
Knots under their Ear;
And merrily swing,
In a well-twisted string.
But if any dy'd hard,
And left no Reward,
As I told you before,
He'd inhance their old score,
And kill them again
With his murdering Pen.

Thus he kept Sin in awe,
And supported the Law;
But, oh! cruel Fate!
So unkind, tho' I say't,

Last week, to our Grief,
Grim Death, that old Thief,
Alas, and alack,
Had the boldness to pack
This old Priest on his Back,
And whither he's gone,
Is not certainly known.
But a Man may conclude,
Without being rude,
That Orthodox Sam
His Flock would not sham;
And to shew himself to 'em a Pastor most civil,
As he led, so he follow'd them all to the D---l.

An Elegy in Memory of the Gallant Viscount Dundee, who was killed by a random Shot, after he had won the Battle at Gillecrankey. Writ by Mr. Brown, at the Request of Dr. Griffith and Mr. Burges.

Fors & virtus miscentur in unum.
Vir. Æneid. 12.

Goddess , to urge me on forbear,
Or make my mournful Song thy care;
Oppress'd with Doubts, and mighty Woe,
I'd sing the Man, that all Mankind shou'd know,
How brave he fought, how conquer'd, and how fell,
And in what Cause assist me whilst I tell.
Quickly the News was hither brought,
Too true, alas, that he was dead,
And all our Expectations fled;
But yet we would not entertain the Thought.
Between th'extreams of Hope and Fear,
Confus'd we stood the Truth to hear,
Until 'twas made at last too plain,
Beyond all doubt the great unconquer'd Man was slain.

Forgive me, Heaven, that impious Thought,
At first I question'd your Supreme Decree,
Love to my King the Madness wrought,
And Grief for the World's Loss, the brave DUNDEE.
Oh! frail Estate of Things below,
Well to our cost your emptiness we know.
Scarce from the fury he had pass'd
Of a mistaken factious Race,
But other Dangers follow him as fast,
And trace him as he goes from Place to Place.
His Friends desert, his Foes pursue,
Yet still undaunted he goes on;
New Dangers but his Mind and Strength renew,
So Brave, so Just and Good was this unalter'd Man.

Tho' much o'er-match'd in Men and Arms,
His Cause and Courage only best,
And his Example far above the rest:
Firmly resolv'd, he meets the numerous Foe;
But first, with chearful Anger in his Face,
Soldiers and Friends, he spoke, I'm sure you know,
For what Intent, and for whose sake we go;
And then he bow'd, and briefly told the Case.

His Speech to his Soldiers.

A King Entail'd by long Descent,
Equal almost to Time in its extent,
Robb'd of his Throne, for sure it must be so;
Nor God nor Nature can,
Only presumptuous Man,
Be guilty of so black an Overthrow.
What's worse, to palliate the pretence
Harmless Religion too is brought,
Falsly and indirectly us'd,
And all her sacred Mysteries abus'd,
Beyond what the dark Sibyls ever taught.
And can we bear, my Friends, this great Offence?
Can we stand idle by,
And see our Mother robb'd, at last condemn'd to die,
And not endeavour for some Recompence?

Envy and Fraud, Hypocrisie and Pride,
And bold Ambition, arm'd for Parricide;
The certain loss of Liberty and Laws,
And Usurpation, an intolerable Cause.
All these and more, have brought us here;
Let no Man doubt, let no Man fear,
His Cause is Just, and if he falls to day,
For so by chance he may.
At worst his Name shall wear
A large and noble Character;
But his exalted Soul shall fly
The boundless pitch of vast Eternity.

He spoke; his Soldiers much approve,
Despair and Fear quit ev'ry Breast,
Rage and Revenge their place possess'd:
And then with wond'rous Order t'wards the Foe they move.
But who th'Amazement and th'Affright can tell,
That on the other Army fell?
Or who, without Astonishment, can say,
The wonderous Things this great Man did that Day?
In vain their routed Squadrons fly,
In vain aloud for help they cry,
The Battle's lost, and they must yield, or die.

But, see of Human Things the brittle state!
The only best, and best deserving Man,
That should have breath'd beyond the common Span,
The last that meets Triumphantly his Fate;
As he was lifting up his Hand,
To give the finishing Command,
Comes a malicious random Shot,
And struck the Victor dead upon the spot.
Methinks I see the wounded Hero lie,
Too good to live, and yet to brave to die;
I hear him bless his Cause, and more he had to say,
But, oh! the hasty Soul could make no longer stay.

Unconquer'd Man, farewel!
Now thou art gone to dwell
Where thou shalt be intirely free,
From all the Curses of Mortality.

No anxious Thoughs shall wrack thy Breast,
No Factions shall disturb thy Rest;
Nor shalt thou be by Tyranny oppress'd.
Thy Learning and thy Parts,
Thy Knowledge in the noblest, useful Arts,
Thy Conversation and thy Wit,
Spoke thee for Earth unmeet, for Heaven only fit.
Live bless'd above, almost invok'd below;
Live, and accept this pious Vow,
Our Captain once, our Guardian Angel now.
Live and enjoy, those great Rewards are due,
To those who to their Prince are Faithful, Just and True.

The Mourning Poet: Or, The unknown Comforts of Imprisonment, written in the Year, 1703. and Calculated for the Meridian of the three populous Universities of the Queen's Bench, the Marshalsea, and the Fleet; but may indifferenly serve any Prison in the Kingdom of England, Dominion of Wales, or Town of Berwick upon Tweed.

Since my hard Fate has doom'd me to a Jayl,
Some scolding Muse direct me how to rail:
And let this Curse, by my ill Genius sent,
As 'tis my Penance, be my Argument.
The Scene of Life with Black and White spread o'er,
Here shows us Want, and there superfluous Store.

The Rich Man and the Poor be then my Theme;
Having been both, I best can judge of them.

A Rich Man, what is he? Has he a Frame
Distinct from others? Or a better Name?
Has he more Legs, more Arms, more Eyes, more Brains?
Has he less Care, less Crosses, or less Pains?
Can Riches keep the Mortal Wretch from Death?
Or can new Treasures purchase a new Breath?
Or does Heaven send its Love and Mercy more
To Mammon's pamper'd Sons than to the Poor?
If not, why should the Fool take so much State,
Exalt himself and others under-rate?
'Tis senceless Ignorance that sooths his Pride,
And makes him laugh at all the World beside.
But when Excesses bring on Gout or Stone,
All his vain Mirth and Gayety are gone.
Then to make any Truce with his Disease,
And purchase the least interval of Ease,
He'd all his ill-got Magazines resign,
And at Health's Altar Sacrifice his Coin:
And when he dies, for all he looks so high,
He'll make as vile a Skeleton as I.

To number out the several sorts of Poor,
Would be to count the Billows on the Shore;
My Muse shall therefore all the rest decline,
And to th'industrious Man her self confine;
Who with incessant Labour strives to live,
And yet by cruel Accidents can't thrive.
To Trace the Original Fountain of his Woe,
From whence the Gross of all his Ills do flow;
With War I must begin, whose fatal Doom
Ruins all Trade as well Abroad as Home.
The dire effects the Merchant feels the first,
And all the other Trades by War are curs'd;
The Vintners, whom I own I pity most
Are daily in this cursed scramble lost.
And who can wonder that so many fail,
When righteous Claret truckes to vile Ale,
And Barcelona stoops to Belgick Mild and Stale.

War (to whose Court all lesser Evils join)
First help'd to circumcise our Current Coin.
'Twas a fine Harvest, when the Clipping Race,
To the conniving Government's disgrace,
Cut short his Majesty within the Ring,
And dock'd his Horses Tail (God bless the King:)
Then Goldsmiths, Scriveners, and the bulky Tribe
Of monied Knaves, too num'rous to describe,
Batten'd apace on this unrighteous Trade,
And at the Realm's expence large Fortune's made;
While the poor half-starv'd Slaves that for them wrought,
Within the fatal Toil were daily caught;
And to relieve them in their Tyburn Qualm,
Troop'd off to the dull Musick of a Psalm.

The Charge of War out-ballanc'd soon our Trade,
As this advanc'd, that palpably decay'd.
And as 'twas ten Years War that ruin'd Troy,
So ten years War did England's Wealth destroy.
War, fatal War, the murderer of Trade,
Occasion'd heavy Taxes for its aid;
It set Mercurial Heads at work t'invent
Most easie ways to serve the Government:
NEALE started first, to raise a speedy Sum,
A MILLION LOTTERY, let who will come,
No Loss can happen, but most certain Gain;
Sell Lands and Houses, ne'er was such a Main.
This was a general and inviting Bait,
And did so luckily relieve the State,
That the Groom-Porter had Encouragement,
New specious Schemes and Projects to invent.

Next, the old Maids and Batch'lers were cajoll'd,
Fourteen per Cent. for Life, and well enroll'd:
They drew their Cash from Commerce and from Trade,
And lavishly adventur'd on this Aid,
Long may they live, and still (as now) be paid.
At the Heels of this, Survivorship came in,
('Tis hard to stop, tho' easie to begin)
From six per Cent. t'increase as Children die,
So promising a Fund who wou'd not try?

Thus eager Parents paid their Money down,
To make their Children Vassals to the Crown,
And with much Ceremonie beg their own.

At last, resolv'd new Methods still t'explore,
As if we ne'er cou'd drain the Nation's store;
The Bank peept up, and all before it bore.
As Rivers dutifully glide to pay
Their liquid Tribute, to their Parent Sea.
Nor is it strange; Av'rice is always wise,
And Profit, say the Learned, never lies.
Int'rest at twelve per Cent. for Stock advanc'd,
Stock to One hundred thirty Pounds enhanc'd;
So he that had a Thousand Pounds in there,
For Thirteen Hundred strait cou'd sell his Share;
Prodigious Gain! Such Principal, such Use
Th'Exchequer pays; What must th'Exchequer loose?

But say, my Muse, what harm was it to Trade,
If the Exchequer Cent. per Cent. had paid,
When the Realm's wants requir'd a present Aid?
It made the Nation's Debt call for Supplies,
By doubling both the Customs and Excise;
It fram'd the Capitation by Degrees,
Births, Burials, Batchelours, Lights, Lawyers Fees,
Stock, Money, Titles empty Houses pay,
Altho' the Tenants often run away.

All these, and many more Inventions joyn'd
To pamper War, while sickly Trade declin'd:
Set up Stock-jobbers on the Nation's Back,
Whose weight compleated poor Britannia's Wreck.
These Vermin being hatch'd, the numerous Brood
Increas'd, and fatten'd on the Trades-Man's Blood;
If Tallies were deliver'd on some Aid,
Stock-jobber fixt, what Money shou'd be paid.
The Legislators gave Encouragement
For Men to work, and trust the Government;
But tho' a general Good they thus design'd,
Those rav'nons Harpies of the Exchange combin'd
To frustrate All; and deaf to th'Nation's Cries,
Ev'n our best Laws turn'd into Merchandise;

So that poor Trades-Men for a Hundred Pound,
For Fifty with these Rascals must compound,
Or else to Gaol; their Wants call for supply,
And ready Cash at any rate they'll buy:
Thus all those Millions given for Supplies,
Those Caterpillars still monopolize;
And if we find not out some speedy Way
To kill these Worms that on our Vitals prey,
Commerce, the Nation's Glory, soon will fail,
And half our Traders perish in a Jayl.
Oh, who can bear to see so many Hands
Lie idle, like uncultivated Lands;
Devour'd by Want, only to gratify
Senseless Revenge, and brutal Cruelty?

Rome, whose Imperial sway the World obey'd,
Justice the Rule of all her Actions made;
And tho' most Nations dreaded her Alarms,
Was no less famous for her Laws than Arms.
Among the rest this justly claims a place,
And let not England think it a Disgrace,
The glorious Empress of the World to trace.
“The Debtor had one part, the Creditor two;
Revenge had nothing, nothing was her due.
Credit with us the whole Estate doth seize,
And on the wretched Debtor's Body preys;
Heav'ns brightest Gift, Compassion's out of Door;
And he's a graceless Reprobate that's poor.

In France this Law does still maintain a sway,
If Trades-Men prove incapable to pay;
Six Persons of known Truth and Probity,
Make inquest what their whole Estate may be:
When this is duly done, two parts of three,
They to the Creditor's allotted see:
And then one third to th'Debtor is convey'd,
That he may have some Stock again to Trade;
How worthy praise are such good Acts as these?
Considering too there's not a penny Fees.
Why should we then our English Laws advance,
And scornfully expose the Laws of France?
Since Subjects, fellow Subjects can destroy,
And rob us of our boasted Liberty.

In Holland, if a Creditor thinks fit,
His Debtor to a Prison to commit,
At his own Charge he must maintain him there,
Not let him starve, as Creditors do here.

A Prison! Heav'ns, I loath the hated name,
Famine's Metropolis, the sink of Shame,
A nauseous Sepulchre, whose craving Womb
Hourly inters poor Mortals in its Tomb;
By every Plague, and every Ill possest,
Ev'n Purgatory itself to thee's a Jest;
Emblem of Hell, Nursery of Vice,
Thou crawling University of Lice:
Where Wretches numberless to ease their Pains,
With Smoak and Ale delude their pensive Chains.
How shall I thee avoid? Or, with what Spell
Dissolve th'Enchantment of thy Magic Cell?
Ev'n Fox himself can't boast so many Martyrs,
As yearly fall within thy wretched Quarters.
Money I've none, and Debts I cannot pay
Unless my Vermin will those Debts defray.
Not scolding Wife, nor Inquisition's worse,
Thou'rt ev'ry Mischief cramm'd into one Curse.
May we at last the Senate's Mercy find,
And breath (what Heav'n bestows on all Mankind;
What needy Clowns as well as Monarchs share)
The common Benefit of wholsome Air:
Then to your Clemency we'll Altars raise,
And with united Voice our Benefactors praise.

So pray Threescore Thousand.

To my Friend Mr. Playford; on the Publication of his second Book of Pills.

Friend Harry, to prove that your Thoughts were absurd,
For supposing I could not be true to my Word,
According to the Promise which I made long ago,
At last I have squeez'd out a Couplet or two
In the Praise of your Pills, and tho' my Verse late is,
Yet believe it's the first that I ever sent Gratis.

By my Soul, I've been us'd so to Bolus and Potion,
That I'm ready to swoon at a Physical Notion;
And if you wou'd lend me, (that's give) a Jacobus:
I'm perswaded I cou'd not take Pill ex duobus:
However, since yours have no Turpentine Flavour,
Nor confine a Man close to his righteous Behaviour,
Since no bitter Ingredients give Offence to my Palate,
But they please me like Cheese which is toasted or Sallad,
I'll quit making Faces, to write Panegyrick,
Tho' I'm not half so fit for't as M. for Lyrick.

