University of Virginia Library

1. Volume 1.

Tho. Brown's Epitaph,

English'd by Dr. Browne.

The Beauties, to Armida.

Easie to Love, much easier to Change,
Uncircumscrib'd my wanton Passions range.
With sure Success each fair Enchanter sets,
Toils for my Heart, and spreads her blooming Nets;
The faithless Wantan soon a Freedom gains,
And from another feels repeated Chains.
To every Saint I most devoutly fall,
My superstitious Love adores them all;
I swear by Love, and by the Pain he brings,
My Soul's inconstant as the Wanton's Wings,
No lovely Maid cou'd ever fix my Mind,
Or all my Heart in Love's soft Circles bind;
Too partial Fate, to frame my Soul for Joys,
Which my uncertain Temper soon destroys:
Whilst for each Fair, successively I burn,
My Roving Heart meets no sincere Return.
Come then, Great God of Love, and take my Part,
And fix for ever my inconstant Heart;
Why will you see your faithful Slave abus'd,
The pleasing Pain of loving long, refus'd?
Why must I make my solemn Vows in vain?
I, who your Empire did so well maintain?
I, who so far did Loves soft Power extend,
And made the Chaste before your Altars bend?
Hear but this once with a propitious Ear,
And by yourself and Venus Eyes, I swear,
A Thousand Offerings each returning Day
My grateful Heart shall most devoutly pay;
Hear me, Great God, and grant my last Request,
Since no Terrestrial Maid can charm my Breast;
Make one on purpose, and from every Fair,
Some Beauty snatch, to make the Charmer rare:
There to begin, whence Love himself does rise,
Let her have Sylvia's kind engaging Eyes,
In which dear Circles all Incentives move,
To cause, confirm, and entertain my Love.
His surest Net, there wanton Cupid lays,
And as he wounds, about her Eye-balls plays.
Sometimes how soft and charming they appear!
Sometimes Tyrannick, with a Look severe,
They drive the worthiest Lover to Despair.
Wisdom and Sense in vain her Victims aid,
To break her Chains, too strong her Eyes persuade.
Armida's Neck with grateful Motion turn,
Where purple Streams in winding Channels run;
Next Place, Serena's white enchanting Breast,
On which imperial Jove himself might rest;
To meet the Touch, those lovely Hills arise,
And every Motion does our Sense surprize;
But oh! two snowy Mounts so near her Heart,
Still keep it cold, and quench Love's hottest Dart;
Between those Hills, a Milky Way there leads,
Not to the Skies, or the Elizian-Meads,
But here's a Path to greater Pleasures shown,
For which the Gods have oft forsook their own.
Happy's the Man enters this sacred Grove,
And treads the Mazes of Mysterious Love.
And next, great Love, below this charming Breast,
Lesbia's engaging Belly must be plac'd,
A Cupulo to thy most awful Shrine,
Whence comes your Pow'r, which Mortals make Divine.
This is the truest Heliconian Spring,
By which inspired Bards first learnt to sing;
Venus her Charms, Phœbus his Silver Bow,
Jove does his Thunder to the Poets owe.
The Gods themselves by their Assistance live,
Eternal Fame their deathless Pages give.
If more Perfections you expect below,
Her Legs and Feet must bright Almeria show.
Gods! How she takes me with a vast Surprize!
Oh Love, how charming is thy Paradise!
Next, over all, must Phryne's Skin be drawn,
Lucid and clear as the first Orient Dawn,
Thro' which most lovely and unfaithful Screen,
The various Passions of the Soul are seen;
And all the Tumults of her Virgin Breast,
By Fear, Disdain, or softer Love possest.
To Laura's Waste, let Lydia's Air invite,
A dear Temptation to that strait Delight:
From her Apelles might his Pattern take,
From her alone a brighter Venus make.
Let her, like Cloe, tread an even Pace,
And print in every Step she takes, a Grace;
May she in Measure, like Clarinda move,
And sing as charming as the Saints above.
Let Laura's Air in every Act appear,
Raising Desire, and yet commanding Fear.
And next, great God, that she may nothing want,
Of all that I can ask, or you can grant,
Let her, Oh let her like dear Claria Kiss
Like her transport me with surprizing Bliss.
Help me ye Powers of Love, I faint, I die,
The Thought screws Nature to a pitch too high,
Scarcely my Breast my fleeting Soul retains,
And Gusts of Pleasure hurry thro' my Veins.
One touch of hers—
More Bliss contains than pamper'd Prelates prove
In snacht Embraces of forbidden Love.
To my last Prayer, propitious Love be kind,
And make the Fair bewitching in her Mind,
Good Sense and Wit in the same Person joyn'd,
Seldom our strictest Inquisitions find;
Unite two Stocks to form the witty She,
Dorinda's Sense, and Flavia's Repartee.
The wanton God smil'd on his humble Slave,
As when Adonis he his Mother gave;
When strait Heaven's Gates by Love's supream Command,
Were open set; for what can Love withstand?
Soft breezing Zephyrs bring the Virgin down,
A Gift Divine that must my Passion crown;
I threw myself devoutly at her Feet,
Where all Perfections, all the Graces meet,
But by the God commanded to arise,
I saw Armida, to my vast Surprize;
So rich in Charms, and so divine her Air,
The Queen of Love was scarce herself so fair.
With eager Arms I clasp'd the lovely Maid,
My humble Thanks to mighty Love I paid,
And as I wanted nothing else, for nothing pray'd.

[Soteria Ormondiana] The same in English, upon the Recovery of the Duke of Ormond.

