Mack-Faux The Mock-Moralist or Pierce the Traitor Unmasked and Hang'd, A Satyre on A---N the Renegado [by Forbes of Disblair] |
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 | Mack-Faux |  |
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Mack-Faux; The Mock-Moralist or Pierce the Traitor Unmasked and Hang'd, A Satyre on A---N the Renegado
PROLOGUE.
Lampoon'd and Hiss'd, and Damn'd the Thousandth timeTho' Brains and Stars forbid the Sot must Rhime:
Then let me this vile Poetaster drub,
And send the Knave a Halter for his Crub:
Such Satyre at the Villain let me dart,
That every Line may stab him to the Heart.
Shall nothing then thy boundless Tongue restrain,
Thou through-pac'd Traytor, and true Son of Cain:
So like thy Master Lucifer thou'rt grown,
Thou lovest Mischief, for its sake alone.
Discord's thy Musick, Treason thy Delight,
For whose damn'd sake alone thou vow'st to write:
In these thou hast a mighty Lechrie,
As by thy Legion Paper we may see:
Curs'd Tysiphon has thy base Soul possess'd,
And all her Snakes ly gnawing on thy Breast,
And when thou does but smile, it still portends
Like blazing Comets, Mischief to thy Friends.
No wonder then, possest with such a Fiend,
If of thy hellish Malice there's no End.
Hell mark'd thee for a Traytor from the Womb,
When thou was't cut, the Mid-wife told thy Doom:
This Boy, said she, has an inverted Face,
Will all his Kin and Country too Disgrace;
And if of Boy's I can ought presage,
He'll be repute the Faux of this our Age;
Then Hell Espous'd him as its Agent here,
And dub'd him Legion chief of its Empire:
Thousands of Imps around the Urchin crawl'd,
And squeak'd in Consort when it catterwal'd,
Stern Lucifer amid'st the Imps appear'd,
In human Form, and thus to speak was heard,
Said he, this goodly, hopeful Boy shall be
My second Faux, and dare as much as he:
Hell be thy Guide, may ne're thy Plots misgive,
And if they fail, my Power shall still retrive.
Then on the Titt, he breath'd a Curse, and chang'd
His Shape, and headlong to the Center plung'd:
Since when in Mischief, as in years he's grown,
Hell's fittest Stock to graft a Faux upon.
What wou'd thou give, Mack Faux, cou'd thou but see
The Commons bound, and gag'd before thy Eye,
And nothing else remain'd for thee to do,
But kill a Knight, or squire at every Blow,
Like some Rapacious Harpie, Feirce and Bold,
Thoud'st drink their Blood as Cataline of Old.
What would'st thou give, cou'd thou but now Survey
Their mangled Quarters flying throw the Sky,
All by thy treacherous daring hand blown up
Thy Wishes then were at the very top?
What shou'd be done, says Peirce, with such vile Knaves,
Rogues to their Countrey, Villans, Traytors, Slaves,
Who Arbitrary Power do still advance;
But strait prepare, and blow 'em up at once?
Methinks I see the Rogue, with Match in Hand,
With all th' infernal Powers at his Command,
Push'd on by Hell, the Villan fires the Train,
Then turns his Lanthorn, and retires again.
The dreadful Bownce gone off with joyful Looks,
Huzza, a noble Fire-work, cryes Mack Faux!
Thou through-pac'd Traytor, and true Son of Cain:
So like thy Master Lucifer thou'rt grown,
Thou lovest Mischief, for its sake alone.
Discord's thy Musick, Treason thy Delight,
For whose damn'd sake alone thou vow'st to write:
In these thou hast a mighty Lechrie,
As by thy Legion Paper we may see:
Curs'd Tysiphon has thy base Soul possess'd,
And all her Snakes ly gnawing on thy Breast,
And when thou does but smile, it still portends
Like blazing Comets, Mischief to thy Friends.
No wonder then, possest with such a Fiend,
If of thy hellish Malice there's no End.