To begin then, pray take it as Thomas his Sentence,
Your Pills will ne'er bring one to Stool of Repentance,
But will chase away Sorrow, which will hang on our Brows,
As a pretty young Girl do's a Batchellor's Vows,
Who, at Sight of her Beauty, drowns the Thoughts of Miscarriage,
And perjur'd, immediately sets up for Marriage.

They're a Cure for a Fav'rite who had addled his Senses,
And has lost our Good Word by getting his Princes.
The thoughtful Good Statesman, who sits a-la-mort,
Because he's remov'd from Council and Court,
At the Taste of your Med'cines shall resign up his Grief,
And bless his Retirement, and bless your Relief.
All Conditions and Sexes, in Country and City
From thee wou'd be thought Wise, to the really Witty,
From the Lady who speaks all her Words as in Print,
And has Eyes which strike Fire like a Steel and a Flint.

To the Damsel whose Language is course as her Skin,
And who fain wou'd be dabling, but starts at the Sin,
As she stares at and covets the Thing call'd a Man,
And she thinks she cou'd do what her Ladyship can:
From the Prodigal Cit, who's a setling the Nation,
To the poor Country Thresher, who's as great in his Station.
From their Squireships and Knighthoods, and Lordships and Graces,
To the Man of no Title, who makes 'em wry Faces.
All alike shall be purg'd by your Laxative Verses,
Which shall loosen their Tongues instead of their Arses,
As they joyn in the Praises of what I commend,
And acknowledge you theirs, as I own you my Friend.

London, June 28. 1700.

T. Brown.

Upon the Encampment at Hounslow-Heath.

Too long by flowing luxury betraid,
Our British Isle was in loose Slumbers laid;
Too long we felt the Ills of Fatal peace,
And idly Languish'd in inglorious Ease,
No manly Business did our Thoughts engage
To purchase Fame on Europe's Wondring stage;
But grown unmindful of our former Name
We all our Fathers Triumphs did disclaim,
While even France it self with Scorn beheld our Shame.
The idle Spear hung up, the polisht Shield
Forgot the great Atchievements of the Field,
The gen'rous Sword contracted filthy Rust,
And active Pikes lay Mouldering in the dust.
Shrill Trumpets spake not to the Armed throng,
Our Instruments unlearn'd each Martial song,
While Guns and Bombs as useless did appear,
As laws and learning in the times of War:

Mean-while our Neighbours strove to break the Chain
And sought the Empire of fair Albion's Main,

Bold num'rous suitors briskly did prepare,
To court the Nymph with all the Pomp of War.
Nay more, the Eastern World our Shame must know
And rifled Bantam English Conduct show,
While the Proud Dutch by Potent Nants inspir'd,
Invade our Coasts, and on the Castles fir'd:
Spain that was much amaz'd at such a sight,
Suspected now the Truth of eighty Eight.
And scarcely thought our Fathers could obtain,
Such great, and glorious Triumphs over Spain.

Thus were we Scorn'd, and thus contemn'd abroad;
While Seeds of civil Feuds at home were sow'd,
Prompted by each bold Instrument of Hell,
Dull fools we did, for Conscience sake rebel,
Then Sensless clamours all our Thoughts employ'd,
And Whig, and Tory did the Land divide.

But now Triumphant James the Scepter sways
The adoring World our rising Sun surveys,
He to our Minds new Vigor does infuse,
And furnish ample Matter for the Muse;
He to it self our Island does restore,
Extends its Limits, and confirms its Pow'r,
While the great Edwards mighty Ghost is pleas'd
To see his ancient Kingdoms honour rais'd.

Behold how Shining in your Martial pride
Our Troops at Hounslow doe your Coursers guide,
See how the well-form'd Phalanx does advance,
Taught by experience; not inspir'd by chance;
See how the Colours Wanton in the Air,
And helmets glisten formidable fair,
See groves of pointed Spears do move along,
As Trees Commanded by the Thracian Song,
While Drums, and Trumpets rend the listning Skies,
And ev'ry Heart keeps Measure with the Noise.

Surely, if Poets prophecies are true
These Heroes must unheard of Wonders do,
Either proud France must now fresh Vengeance feel,
And once more groan beneath the English Steel,
Or perjur'd Holland some revolving day,
For fam'd Amboyna's fatal Slaughters pay,

Or the the large Kingdoms of the pow'rful West,
Too much by Spanish cruelties opprest,
With English Arts at last, and English Laws be blest.

Upon the setting up of the Statue of Queen Elizabeth, of ever blessed Memory, in the Royal Exchange London.

Let Memnon's Statue be no more admir'd,
That utter'd Sounds, by the Suns beams inspir'd;
My Muse a greater Wonder does rehearse
For Stones have here infus'd the Lofty verse.

Oh! London, the just Pride of Albion's Isle,
That dost with Ease and flowing Plenty smile,
Whose pow'rful Ships the Ocean do Survey,
And make both Indies to thee Tribute pay.
Oh! give fresh Honours to Eliza's Name,
And view the lasting Trophies of her Fame,
She rais'd thy Head, and all thy Wealth secur'd,
Which else Proud Spaniards rapine had devour'd;
She chas'd thy Night of Ignorance away,
And soon restor'd truths incorrupted Ray.

Nor were her Blessings to this Realm confin'd,
Strangers enjoy'd the Vertues of her Mind:
Holland half ruin'd by the Pride of Spain,
By her kind Influence rais'd it self again;
She Freed 'em from the Tyranny of Rome,
And stopt the tide of Heav'ns impending Doom.
Even France it self with Civil Tumults stain'd,
Invok'd her help, and help was Streight obtain'd,
Else the curst League had clipt the Royal Crown,
And from his greatness thrown the Monarch down.

Who without Joy and Wonder can Survey,
The Glorious Triumphs of that happy day,
When mighty Drake opposed the Power of Spain
And fought their Navy in the British Main:
Long had Proud Philip, England's Fate conspir'd,
Urg'd by revenge, and with Ambition fir'd;

Long had he strove by all the Arts of Pow'r
Old Rome's exploded Errors to restore,
Then reverend Shrines were of their reliques stript,
And Consecrated Guns and Daggers shipt;
Each banner was baptiz'd in Holy Oil,
And vows were made to recommend the Toil;
The mitred Prelate of St. Peter's Chair
Club'd towards the Work, and blest it with a Pray'r.
Nay griping Priests, that never gave before,
Now plunder'd Altars to encrease the Store.

Thus setting forth from Lisbon's Fatal Bay
Through wond'ring Waves the Navy cut its Way;
The World amaz'd lookt on the curst intent,
And Fate now almost doubted the event.
But Britains Genius not surpriz'd with Fear,
Towards the great Fleet its nimble course did steer.
The roaring Guns first Complements did make,
At which the frightned Gallies 'gan to quake;
Soldiers like Mag-pies flutt'd in the air,
And every Ship did in the damage Share:
Till half consum'd with Streams of glowing Fire,
The Gen'ral thought it Prudence to retire.

These Triumphs we to great Eliza owe,
Such Blessings her soft Influence did bestow,
Sh' enrich'd our Island with the Indian Mine,
And first reduc'd Religion and our Coyn:
O may She live exalted in her Fame,
Enjoying all the Glories of her Name;
While British Fleets the Ocean shall command,
And Peace, and plenty Crown our happy Land,
While true Religion do's her Sway maintain
Against the Arts of Fraud, and Cruelties of Spain.

In Praise of the Bottle. A Song.

I

What a Pox d'ye tell me of the Papists Design?
Would to God you'd leave talking, and drink off your Wine.

Away with your Glass, Sir, and drown all Debate;
Let's be loyally merry; ne'er think of the State.
The King (Heav'ns bless him) knows best how to rule;
And who troubles his Head, I think's but a Fool.

II

Come, Sir, here's his Health; your Brimmer advance;
We'll ingross all the Claret, and leave none for France.
'Tis by this we declare our Loyal Intent,
And by our Carousing, the Customs augment.
Would all mind their Drinking, and proper Vocation,
We should ha' none of this Bustle and Stir in the Nation.

III

Let the Hero of Poland, and Monarch of France,
Strive, by Methods of Fighting, their Crowns to advance.
Let Chappels in Lime-street be built or destroy'd,
And the Test, and the Oath of Supremacy, void;
It shall ne'er trouble me; I'm none of those Maggots,
That have whimsical Fancies of Smithfield and Faggots.

IV

Then banish all groundless Suspicions away;
The King knows to govern, let us learn to obey.
Let ev'ry Man mind his Bus'ness and Drinking;
When the Head's full of Wine, there's no room left for thinking.
'Tis nought but an empty and whimsical Pate,
That makes Fools run giddy with Notions of State.

The Rover. A Song.

I

I hate the Dotard, that restrains
Himself to one. Give me the Spark
That ev'ry single Doe disdains,
But bravely chases all the Park.
What Charms can one pretend? She's fair,
Well-shap'd perhaps, plays well, or sings.
All's true; but were she yet more rare,
The God of Love, you know, has Wings.

II

Beauty's dispers'd through all the Kind;
Through all the Universe does move;
And 'till it be to one confin'd,
I think I've lawful Cause to rove.
To Day this Face delights my Eye,
But when I'm ask'd not to give o'er;
Your Servant; I've fed heartily.
Surfeits are dangerous. Not a Bit more.

The Campaign. A Song.

I

Mount, my Boys, mount; let us view the Campaign;
At Hounslow the Tents do cover the Plain.
Hark! the Trumpets sound, the Troopers are hors'd,
If you stay longer, the Sight will be lost.
Hark too! the Hautboys; the Grenadiers come;
Now in the Rear march the Foot with the Drums.
Haste, Gentlemen, haste, our Friends will present's
With a kind Bottle and Wench in their Tents.

II

See yonder, Sir, see how dazling they shew?
Their Cloaths, Hats and Arms, are brandishing new.
How dreadfully look the Bag'nets advanc'd!
How proudly those Jennets before 'em do prance!
See how the Housings and Trappings do blaze!
How admiring Crowds upon 'em do gaze!
Whigs and old Rebels are dash'd at the Sight;
They curse in their Hearts, and view 'em with Spight.

III

Now, now we are there; yon's the General's Tent;
All that long Row's for the Queen's Regiment;
Yonder's the Sutler's; and there the Smiths stand,
With Anvils and Forges all ready at hand.
O Windsor and Hounslow! I hope your Stock's large,
You're like to maintain an Infantry Charge.
The Strollers o'th' Strand and Park will come down,
And leave at the Camp, what they got in the Town.

The Libertine. A Song.

I

I'll languish no more at the Glance of your Eye;
Can view you all o'er, and ne'er fetch a deep Sigh.
No more shall your Voice, Cyren-like, charm my Heart.
In vain you may sigh, use in vain all your Art.
No, Madam, I'm free; when I'm recreant again,
Let me, unpity'd feel again my old Pain.

II

I'll Libertine turn, use all things in common;
No more than one Dish be bound to one Woman;
Yet I'll still love the Sex, but my Bottle before 'em;
I'll use 'em sometimes, but I'll never adore 'em.
Go, Madam, be wise: when a Woodcock's i'th' Noose,
Be sure hold him fast, lest like me he gets loose.

A Catch.

Let the amorous Coxcomb adore a fair Face;
An Hours Enjoyment makes him look like an Ass.
Let the ambitious Fop to Honours aspire,
He burns with the Torment of boundless Desire.
And let the old Miser hoard up his curs'd Pelf,
He enriches his Bags, but he beggars himself.
The Lover, Ambitious, and Miser, are Fools;
There's no solid Joy, but in jolly full Bowls.

A Match for the Devil. In Imitation of M. Rabelais.

While others idle Tales relate,
To fright Men from the marry'd State;
Do thou, my Muse in humble Verse,
The Vertues of a Wife rehearse.

A Farmer of much Wealth possess'd,
With Friends too, while they lasted, bless'd,

Kept open House, and lov'd to feast
Those who deserv'd and wanted least.
To Pleasures he prescrib'd no Bounds;
He kept his Hunters, Pack of Hounds.
Somewhat lascivious, somewhat vain.
Some Gentleman had cross'd the Strain.
To try all Joys and Plagues of Life,
He boldly took a Buxom Wife.
Now fresh Expences, fresh Delights,
Attend the Day, and Crown the Nights.
His new Acquaintance Crowd the House;
Some praise the Fare, but most the 'Spouse;
Each strove who should divert the most,
But still 'twas at the Husband's Cost.
He, thoughtless, prais'd the expensive Pleasure,
To please his dear domestick Treasure,
All Care was scorn'd, and Bus'ness vanish'd;
The present Joys, thoughts future banish'd:
And being both of Years but Vernal,
They thought their Wealth and Loves eternal.

But oh! how vain are all Mens Fancies!
Ill-grounded Projects, mere Romances.
What Whims the Wisest entertain!
What strange Delusions fill our Brain!
When we are eager to possess,
We smooth the Road to Happiness:
We level Mountains, empty Seas,
And Reason fierce Desires obeys.
The greatest Danger we despise;
Our Passion sees, and not our Eyes.

Our Pair now find, some Seasons past,
Nor Wealth, nor Love would always last,
Unless improv'd with Application;
But that in one is out of Fashion.
Gold indeed preserves its Sway,
But Love! who does thy Pow'r obey?
E'en Women now profess to range,
And all their Pleasures is in Change;
Now seek the present Joys t'improve,
Yielding to many they call Love;

Artful new Lovers to engage.
Then slight his Love, and scorn his Rage.
Thus these behold what they possess'd,
And wonder how they once were blest.
Their Jars are thought on, and improv'd;
They hate themselves, that once they lov'd.
Thus lab'ring on in dirty Road,
They snarl, and curse the heavy Load.

How happy were our mortal State,
Were Indolence but our worst Fate!
No sooner Joys the Place forsake,
But racking Pains Dominion take,
No sooner Love had fled the Pair,
When enter'd meager Want and Care.
The House, which had such vast Resort
When Riot seem'd to keep his Court,
Is now forsook, a lonely Cell,
Where Silence, undisturb'd, might dwell.
Clean Pans and Spits the Walls now grac'd.
For Ornament the Pewter's plac'd.
Bright Dishes entertain the Eye.
No Kitchen-Smoke offends the Sky.
Hogsheads with dismal sounds complain'd,
Both Hogsheads and the Man were drain'd.
His Landlord stern, his Rent demands.
Stray'd are his Flocks, unplough'd his Lands.
The Wife advies Friends to try;
Her's she was sure would not deny.
A thousand Vows she had receiv'd;
Each Vow repay'd, for she believ'd,

But oh! how soon did they discover,
'Tis Wealth brings Friends, the Face a Lover.
His Wants are heard without Relief;
Her Eyes afford not Joy, nor Grief.
His wasted Fortune all affrights;
Her faded Beauty none invites.

Oppress'd with Wants, to Woods he flies,
And seeks the Peace his House denies.
Roving, lamenting his Condition,
Fate kindly sent him a Physician.