Such cruel Accents, sad Ierne, spare:
Cease these untimely Sighs and needless Care,
Ormond's recover'd, who for Greatness born,
The labouring State protects and does adorn,
Ye sacred Domes, where Jove's bright Daughters dwell,
The happy Change in lasting Numbers tell.
Dublin rejoyce, than whom Apollo more
Cythæron loves not, nor the Delian Shore.
The conscious Rocks, loud Acclamations reach,
And Joys luxurious rend the Ouzie Beech.
The Clifts and Hills, my echoed Thoughts rehearse,
Applaud my Subject and approve my Verse.
Rebellious Croud, sincere Religious Foe,
Averse to Kings, and God that made them so,
Who pious Frauds, and most Religious Lyes,
With better Art than cloystered Priests devise.
What Lust of Power, or what nefarious Charms,
Ferment your Blood and boil you into Arms,
The God of War far from your Thoughts remov'd
Nor break his Slumbers with the Queen of Love,
By Heavens Command, he is to Health restor'd,
Whose prudent Councils or decisive Sword,
With gentle Calms this happy Isle shall bless,
Shall Foreign Storms and Civil Feuds suppress.
E're rising down to shade his Cheeks began
His Worth and Actions fully prov'd him Man;
His early Youth in Loyal Arms did shine,
And drove the vanquish'd Scots beyond the Tyne.
Great Pompey thus with Thoughts of Glory fir'd,
From Youth's soft Joys and Houshold Gods retir'd,
Vanquish'd Numidians by his Arms undone,
Ne'er greater Battles lost nor Romans won.
Ye tuneful Sisters, who the Ruin know,
The dismal Fate of sad Ierne show,
Your Sacred Seats by cruel Rage o'erthrown,
And Gods exil'd from Temples once their own.
Sacred to Arts Eblana, calm Retreat
Of Vertue, Science, and the Muses Seat.
Oh Shades indulgent to the Poets Dreams!
Oh Groves! oh Laurels! oh eternal Streams.
In Learning's School, young Wolves and Leopards ran
And play'd secure from the Destroyer, Man;
Say what hard Fate opprest your Reverend Fame,
Then only Ruins, and an empty Name,
Whilst Tears of Blood from pale Iverna run,
She shews her Wounds to her illustrious Son;
Conjures his Aid, and Valour early known,
By his Paternal Vertues and his own.
To assert her Right, Revenge her cruel Harms,
And free his Country by the Force of Arms,
The piercing Accents swift as Lightning burn,
Consume his Soul, and thro' his Marrow run.
Once more, says he, Bellona me invites,
To Seas of Blood and execrable Sights.
Fain would my Soul the Calms of Peace have try'd,
Snatch'd to the Main by the returning Tide,
My Sword, Great Charles, and injur'd Virtue draws,
The best of Masters, and the justest Cause.
Fresh Laurels Fate does for my Brow prepare,
Tho' all Mankind oppose the Holy War;
Cæsar, to aid, and end Rebellious Strife,
He vows his Fortune, Honour, and his Life.
Presaging Fires around his Temples shine,
The Conscious Omens of a Will Divine,
As Lightning swift, or Storms of Hail and Rain,
Dreadful as Mars upon the Thracian Plain.
To Battel flies, near bright Simois Streams,
So look'd the God with such refulgent Beams,
What Toils, what Dangers must the Hero run,
What Heat endure by a too scorching Sun,
Expos'd to Death, which he disdains to shun?
The Rebel Troops, no rest his Fire allows,
Scourge of their Crimes, and violated Vows,
What various Armour spread the purple Fields,
What Colours torn, what glitt'ring Helms and Shields?
Neglected Horses range along the Plain,
Their Chariots broke, and generous Riders slain!
Not with Success alone the Hero fought,
But also Peace unto his Country brought;
That gentle Goddess did serenely smile,
And Olive Branches crown'd his finish'd Toil.
His Prudence shut fell Janus brazen Doors,
And Law and Justice to the State restores.
So blest Ierne, when Astræa Reign'd,
When Man and Beast one common Shed contain'd.
E're impious Ploughs to wound the Earth began,
And floating Pines were steer'd by daring Man.
Oh! may no Cares disturb the Hero's Life,
His happy Hours not intermixt with Strife;
May all his Days be white, his Joys serene,
And Sorrow only by his Foes be seen.
I fear, (may Heaven avert the dire Presage)
Juverna's Fortune may embroil his Age;
Too much of War his honour'd Worth hath known,
Drawing the Sword of Justice and his own.
May Fate his Grace late from these Isles remove,
To Realms Divine, and Heaven's high Court above.
His Mind enlarg'd, and boundless as the Sky,
Shall unknown Worlds and Heaven's Recesses spy.
The fierce Emotions that disturb Mankind,
Our Hopes and Fears that shake the trembling Mind,
From thence he'll view, and with Contempt look down,
Both on the Pains and Pleasure of a Crown.
Thus after all the Toils impos'd by Fate,
By angry Gods and conscious Juno's Hate,
Divine Alcides breathes Celestial Air,
Bless'd with a Goddess ever young and fair.

The beginning of the first Satire of Persius imitated.

The PROLOGUE, addrest to Mr. Midgly.