Hell mark'd thee for a Traytor from the Womb,
When thou was't cut, the Mid-wife told thy Doom:
This Boy, said she, has an inverted Face,
Will all his Kin and Country too Disgrace;
And if of Boy's I can ought presage,
He'll be repute the Faux of this our Age;
Then Hell Espous'd him as its Agent here,
And dub'd him Legion chief of its Empire:
Thousands of Imps around the Urchin crawl'd,
And squeak'd in Consort when it catterwal'd,
6
In human Form, and thus to speak was heard,
Said he, this goodly, hopeful Boy shall be
My second Faux, and dare as much as he:
Hell be thy Guide, may ne're thy Plots misgive,
And if they fail, my Power shall still retrive.
Then on the Titt, he breath'd a Curse, and chang'd
His Shape, and headlong to the Center plung'd:
Since when in Mischief, as in years he's grown,
Hell's fittest Stock to graft a Faux upon.
What wou'd thou give, Mack Faux, cou'd thou but see
The Commons bound, and gag'd before thy Eye,
And nothing else remain'd for thee to do,
But kill a Knight, or squire at every Blow,
Like some Rapacious Harpie, Feirce and Bold,
Thoud'st drink their Blood as Cataline of Old.
What would'st thou give, cou'd thou but now Survey
Their mangled Quarters flying throw the Sky,
All by thy treacherous daring hand blown up
Thy Wishes then were at the very top?
What shou'd be done, says Peirce, with such vile Knaves,
Rogues to their Countrey, Villans, Traytors, Slaves,
Who Arbitrary Power do still advance;
But strait prepare, and blow 'em up at once?
Methinks I see the Rogue, with Match in Hand,
With all th' infernal Powers at his Command,
Push'd on by Hell, the Villan fires the Train,
Then turns his Lanthorn, and retires again.
The dreadful Bownce gone off with joyful Looks,
Huzza, a noble Fire-work, cryes Mack Faux!
Avert just Heaven, the hellish Rogues design,
And may he be the last of all his Line,
May some kind swindging Thunder-Bolt from Heaven,
Be through the Traitor's very Center driven,
To scatter all his Hellish Aids and Props,
And with the Traitor's Life, cut off his Hopes.
Then if thou'rt wise, break off thy League with Hell,
Recant thy Words or this; and more thou'llt feel:
When thou a Gazing-stock to all the World,
Shall be on Cart, from Goal to Tyburn hurl'd.
But Satyr here must needs take thee to task,
Because it's known, thou art a Rogue in Mask:
But whatsoe'er may be thy Parts or Gifts,
VVe needs must say, Let Pierce alone for Shifts.
Then would you know how lately Turncoat Pierce
Got Shirts and Cloaths to hide his Brawny Arse,
Because they heard, he kept the Calves-Head-feast,
And of King Charles Murther, made a Jest,
Some drunken canting Cummers of the Town,
Had contributed each for Pierce a Crown;
Some gave a Guinea, tho that Coin be rare;
Yet so they filch'd, as Cuckold best could spare.
They made him strut like forty Swaggering Bullies,
Cloath'd with the Spoils of their poor Horn'd Cullies.
Pierce feigns Religion, personates a VVhig;
And on that Score he Hectors, and looks big:
But these too credulous Men, who love thee best,
VVill find thee out to be a Knave at last,
VVhen they're assur'd, how in the Days of Yore,
Thou Papist was, and did these Men abhore:
And did the Jews, as they prevail but here,
'Spite of thy Guts, thou wouldst e'en Pork foreswear;
Yet rather than thy Darling Food foregoe,
Thou'dst quit the Creed, and both the Test'ments too;
Thou can'st believe whatever serves thy Turn;
Belzeebub's firm, and Trusty-Brocker sworn.
For thy case hard'ned Conscience, Newgate-Proof
Can serve Hell's deepest Projects well enough.
Thou at the Port, for Conscience ne'er wou'dst lurk;
But there thou'dst prove a good substantial Turk,
Woud'st be a Mafti all their tales believe,
The Alcoran for Orthodox receive.
Large is thy Conscience, boundless is thy Creed,
Thy Faith is strong, and Catholick indeed,
But weak thy Lines, dull and insiped grow'n,
Thou borrows none, they're surely all thine own.
