Hudibras Redivivus :: :: University of Virginia Library

Hudibras Redivivus

or, a Burlesque poem on the times. The Second Edition. To which is added, An Apology, and some other Improvements throughout the Whole [by Edward Ward]

Ward, Edward (1667-1731)

[section]

Hudibras Redivivus: OR, A Burlesque POEM ON THE TIMES.

VOL. I.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

10.

XV.

11.

XVI.

12.

XVII.

II.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

10.

IX.

11.

12.

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I. VOL. I.

1. PART I.

CANTO I.

In Pious Times, when Soul-Physicians
Were zealous to promote Divisions,
And warm Disputes Ecclesiastick
Bred foreign Wars and Jars Domestick;
That Conscience, under no Restriction,
Became a perfect Contradiction,
And only serv'd to make Men squabble,
When maudlin round a Tavern-Table.
'Twas then our restless, hot-brain'd Nation,
Inflam'd by too much Toleration,

Was grown, (as knowing Heads conceive her)
So mad with a malignant Fever,
That few Men had a safe Protection
Against the prevalent Infection,
Which spar'd no State, but from the Noble,
Descended to the Lords the Rabble;
Who, of the two, are much the greater,
As 'tis affirm'd by Observator.
For surely those that can at Pleasure
Make Kings, and give them Pow'r and Treasure,
By Nature's Law much higher stand,
Than those made Great at second Hand.
However, all, both big and little,
Down from the Palace to the Spittle,
As well the Merry as the Serious,
Touch'd with this Plague, grew so delirious,
That e'en the maddest of Mankind
Believ'd he had the soundest Mind.
'Tis often found, that Men distracted,
With their own Whims are so affected,

That though they rave, and hoop, and hollow,
In Thought they're wiser than Apollo,
Conceiting all Non compos-Mentis,
That will not think them in their Senses.
Just so it proves, when Common-Weal
Is scorch'd and craz'd with fiery Zeal;
Which seldom shines, but does appear
Like Comet, Whale, or Blazing Star,
Only to let us understand,
That some great Evil is at hand.

When this ill Omen shew'd its Face
Thro' all the Land in e'ery Place,
And, by its powerful Influences,
Had captivated most Mens Senses,
So that they stagger'd in their Faith,
And reel'd beside the common Path;
Steering their Course to Heav'n at Random,
For Want of Fences to withstand 'em:
The shallow Quicksets of the Law,
No Zealot valu'd of a Straw,

But mounted o'er them at no Rate,
Like Hunters o'er a five-barr'd Gate.
For if we rightly understand,
No Man can be by Law restrain'd
From perpetrating any Ill,
That he is mov'd to by his Will.
For Laws, alas, can do no more,
Than punish, when the Mischief's o'er;
And that's but almost like my Host,
Who Stable shuts when Steed is lost.
And if the Saints their Force can stay,
Or turn their Edge another Way,
Much better they had ne'er been made,
Than so perverted or delay'd.
Tho' Laws are good, we needs must own;
Yet misapply'd, they're worse than none.
The Parish-Clock that guides the People,
Tho' just as e'er was put in Steeple;
Yet if the Sexton condescends
To set it wrong for his own Ends,

The Knave, by his deceitful Crime,
Cheats the whole Parish in their Time.
So Laws may be well instituted,
Yet if not truly executed,
Justice must be prevaricated,
And Innocence be wrack'd and baited.
For if we see by Reason's Eye
The Hand of Justice point awry,
We're in a Wood when Knaves grow crafty,
And know not how to steer with Safety.
Thus Laws, for want of Execution,
Spoil every Nation's Constitution,
Let loose the Frape to shew their Folly,
And spurn at all that's good and holy.

When Men thus strangely lost their Wits,
And roar'd and rav'd like Bedlamites,
Each Zealot's Purity consisting
In bitter Words, and sometimes fisting,
As if they thought ill Language glorious,
And hot-brain'd Quarrels meritorious:

Or that they shew'd their saving Grace,
By giving the first Slap o'th' Face;
And witness'd their Divine Perfections,
By handy-Cuffs and Maledictions.