'Tis true, nor is it worth Denial,
My Verse has never yet stood Trial
Of Poetick Smiths that meet still,
At Urwin Tom's, or Urwin Will;
(For thus, Sir, Modern Revolution
Has split the Wits, t'avoid Confusion,
And set up Brother against Brother,
That they mayn't clapper-claw each other.)
That I should think myself a Poet,
And vainly dare in Print to shew it:
I, who never pass'd, as yet,
The Test of the mis-judging Pit,
Nor i'th' Galleries tickl'd Crowd,
'Till they have clap'd and laugh'd aloud:
Nor from the tender Boxes e'er
Yet have drawn one pitying Tear:
Nor with Sir Courtly, Roundelays
Have made to garnish out new Plays;
Nor Virgil's great majestick Lines
Melted into enervate Rhimes;
Nor witty Horace, e'er did venture
To burlesque into modern Banter;
Nor gentle Ovid e'er did force
To zounds a River for a Horse;
Nor, in sharp Juvenal's stronger Verse,
Perverted into Dogrel Farce;
Nor ever durst, as yet, presume
To venture on a meer Lampoon;
Nor, in short, few Words being best,
E'er could make a bawdy Jest.
I'll tell you then, since you'll needs know it,
Why I set up now for a Poet;
'Tis not for what most of us write,
To fill my Purse, or shew my Wit;
But purely out of real Affection,
To fill up my Friend's Collection.
Therefore, sweet Sir, in haste, adieu t'ye,
For I'll adjourn now to my Duty.

The beginning of the first Satire of Persius imitated.

Poet.
Oh the prepostrous Cares of Human Kind!
Which in each Action and each Wish we find!

Friend.
Prithee that Cant give o'er, or who will read?
You preach as solemnly, as 'twere your Trade.

P.
Speak you to me?

F.
To thee say'st? yes egad—
Why surely, Jack, thou'rt absolutely mad,
For none will on such formal Verses look,
But damn the Author, and despise the Book.

P.
None, say you, Sir?

F.
Or one or two at most;
And is't not hard to've all your Labours lost?
To have your Works on Bulks all dusty lie,
And all your Thoughts for want of Readers die?
Your precious Lines serv'd up to Nocks, or Pye?

P.
Mistake not, Friend, I chase not empty Fame,
Nor write to please the Town, or get a Name.
Let the Vain Herd of noisy Wits and Beaux,
To whom they please, their worthless Praise dispose,
It ne'er one Moment shall break my Repose.
Or what care I, if th'undiscerning Town
Prefer dull A--- to me, or perter Br---n;
Let his tagg'd Nonsense, t'others Wilds of Wit,
With Cits and Boys still fond Applauses get:
But you, my Friend, steer a securer Course,
And by the common Judgment ne'er form yours,
Most Men, by publick Vogue, condemn or praise,
And never weigh the Merits of the Cause:
Let not that Balance you to either side,
By Wisdom's Noble Rule, your Sentence guide.
Oh! that I could, spight of my beardless Youth,
With a prevailing Force, now urge the Truth!

F.
Stay but a while, till Reverend Age comes on,
(Thy fleeting Years of Youth will soon be gone)
Then will Grey Hairs on all thou say'st print Awe,
A dictatorial Youth does Envy draw,
Authority with all thy Precepts go,
Tho' from his Pen the noblest Truths do flow.

P.
Oh! that's too long, I must before that Time,
Lash the vile Town with my Satiric Rhime.

F.
That must not be—pray take a Friend's Advice.

P.

F.
Enough for one Time, sure is one such Fool.

A SATIRE against WOMAN.

To a Lady who let a fine Gentleman die for Love of her.

A Satire on MARRIAGE.

A Satire upon the French King, on the Peace of Reswick.

Written by a Non-Swearing-Parson and dropt out of his Pocket at Sam's Coffee-House.

Being committed for the foregoing Satire, he wrote the following Petition to the Lords in Council Assembled, by which he receiv'd his Enlargement from Prison.

PINDARICK.

Humbly Sheweth,

Shou'd you order Tho. Brown,
To be whip'd thro' the Town,
For scurvy Lampoon,
Grave S---n and Crown,
Their Pens wou'd lay down.
Even Durfey himself, and such merry Fellows,
That put their whole Trust in Tunes and Trangdilloes,
May hang up their Harps and themselves on the Willows,
For if Poets are punish'd for libelling Trash,
John Dryden, tho' Sixty, may yet fear the Lash,
No Pension, no Praise,
Much Birch without Bays,
These are not right Ways,
Our Fancy to raise,
To the writing of Plays,
And Prologues so witty,
That jirk at the City,
And now and then hit,
Some Spark in the Pit,
So hard and so pat,
'Till he hides with his Hat,
His monstrous Cravat,
The Pulpit alone,
Can never preach down,
The Fops of the Town.
Then pardon Tho. Brown,
And let him write on;
But if you had rather, convert the poor Sinner,
His foul Mouth may be stop'd with a Dinner;
Give him Cloaths to his Back, some Meat, and much Drink,
Then clap him close Prisoner without Pen and Ink,
And your Petitioner shall neither Pray, Write, nor Think.

A Satire upon an ignorant Quack, that murder'd a Friend's Child, and occasion'd the Mother, upon the News of it, to Miscarry.

An Inscription upon a Tobacco-Box.

By Dr. Spratt, Bishop of Rochester.

An Imitation of it in English. By Mr. Brown.

When with rank Poison Heaven equipt Pandora,
She ope'd the Box like a confounded Whore-a,
And of Diseases strait flew out a Score-a.
But now, since Jove, like a good-natur'd Brother,
Gives us the Indian Weed to funk and smother,
One Box has made Attonement for another.

To a Young Lady, who appeared frequently leaning out of her Chamber Window.

