University of Virginia Library

A Supplement to Tho. Brown's Works.

Jo. Haines in Pennance:

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

As you dislike the Converts of the Nation,
That went to Rome, and left your Congregation,
By the same Rule pray kindly entertain
Your penitent lost Sheep return'd again.
For reconverted Haines, taught by the Age,
Is now come back to his Primitive Church, the Stage;
And own my Crime, of leaving in the lurch
My Mother Playhouse, she's my Mother Church.
As Penitents do go from you to Rome,
A Penitent from Rome to you I come.
Tho' I from you to Rome did never go
As Runagade for her, but Spy for you.
For see'ng the Beaux and Banterers every Day
Ev'n tired with themselves in ev'ry Play,
I went to Rome, to seek for Fops more new,
And more ridiculous than any of you;
A Miracle from Rome, I thought, might do.
Besides I left ye, all design'd for Rome;
But see'ng ye came not over, I came home:
For I, like you, finding my self mistaken,
Did early tack about, to save my Bacon.
Pox on't!—
At Rome a Godly Part they made me play;
A damn'd unnatural one to me, you'll say:
They wou'd not let me roar, or rant or swear,
But fob'd me off with Penitence and Prayer,
Guess how that Penance relisht with a Player.
That ever any Player should have the Face
Thus to pretend to such a thing as Grace!
'Tis very hard indeed, th'Italian Nation
Should put this Phiz a little out of fashion;
But yielding Nature, and this tempting Face
Confirms me Flesh and Blood in spite of Grace:
Therefore, dear loving Sisters of the Pit,
Again your Brother Runagade admit,
And don't despise me now because I've liv'd
Where sawcy Boys claim your Prerogative.
No, Sisters; no,—
I ne'er turn'd Heretick, in Love at least;
Twas decent Whoring kept my Thoughts still chaste:
But you, kind Sirs! who here are daily known,
To love all Whores but her of Babylon,
Will never damn Jo. Haines for his Religion.
Well Sirs!—
B'ing thus confest, and free from all Pollution,
I beg from your kind Hands my Absolution.