When these, the Sons of Knipperdoling,
Let all their Senses run a woolling,
I found my Genius much inclin'd
T'observe the Humours of Mankind.
With that I stopp'd, look'd round about,
And gaz'd upon the hair-brain'd Rout,
Who govern'd by no Laws or Tenets,
Mov'd Retrograde like Crabs or Planets.
Some to the Coffee-house would be running,
In order to improve their Cunning,
And from contending Zealot's Passions,
To learn Religious Disputations.
Others devoutly bent, would chuse
To go to Church to hear the News:
For you must know strange Things in Pulpits
Are told, to please the list'ning dull Pates,

I do not mean about their Faith,
Or Guidance into Heaven's Path:
For now 'tis every Blockhead's Pride
To grope the Way without his Guide,
Because 'tis wisely understood
There may be many Ways to th'Wood;
Or else the Folks behind the Curtain
Would ne'er allow but one, that's certain.

The Good Old Cause went rarely on,
When Men brim-full of Zeal thus run
To hear a sanctify'd Curmudgeon
In Pulpit talk of Great Prince Eugene,
And give to him the Honour due
To one much braver of the two.

Thus when our pious English Nation
Are in Post-haste for Reformation,
They always by some new-found Way
Put their wild Projects into Play;
That is, from good old Rules to vary,
And act by Methods quite contrary.

Their Guides, those sanctify'd Projectors,
Turn Sermons into Gazette-Lectures;
Which makes some Saints Low-Teachers chuse
Not for their Doctrine, but their News.
But when they're in a Fit of Zeal,
Their wounded Consciences they heal
With Ninny-Broth, o'er which they seek
Some new Religion ev'ry Week:
For he that will oblige the Throng,
Must ne'er hold one Opinion long,
But turn his Doctrine and his Creed
As often as the Cause has need:
Or he that leaves them in the Lurch,
And will not change to save his Church,
Must never on that Church rely,
Or hope to save himself thereby:
Their Priests damn all that are not hearty
To th'Int'rest of themselves and Party.

The Paths which some good Saints pursue,
Seem strange, altho' they may be true,

And are so crooked and so dirty,
A Man would think not one in thirty
That thro' so dark a Road do travel,
Should find St. Peter, but the Devil.

Some steer their Course with much Content
Tow'rds Heav'n, by Act of Parliament;
And chuse some Way unknown, because
Encourag'd to't by wholsome Laws:
For sure, say they, no Christian Patr'ots
Would ever make such wicked Statutes,
That Conscience should have Toleration
To run full Tilt upon Damnation.
And since there is a Law in Play
That gives us leave to chuse our Way,
They've granted what Heav'ns Laws deny,
Or else we cannot tread awry;
Therefore all Worship right must be,
Or else a purblind Fool may see
They're wrong to yield such Liberty.

Some, of a Self-will'd, thwarting Nature,
Seek Heav'n by Way of Observator,

And will no other Way be blest,
Than that which he approves on best:
His Doctrine they devoutly read,
Thence from their Conscience and their Creed;
And if these Saints can run astray,
The Dev'l himself must lead the Way.
If these poor Souls are left i'th' Lurch,
What must those do that go to Church?

Others with zealous Labour scan
The pious Works of Prophet Dan,
In Hopes, that thro' his Merits, they
May steal to Heav'n the shortest Way.
If Persecution be a Sign,
The Cause is e'er the more Divine,
And open Punishment can be
A Mark of Christian Purity;
Then Dan may easily set forth
His pious Excellence and Worth,
And prove his Sufferings and Expence
By Hierogliphick Evidence.

What though his Witness, by Relation,
Is but of odious Reputation?
However, should the Court think fit,
Like him, we're bound to stand by it.

But no Man can a Truth gain-say,
That is as obvious as the Day.
'Tis plain, the mildest of our Laws
Made him a Suff'rer for the Cause;
Yet all, we see, can't stop his Mouth,
He'll stand and fall, and lie by Truth;
And shews, by daily Perseverance,
He scorns to flinch from his Adherents.
What thin-jaw'd Fury can be blam'd,
Or Trumpeter of News asham'd,
To pin their Int'rest and Belief
On such a hardy Prophet's Sleeve,
Who boldly, Martyr-like, disdains
Fines, rotten Eggs, or Brewers Grains;
And, by his Suff'rings and his Bustles,
Gains Credit, like such sham Apostles?