When Venus naked from the Sea arose,
She did not half so many Charms expose,
Nor when for the decisive Fruit she strove,
Shew'd Paris half so rich a View of Love:
Nay, when she clasp'd Adonis in her Arms,
The melting Goddess had not half your Charms:
Less firm her snowy Breast, her Skin less white,
Her lovely Limbs less tempting to Delight.
How shall we then express those Charms below,
Which you and Nature both forbear to show?
So fair an Hostess, and so fair a Sign,
Would force a Trade, and recommend bad Wine.
Water from such a Spring is sweeter far,
Than all the Clusters of the Vintage are,
Let Bacchanalians and the empty Beaux,
Hunt out Champain, Burgundy, and Bourdeaux.
To fetch some Drops from that dear shady Well,
Wou'd all the Nectar of the Gods excell.
Your Eyes assure us that you can dispense
Peculiar Joys for each peculiar Sense;
Then having let us see, pray let us taste
Those dear conceal'd Delights below the Waste;
'Twere Madness to expect to keep ones Heart,
When Cupid lies intrench'd in every Part.
How shall we guard our Freedom from Surprize,
When your least Charms are in your conquering Eyes?

Upon a Lady's being disappointed by a young Scotch Lord.

The Temperate Epicure, written by that Celebrated Wit of France, Monsieur la Fountaine, when troubled with a Rheumatism.

Imitated in English by Mr. Tho. Brown.

An Epigram upon Sir R. B.

Such swarms of Wits on Blackmore; most absurd!
Two Thousand Flies attack a new-fall'n T---,
In which great Fray, each unsuccessful Fly
Loses his Sting, beshits his little Thigh:
From whence this useful Moral's clearly shown,
Better the Fly had let the T--- alone.

An EPIGRAM.

[A Saph takes the wisest Course]

A Saph takes the wisest Course,
To prop three sinking Nations:
For Partridge only bribes the Stars,
But he the Revelations.

On a Blind Man in Love.

If Argus with a Hundred Eyes, not one
Could guard, hop'st thou to keep thine, who hast none?

On the TAX upon SALT.

The Emblem o'th' Nation, so Grave and Precise,
On the Emblem of Wisdom have laid an Excise:
Pray tell me, grave Sparks, and your Answer don't smother,
Why one Representative Taxes another?
The Commons on Salt a new Impost have laid,
To Tax Wisdom too, they most humbly are pray'd;
For tell me ye Patrons of Woollen and Crape,
Why the Type shou'd be fin'd, and the Substance escape?

The Pleasures of LOVE.

A SONG.

Cupid turn'd Tinker.

The General LOVER.

In all Love's Dominions I challenge the Boy,
To shew such a forward frank Lover as I,
So faithful and true where my Promise is past,
At the first so sincere, and so warm at the last.
Imprimis, I've sworn true Allegiance to Phillis,
And the same I have done to divine Amarillis.
Then to Cælia the fair, I my Heart did resign,
Next I laid down the Trifle at Iris's Shrine.
Calista then gently put in for the Prize,
Nor did the coy Sylvia my Offering despise.
But now you'll enquire, can they all quarter there?
Why, Madam, my Heart's large enough, never fear.
There's room for my Phillis,
And soft Amarillis:
And Cælia the Fair,
Who need not despair
Of a good Lodging there:
With Iris, Calista, and Sylvia beside.
Yes, Madam, this oft by Experience I've try'd.
So large is the Place, and so plenteous my Store,
I with ease can provide for six Mistresses more,
Nay, if you distrust me, e'en send me a Score.

A Tale from Bocas, or a Cure for Cuckoldom.

The Highlander, a Satire.

An Epigram, occasion'd by the News that Sir R--- Bl---re's Paraphrase upon Job was in the Press.

Upon the Knighting Sir R--- B---re, for his incomparable Poem call'd King Arthur.

Be not puff'd up with Knighthood, Friend of mine,
A merry Prince once Knighted a Sir-Loin.
And, if to make Comparisons were safe,
An Ox deserves it better than a Calf.
Thy Pride and State I value not a Rush,
Thou that art now Knight Phyz, wast once King Ush.

Upon King Arthur, partly writ in the Doctor's Coach, and partly in a Coffee-House.

Let the malicious Criticks snarl and rail,
Arthur immortal is, and must prevail.
In vain they strive to wound him with their Tongue,
The Lifeless Fœtus can receive no wrong.
As rattling Coach once thunder'd thro' the Mire,
Out dropt Abortive Arthur from his Sire.
Well may he then both Time and Death defy,
For what was never born, can never die.

Upon seeing a Man light a Pipe of Tobacco in a Coffee-House with a Leaf of King Arthur.

In Coffee-House begot, the short-liv'd Brat
By Instinct thither hasts to meet his Fate.
The Phœnix to Arabia thus returns,
And in the Grove that gave her Birth, she burns.
Thus wand'ring Scot, when through the World he'as past,
Revisits ancient Tweed with pious haste,
And on Paternal Mountain dies at last.

Epigram, occasion'd by the Passage in the Satire against Wit, that reflects upon Mr. Tate, and ends thus: He's honest, and, as Wit comes in, will pay.

Rail on, discourteous Knight: If modest Tate
Is slow in making Payments, what of that?
So is th'Exchequer, so are half the Lords,
On whom thou hast bestow'd such sugar'd Words.
Envy itself must own this Truth of Nahum,
That when the Muses call, he strives to pay 'em.
But can we this of thy damn'd Hackney say,
Who as she nothing has, can nothing pay?
Then be advis'd, rail not at Tate so fast,
A Psalm of his may chance to be thy last.