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

And has this Bitch my Muse trapan'd me?
Then I'm as much undone as can be;
I knew the Jilt would never leave me
Till to a Prison she'd deceiv'd me:
Curst be the Wretch, and sure he's curst
That taught the Trade of Rhyming first:
'Tis a damn'd Trade, and who pursues it,
I'll pass my word, at last he rues it:
Homer and Virgil were but Tools,
Fit, only for the use of Fools.
And Horace too, with all his Art,
To Men of Sense not worth a Fart;
Even Causabon for Satyr Famous
Was but a jingling Ignoramus.
And all the rest to Ben and so forth
A Crew of useless Things of no worth:
But now I have no time to rail,
The Hog hath got another Tail;
My Wits are rather on the Wrack
To save my own Poetick Back:
Yet by the way, 'tis very hard,
Poets of all Men should be barr'd
From labouring in their proper Station;
Why, where's the Justice of the Nation?
Believe me, Sirs, as I'm a Sinner,
I writ that Satyr for a Dinner:
And Stampt it with a Parson's Name,
Not as I meant them any Shame,
But since I must the Matter tell,
I thought 'twould make the Paper sell;
By all that's good, and all that true is,
I ever lov'd and honour'd Lewis:
He's Great and Wise, more could I say,
But fear again to disobey,
And for his Priests, I here protest,
I value them like all the rest:
And tho' I curst them all, what then?
The Men are honest harmless Men.
Next for King James and Prince of Wales,
I always wish'd them happy Gales,
And for my sawcy naming Molly,
I own 'twas Impudence and Folly.
Lastly, for naming the Non-Juror,
Why that was but Poetick furor,
I know I have ungrateful been,
'Twas raging Hunger drew me in
T'abuse those very Friends that have
Almost preserv'd me from the Grave;
They're honest Men, mark what I say,
If I love any Priests, 'tis they.
I now confess 'tis highly base,
T'insult the Gown in such a Case:
And could the Thing be done again,
I'd starve before I'd wrong such Men.
What shall I say, I here recant,
And own my self a Sycophant:
But oh! I fear that will not do,
A Thousand dismal Thoughts pursue.
I'm all in pain, and let me tell ye,
My Back begins to curse my Belly;
I'm just as if at Cart's-Arse ty'd,
With Hangman grinning by my Side,
And Mob of all sorts crowding round me,
Advising Ketch to swindge me soundly;
And what torments me worst of all,
Methinks that some among them bawl,
'Tis he that for a Crown to spend,
Reviles Crown'd Heads, betrays his Friend.
All this, 'tis true, I well deserve,
And yet 'tis very hard to starve;
So that if Things were rightly stated,
Part of my Sentence might be bated;
I was of Poppins-Alley Chief,
Till forc'd from thence to seek Relief;
And to avoid some dang'rous Rogues
Took Shelter among Pedagogues.
'Twas then, like the Sicilian King,
Under strict Laws I Boys did bring;
And tho' I was but a Viceroy,
I could command the chiefest Boy:
But here a little Time was spent,
Before I left my Government,
Was charg'd with Male-Administration,
And so pull'd down from Regal Station.
To Town again disgrac'd I came,
For now 'tis time to hide my Shame;
Where since I sharp'd, and spung'd and tick'd,
Being always scorn'd, and sometimes kick'd,
And yet the worst is still behind,
Oh! hear me but, and you'll be kind.
For three long Weeks my Muse and I
Had been shut up in Garret high:
The Cause I think I need not tell
Poet with P--- convertible;
While thus I lay in desperate state
In comes a Bawd whose Name was Kate;
A Rampant Jade, where once I tabled,
Who finding me of Strength disabled,
Not Vows nor Promises could save me,
But off she tears the Cloaths she gave me.
And thus of Coat, e'en Shirt, bereft,
Poor naked Tom in Bed was left.
In this most sharp and strange Distress,
'Twas then I thought on trusty Bess;
Who, tho' I knew she was but poor,
I always found a faithful Whore:
To her with Art I made Petition,
And briefly told my sad Condition.
But I forgot to tell you how
With hot Ox-cheek, and Heel of Cow,
With Trotters neat, and Tripe like Jelly,
She oft had fill'd my empty Belly.
And one thing more I had forgot
Hot Furmety and Rice-Milk hot
She never let me want; for why,
It was her Trade the same to cry.
I thought (poor Fool) she'd pity me,
Who thus resolv'd to set me free.
With Twenty-pence which she had got,
And Shillings Four, for Loan of Pot,
To some convenient Bulk she hies,
And there a Coat and Breeehes buys;
The want of Shirt too, to supply,
Sends me her Smock, tho' hardly dry.
And more, to fit me out compleat,
For t'other Three pence buys a Cheat.
When thus equipp'd, abroad I venture,
Hoping on Subjects new to enter:
But all my Hopes proves vain, God wot,
Bess still must want her Porridge-Pot.
My Belly too grows lank, for she
Had no Rice-Milk, nor Furmety.
All Friends I try'd, not one was willing
To Credit me with one poor Shilling;
In this Distress, without advising,
I fell to cursed Satyrising.
Oh! pity me, or I am lost,
Far worse than when in Blanket tost;
And if this time I'm spar'd from whipping,
If e'er again you catch me tripping,
May all the Plagues that e'er befel
A Poet poor, on this side Hell,
Seize me at once, and may I be
A publick Mark of Infamy.
May all my Whores and Duns o'ertake me,
And all my Friends, even Bess, forsake me:
And may the P---, with which I struggle,
Join'd with the Gout, afflict me double:
May I at last by Inches die,
First lose a Nose, and then an Eye;
And when I'm dead, then may I have
A just Memento on my Grave.

An ELEGY,

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

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

No longer your expected Play conceal,
But to a more impartial Court appeal.
The righteous few, true to the Cause of Wit,
Will soon reverse the Sentence of the Pit.
Why should their Censure Men of Sense alarm?
Those Sons of Muggleton can do no harm.
The Wit, that oft their hasty Malice dooms,
Outlives its Judges, nay, outlasts their Tombs.
Thus 'twas my Fate to visit once a Friend,
Whom dire foreboding Omens did attend:
The Doctor tells him, Sir, your Hour is nigh,
Send for the Parson, and prepare to die.
In vain the help of Physic you implore,
Art has been try'd, but Art can do no more.
With this the angry Patient rais'd his Head,
And Doctor, do you then conclude me dead?
Peace, you grave Sot, elsewhere your Cant bestow,
I'll bury half the College e'er I go.
And spite of that learn'd Phiz, and reverend Beard,
Will live to see your Rascalship interr'd.
Thus he run on, and as his Stars decreed,
Was soon from his unkind Distemper freed;
Left his vain gaping Kindred in the lurch,
And saw the Velvet Fop born decently to Church.