I jogg'd along the crowding Sodom;
When jostl'd, wish'd the Devil had 'em.
At last I popp'd upon a Place,
Where Saints had been receiving Grace;
And tho' their Pastor long had stood
To feed his Lambs with Heav'nly Food,
I vow (whate'er could be the Matter)
The scabby Flock look ne'er the fatter,
But stood in Swarms before the Hive,
Like Winter-Bees, that could not thrive;
Yet buzz'd and humm'd, as if the Crew
Were all consulting what to do.
At last, as tho' the Fools were frighted,
With Voices hideously united,
They made a fearful Acclamation,
And loudly cry'd up Moderation.
The Sound soon eccho'd through the City,
Who added to their mournful Ditty,
No wicked Popish Restitution
Of Dagon's dreadful Persecution.

Beware; we say, beware, good People,
The threat'ning Dragon of Bow-Steeple;
Behold his proud aspiring Wings,
His griping Talons, and his Stings,
That issue from his Arse and Mouth,
To persecute the Lambs of Truth.
Come one and all, let's stand the Test,
And pull down the Ephesian Beast,
Who cocks his Tail, and bids Defiance,
And never yet would shew Compliance,
Or bow his Head from his high Turret,
To listen to the Holy Spirit.
Down with the Babylonian Figure,
That Emblem of the Church's Rigour.
Now, now's the Time; stand to't, my Boys,
Ne'er fear the drowsy Cob-web Laws,
But lend a Shoulder to the Cause:
For if we now should lose our Aim,
'Twould prove our everlasting Shame;
We never more must hope to see
So fair an Opportunity.

With that, they cry'd out all and one,
And so away the Rebels run,
With twenty ragged Hawkers a'ter,
Bawling th'Review and Observator.

Bless me, thought I, has Hell and Fury
A Back-door into our Old Jury?
Now Satan's wild Geese fly at Random,
What Laws are able to withstand 'em?
Or who, except by Force, are able
To tame a frantick head-strong Rabble?
So Blood-hounds, when the Scent lies warm,
With threat'ning Yelps the Stag alarm,
Whose Horns cannot his Life defend,
Lest the kind Hunts-man stands his Friend:
Therefore when once you Church-men see,
The Game they hunt in Jeopardy,
Make speedy Haste to shew good Nature,
Call off the Dogs, and save the Creature.

'Tis strange, this fiery Frape, thought I,
Should thus for Moderation cry,

When ev'ry thin-jaw'd Fury seems
A Composition of Extreams,
And looks as if his Skin was full
Of Malice, from the Toe to th'Skull;
And had no more an Inclination
To use that Vertue, Moderation,
Than a true Scotch-man has to chew
Fat Bacon, or a Toad to Rue.

As I was list'ning almost scar'd,
At this unusual Noise I heard,
A grave old Don stepp'd cross a Puddle,
And passing by me, shook his Noddle.
Thought I, thou ha'st a cunning Pate
Beneath that broad Umbrella-Hat,
And do'st discern with Eagles Eyes,
The Plot this Clamour's to disguise:
With that, I tugg'd him by the Sleeve;
Then crying, Father, by your leave.
I bluntly ask'd him the Occasion
Of all this Cry of Moderation.

At first old Surly look'd as urgent,
As if he took me for a Serjeant;
But soon perceiving his Mistake,
He cough'd, and then began to speak:
Young Man, says he, you'll quickly find,
That all this Noise is but a Blind:
Mind me, and I'll relate a Fable
Alluding to the hair-brain'd Rabble.