A Story of a Greek Chevalier, Predecessor in a direct Line to the British Knight.

When fir'd with Glory, Philip's Godlike Son
The Persian Empire like a Storm o'er-run,
A worthless Scribbler, Cherilus by Name,
In pompous Doggrel, soil'd the Hero's Fame;
The Grecian Prince, to Merit ever just,
(For Monarchs did not then Reward on Trust)
Read o'er his Rhimes, and to chastise such Trash,
Gave him for each offending Line a Lash.
Thus Bard went off, with many Drubs requited,
That's in plain English, Cherilus was Knighted.

To Elkanah Settle, the City-Poet.

Wilt thou then passive see the Sacred Bays
Torn from thy Brows in thy declining Days,
And tamely let a Quack usurp thy Place,
So near Guild-Hall, and in my Lord-Mayor's Face?
Rouze up for shame, assert thy ancient Right,
And from his City-Quarters drive the Knight.
Let Father Jordan Martial Heat inspire,
And Unkle Taubman fill thy Breast with Fire.
If Bl---re cries, both Arthurs are my own,
Quote thou the fam'd Cambyses, and Pope Joan.
Cheapside at once two Bards can ne'er allow;
But either he must abdicate, or thou.
Then if the Knight still keeps up his Pretence,
E'en turn Physician in thy own Defence.
'Tis own'd by all the Criticks of our Time,
Thou canst as well Prescribe, as Bl---re Rhime.

To the Author of the Satire against Wit, upon concealing his Name.

He that in Arthur's Trash has Penance done,
Need not be told who writ this vile Lampoon;
In both the same eternal Dulness shines,
Inspires the Thoughts, and animates the Lines;
In both the same lewd Flattery we find,
The Praise defaming, and the Satire kind.
Alike the Numbers, Fashion, and Design,
No Chequer-Tallies could more nicely join.
Thy foolish Muse puts on her Mask too late,
We know the Strumpet by her Voice and Gate.

On Job newly travestied by Sir R--- B---re.

To Sir R--- B---re, upon his unhappy Talent of Praising and Railing.

Thine is the only Muse in British Ground
Whose Satire tickles, and whose Praises wound.
Sure Hebrew first was taught her by her Nurse,
Where the same Word is us'd to bless and curse.

On Sir R--- B---re's Project to erect a Bank of Wit.

The Thought was great, and worthy of a Cit,
In present Dearth t'erect a Bank of Wit.
Thus breaking Tradesmen, ready for a Jayl,
Raise Millions for our Senate o'er their Ale.
But thou'rt declar'd a Bankrupt, and thy Note
E'en in old Grub-street scarce could fetch a Groat.
Apollo scorns the Project, and the Nine
With Indignation laugh at thy Design.
There's not a Trader to the Sacred Hill,
But knows thy Wants, and would protest thy Bill.
Thy Credit can't a Farthing there command,
Tho' Freake and Rimer should thy Sureties stand.

To Sir R--- B---re, on the two Wooden Horses before Sadlers-Hall.

Epigram upon King Arthur.

An Epitome of a Poem truly call'd, A Satire against Wit; done for the undeceiving of some Readers, who have mistaken the Panegyrick in that immortal Work for the Satire, and the Satire for the Panegyrick.

Who can forbear, and tamely silent sit,

l. 1. p. 3.

And see his native Land as void of Wit

l. 2.

As every Piece the City Knight has writ?
How happy were the old unpolish'd Times,

l. 13.

As free from Wit as other modern Crimes,

l. 14.

And what is more from Bl---re's nauseous Rhimes?
As our Forefathers vig'rous were and brave,

l. 15.

So they were virtuous, wise, discreet and grave,

l. 16.

And would have call'd our Quack a fawning Slave.
Clodpate, by Banks, and Stocks, and Projects bit,

l. 5 p. 5.

Turns up his Whites, and in his pious Fit,

l 6.

He Cheats and Prays, a certain sign of Cit.

l 7.

Craper runs madly 'midst the thickest Crowd,

l 8.

Sometimes says nothing, sometimes talks aloud.
Under the Means he lies, frequents the Stage,

l 10.

Is very lewd, and does at Learning rage;

l. 11.

And this vile Stuff we find in every Page.
A bant'ring Spirit has our Men possest,

l. 20.

And Wisdom is become a standing Jest,

l. 21.

Which is a burning Shame. I do protest.
Wit does of Virtue sure Destruction make,

l. 22.

Who can produce a VVit, and not a Rake?

l. 23.

A Challenge started ne'er but by a Quack.
The Mob of Wits is up to storm the Town,

l. 1. p. 6.

To pull all Virtue and right Reason down,

l. 2.

Then to surprize the Tower, and steal the Crown.
And the lewd Crew affirm, by all that's good,

l. 15.

They'll not disperse till they have Bl**'s Blood,

l 16.

But they'll ne'er have his Brains, by good King Lud.
For that industrious Bard of late has done

l. 16. p. 6.

The rarest Piece of Wit that e'er was shown,

l. 17.

And publish'd Doggrel he's asham'd to own.
The skilful T*s*n's Name they dare invade,

l. 31. p. 6.

And yet they are undone without his Aid;

l. 2.

Did they read thee, I shou'd conclude 'em mad.
T**s**n with base Reproaches they pursue,

l. 1. p. 7.

Just as his Moor-Fields Patients us'd to do,

l. 4.