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

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

Upon persecuting it with Cat-calls.

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

A Pastoral on the Death of Queen MARY.

Prologue to a Musick Speech in the Theatre in Oxford.

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

The EPILOGUE.

Upon Mr. Creech's Translation of Lucretius.

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

Since 'tis your only Study, and your Care,
How to dispose of Bob, your Son and Heir,
I'll give you my Advice, Sir, in this grand Affair,
If Bob's ingenious, and a Boy of Parts,
Do not debauch him with the lib'ral Arts.
Those jilting Whores, instead of Silk and Satin,
Equipt in Linsey-woolsey, Greek, and Latin,
Will spoil his Fortune if they once come at him.
But if he is mercurially inclin'd;
Of Wit sagacious, and heroic Mind,
He'd best pursue those honourable Courses
Of picking Pockets, and of taking Purses;
And I'll prescribe the Lad a safe and true Gate,
How to avoid the dreaded Path of Newgate;
Lest bloody Judge and Jury should transport
The Boy to Tyburn—Send him to the Court;
Where in a Fortnight's Time he'll learn his Cue,
Under—
To pick the Pockets of a free-born Nation,
In furnishing two Dishes for Collation:
Like learned Cooks, as all Men grant they are,
To make the self-same Sauce to Peace and War
What better are we for this boasted Quiet,
If we must pawn our Birth-right for our Diet?
But since it is by Providence decreed,
That Liberty and Property must bleed;
This only Comfort will their Suff'rings ease,
That, like good Christians, they depart in Peace.
You cannot, Sir, do better for your Lad,
Than bind him an Apprentice to this Trade:
The King's his Surety, and will not neglect him,
But with a Standing-Army still protect him.
Yet if Bob's Talent lie not in his Brains,
Make him a Parson, Neighbour, by all Means.
His Road unto Preferment, Sir, is chalk'd,
In all my Life I ne'er knew Blockhead balk'd.
As rankest Weeds in richest Soil are found,
So Spiritual Hemlock thrives in Holy Ground.
The Church and State, like Sharpers, cry out halves,
One claims the Fools, the other all the Knaves.
Thus, Sir, I've shewn you how your Son may rise
But do as seemeth good in your own Eyes:
For if your English Stomach can't digest
The rav'ning Courtier, or the Jackal Priest,
Teach him your self, and let the Son inherit
His Father's Acres, and his Father's Merit;
E'er Sense, that, like Aurora, does make Way
For brighter Reason the ensuing Day.
With Noll's great Image fill his dawning Soul,
His Fancy flatter, and his Judgment rule.
May's Actions suit unto his Country's Fame,
And keep the Rebel in the English Name.
Let him, like me, all Monarchy oppose,
And pluck the Idol by his Roman Nose.

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

And have you now at length resolv'd to take
The Oath, so long refus'd for Conscience sake?
So fam'd a Champion for the Loyal Church,
(So call'd) to leave her, and her Friends, i'th' Lurch!
Doctor, in short, you have amaz'd us all,
Making that Nothing you Religion call.
Had you comply'd at first, 't had been a Jest,
And you no more to blame, than were the rest;
But after such mature Deliberation,
(Preaching up Loyalty in spite o'th' Nation)
At last to turn Apostate on a sudden,
Shews, tho' a Church-man, that you are no good One.
The Senseless Book y' have Writ in your Defence;
Discovers more your Guilt, than Innocence:
Each Argument therein does seem to say,
Your Reason, with Religion, 's fled away.
Now some pretend you tempted were by Woman,
Nay, by a Wife, which is a thing not common,
To Sin against the Laws Divine and Humane:
Her Importunity was such, they say,
When you did Preach, she never ceas'd to Pray;
Until at length, by force of much Perswasion,
She brought your Doctorship into the Fashion,
To take an Oath, to justify the Reign
Of William, till King James return'd again.
But, Doctor, most believe what she cou'd say,
Had not prevail'd to make you go astray,
And with the present Government to join,
If little William had not past the Boyn:
But now you from your Principles do swerve,
For fear that you and yours shou'd come to starve;
Trusting to Providence (it seems) your Soul,
But for your Body, you're not such a Fool.
Doctor, in fine, you'll live to curse your Fate,
And then repent, (alas!) when 'tis too late!
Reproachful Ruin still such Crimes attends;
Your Friends you've made your Foes, your Foes no Friends.

AN EPITAPH ON Dr. SHERLOCK, 1707.