A subtle Fox pursu'd a Hare,
And all the while, he cry'd, Forbear;
Pray fear not him that means no Harm,
I only run to keep me warm.
The silly Hare not much afraid,
Believing what the Fox had said,
Having good Law, sat down to rest her;
But soon she saw the Fox run faster:
With that, she starting from her Place,
Betook her self to her old Pace.
Hold, hold, crys, Reynard, why so fast?
You'll surfeit, if you make such Haste:

A mod'rate Pace is best indeed;
The greater Hurry, the worst Speed.
No, no, crys Puss, for all your Cunning,
I see 'tis time to mend my Running;
I find you only want to reach me,
You'd serve me finely, shou'd you catch me;
But satisfy your greedy Paunch,
Your Mouth shall never kiss my Haunch.
So he that is an Enemy,
And does for Moderation cry,
Hopes that you'll exercise the Virtue,
And give him better room to hurt you.

Is that, said I, the cunning End on't?
Aye, aye, says he, you may depend on't;
For pious Cheats ne'er want Invention
To palliate any vile Intention.
Your humble Servant, worthy Grandsire,
Thank you, said I, for this kind Answer,
Wherein you've been thus open-hearted.
Farewel, said he; and so we parted.

I trudg'd along as fast, Cotzooks,
As Porter with a Billet Deux,
Or Penny-Post-Man with his Letters,
To overtake these Moderators:
But all the Grumbletonian Throng
Did with such Violence rush along,
That by their Hurry, one might see
Their Deeds and Words did not agree.
For me they posted on too fast,
I was not in such wond'rous Haste;
But left them in their Heat and Passion,
Furiously crying up Moderation.
So expert Divers call aloud,
Pray mind your Pockets, to the Crowd;
And by such subtile glav'ring Means,
Prevent Distrust of their Designs:
But if your Eyes a'n't quick of Motion,
They'll play the Rogue, that gave the Caution.

CANTO II.

B'ing greatly troubl'd and amuz'd
To see old London thus confus'd,
In Hopes to ease my Melancholy,
I strol'd among the Bibliopolæ,
Where Pamphlets lay in Shops and Stalls,
Pil'd up as thick as Stones in Paul's;
Columns of Scandal reach'd the Ceiling,
Contriv'd by Knaves for Fools to deal in.
Well may the World, thought I, be mad,
Since Scribling's such a thriving Trade,
That twenty thousand Cut-throat Libels
Shall sell, before a Score of Bibles;
And Low-Church Satyrs move much faster,
Than Sermons by a High-Church-Pastor.
The Policy, I must confess,
Is far beyond my Reason's Guess,
That such Press-Freedom is allow'd
To cozen and corrupt the Crowd,

Lest they design the restless Elves
Full Rope enough to hang themselves;
Or else, like Toads, (as some have seen 'em)
Swell 'till they burst with their own Venom.
I musing stood a while, at last,
Turn'd o'er the Wild-fire, as I past,
Found some with sanctify'd Intent
T'unhinge and ruffle Government;
Others, to draw unwary People
To the Low-Church that wears no Steeple,
Insinuating, that the High
Beyond all Moderation fly,
And, that her Members were no more
Than Sons o'th' Babylonian Whore:
But 'twas to me no great Surprize,
That Whiggish Saints should prove so wise
To print, as well as preach their Lies.
The Reason's plain, to all Appearance,
Why Dwarfs and Giants live at Variance.
Low Things, by Nature, can't compleatly
Agree with what is high and stately:

The little Mouse does Malice vent,
When it beholds the Elephant:
Each crooked Dumplin shews her Hate
To the fair Lass more tall and straight:
Dowdy to Beauty, thus compar'd,
Will think her own Misfortune's hard,
And, with a deep Resentment, see
More plain her own Deformity.
Why then should any Mortal wonder,
Why those are angry, that are under,
Since all Things in a grov'ling State,
Will envy what is high and great?

Next, I beheld Lampoons and Satyrs,
To vilify our Legislators,
And make those slighted and neglected,
By whom we chiefly are protected.
This Practice sure, thought I, is naught,
That thin-skull'd Peasants should be taught
To hold that Power in Disdain,
That only can our Rights maintain.
'Tis strange we should withdraw Respect
From those our very selves elect;
We must be Blockheads first to chuse 'em,
Or very Rascals to abuse 'em:
For he that thinks with Scandal's Dart,
To wound a Magistrate a-part
From his Authority, declares
By th'gross Affront, he little cares
For th'Pow'r or Dignity he bears.