Who give to T**s**n what is T**s**n's due.
Wit does enfeeble and debauch the Mind,

l. 7.

Before to Business or to Arts inclin'd;

l. 8.

Then thou wilt never be debauch'd, I find.
Had S**s, H**f, or T**y, who with Awe

l. 15. to 18.

We name, been Wits, they ne'er had learnt the Law.
But sure the Compliment's not worth a Straw.
The Law will ne'er support the bant'ring Breed

l. 22.

Tho' Blockheads may, yet Wits can ne'er succeed,

l. 23.

For which Friend Sl**ne, I hope, will break thy Head
R***ff has Wit, and lavishes away

l. 24.

So much in nauseous Northern Brogue each Day,
As would suffice to damn a Smithfield Play.
Wit does our Schools and Colleges invade,

l. 20 p. 8.

And has of Letters vast Destruction made,

l. 21

But that it spoils thy Learning, can't be said.
That such a Failure no Man may incense,

l. 7. p. 10.

Let us erect a Bank for Wit and Sense,

l. 18.

And so set up at other Mens Expence.
Let S---r, D---t, S---ld, M---gue

l. 21.

Lend but their Names, the Project then will do.

l. 22.

What? lend 'em such a Bankrupt Wretch as you!
Duncombs and Claytons of Parnassus all,

l. 27.

Who cannot sink, unless the Hill should fall,

l. 28.

Why then they need but go to Sadlers-Hall,
St. E**m**nt, to make the Thing compleat,

l. 21. p. 9.

No English knows, and therefore is most fit
To oversee the coining of our Wit.

l. 22:

Nor shall M**rs, W***tt, Ch**rl**tt be forgot,
With solid Fr**ke and R***r, and who not?
Then all our Friends the Actions shall cry up,

l. 6 p. 12.

And all the railing Mouths of Envy stop.

l. 7.

Wou'd we could Padlock thine, eternal Fop.
The Project then will T***tts Test abide,

l. 11. p. 16.

And with his Mark please all the World beside,

l. 12.

But dare thy Arthurs by this Test be try'd?
Then what will D***n, G***h, or C*ng*ve say,

l 17. p 9.

When all their wicked Mixture's purg'd away?

l. 28.

Thy Metal's baser than their worst Allay.
What will become of S**th**n, W**ch**y,

l. 29.

Who by this Means will grievous Sufferers be?

l. 30.

No matter, they'll ne'er send a Brief to thee.
All these debauch'd by D**n and his Crew,

l. 22. p. 12.

Turn Bawds to Vice, and wicked Ends pursue,

l. 23.

To hear thee cant, would make even B---ss spue.
For now an honest Man can't peep abroad,

l. 9 p. 13.

Nor a chaste Muse, but whip they bring a Rod.

l. 16

E'n Atticus himself these Men would curse,

l 5. p. 14.

Should Atticus appear without his Purse,

l. 6.

If this be Praise, what Libel can be worse?
Nay, Darfell too, should he forbear to treat,

l 7. p. 14.

These Men that cry him up, their Words would eat,
And say in Scorn, he had no Brains to beat.

Epigram, Upon the Fortunate and Auspicious Reigns of Queen Elizabeth, of happy Memory, and our most Gracious Queen Ann.

Sure Heav'ns unerring Voice decreed of old
The fairest Sex should Europe's Balance hold;
As Great Eliza's Forces humbled Spain,
So France now stoops to Ann's superior Reign.
Thus tho' proud Jove with Thunder fills the Sky,
Yet in Astrea's Hands the fatal Scale does lie.

To Mr. Dryden, on his Conversion.

Traytor to God, and Rebel to thy Pen,
Priest-ridden Poet, perjur'd Son of Ben,
If ever thou prove honest, then the Nation
May modestly believe Transubstantiation.

Upon the Pensioners in the Parliament.

As when a Wolf or Fox too long does fleece
The Non-resisting Lambs, or Passive Geese,
The Peasants take th'Alarm, and seize the Foe,
And shouting Boys in long Ovation go;
The careful Housewife, to revenge her Wrongs,
Takes down the sharpest Spit, and heats her Tongs;
All their Resentments by their Curses show,
And happy's he that gives the greatest Blow.
Thro' every Street the stinking Vermin's led,
To the Town-Hall, and there they fix his Head.
First seize their Money, for 'tis all your due,
These Slaves did get it all by selling you.

A Comical Panegyrick on that familiar Animal, by the Vulgar call'd a Louse: By Mr. Willis, of St. Mary-Hall, Oxon; with some Additions by Mr. Tho. Brown.

Upon the Anonymous Author of Legion's humble Address to the Lords.

Thou Tool of Faction, mercenary Scribe,
Who preachest Treason to the Calves-head Tribe,
Whose fruitful Head, in Garret mounted high,
Sees Legions and strange Monsters in the Sky;
Who wou'dst with War and Blood thy Country fill
Were but thy Power as rampant as thy Will;
Well may'st thou boast thyself a Million strong,
But 'tis in Vermin that about thee throng.

To that most senseless Scoundrel, the Author of Legion's humble Address to the Lords, who wou'd persuade the People of England to leave the Commons, and depend upon the Lords.

A pleasant Dialogue beeween the Pillory and Daniel de Foe.

Pill.
Awake, thou busy Dreamer, and arise,
Shake off th'unwilling Slumber from thy Eyes,

De Foe.
Hail dread Tribunal, reverend Machine,
Of awful Phyz, and formidable Mein,
Thou Prop of Justice, Adjutant of Law,
That keep'st the Paper-blurring World in awe;
But why this early Visit made to me?
Must I again ascend thy Fatal Tree?

