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

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.

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

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.

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.

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

Upon the Encampment at Hounslow-Heath.

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

In Praise of the Bottle. A Song.

The Rover. A Song.

The Campaign. A Song.

The Libertine. A Song.

A Catch.

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

The Whet.

Song.

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

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

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

The Good Fellow.

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

To his Cruel Mistress. Out of French.

An Ode upon a Kiss. Out of French.

A Translation.

On the Death of Dr. Kirleus.

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

The Fable of the Satyr, and the Traveller.

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

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

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

Prologue spoken before the University of Oxford, 1683.

Epilogue.

A Catch. By Mr. T. Brown.

A Panegyrick upon Col. George Walker.

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

On Flowers in a Lady's Bosom.

The London Vintners Answer to Mr. Brown.

To Mr. Henry Purcel.

On Dr. Sherlock.

Upon the taking of the new Oaths.

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.

[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

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.

University of Virginia Library

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.

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

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.

His Speech to his Soldiers.

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

Upon the Encampment at Hounslow-Heath.

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

In Praise of the Bottle. A Song.

I

II

III

IV

The Rover. A Song.

I

II

The Campaign. A Song.

I

II

III

The Libertine. A Song.

I

II

A Catch.

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

The Whet.

Song.

[Who their Passions do fondly conceal]

I

II

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

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

I

II

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

Chorus, the Viol leading.

Chorus.

Chorus.

Chorus at going off.

The Good Fellow.

I

II

III

IV

V

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.

Upon the Author of the Satyr against Wit.

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

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

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

An equal Match; or, a drawn Battle.

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

To the Cheapside Kt. on his Satyr against Wit.

To the indefatigable Rhimer.

A modest Request to the Poetical Knight.

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

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

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

A Tale.

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

An Epigram on Job, travested by the City Bard.

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

To the canting Author of the Satyr against Wit.

Friendly Advice to Dr. Bl---

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

To a Famous Doctor and Poet at Sadlers-hall.

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

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

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

A merry Ballad on the City Bard.

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

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

To his Cruel Mistress. Out of French.

I

II

III

IV

An Ode upon a Kiss. Out of French.

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

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

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