His Habit, Cane, and formal Face,
Shew'd he was of Geneva Race:
But cloven Feet the Fiend detect,
And prov'd him Author of the Sect.
With Joy he spy'd the Wretch's Cares,
And fawning, thus he spread his Snares.
My Son! with Pity I have seen
(Tho' I've a Foe to Pity been)
The sad Disasters you endure,
That of a Wife admits no Cure.
I know your Wants, and her's I guess;
I cannot swear I'll both redress.
That Task, I fear, is too uneasy;
But if Possessions large will please ye,
Behold this spacious Tract of Land,
All that you see's at my Command.
I'll give it freely all to thee,
If we on Articles agree.
I can perform it, I'm the Devil,—
Nay, never start Man, I'll be civil.
It shall be yours to plough and sow;
All that above the Ground does grow,
What e'er it is, shall be my Due;
The rest I freely give to you.

Gladly the Farmer does submit,
For pinching Want hath taught him Wit.
With Roots he plants the fruitful Soil,
Which well rewarded all his Toil.
But to his Landlord's jilted Share,
A weedy Harvest does appear.

The Devil vext, new Cov'nants makes,
Next Year all under Ground he takes.
Then Golden Wheat the Land does bear,
And useless Roots are Satan's Share.
The Fiend resolv'd to spoil the Jest,
And thus the Farmer he addrest.

Believe me, Friend, thou art a Sharper;
Satan himself has caught a Tartar,
I've seen thy Wit, but now at length
I am resolv'd to try thy Strength.

A scratching Match we'll have together;
Look to thy self, I'll claw thy Leather.
If I submit, the Land is thine;
If I o'ercome, thy Soul is mine.
Think for your Quiet, I conjure ye;
Should you to Hell, you leave a Fury.
Observe these Talons, and away,
And Friday next shall be the Day.
A mod'rate Beauty will inflame,
'Till we have seen a brighter Dame.
Rivers with Wonders we survey,
'Till we behold the boundless Sea.
So ev'ry little trifling Care
Appears a Load we cannot bear.
But if some horrid Tortures seize us,
What late we dreaded, now would ease us.

The wretched Farmer homeward goes,
And dreads his future endless Woes.
His Cares, his Dunns, his Wants, his Wife,
And all the Banes of happy Life,
Would now afford him vast Content,
Could he the unequal Match prevent.
His prying Turtle quickly guest
Some Care uncommon fill'd his Breast.
Husband and Wife, sometimes relate
Their Cares and Bus'ness, tho' they hate.
Nor always Nature's Call deny,
And tho' both loath, yet both comply.
Her wheedling Tongue soon found the Means
To make the Wretch disclose his Pains.
He tells the Combat and the Laws,
And magnifies his monst'rous Paws.

Pish! Is this all that Plagues your Mind?
An easy Remedy I'll find.
You to your Wife's Advice submit,
And we'll the Devil himself out-wit.
Come, turn about,—and leave your Moans,—
These Husbands are such very Drones.—
He sigh'd, obey'd, and did his best;
His Task perform'd he went to rest.

Our happy Hours are quickly past,
And time to Misery makes haste.
Soon Friday comes, a dismal Day!
When such a Guest would Visits pay.
The Farmer dreads the approaching Scuffle;
(The Thoughts of Hell, the Boldest ruffle)
But still his Wife keeps up her Spirits;
She knew her Safe-guard, and its Merits:
She bids him hide, whate're should fall on't,
While she receiv'd the dreadful Gallant.
He soon obeys th'advent'rous Dame;
The Husband gone, the Devil came.

Who knocks impetuous at the Gate,
And angry grows, that he should wait.
Again for Ent'rance loud he cries,
But Screams and Groans are the Replies.
Love and the Devil, what can bind!
They stronger grow, the more confin'd:
If they can 'spy the smallest Hole,
One takes the Heart, and one the Soul.
So Satan, vex'd at the Delay,
Whip'd thro' the Key-hole to his Prey;
But to his great Amazement, found
Th'indecent Wife spread on the Ground:
High as the Waste expos'd and bare,
And with her Shrieks she pierc'd the Air.

Why, how now, Woman? Whence this Passion?
This Posture, and such Exclamation?

Ah! pity, Sir, my wretched Case,
And quickly fly this horrid Place.
You, by your grim, Majestick Air,
Your Feet, your Claws, your Horns declare;
You with my Husband come to scratch;
But thou, ah! thou, th'unequal Match!
The cruel Monster ready stands,
But hope not to escape his Hands:
His Nails are Scythes upon my Life,
And for his Horns, Sir,—I'm his Wife.
This Morn, to try what he could do,
On me he would his Prowess shew:

This Chasm he made with's little Finger;
Behold, Sir,—is it not a Swinger.
With that she threw her Legs aside,
And shew'd a Hole surprising wide,

Zounds, quoth the Devil, (quite amaz'd,
When on the deadly Gulph he gaz'd)
What do I see! What makes that Wound
Of such Extent, and so profound!
If that Nail such a Wound could tear,
What can the Force of ten Claws bear!
And by the Stench, to shew his Spite,
With poyson'd Weapons he would fight.
My Talons are not half so long,
Nor is my Sulphur half so strong.
No, I'll submit, since my Lot's Hell;
At least I'll in a whole Skin dwell.
The Land is his, but be he bound,
Since he has made, to fill that Wound.
With that he vanish'd from her Eyes,
And sulph'rous Stench and Fumes arise.

The Farmer hastens to the Place,
His great Deliv'rer to embrace.
Well hast thou freed my tim'rous Soul;
But what did e'er thy Pow'r controul?
The fiercest Rage it soon disarms,
Tho' Hell it frights, yet Men it charms.
But be it on thy Tomb engrav'd,
'Tis the first Soul a Wife e'er sav'd.

The Whet.

Wine, Wine in a Morning
Makes us frolick and gay,
That like Eagles we sore
In the Pride of the Day.
Gouty Sots of the Night
Only find a Decay.

'Tis the Sun ripes the Grape,
And to Drinking gives Light;
We imitate him,
When by Noon, we are at Height;
They steal Wine, who take it
When he's out of fight.
Boy, fill all the Glasses,
Fill them up now he shines,
The higher he rises,
The more he refines;
For Wine and Wit fall
As their Maker declines.

Song.

[Who their Passions do fondly conceal]

I

Who their Passions do fondly conceal,
They are Fools for their Pains;
'Tis a Confidence gains,
What a modest Intriegue never wins.
Court briskly but once, and you'll presently find,
There's nothing than Woman, than Woman, so kind.

II

Then gently, good Madam, comply,
And seem not to say,
That you rather would stay;
If you do, I shall tell you, you lye;
For you know, had not Eve with her Charms brought him to't,
The old Man had ne'er tasted, ne'er tasted the Fruit.

On Sternhold and Hopkins, and the New Version of David's Psalms.

Ye scoundrel old Bards, and a Brace of dull Knaves,
What a plague makes ye mutter, and talk in your Graves?
Sure ye drank in your Porridge, like a Couple of Sots,
And have mix'd the Spoon-meat with the Belch of the Pots;

Or the Worms had by this Time, if they had any Conscience,
Stopp'd the Tongues of those Fools who made David speak Nonsence.
Ye write, and be damn'd t'ye! Ye traffick in Metre!
Why, a Baudy-house Tonge has a Voice that is sweeter:
A White-Fryar Sinner, or a Saint in Duck-Lane,
A Crowders-Well Sonnet, or a Pye-Corner Strain,
Has Raptures and Flights, full of Judgment, and taking
When compar'd to the things ye call Psalms of your making.
Shame on ye, for Coxcombs, away with this Riot,
And rot on, like the rest, who lie by ye in quiet;
Nor dare to presume to petition and squable,
When there's none takes your Part, but the ignorant Rabble.
As for David, for God's sake, how dare ye to name him?
When your wretched Translations so damnably shame him?
Poor Psalmist! he frets, and he storms, and he stares,
Bemoans his Composures, and renounces his Pray'rs;
Blushes more at the Dress which his Penitence hath on,
Than when told of his Faults by the Prophet old Nathan.
So chang'd are his Lines, and so murder'd each Sentence,
So debauch'd his God's Praise, and so lame his Repentance.
That to know the good King by the Words ye create him,
Is a thing much more hard, than it is to translate him.
Let me tell you, grave Dons, I'll be bold to assure ye,
It is well that this Warrier lies buried in JURY;
Had he laid near the Place, which at present contains,
Of the two sorry Sinners, the stupid Remains,
'Tis a Pound to a Penny, but his Ashes would fly on,
And handle your Skulls like the Bear and the Lion.

But for fear I should dwell on the Subject too long,
And the Dulness I laugh at, be seen in my Song;
Lest the Muse should turn Jade, and, by Sympathy led,
Take part of the Scandal sh' has flung on the Dead;
I'll no more of your Canting, and Whining, and Chiming.
Your Elizaebth Phrase, and your Farthingal-Rhiming,

Brought in Use as a Covert to Nonsence, I'll tell ye,
As that righteous Queen's Dress was to hide a Great Belly.

But tho' the loud Rabble should never deny ye;
Confirm'd in their Purpose, and resolv'd to stand by ye;
Tho' the poor Ones should murmur, and doat on your Sense,
For want of due Thinking, and for want of the Pence;
Tho' the stiff Parish Clerks, with their Bands and their Gowns,
Read the New Psalms with Hums, and with Ha's, and with Frowns,
Cause the Levites, their Masters, by Chance are afraid
Innovation should turn to a Practice and Trade;
And by those Means, the Godly Wise-Acres be driven
From their Desks and their Pulpits, their Sloth and their Haven;
Tho' the Stationers strive all they can to decry 'em,
And Took swears, that thousands of old Ones lie by 'em:
Tho' the late Version fails of the Spirit and Force
Of DAVID's Rejoycings, or DAVID's Remorse;
Yet I'm not such a Coxcomb, 'sted of new Psalms, to learn Old,
Or to quit TATE and BRADY, for Hopkins and Sternhold.

A Translation of Lesbia, Mi dicit semper male. Out of Catullus.

I

Each Moment of the long-liv'd Day
Lesbia for me does backwards pray,
And rails at me sincerely;
Yet I dare pawn my Life, my Eyes,
My Soul, and all that Mortals prize,
That Lesbia loves me dearly.

II

Why shou'd you thus conclude, you'll say,
Faith 'tis my own beloved Way,

And thus I hourly prove her;
Yet let me all those Curses share
That Heav'n can give, or Man can bear,
If I don't strangely love her.

A Song in Ridicule of a famous Musician, who was caught serenading his Mistress with his Base-Viol, in a very frosty Night.

Look down, fair Garretteer, bestow
One Glance upon your Swain,
Who stands below, in Frost and Snow,
And shaking, sings in Pain.
Thaw, with your Eyes, the frozen Street,
Or cool my hot Desire;
I burn within, altho' my Feet
Are numb'd for want of Fire.

Chorus, the Viol leading.

Thrum, thrum, thrum, thrum,
Come, come, come, come,
My dearest be not coy;
For if you are, (Zit, zan, zounds) I
Must without your Favours die.

Behold me from your lofty Tow'r,
And, to your Lover, shew
Your Charms; and when it's in my Pow'r,
I'll be as kind to you.
Hither I came, with joyful Speed,
And fear'd no freezing Wind;
But as the Saint at Troas did,
Have left my Cloak behind.

Chorus.

Thrum, &c.

My Dear, would you but open wide
The Casement with your Hand,
My Fiddle, and my self beside,
Should be at your Command.

Could I behold you in your Smock,
Tho' dark, the lusheous View
Would then embolden me to knock,
And ask you how you do.

Chorus.

Thrum, &c.

Or would you open but the Door,
As I have done my Case,
I've sweeter Instruments in Store,
To play a thorough Base.
But since you're coy, I know not what
To farther sing or say,
My Love, 'tis true, is very hot,
Yet I'm too cold to stay.

Chorus at going off.

Thrum, thrum, thrum, thrum,
Home, home, home, home,
I hate a Whore that's coy;
But since you are, (Zit, zan, zounds) I
Must without your Favours die.

The Good Fellow.

I

While the pious grave Sot does amuse half the Nation
With impertinent Scruples, and Zeal out of Fashion;
While Harangues that at Church made us piously sleep,
'Mongst Priest-ridden Cullies, such a Pother do keep;
We'll with trusty Champain our Devotion refine,
And shew a good Conscience by drinking our Wine.

II

Let the motly dull Herd for Religion engage;
Let 'em urge the Dispute with vile Clamour and Rage;
Let your Authors keep on the dull Method of Writing,
And pursue the curs'd Toil they take so much Delight in.
We ne'er make Replies, but rest fully contented,
Tho' good Fellows and Drink, have been misrepresented.

III

May their musty stiff Volumes to Grub-street adjourn,
Or rot in Duck-Lane, or in Coffee-house burn;
May they furnish no more empty Cits with Debate,
Or touch the Intrigues and Arcana's of Seate.
Wine does edify more, than dull Canting of Vicar;
'Tis our Freedom we owe to that orthodox Liquor.

IV

I ne'er pall my Fancy, or trouble my Brain
With the Chances and Fate that our Stars will ordain;
Let the Monarch of France keep his Subjects at Home,
And forbid the mad Zealots abroad for to roam,
So he lets his boon Claret but cross the kind Main,
We shall never be angry, we shall never complain.

V

Ne'er tell me of those, that with factious Notion
Infect the wild Rabble, and poison Devotion;
That Mortal is guilty of a far greater Sin,
That presumes, with vile Stum, to debauch honest Wine.
Such impious Wretches, may Poverty seize on,
'Tis against our Liege Bacchus the highest of Treason.

Commendatory Verses on the Author of the two Arthurs, and the Satyr against Wit. By several Hands, and collected by Mr. Brown.

A short and true History of the Author of the Satyr against Wit.

By Col. Codrington.

By Nature meant, by Want a Pedant made,
Bl---re at first profess'd the Whipping-trade;
Grown fond of Buttocks, he would lash no more,
But kindly cur'd the A---he gall'd before.
So Quack commenc'd; then fierce with Pride, he swore,
That Tooth-ach, Gripes, and Corns should be no more.

In vain his Drugs, as well as Birch, he try'd,
His Boys grew Blockheads, and his Patients dy'd.
Next, he turn'd Bard, and mounted on a Cart,
Whose hideous Rumbling made Apollo start;
Burlesqu'd the bravest, wisest Son of Mars,
In Ballad-Rhimes, and all the Pomp of Farce.
Still he chang'd Callings, and at length has hit
On Bus'ness for his matchless Talent fit,
To give us Drenches for the Plague of Wit.

Upon the Author of the Satyr against Wit.

By Sir Charles Sidley.