Pill.
No,—may'st thou never mount my Fabrick more,
With much Concern, last Time, thy Weight I bore;
And with regret, I see myself of late,
Made a meer Tool and Property of State;
Time was when Knaves, whom now for Gold they spare
And such-like Villains trod my Bosom Care.
The Scrivener and the Publick Notaries,
Forgers of Bonds and Wills, were all my Votaries;
Now I'm reverse (so humane Chances vary)
And vent the Spleen of peevish Secretary.

De Foe.
Was it not for this you broke my easy Rest?
You know what publick Failures I detest.
How some Grandees are in a mortal Rage,
To see we know the Scandal of our Age;
And as they are the Grievance of the Times,
Are most afraid of hearing their own Crimes.

The last Observator: Or, The Devil in Mourning. A Dialogue between John Tutchin and his Countryman.

Obs.
Come honest Countryman, what News dost bring?

Countr.
Faith, Master John, they say you're like to swing.

Obs.
You know I once for Hanging did Petition.

Countr.
Ay, see th'Effects of preaching up Sedition,
But the most general Report supposes,
You'll on the Pillory tell Peoples Noses,
When that Day comes—
Your trusty Farmer here most humbly begs
You'll let him give you a small Treat of Eggs.

Obs.
Jesting apart; hast with thee brought some Nancy,
Or Protestant March Beer to raise my Fancy?
Inspir'd by that, my Thoughts will quicker flow,
And I'll by far out-hymn the fam'd De Foe.

Countr.
No, not a Drop, I'm to be gull'd no more;
Too much you've trespass'd on the ancient Score.
I'll be no longer with Whig Birdlime caught,
Ne'er stir, I wou'd not save thee for a Groat.
Misled by thee, I left my Herds and Flocks,
And must turn Politician, with a Pox.

Obs.
And where's the harm to know the Springs of State?

Countr.
It only hasten'd Hone's and Rouse's Fate,

Obs.
Happen the worst, I've Friends will pay my cost.

Countr.
You reckon Nobs, I fear, without your Host.

Obs.
Won't merciful Low-Church espouse my Cause?

Countr.
They'll leave you to the Mercy of the Laws.

Obs.
But then the Whigs will back me tooth and nail.

Countr.
Yes, those are Saving Cards, that never fail.

Obs.
Old-Nick thus uses Witches, as they tell us,
And drops the gaping Wretches at the Gallows.
Will none my Person then from Malice Skreen?
Say, Countryman, what think'st thou of my Queen?

Countr.
'Slife not a word of her, thou Seandal-Pedlar
Thy Loyalty's as rotten as a Medlar.
After such Libelling the Royal Race,
How dar'st thou sue to Majesty for Grace?

Obs
What, am I then by all the World forsaken?

Countr.
E'en get your Friends the Jews to save your Bacon;
Or should you to the Devil's Church repair,
None will suspect you'd venture Play-house Air.

Obs.
Howe'er I'm thus abandon'd by the rest,
Yet while I'm still with thy dear Friendship blest—

Countr.
No Friendship nor Relief expect from me,
Thro' all thy thin Pretences now I see;
No more with sowre Republicans I'll herd,
But pluck those prating Rascals by the Beard.
No more with Mercenary Scribes take part,
But get me Home, and mind my Plough and Cart;
Scow'r o'er my Grounds by break of Day, old Tutchin,
And freely pay my Taxes without grudging.
No more notch'd Levi's holy Buckram hear,
But with my Betters to the Church I'll steer.
Dance with our Lads and Lasses on the Green,
Then steal a harmless Buss—And so—

Advice to the Kentish Long-Tails, by the Wise Men of Gotham. In answer to their late sawcy Petition to the Parliament, 1701

We, the Long-Heads of Gotham, o'er our merry Cups meeting,
To the Long-Tails of Kent, by these Presents send Greeting:
WHEREAS we're inform'd, that your Maid-stone Grand Jury,
A most Monstrous Petition has pen'd in a Fury,
We are strangely surpriz'd at the News, we'll assure ye.
Unless both our Reading and Memory fails,
Old Kent has been fam'd, not for Heads, but for Tails.
Not to make on your Intellects any Reflection,
The Senate needs none of the Kentish Direction
To prevent foreign Insults, and home Insurrection,
Without your intruding and sage interposing,
And thrusting where no Body calls you, your Nose in,
Our Commons will steer the great Boat of themselves,
And save it from dashing on Rocks or on Shelves;
They'll provide for our Tarrs, and settle the Nation.
Then let each private Man be content in his Station.
We therefore advise you to lead sober Lives,
To look after your Orchards, and comfort your Wives.
To Gibbets and Gallows your Owlers advance,
That, that's the sure way to mortify France;
For Monsieur our Nation will always be gulling,
While you take such care to supply him with Woollen.
And if your Allegiance to Cæsar's so great,
All smuggling and stealing of Customs defeat,
Or else all your Loyalty's nought but a Cheat.
Above all, let each Long-Tail his Talent employ,
On his Spouse's soft Anvil to get such a Boy
As will equal in Vigour the fam'd William Joy.
Then in Peace you may eat both your boil'd and your Roast,
And the French will be damn'd e'er they Land on your Coast.

To a Lady, whom he refus'd to Marry, because he lov'd her.