No Sance-box, sure, by way of Farce,
Will bid his Pastor kiss his A---se,
That thinks he's under an Injunction
To shew much Rev'rence to his Function:
Therefore, whoever vents his Froth
Against the one, despises both.
'Tis true, in cruel Times, long since,
When Rebels quarrell'd with their Prince,
And Truth was quite discountenanc'd,
A nice Distinction was advanc'd
Betwixt those two united Things,
The Person, and the Pow'r of Kings:
But when they were at Distance set,
Behold the sad succeeding Fate;
A nicer Diff'rence then they made
Betwixt the Body and the Head.
Thus could not prop their first Position,
Until they'd made their last Division,
And prov'd too plainly what they meant,
By Dint of Ax, not Argument.

FINIS.

2. Part the Second.

I thumb'd o'er many factious Reams
Of canting Lies, and Poets Dreams,
All stuff'd as full of Low-Church Manners,
As e'er was Salters-Hall with Sinners.
Amongst the rest, the Mob's Prophet-a;
I found oft chang'd to a Poet-a.
No Shame to versifying Brother,
Since one's deriv'd of Old from t'other.
Therefore all Scriblers ought to know it's
No Crime for Prophets to be Poets;

Especially when Want of Sense
Must be supply'd with Impudence,
And Malice, Scandal, and ill Nature,
Pass with dull Fools for Wit and Satyr.
For he whose Brains are not defective,
May find in ev'ry tag'd Invective,
Hard Words are soften'd by their Chiming,
And Railing best agrees with Riming:
For bare-fac'd Scandal writ in Prose,
Too much of th'Author's Malice shows,
When the most fulsome of Abuses
Shall be thought witty from the Muses.
The Name of Poem, or of Satyr,
Gives Umbrage to a Man's ill Nature;
And makes most Readers think he writ
Not to his Envy shew, but Wit.

When I had almost spent my Vitals
In chiefly turning over Titles,

In which might easily be seen
The Drift of all contain'd within;
Bs Moor-fields Conjurers can see,
By th'Art of Phisiognomy,
Whether we're Wise-men, Fools, or Asses,
Ay th'Lines and Features of our Faces.
At last I pitch'd, as Chance would have it,
Upon a High-Church Book, God save it,
And that undaunted Hand that gave it:
For sure it cannot be a Crime
To pray (altho' it be in Rime)
For those that lay before our Eyes
The Treach'ry of our Enemies.
If Praying be a Fault, alas!
We Authors of the Riming Class
(As most believe) so rarely use it,
That when we do, they may excuse it:
For Pray'rs, we know, agree much better
With thriving Prose, than starving Metre:

That makes Low Saints, who hate all Riming,
As bad as High-Church Bells, when Chiming;
Despise the Heliconian Jargon,
And think it Popish, like the Organ;
Except some Brother-Saint, in Spite
Of God Apollo, dares to write,
And, breaking thro' his sacred Laws,
Jingle in Favour of their Cause:
Yet, tho' it is their hum drum Fashion
To hate all Musical Precation,
They love an elevated Voice,
That's exquisite at Tone and Noise,
And do their Pray'rs much louder hollow,
Than we sing Ballads to Apollo,
That others may become most ample
Hypocrites from their loud Example:
Yet, tho' in Praying they surpass us,
Sometimes with Satyr, when they cross us,
We make 'em curse old Mount Parnassus.

I, eager to behold the Book
That made the Whigs so crabbed look,
Sate down to view the Nation's Case,
Stated, as some think, by his Grace.
I mean not him by th'River's Side,
Who learns from thence, (if not bely'd)
To turn according to the Tide;
But one deserving our Esteem,
Who dares to strive against the Stream,
And to inform a misled Nation,
Speak Truth, altho' it's out of Fashion.