A grave Physician us'd to write for Fees,
And spoil no Paper, but with Recipes,
Is now turn'd Poet, rails against all Wit,
Except that little found among the Great?
As if he thought true Wit and Sense were ty'd
To Men in Place, like Avarice or Pride.
But in their Praise so like a Quack he talks,
You'd swear he wanted for his Christmas-box.
With Mangl'd Names, old Stories he pollutes,
And to the present Time, past Actions suits.
Amaz'd we find, in ev'ry Page he writes,
Members of Parliament, with Arthur's Knights.
It is a common Pastime to write ill;
And Doctor, with the rest, e'en take thy fill.
Thy Satyr's harmless; 'tis thy Prose that kills,
When thou prescrib'st thy Potions, and thy Pills.

To that incomparable Panegyrist, the Author of the Satyr upon Wit.

By Coll. Bl---.

Henceforth no more in thy Poetick Rage,
Burlesque the God-like Heroes of the Age;
No more King Arthurs be with Labour writ,
But follow Nature, and still rail at Wit,
For this thy mighty Genius was design'd;
In this thy Cares a due Success may find.
Opinions we more easily receive
From Guides, that practise by those Rules they give.
So Dullness thou may'st write into Esteem;
Thy great Example, as it is thy Theme.
Hope not to join (like G***rth's immortal Lays)
The keenest Satyr with the best of Praise.
Thy Satyrs bite not, but like Æsop's Ass,
Thou kick'st the Darling whom thou would'st caress.
Would'st thou our Youth from Poetry afright,
'Tis wisely done, thy self in Verse to write.
So drunken Slaves the Spartans did design
Should fright their Children from the Love of Wine,
Go on, and rail as thou hast done before.
Thus Lovers use, when picqu'd in an Amour;
The Nymph they can't enjoy, they call a Whore.

The Quack corrected; or, Advice to the Knight of the Ill favour'd Muse.

By the Right Honourable the Earl of ---

Let Bl****re still, in good King Arthur's Vein,
To Fleckno's Empire his just Right maintain.

Let him his own to common Sense oppose,
With Praise and Slander, maul both Friends and Foes;
Let him great Dr---d---n's awful Name prophane,
And learned G---rth with envious Pride disdain;
Codron's bright Genious with vile Puns lampoon,
And run a Muck at all the Wits in Town;
Let the Quack scribble any Thing but Bills,
His Satyr wounds not, but his Physick kills.

To the merry Poet after at Sadler's-Hall in Cheapside.

By Dr. ---

Unweildy Pedant, let thy awkward Muse
With Censures praise, with Flatteries abuse.
To lash, and not be felt, in thee's an Art;
Thou ne'er mad'st any, but thy School-boys smart.
Then be advis'd, and scribble not agen;
Thou'rt fashion'd for a Flail, and not a Pen.
If B---l's immortal Wit thou would'st decry,
Pretend 'tis he that writ thy Poetry.
Thy feeble Satyr ne'er can do him Wrong,
Thy Poems and thy Patients live not long.

An equal Match; or, a drawn Battle.

By Col. Codrington.

A monument of Dullness to erect,
B---y should write, and Bl---re correct,
Like which, no other Piece can e'er be wrought,
For Decency of Stile, and Life of Thought;
But that where B---y shall in Judgment sit,
To pare Excrescencies from Bl---re's Wit.

To the Mirrour of British Knighthood, the worthy Author of the Satyr against Wit: Occasion'd by the Hemistick, Pag. 8.

By Richard Steel, Esq;

—Heav'ns guard poor A***n.

Must I then passive stand? and can I hear
The Man I love, abus'd, and yet forbear?
Yet much I thank thy Favour to my Friend,
'Twas some Remorse thou did'st not him commend.
Thou do'st not all my Indignation raise;
For I prefer thy Pity, to thy Praise.
In vain thou would'st thy Name, dull Pedant hide;
There's not a Line but smells of thy Cheapside.
If Cæsar's Bounty for your Trash you've shar'd,
You are not the first Assassine he has spar'd.
His Mercy, not his Justice, made thee Knight,
Which P*rt*r may demand with equal Right.

Well may'st thou think an useless Talent Wit;
Thou, who without it, ha'st three Poems writ:
Impenitrably dull, secure thou'rt found,
And can'st receive no more, than give a Wound:
Then scorn'd by all, to some dark Corner fly,
And in Lethargick Trance, expiring lie,
'Till thou from injur'd G**rth thy Cure receive,
And S**d only Absolution give.

To the Cheapside Kt. on his Satyr against Wit.

By Mr. William Burnaby.

Some scribling Fops so little value Fame,
They sometimes hit, because they never aim.

But thou for erring, ha'st a certain Rule,
And, aiming, art inviolably dull.
Thy muddy Stream, no lucid Drop supplies,
But Puns like Bubbles on the Surface rise,
All that for Wit you could, you've kindly done;
You cannot write, but can be writ upon.
And a like Fate does either side befit,
Immortal Dulness, or immortal Wit.
In just Extreams an equal Merit lies,
And B---le and G***rth with thee must share the Prize,
Since thou can'st sink, as much as they can rise.

To the indefatigable Rhimer.

By Dr. Smith.

O! S***rs, T***t, D***ett, M***gue,
G***y, S***ld, C***sh, P***ke, V***n, you,
Who suffer Bl***re to insult your Taste,
And tamely hear him bluster in Bombast,
Bid him, before he dare to write agen,
Resign his own, and take some other Pen.
D***n shall Numbers, C***ve Wit inspire,
Dr***ke nicest Rules, but B***le and Codron Fire.
Then G***rth shall teach him, and his witless Tribe,
First to write Sense, and after to prescribe.
The unlearn'd Pedant thus may please the Town,
But his own nauseous Trash will ne'er go down;
For naught can equal what the Bard has writ,
But R***ff's Scholarship, and G***n's Wit.

A modest Request to the Poetical Knight.

By Col. Codrington.

Since B***y's Nonsense to out-do, you strive,
Vain to be thought the dullest Wretch alive,
And such in imitable Strains have writ,
That the most famous Blockheads must submit;
Long may you Reign, and long unenvy'd live,
And none invade your great Prerogative.
But in Return, your Poetry give o'er,
And persecute poor Job, and us no more.

Wholesome Advice to a City Knight, over-run with Rhimes and Hypocrisie: Occasion'd by his Satyr against Wit.

By the Right Honourable the Earl of Anglisea.

We bid thee not give o'er the Killing-Trade:
Whilst Fees come in, 'tis fruitless to disswade.
Religion is a Trick you've practis'd long,
To bring in Pence, and gull the gaping Throng.
But all thy Patients now perceive thy Aim,
They find thy Morals and thy skill the same.
Then, if thou would'st thy Ignorance redress,
Prithee mind Physick more, and Rhiming less.

To a thrice illustrious Quack, Pedant, and Bard, on his incomparable Poem, call'd, A Satyr against Wit.

By the Right Hon. the Countess of Sandwich.

Thou Fund of Nonsense, was it not enough,
That Cits and pious Ladies lik'd thy Stuff,
That as thou copy'dst Virgil, all might see,
Judicious Bell-men imitated thee:
That to thy Cadence, Sextons set their Chimes,
And Nurses, skimming Possets hum'd thy Rhimes.
But thou must needs fall foul on Men of Sense,
With Dulness equal to thy Impudence.
Are D**n, C*dr**n, G**th, V**k, B*le,
Those Names of Wonder, that adorn our Isle,
Fit Subjects for thy vile pedantick Pen?
Hence sawcy Usher, to thy Desk again.
Construe Dutch Notes, and pore upon Boys A---es,
But, prithee write no more heroick Farces.
Teach blooming Blockheads by thy own try'd Rules,
To give us Demonstration that they're Fools.
Let 'em by N---'s Sermon-Stile refine
Their English Prose, their Poetry by thine.
Let W*sl**y's Rhimes their Emulation raise,
And Ar**wk**r, instruct 'em how to praise.
That, when all Ages in this Truth agree,
They're finish'd Dunces, they may rival thee;
Thou only Strain to mighty William's Sword!
Old Jemmy never knighted such a T---d.
For the most nauseous Mixture God can make,
Is a dull Pedant, and a busie Quack.

To Sir R Blre, on the two Arthurs being condemn'd to be hang'd.

Once more take Pen in Hand, obsequious Knight,
For here's a Theme thou can'st not underwrite,
Unless the Devil owes thy Muse a Spite.
To Prince and King thy Dullness Life did give;
Let then these Arthurs too in Dogg'rel live.

A Tale.

By Col. Codrington.

Poems and Prose of diff'rent Force lay Claim,
With the same Confidence to Tully's Name;
And shallow Criticks were content to say,
Prose was his Bus'ness, Poetry his Play.
Thus Cæsar thought, thus Brutus and the rest.
Who knew the Man, and knew his Talent best.

Maurus arose, sworn Foe to Health and Wit,
Who Folio Bills and Folio Ballads writ;
Who bustl'd much for Bread, and for Renown,
By Lies and Poison scatter'd through the Town.
To Roman Wives with Veneration known,
For Roman Wives were very like our own.
And Husbands then we find in Latin Song,
Would love too little, and would live too long.
Tully, says he, 'tis plain to Friends and Foes,
Writes his own Verse, but borrows all his Prose,
He fearless was, because he was not brave;
A noble Roman would not beat a Slave.
The Counsel smiling, said, Judicious Friend,
Thy shining Genious shall thy Works defend,
Inimitable Strokes defend thy Fame;
Thy Beauties and thy Force are still the same:

And I must yield, with the consenting Town,
Thy Ballads and thy Bills are all thy own.

Upon the Character of Codron, as 'tis drawn by the bungling Knight, in his Satyr against Wit.

By Col. Codrington.

How kind is Malice manag'd by a Sot,
Where no Design directs the Embryo Thought,
And Praise and Satyr stumble out by Lot.
The mortal Thrust to Codron's Heart design'd,
Proves a soft wanton Touch to charm his Mind.
Can M***nt***gue or D**rs***t higher soar?
Or can immortal Sh***ff***ld wish for more?
Brightness, Force, Justness, Delicacy, Ease,
Must form that Wit, that can the Ladies please.
No false affected Rules debauch their Taste,
No fruitless Toils their gen'rous Spirits waste,
Which wear a Wit into a Dunce at last.
No lumber Learning gives an awkward Pride,
False Maxims cramp not, nor false Lights misguide.
Voiture and W***lsh their easie Hours employ,
Voiture and W***lsh, oft read will never cloy.
With Care they guard the Musick of their Stile,
They fly from B***ly, and converse with B***le:
They steal no Terms, no Notions from the Schools,
The Pedant's Pleasure, and the Pride of Fools;
With native Charms their matchless Thoughts surprize,
Soft as their Souls, and beauteous as their Eyes:
Gay as the Light, and unconfin'd as Air,
Chast and sublime, all worthy of the Fair.
How then can a rough artless Indian Wit
The faultless Palates of the Ladies fit?
Codron will never stand so nice a Test,
Nor is't with Praise, fair Mouths oblige him best.

Let others make a vain Parade of Parts,
Whilst Codron aims not at Applause, but Hearts.
Secure him those, and thou shalt name the rest,
Thy Spite shall chuse the worst, thy Taste the best.
He will his Health to Mirmil's Care resign,
He will with Buxtorf and with B---ly shine,
And be a Wit in any Way but thine,

An Epigram on Job, travested by the City Bard.

By Col. Codrington.

Poor Job lost all the Comforts of his Life,
And hardly sav'd a Potsherd, and a Wife:
Yet Job blest God, and Job again was blest,
His Virtue was essay'd, and bore the Test.
But had Heav'ns Wrath pour'd out its fiercest Vial,
Had he been then burlesqu'd, without Denial,
The patient Man had yielded to that Tryal.
His pious Spouse, with Bl---re on her Side,
Must have prevail'd, and Job had curs'd, and dy'd.

To the Adventurous Knight of Cheapside, upon his Satyr against Wit.

By Mr. Manning.

What Frenzy has possess'd thy desp'rate Brain,
To rail at Wit in this unhallow'd Strain?
Reproach of thy own kind! to slander Sense,
The nobl'st Gift bestow'd by Providence!
Was it Revenge provok'd thee thus to write,
Because thou'rt curs'd to such a dearth of Wit?
Or was it eager Passion for a Name,
To be inroll'd among the Fools of Fame?

Like him, who rather than he'd live obscure,
Would fire a Church to make his Name secure?
Or was it thy Despair at length to find
Thy loads of Chaff the Sport of ev'ry Wind?
To see thy hasty Muse, that loves to roam,
Promise such Journeys, but come founder'd Home?
Just fate of Sots, who think in their vain Breast,
Their Coffee-Rhimes shall stand the publick Test:
Seiz'd with prolifick Dulness, 'tis thy Curse
To write still on, and still too for the worse.
Who hates not Wes***y, may thy Works esteem,
Both alike able to disgrace their Theme.
But thou, through wild Conceit, aspiring still,
Claim'st, in thy ravings, Esculapian-skill.
Quack, thou art sure in both, and curs'd is he,
Who guided by his adverse Stars to thee,
Employs thy deadly Potions to reclaim
His feeble Health, thy Pen to spread his Fame.

To the canting Author of the Satyr against Wit.

By --- Mildmay, Esq;

The Preacher Maurus cries, All Wit is vain,
Unless 'tis like his Godliness, for Gain.
Of most vain Things he may the Folly own;
But Wit's a Vanity he has not known.

Friendly Advice to Dr. Bl---

By the Right Honourable the Lord ---

Knighthood to Heroes only once was due,
Now's the Reward of stupid praise in you.

Why should a Quack be dubb'd, unless it be
That Pois'ning is an Act of Chivalry?
Thus we must own, you have your Thousands slain
With direful strokes of your resistless Pen.
By whipping the Boys, your Cruelty began,
And grew, by bolder Steps, to killing Man.
Just the reverse of Dionysius Fate,
Who fell to flogging Bums, from murdering the State.
For both these Trades your Genius far unfit,
At length with sawcy Pride aspires to Wit.
Which by pretending to, you more disgrace,
Than toasting Beaus, our ancient British Race.
I'th' Mountebank the Ass had lain conceal'd,
But his loud braying has the Brute reveal'd.
Such vile Heroicks, such unhallow'd Strains,
Were never spawn'd before from Irish Brains;
Nor drowsy Mum, nor dozing Usquebaugh,
Could e'er suggest such Lines to Sir John Daw,
You weakly skirmish with the Sins o'th' Age,
And are the errant Scavenger o'th' Stage.
Why Vertue makes no progress now is plain,
Because such Knights as you its Cause maintain.
If you'd a Friend to Sense and Virtue be,
And to Mankind, for once be rul'd by me,
Leave Moralizing, Drugs and Poetry.

To Dr. Garth, on the fourth Edition of his Incomparable Poem, The Dispensary; occasion'd by some Lines in the Satyr against Wit.

By Dr. James Drake.

Bold thy Attempts, in these hard Times, to raise
In our unfriendly Clime, the tender Bays,
While Northern Blasts drive from the neighb'ring Flood,
And nip the springing Lawrel in the Bud.