Marriage! the greatest Cheat that Priesthood e'er contriv'd,
The sanctify'd Intriegue, by which poor Man's decoy'd,
That damn'd Restraint to Pleasure and Delight,
Th'unlawful Curber of the Appetite.
Curst be the Sot that first the Chains put on,
That added to the Fall, and made us twice undone.
The Sex that liv'd before in a free common State,
Or Golden Age, ne'er knew this Pious Cheat;
Then Love was unadulterate and true,
Then we did unconfin'd Amours pursue,
If by his Flame the Shepherd was inspir'd,
On no coy Trifles, the kind Nymph retir'd;
The officious Trees pimp'd for the honest Trade,
And form'd a very kind and welcome Shade.
Then like the bord'ring Fields, was Womankind,
By no Land-marks, or unjust Bounds confin'd.
'Tis true, if that, by my ill Stars inclin'd,
So great a Trespass I shou'd e'er commit,
Your Charms alone would change my Mind,
And tempt me to the Sin, tho' mighty 'tis and great;
For you'd with vigorous Beauty still incite
The pall'd and wearied Appetite.
And what's a mortal Sin with any other she,
To do with you, a Venial Fault wou'd be.

Jo. Haines's Reformation-Prologue, drest as a deep Mourner.

Thus cloath'd with Shame, which is one step to Grace,
Excuse the modest Blush now spoils my Face;
For, after two Years Excommunication
For heinous Sins against this Congregation,
I'm now to plead my thorough Reformation
Know then, that weary grown of the thin Fare.
Of living by my Wits, that's by the Air;
Altho' kind Patrons—
“Into your Bumpers I have oft been plunging,
“And top'd as if a Patent I 'ad for spunging;
“But to proceed in't still, my Conscience stains,
“Conscience, the darling Mistress of Jo. Haines.
“Wherefore, tho' late, now finding like a Novice,
“Players (like Wits) are Fools, when out of Office;
And seeing Nocturnal Friends drop off so fast,
Like Limerick, I'm compell'd to yield at last.
But oh! the Terms of my Capitulation
Would make the hardest Heart feel soft Compassion;
I must not drink, nor taste Life's common Joys,
For fear of spoiling my melodious Voice;
No more at Midnight visit dear James Long,
Who has the best Navarre e'er tip'd o'er Tongue;
It has all good Qualities,—
A conceal'd Body, fresh, mellow, and fine,
'Tis all Sincerity, a silken Wine;
It charms the Taste, and gratifies the Nose,
Adieu my dear, dear Paradise, the Rose,
Where I the Musick now must hear no morn,
Of a Bottle of Sebastian in the Sun, scare.
Nor whilst God Bacchus is our Cheeks adorning,
Past Three a Clock, and a dark cloudy Morning.
Nor make the last Excuse for longer stay,
More Wine, ye Dog, it's not yet break o' Day:
Now, now, your new Regenerated Player,
Morning and Evening, will trudge to Prayer;
And fly all Play-house Plots that are a brewing,
That National Sin (Sedition) was my Ruin.

Jo. Haines's Reformation-Prologue.

Adieu Will's Coffee-House too, Beaus, Captains, Wits,
Who have been so very kind to me by fits.
Farewell, I now must herd with sober Cits.
Where I may speak my Mind, and fear no snub,
With Friends will lend, as well as pay a Club.
What tho' they ne'er broke Jest or Pate at Locket's?
They've Sense enough, for all that, in their Pockets.
I do but think, leading this Virtuous Life,
What a Comfort I shall be to my poor Wife!
At Home by ten a Clock, in Bed by eleven,
Where I will make my former Scores all even.
“This being decreed, I've nothing more to do,
“But fix myself a Rent-charge now on you,
Humbly beseeching ------
“That I, like Parish Brat, Forlorn and Poor,
“That's laid for want, at the next Rich Man's Door,
“Swath'd in ill-luck, the Charity may get
“Of you the great Church-Wardens of the Pit.
Then tho' my Voice should fail, as that will hap in,
I'm sure you'll guess my Meaning by my gaping.

On his Friend Owen Swan, at the Black Swan-Tavern in Bartholomew-Lane.

MR. SWAN'S ANSWER.

I, Owen Swan, the most sincere and honest Man
That e'er drew Wine in Quart or Cann,
From Beersheba unto Dan,
Most humbly thanks you for your sage Epistle;
Tho' my Muse can't Sing, she'll strive to Whistle.
Your virtuous Gentlemen, the Rakes,
Last Night were in for Ale and Cakes,
(For Wine, I mean) but you'll forgive Mistakes.
The Wits, dear Brother,—
Are us'd to pardon one-another;
And may old Nick your humble take,
And as a Neighbour Brews, so may he never Bake,
If he'd not drink an Ocean for your sake.
My Verses limp; and, why? 'Tis meet
They keep proportion to the Feet
Of him who to his Cellar ran
To fill your Bottles,

PLINY'S EPISTLES.

[As the sequacious Wax with Ease receives]

As the sequacious Wax with Ease receives
Whatever Shape th'informing Artist gives:
Now represents the furious God of War,
Or in Minerva's Likeness does appear.
Now a fair Venus shews, with all her Charms,
Or wanton Cupid sporting in her Arms.
As murm'ring Rivers, with their Chrystal Streams,
Not only serve to quench th'aspiring Flames;
But in belov'd Meanders, as they flow
On Fields and Flowers, fresh Beauties do bestow:
So should the Mind with early Care be wrought,
And fashion'd for the diff'rent Turns of Thought.
One Art alone too dull a Chase does yield:
Your active Sportsman ranges all the Field.