At first I mus'd upon the Title,
Then sate me down, and read a little;
Where Mighty Persons did I see
Drawn into strange bad Company;
And gallant Ladies, and fine Lords,
Japann'd with black and shining Words.
Some, who had true old Faith declin'd,
And with new factious Upstarts join'd,

Espousing Church of low Degree,
Were made full low as low could be:
I do not mean in Purse or Station,
But Honour, Justice, Reputation.
Those three maintain'd by very few,
To th'Hazard of the other two.
No Wonder, since that Men of State,
Without such Gugaws can be Great;
And Sycophants, that scorn such Baubles,
Can rise from Nothing to be N---s.

Blind Fortune's Wheel, we must allow,
Runs strangely round, we know not how:
For secret Pleasures done the Donor,
Of those kind Favours, Wealth and Honour,
In Royal Eyes seem meritorious,
And often raise Men to be Glorious:
For Services there are sometimes,
That once disclos'd, are constru'd Crimes;

Such that oblige us whilst conceal'd,
But lose their Merit when reveal'd.
Therefore, when 'tis a Prince's Pleasure
That Flatt'rers shall purloin their Treasure,
'Till they have scrap'd huge Sums together,
And climb'd aloft, the Lord knows whither;
How should the Crowd expect to know
Why this Man's High, or t'other Low?
Why publick Merit's priz'd so little,
And private P---s swell big with Title?

How occult Service Favour draws,
Is difficult to learn, because
The Grace by G*d's Vicegerent's shown,
Proves very often like his own:
It passes Human Understanding;
Who 'njoys it, need not fear offending.
For Earthly Kings, like Gods protect,
With saving Grace, their own Elect;

Set them upright, whene'er they stumble,
In Spite of those that grin and grumble.

I read, was pleas'd, found little Harm in't;
For Truth has got a secret Charm in't.
What, tho' 'twas mix'd with some ill Nature;
Without, it would have prov'd no Satyr;
Nor could the one have made such Pother,
Had it not larded been with t'other:
For he that writes in such an Age,
When Parties do for Pow'r engage,
Ought to chuse one Side for the Right,
And then, with all his Wit and Spite,
Blacken and vex the Opposite.
If his Muse breathes no Gall or Hate,
The Fools won't nibble at the Bait:
For one Side's never truly pleas'd,
But when the other's vex'd and teaz'd.
Therefore, whoever handles Quill,
Must rail, or he'd as good sit still;

No Matter whether false or true,
Take Pattern by D--- F---'s Review;
Let it be Scandal, and 'twill do;
For the Low-Church, by that alone,
Gains twenty Owles, to t'other's one.
Scurrility's a useful Trick,
Approv'd by the most Politick.
Fling Dirt enough, and some will stick.

Scandal's the only Cut-throat Talent
To arm a scribbling Assailant,
And when us'd skilfully and slighly,
Prevails against a Party highly;
And is a sure infernal Knack
To make the brightest Cause look black.
No bridge-fall'n Nose upon a Face,
Can be more plain than is the Case;
For Fools that make the greatest Number,
And are of Human Race, the Lumber,

Are taught to swallow hurtful Lies,
To keep their Faith in Exercise,
That they the better may give Credit,
When Stratagems of State shall need it:
For could the People grow so wise,
As to reject all Falsities,
And credit no Man's Pen or Mouth,
But what should speak or write the Truth,
T---sg---g-Days, within this N---n,
Would not be half so much in Fashion;
For all those Deeds that make a Bluster,
Set off with so much artful Lustre,
Would in a little Time become
Dull as the Fables of Tom Thumb.

The Low-Church, that disdains a Steple,
Must preach new Doctrine to their People:
Yet, should there be allow'd no Teaching,
But Truth, I doubt 'twould spoil their Preaching.

Should such good Times befal this Land,
That Truth should get the upper Hand;
What would those Low-Church Champions do,
The Observator and Review?
For could their Talent be forsaken,
And they write Truth to save their Bacon;
The wiser Sort would still deceive 'em,
And none but Blockheads, sure, believe 'em;
Because a common Lyar's Mouth
Is even scandalous to Truth;
And Malice, when it's once detected,
Always makes Evidence suspected.

Now to the Bugbear Book again,
That puts the Whigs in so much Pain:
I conn'd o'er all this famous Piece,
That so disturb'd old Calvin's Geese;
And all the Fault they can insist on,
Is, it's too true to make a Jest on.