On such bleak Paths our present Poets tread,
The very Garland withers on each Head.
In vain the Criticks strive to purge the Soil,
Fertile in Weeds, it mocks their busie Toil.
Spontaneous Crops of Jobs and Arthurs rise,
Whose tow'ring Nonsense braves the very Skies.
Like Paper-kites, the empty Volumes fly,
And by mere force of Wind are rais'd on high.

While we did these with stupid Patience spare,
And from Apollo's Plants withdrew our Care,
The Muses Garden did small Product yield,
But Hemp and Hemlock over-ran the Field;
'Till skilful Garth, with salutary Hand,
Taught us to weed, and cure poetick Land;
Grubb'd up the Brakes and Thistles which he found,
And sow'd with Verse and Wit the sacred Ground.
But now the Riches of that Soil appear,
Which four fair Harvests yields in half a Year.

No more let Criticks of the want complain
Of Mantuan Verse, or the Mæonian Strain;
Above them Garth does on their Shoulders rise,
And, what our Language wants, his Wit supplies,
Fam'd Poets after him shall strain their Throats,
And unfledg'd Muses chirp their infant Notes.

Yes, Garth, thy Enemies confess thy Store,
They burst with Envy, yet they long for more:
Ev'n we, thy Friends, in doubt thy Kindness call,
To see thy Stock so large, and Gift so small.
But Jewels in small Cabinets are laid,
And richest Wines in litle Casks convey'd.

Let lumpish Bl---re his dull Hackney freight,
And break his Back with heavy Folio's Weight;
His Pegasus is of the Flanders Breed,
And limb'd for Draught or Burthen, not for Speed.
With Cart horse trot, he sweats beneath the Pack
Of rhiming Prose and Knighthood on his Back.
Made for a Drudge, e'en let him beat the Road,
And tug of senseless Reams th'Heroick load;
'Till o'er-strain'd, the Jade is set, and tires,
And sinking in the Mud, with Groans expires.

Then Bl---re shall this Favour owe to thee,
That thou perpetuat'st his Memory.
Bavius and Mævius so their Works survive,
And in one single Line of Virgil's live.

To a Famous Doctor and Poet at Sadlers-hall.

If Wit (as we are told) be a Disease,
And if Physicians cure by Contraries;
Bl---re alone the healing Secret knows,
'Tis from his Pen the grand Elixir flows.

To the Cheapside Quack; occasion'd by this Verse in the Satyr against Wit.

‘Who with more ease can cure, than *C**ch* kill.

By a Gentleman whom Dr. C***lb***ch had cur'd of the Gout.

How durst thy railing Muse, vain Wretch, pretend
In base Lampoons thus to abuse my Friend!
Whose sacred Art has freed me from my Pains,
And broke a haughty Tyrant's stubborn Chains?
Keep off, for if thou com'st within my Clutches,
I'll baste thy Knighthood with my quondam Crutches,
The gen'rous Wine that does my Sorrows drown,
The charming Cælia that my Nights does crown,
The manly pleasures of the sporting Fields,
The gay delights the pompous Drama yields;
All this, and more, to his great Skill I owe,
Such Blessings can thy boasted Helps bestow?
The Snuff of Life, perhaps thy feeble Art
May fondly lengthen to thy Patients smart;

But Health no more 'tis in thy Pow'r to give,
Than thy dull Muse can make her Heroes live.

Ev'n War and Plague of killing to arraign
In thee, is most nonsensical and vain:
Thee, who a branded Killer art declar'd
In both Capacities of Quack and Bard.
Whatever Sots to thy Prescriptions fly,
For their vain Confidence, are sure to die;
And whate'er Argument thy Muse employs,
Her awkward, stupid Management destroys.
Death with sure Steps thy Doses still attends,
And Death too follows, whom thy Muse commends,
What can escape thy all-destroying Quill
When ev'n thy Cordials, and thy Praises kill?
Thy Mother, sure, when in Despair and Pain
She brought thee forth, thought of the Murd'rer Cain.

To that most incomparable Bard and Quack, the Author of the Satyr against Wit.

By Tho. Cheek, Esq;

I charge thee, Knight, in Great Apollo's Name,
If thou'rt not dead to all Reproof and Shame,
Either thy Rhimes or Clysters to disclaim.
Both are too much, one feeble Brain to rack,
Besides, the Bard will soon undo the Quack.
Such Shoals of Readers thy damn'd Fustian kills,
Thou'lt scarce leave one alive to take thy Pills.

A merry Ballad on the City Bard.

By the Honourable Richard Norton, Esq;

[_]

To a new Play-house Tune,

In London City, near Cheap-side,
A wond'rous Bard does dwell
Whose Epicks (if they're not bely'd)
Do Virgil's far excel.

A sprightly Wit and Person join'd
Both Poet and Physician;
Artist as famous in his Kind,
For ought I know, as Titian.
In Coffee-houses purest Air,
His soggy Lines he writes,
In Fields of Dust and Spittle there
This British' Hero fights.
By sudden Motion then o'erta'en,
The Privy-house he chuses;
Great are his Thoughts, and great his Pain,
And yet no Time he loses.
Grip'd in his Guts and Muse, he there indites,
And praises Arthur most, when most he sh---

*On the Treatment of the Modern Drama. By Mr. Kn*** of Magd. Coll.*

Once Bear and Champion did engage
In mortal fray on Roman Stage:
Our Moderns have reviv'd the matter,
The former Age renew'd in latter,
And made Bear-garden of Theatre.
Here Beau, the only Modish Brute,
With honest Authors does dispute:
And as on Roman Stage predicted,
Fell Wound on Champion was inflicted,
When stout Bruino kept his Station,
Invoking Brother Constellation
To assist him in the Disputation:
To curry poor Heroic Hide well,
And harrow Carcass, Back and Side well;
But tho' he got a bloody Rump on't,
His Honour still came off Triumphant.
So tho' the Pit Grimalkins, that maul
With wicked Serenade of Catcall,
Oft rout a poor Dramatic Hero,
(As Teague was once by lero, lero.)
A well-writ Play, like Russians treat,
Confound the Scene, and Blot defeat,
In spite of all the Dammee Chorus,
Th'immortal Wit is still victorious.

I then in person of an Author,
Since good Dramatics have no growth here,
Like pious Felons doom'd to be
Made Pendulum for Gallow-tree;
That gives advice, lest sinful Mortal,
Like him his days in Hemp should curtail,
Advise you all to leave off Writing,
The mortal Sin of well enditing,
But if no Counsel can be used
By riming Wretch when once be-mused,

(For Crown and Bum there's such a curse in,
They're ne'er at ease, but when untrussing)
Since wholsom Salt of Author season'd,
To taste of Nation is unpleasant,
(When busie Noddle's next in labour,
And has a need to purge on Paper)
Invoke the bastard Race of Phæbus,
Skill'd in Acrostic, Pun, and Rebus,
With spirit of late Marriage-hater,
T'assist to make Lampoon on Nature,
And ev'n on Farce it self a Satyr;
For that alone gives titillation,
And saves poor Poet from damnation.

On Dr. Lower, who was observed to be grown good-natur'd a little before his Death. By another hand.

Had not good humour o'er the ill prevail'd,
Death in attempting Dr. Lower had fail'd;
For he, alas, good Man, in Health declin'd,
By changing the bad Manners of his Mind:
And's very Understanding got a Cough,
By leaving an old Habit too soon off.
For had he kept his Humour most austere,
He might have yet liv'd with us many a Year,
Preserv'd in his own Pickle, Vinegar:
But when the Alkali had kill'd the sow'r,
His Blood being sweeten'd, off troopt Dr. Lower.

To his Cruel Mistress. Out of French.

I

'Tis then decreed, and now I find
I'm for a Sacrifice design'd;
Since my imperious Fair denies
Rest to my Soul, and slumber to my Eyes.

II

Go take a Kiss, Love whispers in my Ear;
But love, alas! gives way to fear.
Awful Respect the aspiring Flame commands.
Tyes up my Tongue, and binds my Hands.

III

Ah! must your bleeding Lover die,
And see his balm, and see his cure so nigh?
Or fierce, and eager of the Bliss,
Shall he presume to seize a balmy Kiss.

IV

No—he'll ten thousand Deaths endure,
And all the rigours of his Fate attend,
E're he'll by Sacriledge attempt his Cure,
And his dear Bellamette offend.

An Ode upon a Kiss. Out of French.

I

Nay, now ambitious Thoughts farewel,
I pity Kings in all their state,
While thus in Lesbia's Arms I dwell,
And mighty Love does on my Triumphs wait.

II

Thus let me languishing expire,
Incircled in her snowy Arms,
Till she revives me with her Charms,
And pours into my Breast a nobler Fire.

III

Thus let me sigh my Soul away,
And Revel in immortal Bliss,
Thus let me spend th'auspicious Day,
And crown each smiling Moment with a Kiss.

IV

Adonis ne'er was half so blest,
Nor half the pleasure shar'd, as I:
Tho' Love's bright Goddess him carest,
And in her Arms hugg'd the delicious Boy.

V

Nor Jove himself such transports knew,
When Danae's charms the captive God did hold,
Tho' he, the pleasure to pursue,
Mortgag'd his poor Almightyship to Gold.

VI

A thousand Loves in solemn state
On those two rosie Lips reside,
While busie I, with eager pride,
Sip all their Sweets, and bless my happy Fate.

VII

Now on her glowing Breasts I range,
Now kiss her Cheeks, and now her Eyes;
The Pleasure's heighten'd by the change,
And fills me with unruly Joys.

VIII

But ah! my Beauteous Nymph beware
How you encrease my store,
For else your pamper'd Slave may dare,
Drunk as he is with Joy, to press for something more,

IX

For say, fond Lovers, what you will
To deifie a Kiss,
'Tis but a Pledge, or Prologue still,
To the succeeding Acts of Bliss.

A Translation.

Principio, Cœlum, & Terras, Titaniaq; astra Spiritus intus alit, totumq; infusa per artus Mens agitat molem—

I'll sing how God, the World's almighty Mind,
Thro' all infus'd, and to that All confin'd;
Directs the Parts, and with an equal Hand
Supports the whole, enjoying his command:
How all agree, and how the parts have made
Strict Leagues, subsisting by each others aid.
How all by Reason move, because one Soul
Lives in the parts, diffusing thro' the whole.

For did not all the friendly parts conspire
To make one whole, and keep the Frame entire;
And did not Reason guide, and Sense controul
The vast stupendious Machine of the whole;
Earth wou'd not keep its place, the Skies wou'd fall,
And universal stiffness deaden all.
Stars wou'd not whirl their round, nor Day nor Night
Their course perform, but stop their usual Flight.
Rains wou'd not feed the Fields, and Earth deny
Mists to the Clouds, and Vapours to the Sky.
Seas wou'd not fill the Springs, nor Springs return
Their grateful Tribute from their flowing Urn.
Nor wou'd the All, unless contriv'd by Art,
So justly be proportion'd in each part;
That neither Seas, nor Skies, nor Stars exceed
Our Wants, nor are too scanty for our need.
Thus stands the Frame, and the Almighty Soul,
Thro' all diffus'd, so turns, and guides the whole,
That nothing from its settled station swerves,
And Motion alters not the Frame, but still preserves.

This God, or Reason, which the Orbs does move,
Makes Things below depend on Signs above:
Tho' far remov'd, tho' hid in Shades of Night,
And scarce to be descry'd by their own Light.

Yet Nations own, and Men their influence feel,
They rule the publick, and the private will;
The Proofs are plain. Thus from a different Star
We find a fruitful, or a barren Year;
Now Grains increase, and now refuse to grow,
Now quickly ripen, now their Growth is slow.
The Moon commands the Seas; she drives the Main
To pass the Shores, then drives it back again.
And this Sedition chiefly swells the streams,
When opposite she views her Brother's Beams:
Or when she near in close Conjunction rides,
She rears the Floods, and swells the flowing Tides;
Or when attending on the yearly Race,
The Equinoctial sees her borrow'd Face.

Her Power sinks deep, it searches all the Main,
Testaceous fish, as she her Light regains,
Increase, and still diminish in her Wane.
For as the Moon in deepest darkness mourns,
Then Rays receive, and points her borrow'd Horns,
Then turns her Face, and with a Smile invites
The full Effusions of her Brother's Lights,
They to her Changes due Proportions keep,
And show her various Phases in the Deep.

So Brutes, whom Nature did in sport create,
Ignorant of themselves, and of their Fate,
A secret Instinct still erects their Eyes
To Parent Heav'n, and seems to make them wise.
One at the New Moon's rise to distant Shores
Retires, his Body sprinkles, and adores.
Some see Storms gathering, or Serenes foretel,
And scarce our Reason guides us half so well.

Then who can doubt that Man, the glorious Pride
Of all, is nearer to the Stars ally'd?
Nature in Man's capacious Soul has wrought,
And given them Voice expressive of their Thought
In Man the God descends, and joys to find
The narrow Image of his greater Mind.
But why should all the other Arts be shown?
Too various for Productions of our own.

Why shou'd I sing how different Tempers fall,
And inequality is seen in all?
How many strive with equal Care to gain
The highest prize, and yet how few obtain?
Which proves not Mattar sways, but Wisdom rules
And measures out the bigness of our Souls.
Sure Fate stands fixt, nor can its Laws decay,
'Tis Heavn's to rule and Matter's Essence to obey.

Who cou'd know Heaven, unless that Heav'n bestow'd
The Knowledge? or find God, but part of God?
How cou'd the Space Immence be e'er confin'd
Within the Compass of a narrow mind?
How cou'd the Skies, the Dances of the Stars,
Their Motions adverse, and eternal Wars.
Unless kind Nature in our Breasts had wrought
Proportion'd Souls, be subject to our Thought?
Were Heaven not aiding to advance our Mind,
To know Fate's Laws, and teach the Way to find;
Did not the Skies their kindred Souls Improve,
Direct, and lead them thro' the Maze above,
Discover Nature, shew its secret Springs,
And tell the sacred intercourse of Things.
How impious were our Search, how bold our Course,
Thus to assault, and take the Skies by Force.

A most convincing Reason's drawn from Sense,
That this vast Frame is mov'd by Providence,
Which like the Soul does every whirl advance,
It must be God, nor was it made by chance,
As Epicurus dreamt: He madly thought
This beauteous Frame of heedless Atoms wrought.
The Seas and Earth, the Stars and spacious Air,
Which forms new Worlds, or does the old repair,
First rose from these, and still supply'd remain,
And all must be when Chance shall break the Chain
Dissolv'd to these wild Principles again.
Absurd and Nonsense! Atheist use thine Eyes,
And having view'd the order of the Skies,
Think, if thou canst, that Matter blindly hurl'd,
Without a Guide, shou'd frame this wound'rous World.

