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 |
 | 1. |
|
|
| 2. |
|
| I. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| II. |
|
| 3. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| 4. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
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.
|
 | The works of Mr. Thomas Brown |  |
Tho. Brown's Recantation of his Satyr on the French King. Suppos'd by some to be by Mr. Brown, tho' said by others to be Written by a Nonjurant-Parson.
Facit Recantatio Versum.
And has this Bitch my Muse trapan'd me?
Then I'm as much undone as can be;
I knew the Jilt would never leave me
Till to a Prison she'd deceiv'd me:
322
That taught the Trade of Rhyming first:
'Tis a damn'd Trade, and who pursues it,
I'll pass my word, at last he rues it:
Homer and Virgil were but Tools,
Fit, only for the use of Fools.
And Horace too, with all his Art,
To Men of Sense not worth a Fart;
Even Causabon for Satyr Famous
Was but a jingling Ignoramus.
And all the rest to Ben and so forth
A Crew of useless Things of no worth:
But now I have no time to rail,
The Hog hath got another Tail;
My Wits are rather on the Wrack
To save my own Poetick Back:
Yet by the way, 'tis very hard,
Poets of all Men should be barr'd
From labouring in their proper Station;
Why, where's the Justice of the Nation?
Believe me, Sirs, as I'm a Sinner,
I writ that Satyr for a Dinner:
And Stampt it with a Parson's Name,
Not as I meant them any Shame,
But since I must the Matter tell,
I thought 'twould make the Paper sell;
By all that's good, and all that true is,
I ever lov'd and honour'd Lewis:
He's Great and Wise, more could I say,
But fear again to disobey,
And for his Priests, I here protest,
I value them like all the rest:
And tho' I curst them all, what then?
The Men are honest harmless Men.
Next for King James and Prince of Wales,
I always wish'd them happy Gales,
And for my sawcy naming Molly,
I own 'twas Impudence and Folly.
323
Why that was but Poetick furor,
I know I have ungrateful been,
'Twas raging Hunger drew me in
T'abuse those very Friends that have
Almost preserv'd me from the Grave;
They're honest Men, mark what I say,
If I love any Priests, 'tis they.
I now confess 'tis highly base,
T'insult the Gown in such a Case:
And could the Thing be done again,
I'd starve before I'd wrong such Men.
What shall I say, I here recant,
And own my self a Sycophant:
But oh! I fear that will not do,
A Thousand dismal Thoughts pursue.
I'm all in pain, and let me tell ye,
My Back begins to curse my Belly;
I'm just as if at Cart's-Arse ty'd,
With Hangman grinning by my Side,
And Mob of all sorts crowding round me,
Advising Ketch to swindge me soundly;
And what torments me worst of all,
Methinks that some among them bawl,
'Tis he that for a Crown to spend,
Reviles Crown'd Heads, betrays his Friend.
All this, 'tis true, I well deserve,
And yet 'tis very hard to starve;
So that if Things were rightly stated,
Part of my Sentence might be bated;
I was of Poppins-Alley Chief,
Till forc'd from thence to seek Relief;
And to avoid some dang'rous Rogues
Took Shelter among Pedagogues.
'Twas then, like the Sicilian King,
Under strict Laws I Boys did bring;
And tho' I was but a Viceroy,
I could command the chiefest Boy:
324
Before I left my Government,
Was charg'd with Male-Administration,
And so pull'd down from Regal Station.
To Town again disgrac'd I came,
For now 'tis time to hide my Shame;
Where since I sharp'd, and spung'd and tick'd,
Being always scorn'd, and sometimes kick'd,
And yet the worst is still behind,
Oh! hear me but, and you'll be kind.
For three long Weeks my Muse and I
Had been shut up in Garret high:
The Cause I think I need not tell
Poet with P--- convertible;
While thus I lay in desperate state
In comes a Bawd whose Name was Kate;
A Rampant Jade, where once I tabled,
Who finding me of Strength disabled,
Not Vows nor Promises could save me,
But off she tears the Cloaths she gave me.
And thus of Coat, e'en Shirt, bereft,
Poor naked Tom in Bed was left.
In this most sharp and strange Distress,
'Twas then I thought on trusty Bess;
Who, tho' I knew she was but poor,
I always found a faithful Whore:
To her with Art I made Petition,
And briefly told my sad Condition.
But I forgot to tell you how
With hot Ox-cheek, and Heel of Cow,
With Trotters neat, and Tripe like Jelly,
She oft had fill'd my empty Belly.
And one thing more I had forgot
Hot Furmety and Rice-Milk hot
She never let me want; for why,
It was her Trade the same to cry.
I thought (poor Fool) she'd pity me,
Who thus resolv'd to set me free.
325
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.
| The works of Mr. Thomas Brown | |