Do'st think that Women are but stocks and stones,
A tempting senseless heap of skin and bones:
These are two lines that all the World may know,
None could have made but such a Sot as thou.
Go whip the blund'ring Puppy back to Schools,
And teach him common Sense, and Grammar rules;
But if hereafter thou'rt still fond to prate,
And in such groveling dogerel obstinate,
For thy reward, if I can ought fortel,
Thou shalt be call'd the Fleck-no of the Isle,
And thy dull Rhimes about thy neck be hang'd,
Till thou by all the Wits be soundly bang'd;
Then such as hear or read thy Trash, shall know it,
That Nature never moulded thee a Poet;
In vain thou calls for books to mend thy strains,
Thou wants no Books, Alas thou wants but Brains!
Then play the Critick no more I advise,
For know thy base Reflections I despise:
But if my Learned Friends approve my verse,
Let blund'ring Pierce, the Turn-coat, kiss mine A***
And may he be the last of all his Line,
May some kind swindging Thunder-Bolt from Heaven,
Be through the Traitor's very Center driven,
To scatter all his Hellish Aids and Props,
And with the Traitor's Life, cut off his Hopes.
7
Recant thy Words or this; and more thou'llt feel:
When thou a Gazing-stock to all the World,
Shall be on Cart, from Goal to Tyburn hurl'd.
But Satyr here must needs take thee to task,
Because it's known, thou art a Rogue in Mask:
But whatsoe'er may be thy Parts or Gifts,
VVe needs must say, Let Pierce alone for Shifts.
Then would you know how lately Turncoat Pierce
Got Shirts and Cloaths to hide his Brawny Arse,
Because they heard, he kept the Calves-Head-feast,
And of King Charles Murther, made a Jest,
Some drunken canting Cummers of the Town,
Had contributed each for Pierce a Crown;
Some gave a Guinea, tho that Coin be rare;
Yet so they filch'd, as Cuckold best could spare.
They made him strut like forty Swaggering Bullies,
Cloath'd with the Spoils of their poor Horn'd Cullies.
Pierce feigns Religion, personates a VVhig;
And on that Score he Hectors, and looks big:
But these too credulous Men, who love thee best,
VVill find thee out to be a Knave at last,
VVhen they're assur'd, how in the Days of Yore,
Thou Papist was, and did these Men abhore:
And did the Jews, as they prevail but here,
'Spite of thy Guts, thou wouldst e'en Pork foreswear;
Yet rather than thy Darling Food foregoe,
Thou'dst quit the Creed, and both the Test'ments too;
Thou can'st believe whatever serves thy Turn;
Belzeebub's firm, and Trusty-Brocker sworn.
For thy case hard'ned Conscience, Newgate-Proof
Can serve Hell's deepest Projects well enough.
Thou at the Port, for Conscience ne'er wou'dst lurk;
But there thou'dst prove a good substantial Turk,
8
The Alcoran for Orthodox receive.
Large is thy Conscience, boundless is thy Creed,
Thy Faith is strong, and Catholick indeed,
But weak thy Lines, dull and insiped grow'n,
Thou borrows none, they're surely all thine own.
Do'st think that Women are but stocks and stones,
A tempting senseless heap of skin and bones:
These are two lines that all the World may know,
None could have made but such a Sot as thou.
Go whip the blund'ring Puppy back to Schools,
And teach him common Sense, and Grammar rules;
But if hereafter thou'rt still fond to prate,
And in such groveling dogerel obstinate,
For thy reward, if I can ought fortel,
Thou shalt be call'd the Fleck-no of the Isle,
And thy dull Rhimes about thy neck be hang'd,
Till thou by all the Wits be soundly bang'd;
Then such as hear or read thy Trash, shall know it,
That Nature never moulded thee a Poet;
In vain thou calls for books to mend thy strains,
Thou wants no Books, Alas thou wants but Brains!
Then play the Critick no more I advise,
For know thy base Reflections I despise:
But if my Learned Friends approve my verse,
Let blund'ring Pierce, the Turn-coat, kiss mine A***
FINIS.
| Mack-Faux | |