But did Chance make, and Chance still rule the whole,
Why do the Signs in constant order rowl?
Observe set times to shut and open Day?
Nor meet, nor justle, and mistake their way?
Perform their Course, as if by Laws confin'd,
None hasten on, and leave the rest behind.
Why every day does the discovering Flame
Show the same World, and leave it still the same?
And ev'en at Night, when Time in secret flies,
And veils himself in Shades from human Eyes,
Can by the Signs Men know how fast he fled,
And in the Skies the hasty Minutes read?
Why shou'd I count how oft the Earth has mourn'd
The Sun's retreat, and smil'd when he return'd?
How oft he does his various course divide
'Twixt Winter's Nakedness, and Summer's Pride?
All mortal Things must change. The fruitful Plain,
As Seasons turn, scarce knows her self again;
Such various Forms she bears: Large Empires too
Put off the former Face, and take a new:
Yet safe the World, and free from change does last,
No Years encrease it, and no Years can waste.
Its course it urges on, and keeps its Frame,
And still will be, because 'twas still the same.
It stands secure from time's devouring Rage,
For 'tis a God that guides, nor can it change with Age.

On the Death of Dr. Kirleus.

Ye Ghosts of Trigg, old Saffold, and Ponteus,
Arise! Arise! to meet the Great KIRLEUS:
And ye kind Damsels of this sinful Town,
Us'd to dispense Love's Joys for Half a Crown,
Lament, for now your Trusty Friend is gone.
Ye Holborn Bullies strow his Herse with Roses,
For to his Heav'nly Skill you owe your Noses,
Weep, Cupid weep, nor thy just Sorrow smother,
For, Child thou'dst better far have lost thy Mother.

100

With Rev'rend Kirle Love's Power will fall away,
His Empire lessen, and his Strength decay.

Thy Pills, Old Bard, in spite of State and Kirk,
Ev'n on the Sabbath-day it self wou'd Work:
And Sinners brought, (so Righteous was thy Sentence)
To Pensive Stool of Sorrowful Repentance.
Since Death on thee has laid her Fingers Icy,
Ipse te Pinus, ipse flevere Myricæ.
And Sympathetick Fits in mournal state,
With Tears of Turpentine bewail'd thy Fate.
Thou never did'st reject poor daggled Miss,
Altho' she Sued in forma Pauperis.
Grave Shop-keepers were set up by thy Aid,
And many a Sound Divine by thee was made.

In Term, and out of Term, Kirle serv'd the Nation,
And knew no Intervals of dull Vacation.
Say what you will, this matter of true Fact is,
That few exceeded him in Chamber-practise.
Lawyers in Crowds to his fam'd Mansion prest,
In hopes to have their Cause by him redrest:
For none knew better how to make an end on't,
'Twixt Plantiff Counseller, and Clap Defendant.
Tho' the Disease prov'd ne'er so stiff and cross,
He soon cou'd check it with a Noli Pross.
Young Clerks, when stray'd from Noverint Universi,
By him were Cur'd; and was not that a Mercy?
He was Loves Shre've, and prove Infection,
Chas'd Ulcers by a Potion of Ejection,
And as for th'oldest Ills, knew how to scare 'em,
By marching with a Posse Pillularum.

Methinks I still behold Majestick Kirle,
With Solemn Air his Belgick Whiskers twirle,
Wrapt in Blue Rug methinks I hear him Talk,
And prole for Customers in Grays-Inn-Walk.
But why fond hopes shou'd I thus feed in vain?
He's gone, alas! and ne'er will come again.
Since then he has left us for a better place,
Remember, Gentlemen, your Friend John Case.

101

An Epitaph on Dr. Kirleus of Grays-Inn-Lane, occasion'd by his Friends reporting him only gone into the Country.

The famous Kirleus, Collegiate Physician,
As cheap a Practitioner as you cou'd wish one,
Who only with Diet-Drink, and a few Pills,
Cur'd Gout, Stone, and Pox, and a Thousand more Ills;
Is gone to the Country Infernal with Physick,
To cure Rhadamanthus, they say of the Tissick.
Let not Nendick then brag,
Of his Tetrachymag,
Nor himself Tillburg prize on,
Drinking Bumpers of Poyson.
So useful a Doctor our Youngsters will miss,
He hinder'd no Business, till Death hinder'd his.
A Journey thus tedious all Sporters may mourn,
For 'tis Forty to One that he'll never return.

The Fable of the Satyr, and the Traveller.

I

To his poor Cell, a Satyr led
A Traveller, with Cold half dead,
And with great Kindness treated:
A Fire Nose-high he made him strait,
Show'd him his Elbow-Chair of State
And near the Chimney seated.

II

His tingling Hands the Stranger blows,
At which the Satyr wond'ring rose,
And bluntly ask'd the Reason.

102

Sir, quoth the Man, I mean no harm,
I only do't my Hands to Warm,
In this cold Frosty Season.

III

The Satyr gave him from the Pot,
A Mess of Porridge piping hot;
The Man blow'd o'er his Gruel.
What's that for, Friend? The Satyr cry'd,
To Cool my Broth, his Guest reply'd,
And Truth, Sir, is a Jewel.

IV

How, quoth the Host, then is it so,
And can you Contradictions blow?
Turn out, and leave my Cottage.
This honest Mansion ne'er shall hold
Such Rascals as blow Hot and Cold,
The De'll must find you Pottage.

The C---'s desir'd that in their next Choice,
They'd be pleds'd from this Fable to take good Advice,
For a Man that two Churches at once has in view,
Shams both in their Turns, and to neither is true.

A Dialogue betwixt the New Lotteries, and the Royal-Oak.

New Lotteries.
To you, the Mother of our Schools,
Where Knaves by License manage Fools,
Finding fit Juncture and Occasion,
To pick the Pockets of the Nation,
We come to know how we must Treat 'em,
And to their Hearts-content may Cheat 'em.

Royal-Oak.

It cheers my aged Heart to see,
So Numerous a Progeny;

103

I find by you, that 'tis Heaven's Will,
That Knavery shou'd flourish still.
You have Docility, and Wit,
And Fools were never wanting yet.

Observe the Crafty Auctioneer,
His Art to sell Waste-Paper dear:
When he for Salmon baits his Hooks,
That Cormorant of Offal Books,
Who bites, as sure as Maggots breed,
Or Carrion-Crows on Horseflesh feed.
Fair specious Titles him deceive,
To sweep what Sl--- and T---n leave.

If greedy Gulls you wou'd ensnare,
Make 'em Proposals wond'rous fair.
Tell 'em strange Golden Show'rs shall fall,
And promise Mountains to 'em all.

New Lotteries.
That Craft we've been already taught,
And by that Trick have Millions caught.
Books, Bawbles, Toys, all sorts of Stuff,
Have gone off this way well enough.
Nay Musick too invades our Art,
And to some Tune wou'd play her Part.
I'll shew you now, what we are doing,
For we have divers Wheels a going.
We have found out richer Lands,
Than Asia's Hills, or Africk's Sands,
And to vast Treasures must give Birth,
Deep hid in Bowels of the Earth;
In fertile Wales, and God knows where,
Rich Mines of Gold and Silver are,
From whence we drain prodigious store
Of Silver Coin'd, tho' none in Ore,
Which down our Throats rich Coxcombs pour,
In hopes to make us Vomit more.

Royal Oak.
This Project surely must be good;
Because not eas'ly understood:
Besides it gives a mighty scope,
To the Fool's Argument, Vain hope.

104

No Eagle's Eye the Cheat can see,
Thro' Hope thus back'd by Mystery.

New Lotteries.
We have besides a Thousand more,
For Great and Small, for Rich and Poor,
From him that can his Thousands spare,
Down to the Penny-Customer.

Royal-Oak.
The silly Mob in Crowds will run,
To be at easy Rates undone,
A Gimcrack-Show draws in the Rout,
Thousands their All by Pence lay out.

New Lotteries.
We by Experience, find it true;
But we have Methods wholly New,
Strange late invented Ways to Thrive,
To make Men pay for what they Give,
To get the Rents into our Hands
Of their Hereditary Lands,
And out of what doth thence arise,
To make 'em buy Annuities.
We've Mathematick Combination,
To cheat Fools by plain Demonstration,
Which shall be fairly manag'd too,
The Undertakers knows not how.
Beside,—

Royal-Oak.
Pray, hold a little, here's enough,
To beggar Europe of this Stuff.
Go on, and prosper, and be Great,
I am to You a Puny-Cheat.

105

An Impromptu to Shadwell's Memory by Dr. B---

And must our glorious Laureat then depart,
Heav'n if it please may take his loyal Heart,
As for the rest sweet Devil fetch a Cart.

106

Antenor's Speech in the Second Æneid, applied to the Declaration for Liberty of Conscience. In the Year 1687.

Timeo Danaos, & dona ferentes.

You dull Dissenters, what vain foily blinds
Your Senses thus, and captivates your Minds?
Think you this proffer'd Liberty is free
From Tricks, and Snares, and Papal Treachery?
Think you 'twas meant according to the Letter?
Oh that such plodding Heads shou'd know the Pope no better,
Trust me, this Kindness either was design'd
T'inflame our Quarrels, and our Weakness find:
Or else the Breach was open'd at a venture,
That at one Hole both Cowl and Cloak might enter.
Pray Heav'n there be no farther Mischief meant,
But I'm afraid there's Roman Opium in't.
Be't what it will, the gilded Pill suspect,
And with a smiling scorn your proffer'd Fate reject;
A Papist, tho' ungiving, means you evil,
But when he scatters Gifts and Mercies, he's the Devil.

107

Prologue spoken before the University of Oxford, 1683.

When Greece o'erwhelm'd in the wide Deluge lay,
And all the Land was one continu'd Sea,
The Muses Hill secure and lofty stood,
Above the vain Attempts of the insulting Flood.
There good Deucalion first saluted Land,
Put in his Boat, and touch'd the happy Strand.
So when wild Faction all our Land alarm'd,
Our Land by the prevaling Jugglers charm'd.
When pregnant with dire Seeds the Clouds did rise,
Presaging civil Tempests in our Skies.
Here Godlike Charles did a safe Harbour win,
Here laugh'd at all the Threats of daring Sin,
And shunn'd the popular Deluge as it came rowling in.
With you no perjur'd Bog-trotters were found,
With Meal-tub Plots and Armies under-ground,
Rogues, that wou'd damn themselves for half a Crown.
Rogues, that for one poor draught of middling Beer
Wou'd hang a Parish, and for Tripe a Shire.
'Tis true, some few you had, but Traytors come
Here to receive, not to deserve their doom.
So Paradice the Serpent gain'd at first,
Enter'd the blest Abodes, but strait he was accurst.

This is your Happiness:
But we are still alarm'd with senseless noise,
Guildhall Elections, and leud frantick Cries.
Tir'd with dull Managers of duller Plots,
And free-born Slaves, and Magna-Charta Sots.
Oh wou'd the Town a pattern take from you,
Whom the worst times still found to Cæsar true.
Discords wou'd cease, ill-natur'd Jars retire,
And every Muse in Charles's praise conspire.
Peace with her Train wou'd guard our Halcyon shore,
And Britain envy Saturn's Age no more.

108

Epilogue.

Not with more Grief the Whiggish herd beheld
Their Plots discover'd, their Intriegues reveal'd,
And all their Godly Villanies run down;
Than now we feel to leave your happy Town.
Now must our Tribe, since we depart from you,
Shake Hands with Learning, and bid Wit adieu:
With doggrel Rimes the stupid rout appease,
And murder English perfectly to please.
So some to get an Alms a lameness feign,
And by pretended halting pity gain.

When to some Town our strowling Troops repair,
Leave's to be granted by the worthy Mayor:
He with his numerous Train first takes his Seat,
Below his Scarlet Brethren fill the Pit.
Then ev'n our Women must less gay appear,
Leave Painting off, lest they should seem more fair
Than the pale Daughter of the Reverend Mayor.
If we in acting, as our part requires,
Swear by the Gods, and all the heavenly Fires,
The Sot pricks up a wondrous pair of Ears,
My Zeal no longer such profaneness bears,
Twelvepence for every Oath your Hero swears.

Wit here, triumphant, bears an ample sway,
And the bright Metal shines without allay;
Nothing is here condemn'd for being good,
Nor talk we Nonsense to be understood.
But tho' your Learning the whole Isle inspires,
Your Townsmen warm not by the neighbring Fires,
Born in the happy place, where Wit does rule,
They keep their natural Right of being dull.
So the rude Nations, where with greatest light
The reveal'd Truth was first expos'd to sight,
By no Rewards, no Miracles reclaim'd,
Wou'd ev'n in spight of Providence be damn'd,

109

Howe'er our Courtiers do their Fate dispose,
Dullness the Charter is they'll never lose.

A Catch. By Mr. T. Brown.

I

Let the Woman be damn'd, (a mod'rate Fate)
Or die an old Maid, as grey as a Cat,
That her Lover refuses for want of Estate.

II

Let her, that sets Man, like a Beast, to be sold,
And above metal'd Flesh, loves a Lump of dead Gold,
Look green when she's young, and be pox'd when she's old.

III

But let those that are wise, contemn the dull Store;
Wives chose by their Weight, will be weighty no more;
If for Gold they will wed, for the same they will whore.

A Panegyrick upon Col. George Walker.

After the Manner of the Irish.

Our Gracious King gave him five thousand Pound;
And out of the Rebels Lands, when they are found,
He promises him a thousand Pound by th'Year,
Which in a short time will unquestionably appear.
Likewise he promises him the Dean'ry of Londonderry,
When that the Dean of Londonderry will die;
But if the Dean of Londonderry will not die,
He promises him the Bishoprick of Londonderry.
More of his valiant Deeds and Worth, what need we then to cry-ah,
Since Walker George has made amends for Walker Obadiah?

110

To Mr. D'Urfey, upon his incomparable Ballads, call'd by him Lyrick Odes.

I

Thou Cur, half French, half English Breed;
Thou Mungrel of Parnassus,
To think tall Lines, run up to Seed,
Should ever tamely pass us.

II

Thou write Pindaricks, and be damn'd!
Write Epigrams for Cutlers;
None with thy Lyricks can be sham'd,
But Chamber-maids and Butlers.

III

In t'other World expect dry Blows;
No Tears can wash thy Stains out;
Horace will pluck thee by the Nose,
And Pindar beat thy Brains out.

On Flowers in a Lady's Bosom.

Behold the promis'd Land, where Pleasure flows!
See how the Milk-white Hills do gently rise,
And beat the silken Skies!
Behold the Valley spread with Flow'rs below!
Other Discoveries, Fate, let me not share;
If I find out, may I inhabit there.
The happy Flow'rs, how they allure my Sense!
The fairer Soil gives 'em the noble Hew;
Her Breath perfumes 'em too:
Rooted i'th' Heart, they seem to spring from thence.
Tell, tell me why, thou fruitful Virgin-Breast,
Why should so good a Soil lie unpossest?
Surely some Champion in the Cause of Love,

111

Has languish'd here—more weary with the Sight,
Than vanquish'd quite;
While the soft God took Pity from above,
And thinking to reward his Service well,
Bid him grow there where he so nobly fell.
So when the longing Cytherea found
The murder'd Boy, who long deceiv'd her Eyes
Under a Flow'r Disguise,
And pluck'd the curious Posey from the Ground:
Fair Cytherea's Bosom look'd like this;
So blush'd Adonis in the Seat of Bliss.

The London Vintners Answer to Mr. Brown.

If what thou asserts, dear Thomas, be true,
It is to get rid of such Chap-men as you,
That I and my Brethren have learned to brew.

Whatever Ingredients we put in the Vat,
Whether Dogs-turd or Honey, no Matter for that;
For all our Design's but to poison a Rat.

He that dies by bad Wine, and not by the Halter,
Departs without Chime of Hopkins's Psalter,
And that you well know is no matter of Laughter.

To Mr. Henry Purcel.

Long did dark Ignorance our Isle o'er spread,
Our Musick, and our Poetry lay dead.
But the dull Malice of a barbarous Age,
Fell most severe on David's sacred Page.
To wound his Sense, and quench his heav'n-born Fire,
Three vile Translators lewdly did conspire,
In holy Doggerel, and low chiming Prose,
The King and Poet they at once depose.

112

Vainly he did th'unrighteous change bemoan,
And languish'd in vile Numbers, not his own.
Nor stop his Usage here:
For what escap'd in Wisdom's ancient Rhimes,
Was murdred o'er and o'er in the Composers Chimes.

What praises, Purcell, to thy skill are due,
Who hast to Judah's Monarch been so true.
By thee he moves our Hearts, by thee he reigns,
By thee shakes off his old inglorious Chains,
And sees new Honours done to his immortal Strains.
Not Italy, the Mother of each Art,
Did e'er a juster happier Son impart.
In thy performance we with wonder find
Corelli's Genius to Bassani joyn'd.
Sweetness combin'd with Majesty prepares
To wing Devotion with inspiring Airs.

Thus I unknown my gratitude express,
And conscious gratitude cou'd do no less;
This Tribute from each British Muse is due,
The whole Poetick Tribe's oblig'd to you.
For where the Author's scanty Words have fail'd,
Thy happier Graces, Purcell, have prevail'd.
And surely none but you, with equal ease,
Cou'd add to David, and make Durfy please.

On Dr. Sherlock.

The same Allegiance to two Kings he pays
Swears the same Faith to both, and both betrays.
No wonder if to swear he's always free,
That hath two Gods to swear by more than we.

113

Upon the taking of the new Oaths.

Our Fathers took Oaths as of old they took Wives,
To have and to hold for the Terms of their Lives;
But we take our Oaths, as our Whores, for our Ease,
And a Whore and a Rogue may part when they please.

Tom Brown having committed some great Fault at the University, the Dean of Christ Church threaten'd to expel him; but Tom, with a very submissive Epistle, begging Pardon, so pleas'd the Dean, that he was minded to forgive him, upon this Condition, viz. That he should translate this Epigram out of Marshal extempore.

I do not love you Dr. Fell,
But why I cannot tell;
But this I know full well,
I do not love you Dr. Fell.

209

[When Eve the Fruit had tasted]

When Eve the Fruit had tasted,
She to her Husband hasted,
And chuck'd him on the Chin-a;
Dear Bud, (quoth she) come taste this Fruit,
'Twill finely with your Palate suit,
To eat it is no Sin-a.

210

[As moody Job, in shirtless Case]

As moody Job, in shirtless Case,
With Colly-flowers all o'er his Face,
Did on the Dunghill languish,
His Spouse thus whispers in his Ear;
Swear Husband, as you love me, swear;
'Twill ease you of your Anguish.

320

A Supplement to Tho. Brown's Works.

Jo. Haines in Pennance:

Or, his Recantation Prologue, at his acting of Poet Bayes in the Duke of Buckingham's Play, call'd The Rehearsal. Spoken in a white Sheet, with a burning Taper in his Hand, upon his Admittance into the House, after his Return from the Church of Rome.

Written by T. Brown, for his Friend Jo. Haines,

As you dislike the Converts of the Nation,
That went to Rome, and left your Congregation,
By the same Rule pray kindly entertain
Your penitent lost Sheep return'd again.
For reconverted Haines, taught by the Age,
Is now come back to his Primitive Church, the Stage;
And own my Crime, of leaving in the lurch
My Mother Playhouse, she's my Mother Church.
As Penitents do go from you to Rome,
A Penitent from Rome to you I come.
Tho' I from you to Rome did never go
As Runagade for her, but Spy for you.
For see'ng the Beaux and Banterers every Day
Ev'n tired with themselves in ev'ry Play,
I went to Rome, to seek for Fops more new,
And more ridiculous than any of you;
A Miracle from Rome, I thought, might do.
Besides I left ye, all design'd for Rome;
But see'ng ye came not over, I came home:
For I, like you, finding my self mistaken,
Did early tack about, to save my Bacon.
Pox on't!—

321

At Rome a Godly Part they made me play;
A damn'd unnatural one to me, you'll say:
They wou'd not let me roar, or rant or swear,
But fob'd me off with Penitence and Prayer,
Guess how that Penance relisht with a Player.
That ever any Player should have the Face
Thus to pretend to such a thing as Grace!
'Tis very hard indeed, th'Italian Nation
Should put this Phiz a little out of fashion;
But yielding Nature, and this tempting Face
Confirms me Flesh and Blood in spite of Grace:
Therefore, dear loving Sisters of the Pit,
Again your Brother Runagade admit,
And don't despise me now because I've liv'd
Where sawcy Boys claim your Prerogative.
No, Sisters; no,—
I ne'er turn'd Heretick, in Love at least;
Twas decent Whoring kept my Thoughts still chaste:
But you, kind Sirs! who here are daily known,
To love all Whores but her of Babylon,
Will never damn Jo. Haines for his Religion.
Well Sirs!—
B'ing thus confest, and free from all Pollution,
I beg from your kind Hands my Absolution.

Tho. Brown's Recantation of his Satyr on the French King. Suppos'd by some to be by Mr. Brown, tho' said by others to be Written by a Nonjurant-Parson.

Facit Recantatio Versum.

And has this Bitch my Muse trapan'd me?
Then I'm as much undone as can be;
I knew the Jilt would never leave me
Till to a Prison she'd deceiv'd me:

322

Curst be the Wretch, and sure he's curst
That taught the Trade of Rhyming first:
'Tis a damn'd Trade, and who pursues it,
I'll pass my word, at last he rues it:
Homer and Virgil were but Tools,
Fit, only for the use of Fools.
And Horace too, with all his Art,
To Men of Sense not worth a Fart;
Even Causabon for Satyr Famous
Was but a jingling Ignoramus.
And all the rest to Ben and so forth
A Crew of useless Things of no worth:
But now I have no time to rail,
The Hog hath got another Tail;
My Wits are rather on the Wrack
To save my own Poetick Back:
Yet by the way, 'tis very hard,
Poets of all Men should be barr'd
From labouring in their proper Station;
Why, where's the Justice of the Nation?
Believe me, Sirs, as I'm a Sinner,
I writ that Satyr for a Dinner:
And Stampt it with a Parson's Name,
Not as I meant them any Shame,
But since I must the Matter tell,
I thought 'twould make the Paper sell;
By all that's good, and all that true is,
I ever lov'd and honour'd Lewis:
He's Great and Wise, more could I say,
But fear again to disobey,
And for his Priests, I here protest,
I value them like all the rest:
And tho' I curst them all, what then?
The Men are honest harmless Men.
Next for King James and Prince of Wales,
I always wish'd them happy Gales,
And for my sawcy naming Molly,
I own 'twas Impudence and Folly.

323

Lastly, for naming the Non-Juror,
Why that was but Poetick furor,
I know I have ungrateful been,
'Twas raging Hunger drew me in
T'abuse those very Friends that have
Almost preserv'd me from the Grave;
They're honest Men, mark what I say,
If I love any Priests, 'tis they.
I now confess 'tis highly base,
T'insult the Gown in such a Case:
And could the Thing be done again,
I'd starve before I'd wrong such Men.
What shall I say, I here recant,
And own my self a Sycophant:
But oh! I fear that will not do,
A Thousand dismal Thoughts pursue.
I'm all in pain, and let me tell ye,
My Back begins to curse my Belly;
I'm just as if at Cart's-Arse ty'd,
With Hangman grinning by my Side,
And Mob of all sorts crowding round me,
Advising Ketch to swindge me soundly;
And what torments me worst of all,
Methinks that some among them bawl,
'Tis he that for a Crown to spend,
Reviles Crown'd Heads, betrays his Friend.
All this, 'tis true, I well deserve,
And yet 'tis very hard to starve;
So that if Things were rightly stated,
Part of my Sentence might be bated;
I was of Poppins-Alley Chief,
Till forc'd from thence to seek Relief;
And to avoid some dang'rous Rogues
Took Shelter among Pedagogues.
'Twas then, like the Sicilian King,
Under strict Laws I Boys did bring;
And tho' I was but a Viceroy,
I could command the chiefest Boy:

324

But here a little Time was spent,
Before I left my Government,
Was charg'd with Male-Administration,
And so pull'd down from Regal Station.
To Town again disgrac'd I came,
For now 'tis time to hide my Shame;
Where since I sharp'd, and spung'd and tick'd,
Being always scorn'd, and sometimes kick'd,
And yet the worst is still behind,
Oh! hear me but, and you'll be kind.
For three long Weeks my Muse and I
Had been shut up in Garret high:
The Cause I think I need not tell
Poet with P--- convertible;
While thus I lay in desperate state
In comes a Bawd whose Name was Kate;
A Rampant Jade, where once I tabled,
Who finding me of Strength disabled,
Not Vows nor Promises could save me,
But off she tears the Cloaths she gave me.
And thus of Coat, e'en Shirt, bereft,
Poor naked Tom in Bed was left.
In this most sharp and strange Distress,
'Twas then I thought on trusty Bess;
Who, tho' I knew she was but poor,
I always found a faithful Whore:
To her with Art I made Petition,
And briefly told my sad Condition.
But I forgot to tell you how
With hot Ox-cheek, and Heel of Cow,
With Trotters neat, and Tripe like Jelly,
She oft had fill'd my empty Belly.
And one thing more I had forgot
Hot Furmety and Rice-Milk hot
She never let me want; for why,
It was her Trade the same to cry.
I thought (poor Fool) she'd pity me,
Who thus resolv'd to set me free.

325

With Twenty-pence which she had got,
And Shillings Four, for Loan of Pot,
To some convenient Bulk she hies,
And there a Coat and Breeehes buys;
The want of Shirt too, to supply,
Sends me her Smock, tho' hardly dry.
And more, to fit me out compleat,
For t'other Three pence buys a Cheat.
When thus equipp'd, abroad I venture,
Hoping on Subjects new to enter:
But all my Hopes proves vain, God wot,
Bess still must want her Porridge-Pot.
My Belly too grows lank, for she
Had no Rice-Milk, nor Furmety.
All Friends I try'd, not one was willing
To Credit me with one poor Shilling;
In this Distress, without advising,
I fell to cursed Satyrising.
Oh! pity me, or I am lost,
Far worse than when in Blanket tost;
And if this time I'm spar'd from whipping,
If e'er again you catch me tripping,
May all the Plagues that e'er befel
A Poet poor, on this side Hell,
Seize me at once, and may I be
A publick Mark of Infamy.
May all my Whores and Duns o'ertake me,
And all my Friends, even Bess, forsake me:
And may the P---, with which I struggle,
Join'd with the Gout, afflict me double:
May I at last by Inches die,
First lose a Nose, and then an Eye;
And when I'm dead, then may I have
A just Memento on my Grave.

326

An ELEGY,

Suppos'd to be written by Stephen Switch, upon Dobbin a Coach-Horse, who departed this Mortal Life on Saturday the 8th of April.

Oh, cruel Death! whose Rage without Remorse is,
Why should'st thou persecute poor harmless Horses?
Whose righteous Blood, as said a Spokesman wise,
Against thy Malice will in Judgment rise.
On Courtiers thou'st my Leave to be severe,
For now and then I grudge thee not a Peer;
Spiritual or Temporal, no matter whether,
Or a whole Corporation take together.
Such Game methinks might thy keen Stomach stay,
Considering thou'd'st a Whale the other Day,
Then why the Plague must thou on Horse-flesh prey?
It grieves my Conscience, and disturbs my Quiet,
To see thee given to such Tartarian Diet
Poor Two-leg'd Beasts thou think'st not worth a Groat,
But into Porter's foolish Sport art got,
And must be playing at All-Fours, God wot.
Were I t'advise a Dinner for thy Palate,
A well-cram'd Priest should serve instead of Sallad,
Fat Draymen's Chines should be a standing Dish:
I'd have an Admiral, when I din'd on Fish.
If nought but tender Morsels wou'd go down,
Commend me to a Lady of the Town;
But for a choice tough Bit t'employ the Maw,
I'd take a Scriv'ner, or a Man of Law.
But thou'rt, I find, a Stranger to good Breeding,
And dost not know the Methods of good Feeding:

327

Oh! Dobbin, thou wert hurried off the Stage,
Just in the prime and vigour of thy Age.
Howe'er, dear Beast, 'tis to thy Friends some Ease,
Thou fell'st by a Right Worshipful Disease.
Instead of Clyster, Balls, and Farrier's Physick,
Thy Days, alas! were shorten'd by the Ptisick.
And all Men know (I speak it without scoffing)
That many an Alderman has di'd of Coughing.
But if Heav'ns Justice will endure Inspection,
What had thy Lungs done to deserve Infection?
For I can swear thou ne'er had'st the Ambition,
To talk Profaneness, Bawdy, or Sedition.

Once more farewel, my dear belov'd Quadruped,
The loss of thee has plainly made me stupid.
I knew thy Dad, thy Mother, and thy Grandsir,
But thou return'st to my Complaints no Answer.
No Hugmatee, nor Flip, my Grief can smother;
I lov'd thee, Dobbin, better than my Brother.
Since then so lame my Muse, so dull my Wit is,
I'll have thy Epitaph compos'd by Pittis.

To Mr. Justice Higden, upon the ill Success of his Play.

No longer your expected Play conceal,
But to a more impartial Court appeal.
The righteous few, true to the Cause of Wit,
Will soon reverse the Sentence of the Pit.
Why should their Censure Men of Sense alarm?
Those Sons of Muggleton can do no harm.
The Wit, that oft their hasty Malice dooms,
Outlives its Judges, nay, outlasts their Tombs.
Thus 'twas my Fate to visit once a Friend,
Whom dire foreboding Omens did attend:
The Doctor tells him, Sir, your Hour is nigh,
Send for the Parson, and prepare to die.

328

In vain the help of Physic you implore,
Art has been try'd, but Art can do no more.
With this the angry Patient rais'd his Head,
And Doctor, do you then conclude me dead?
Peace, you grave Sot, elsewhere your Cant bestow,
I'll bury half the College e'er I go.
And spite of that learn'd Phiz, and reverend Beard,
Will live to see your Rascalship interr'd.
Thus he run on, and as his Stars decreed,
Was soon from his unkind Distemper freed;
Left his vain gaping Kindred in the lurch,
And saw the Velvet Fop born decently to Church.

To the same upon his Play's being damn'd, for having too much Eating and Drinking in it.

Friend Harry, some furious Pretenders to thinking,
Say thy Play is encumbred with eating and drinking,
That too oft in all Conscience thy Table's brought out,
And unmerciful Healths fly like Hail-shot about.
Such a merry Objection who e'er could expect,
That does on the Town, and its Pleasures reflect?
Are a Dish and a Bottle grown quite out of Fashion?
Or have the spruce Beaux found a new Recreation?
Else why should these Fops be so monstrous uncivil,
As to damn at a Play, what they like at the Devil?

Upon persecuting it with Cat-calls.

When to Molock of old, by way of Oblation
Any Jew of his Son made a wicked Donation.

329

The Priesthood with Trumpets and Drums made a Noise
To stifle his Groans, and extinguish his Cries.
Thus our fierce modern Heroes, those Jews of the Pit,
When to damn a poor Author's Attempt, they think fit,
With Cat-calls so dreadful the House they alarm,
Lest the Wit of the Play should their Fury disarm:
Howe'er they may pass with the rest of the Nation,
Tho' their Malice I blame, I commend their Discretion.
For 'tis but convenient you'll readily own,
That the Beast should perform, what the Man wou'd disown.

A Pastoral on the Death of Queen MARY.

She's gone! the brightest Nymph that blest the Green.
No more the Beauty of her Eyes is seen.
Who can from Grief's Extremities refrain?
Or in due Bounds the swelling Tide contain?
Who can behold this dismal Scene pass by
With an unmov'd and unrelenting Eye?
London, thou Pride and Glory of our Isle,
Tho' in thy Bosom both the Indies smile;
Oh! ne'er forget that unauspicious Day,
Which thy best Treasure rudely snatch'd away.
Thy busy Change be for a Season dumb,
No saucy Mirth within thy Mansions come;
Let all thy Sons in mourning Weeds appear;
Each Face shew Sorrow, and each Eye a Tear.
T'express their Duty, let all Hearts combine,
And on this black, this sad Occasion join.

330

Mourn drooping Britain, mourn from Shore to Shore,
Thy best belov'd MARIA is no more.

Ye beauteous Virgins, that in moving Strains
Were us'd to sing her Virtues on the Plains:
Ye Shepherds too, who out of pious Care,
Taught every Tree Maria's Name to wear;
Your rural Sports and Garlands lay aside,
This is no Time for ornamental Pride;
But bring, oh! bring the Treasures of your Fields,
That short-liv'd Wealth which unbid Nature yields.
The mourning Hyacinth inscrib'd mith Woe,
The beauteous Lillies that in Vallies grow;
And all the Flowers that scatter'd up and down,
Or humble Mead, or lofty Mountains crown;
Then gently throw them all upon her Herse;
To these join lasting Bays, and living Verse.
Mourn drooping Britain, mourn from Shore to Shore,
Thy best belov'd MARIA is no more.

Ye dauntless Hearts, that for your Country's Good,
All Dangets scorn, and wade thro' Seas of Blood,
In heavy Silence march around her Tomb,
And then lament your own and England's Doom:
For Death has by this single Stroke, done more
Than when (ten Thousand slain) he stalks in Gore,
Ye pensive Matrons, who by Fortune crost,
In foreign Fields have dear Relations lost;
Now give a free and open Vent to Grief,
Banish all Hopes, and think of no Relief;
That bounteous Princess, who so justly knew
What was to blooming Worth and Merit due,
Who as she lov'd on Valour still to smile,
Ne'er fail'd to recompence the Soldier's Toil;
Is now (malicious Fate would have it so)
Hurry'd, alas! to the dark Shades below.
Mourn drooping Britain, mourn from Shore to Shore,
Thy best belov'd MARIA is no more.

Ye mitr'd Heads, and likewise you that wait
Upon the Altar in a lower State,

331

Bewail the Loss of so divine a Prize,
And open all the Sluces of your Eyes.
Rome's gaudy Pomps her Mind could ne'er allure;
Firm to her Word, and in her Faith secure.
The sacred Scriptures were her daily Care,
Her only Exercise and Food, was Prayer.
Where can we now so great a Pattern find?
Where can we meet so bright, so pure a Mind?
Mourn drooping Britain, mourn from Shore to Shore,
Thy best belov'd MARIA is no more.

But tho' proud Fate has done her utmost Spite,
And bury'd all her Hopes in endless Night;
Tho' rav'nous Death has seiz'd the richest Prey
That ever did a Regal Scepter sway;
Her Name shall live, and still continue fair,
Fragrant as rich Arabia's Spices are:
While Albion in triumphant State shall reign
Queen of the Isles, and Goddess of the Main.
While silver Thames in wanton Folds shall play,
And Tribute to the British Ocean pay:
While haughty Lewis shall remain abhorr'd,
And William be by all the World ador'd.
Our grateful Tongues her Virtue shall proclaim
Thro' all the distant Provinces of Fame:
Still in our Hearts shall chast MARIA reign,
Tho' dead, her Station there she shall maintain.
Then Shepherds leave at last your mournful Lays,
And turn your Songs of Grief, to Songs of Praise.

Prologue to a Musick Speech in the Theatre in Oxford.

Well! for a careful provident Bawd, say I,
Give me my Mother University.
Bless us! how neatly has she rank'd you here,
Where drawn in Love's Battalia, you appear
The Black, the Brown, the Fair, and the not Fair.

332

I must confess the Case is alter'd now,
From what your narrow fulsome Box could show.
A Musick-Room, a fitter Name 'twould prove,
Call it a Stove, a Bathing-Tub of Love,
Where sweating Scholar faints, and knows not why,
And melting Tallow-Chandler drips hard by,
And all this Heat from Love, or else July.
But now you're welcome hither, in this Row
Painting does in its full Perfection show,
Streter above you, Ladies here below.
Did not such Malice in your Beauties reign,
We yet might hope a Golden Age again:
When Nature taught her untold Tale of Love,
And Passion from a ragged Gown could move.
But now those Days are gone, and saucy Art,
Mimick of Nature, acts the noblest Part.
E'en Passion is successless in this Age,
Unless set off by Love's high Equipage.
The ruffling Pantaloon declares the Flame,
And the well ty'd Cravat-string wins the Dame.
Plain Lovers, like plain Linnen, e'er cashier'd,
In whose behalf no Point has e'er appear'd:
What Hopes then have unhappy we to please,
Whom niggard Stars made not so vain as these?
Alas! we hate your gentle stinking Water,
Loath distill'd Oils, but those of Mother Nature.
This knew our Fates, and plac'd us in a Town
Where Beauty is so thin, so rarely sown;
The Nymphs o'th' Fleece, and the three Gates go down.
Like homely Peasants, us'd to wholesome Meat,
When Love invites us to your splendid Treat;
We'll gape and gaze, and make no hearty Meal,
Give us our sturdy Beef and Mutton still.
But let us not despair. I'll lead the Van,
And tho' I proudly say't, we Scholars can,
Altho' not act the Fop, yet play the Man.
We'll run at all, and freely take our Lot,
From the fair Walcop, down to foul Bess Scot.

333

The EPILOGUE.

As from a darken'd Room, some Optick Glass
Transmits the distant Species as they pass;
The World's large Landskip is from far descry'd,
And Men contracted on the Paper glide.

Thus crowded Oxford repesents Mankind,
And in these Walls Great-Britain seems confin'd.
Oxford is now the publick Theatre,
And you both Audience and Actors are:
The gazing World on the new Scene attend,
Admire the Turns, and wish a prosp'rous End.
Oxford, the Seat of Peace, the quiet Cell,
Where Arts, remov'd from noisy Business, dwell;
Should calm your Minds, unite the jarring Parts,
And with a kind Contagion seize your Hearts.
O! may its Genius like soft Musick move,
And tune you all to Concord and to Love.
Our Acts which has in Tempest long been tost,
Could never rest on so secure a Coast.
From hence you may look back on civil Rage,
And view the Ruins of the former Age.
Here a new World its Glories may unfold,
And here be sav'd the Remnant of the old:
But while our Thoughts on publick Cares are bent,
Past Ills to heal, and future to prevent,
Some vacant Hours allow to your Delight;
Mirth is the pleasing Bus'ness of the Night,
The King's Prerogative, the Subject's Right.
Were all your Hearts to sullen Cares confin'd,
The Body would be weary'd by the Mind.
'Tis Wisdom's part, betwixt Extreams to steer,
Be Gods in Senate, but be Mortals here.

334

Upon Mr. Creech's Translation of Lucretius.

1.

Let not the Thracian Bard admire,
Whose powerful Strains, and list'ning Stones inspire,
To keep just Measures with his Lyre;
Tho' taught by his commanding Harmony,
The Beasts forgot their Native Cruelty,
And to a universal Peace did jointly all conspire.

2.

Thy sacred Hand does more,
That does Lucretius again restore,
Who was a mighty Solitude before:
His rowling Atoms now we see,
In Squadrons and just Measures lie,
Even in Confusion now appears just Symmetry,

3.

Nought but a heav'nly Hand could make
These Atoms their old Nothing forsake,
And a true decent Order take:
Thy charitable Hand has greatet Wonders done,
And has Lucretius his own Errors shown:
Our modern Atheist grieves to see
His belov'd Sins so lash'd by thee,
That do'st in this deserve ev'n of Posterity.
What Trophies can thy Victory out-do,
That triumph'st o'er the present Times, the past, and future too?

335

Algernon Sidney's Letter of Advice to his Friend, concerning the Education of his Son. By T. Brown.

Since 'tis your only Study, and your Care,
How to dispose of Bob, your Son and Heir,
I'll give you my Advice, Sir, in this grand Affair,
If Bob's ingenious, and a Boy of Parts,
Do not debauch him with the lib'ral Arts.
Those jilting Whores, instead of Silk and Satin,
Equipt in Linsey-woolsey, Greek, and Latin,
Will spoil his Fortune if they once come at him.
But if he is mercurially inclin'd;
Of Wit sagacious, and heroic Mind,
He'd best pursue those honourable Courses
Of picking Pockets, and of taking Purses;
And I'll prescribe the Lad a safe and true Gate,
How to avoid the dreaded Path of Newgate;
Lest bloody Judge and Jury should transport
The Boy to Tyburn—Send him to the Court;
Where in a Fortnight's Time he'll learn his Cue,
Under—
To pick the Pockets of a free-born Nation,
In furnishing two Dishes for Collation:
Like learned Cooks, as all Men grant they are,
To make the self-same Sauce to Peace and War
What better are we for this boasted Quiet,
If we must pawn our Birth-right for our Diet?
But since it is by Providence decreed,
That Liberty and Property must bleed;

336

This only Comfort will their Suff'rings ease,
That, like good Christians, they depart in Peace.
You cannot, Sir, do better for your Lad,
Than bind him an Apprentice to this Trade:
The King's his Surety, and will not neglect him,
But with a Standing-Army still protect him.
Yet if Bob's Talent lie not in his Brains,
Make him a Parson, Neighbour, by all Means.
His Road unto Preferment, Sir, is chalk'd,
In all my Life I ne'er knew Blockhead balk'd.
As rankest Weeds in richest Soil are found,
So Spiritual Hemlock thrives in Holy Ground.
The Church and State, like Sharpers, cry out halves,
One claims the Fools, the other all the Knaves.
Thus, Sir, I've shewn you how your Son may rise
But do as seemeth good in your own Eyes:
For if your English Stomach can't digest
The rav'ning Courtier, or the Jackal Priest,
Teach him your self, and let the Son inherit
His Father's Acres, and his Father's Merit;
E'er Sense, that, like Aurora, does make Way
For brighter Reason the ensuing Day.
With Noll's great Image fill his dawning Soul,
His Fancy flatter, and his Judgment rule.
May's Actions suit unto his Country's Fame,
And keep the Rebel in the English Name.
Let him, like me, all Monarchy oppose,
And pluck the Idol by his Roman Nose.

Your Servant, Algernon Sidney.

P. S.

Your old Friend Mr. Ludlow's in good Health,
And hopes to live to see a Commonwealth.

344

TO Dr. SHERLOCK, ON Occasion of his taking the Oaths, 1690.

And have you now at length resolv'd to take
The Oath, so long refus'd for Conscience sake?
So fam'd a Champion for the Loyal Church,
(So call'd) to leave her, and her Friends, i'th' Lurch!
Doctor, in short, you have amaz'd us all,
Making that Nothing you Religion call.
Had you comply'd at first, 't had been a Jest,
And you no more to blame, than were the rest;
But after such mature Deliberation,
(Preaching up Loyalty in spite o'th' Nation)
At last to turn Apostate on a sudden,
Shews, tho' a Church-man, that you are no good One.
The Senseless Book y' have Writ in your Defence;
Discovers more your Guilt, than Innocence:
Each Argument therein does seem to say,
Your Reason, with Religion, 's fled away.
Now some pretend you tempted were by Woman,
Nay, by a Wife, which is a thing not common,
To Sin against the Laws Divine and Humane:

345

Her Importunity was such, they say,
When you did Preach, she never ceas'd to Pray;
Until at length, by force of much Perswasion,
She brought your Doctorship into the Fashion,
To take an Oath, to justify the Reign
Of William, till King James return'd again.
But, Doctor, most believe what she cou'd say,
Had not prevail'd to make you go astray,
And with the present Government to join,
If little William had not past the Boyn:
But now you from your Principles do swerve,
For fear that you and yours shou'd come to starve;
Trusting to Providence (it seems) your Soul,
But for your Body, you're not such a Fool.
Doctor, in fine, you'll live to curse your Fate,
And then repent, (alas!) when 'tis too late!
Reproachful Ruin still such Crimes attends;
Your Friends you've made your Foes, your Foes no Friends.

346

AN EPITAPH ON Dr. SHERLOCK, 1707.

I

Here lyes, within this Holy Place,
(The Lord have Mercy on him!)
The Weesel, in a Wooden Case,
Exempt from Human Plagues, unless
You lay his Wife upon him.

II

Some People think, if this were done,
Tho' Dead, he wou'd be ready
To rise before his Time, and run
The Lord knows where, to shun
That Termagant, his Lady.

III

Since he is gone, 'tis hard that she
Should be so long deserted.
Why, Death, shouldst thou so partial be,
Since all good People do agree,
'Tis pity they were parted?

IV

Pray bid her, when she comes, not prate,
But hold her teazing Nonsense:
For if the Weesel smell a Rat,
He'll fly his Wife, I'll tell you that,
As he once did his Conscience.

The End of the Fourth and Last Volume.