As for my part, I must confess,
It is, if I may've Leave to guess,
An honest High-Church Book of Merit,
Tho' written with a Low-Church Spirit:
That here and there a sharp Reflexion
May seem to some, ill-natur'd Fiction,
Tho' true beyond all Contradiction.
So that to me this Tell-troth Book
Does like a High-Church Bishop look,
Disguis'd in a Geneva-Cloak:
For who, that knew not Trusty's Face,
Would judge him honest by his Dress,
Since the worst K---ves that Earth can bear,
The very same Apparel wear?
However, 'tis no Shame to use
A Weapon which our Foes first chuse,
Or to return, when once assaulted,
That Dirt with which we first were paulted.
Therefore our Champion's in the Right on't,
To make so bold a Hompush Fight on't;

And to our restless Foes chastise,
With their own Cudgels, all but Lies:
Such Ammunition, 'tis agreed on,
An honest Cause has seldom Need on;
But can with Truth it self defend,
Which always conquers in the End;
That makes our L---n, as they call it,
Knock down our Foes, like any Mallet:
For always, when the Truth appears,
The lying Faction hang their Ears,
And cannot for their Lives, we see,
Withstand the Force of Verity;
But like to Snails, draw in their Horns,
When naked Truth but grins and turns.
So whist'ling Curs, that hate a bigger,
At Mastiff's Heels will shew their Vigor;
But when he turns, they dread his Pow'r,
And, frighted at his Aspect, scow'r;
Or else wag Tail, submit, and fawn,
And tarry to be piss'd upon.

Thus W---gs, in Time of Toleration,
Bark at the Justice of the Nation:
But when th'unbridl'd Laws, with Scorn,
One persecuting Look return,
Curbing their Tongues, they cease to grumble,
And all subscribe, Your very Humble.

Having spent so much precious Time
In High-Church Prose, and Low-Church Rime,
'Till my Brains almost were confounded
Betwixt the Cavalier and Roundhead;
My Fancy spurr'd me to be jogging
To th'Flask, the Flaggon, or the Noggin:
So I rais'd Bum from Turky-Leather,
To strole I did not well know whither;
Leaving whole Piles of Whiggish Nonsense,
To be directed by my own Sense.

CANTO III.

I had not long, on City Stones,
Bestirr'd my Stumps and Marrow-bones,
But Robin H---g came grunting by me
As fast, as if he strove to fly me.
Thought I, here's some high Wind Abroad,
That blows, I fear, but little Good.
The grizly Boar is hunting round,
To see what Windfals may be found.
He looks as if he ran in hope
This Storm would make the Acorns drop.
At last I saw him very plain
Follow his Nose up Fetter-Lane.
Observing that, thinks I, for certain
There's some Intrigue behind the Curtain,
Manag'd aloft for some by Ends,
To persecute the Church's Friends:
For tho' our factious Foes first draw,
Yet, when we push, they take the Law.

So bully'ng Cowards oft, we see,
Provoke a generous Enemy,
Who, when he takes just Satisfaction,
The ill-tongu'd Scoundrel brings his Action.

I shook my Head. Thought I, 'tis hard
The Church can't stand upon her Guard;
But those who always meant to harm her,
Shall thus be suffer'd to disarm her.
Patience, said I; now R---d is Knighted,
Sure some Folks will be clearer sighted:
Ne'er fear but we shall change our Station,
For Semper Idem's out of Fashion.
I've heard a good old Proverb say,
That e'ery Dog has got his Day:
Therefore, be cheerful, do not mourn,
The low'rmost Spoke must upwards turn;
And when it does the only Skill
Will be to make the Wheel stand still,

Or else to human Sense 'tis plain,
In Turn, it must go down again:
For Wheels, like Women, change their Ground,
T'obey the Pow'r that works them round,
Only they move by diff'rent Forces;
One's turn'd by Men, the other Horses.

Being much concern'd to see Things go thus,
I stept into a Ninny-Broth House,
In Hopes to better understand
What Low-Church Project was in Hand
To bring that Party to Confusion,
That rescu'd them from Persecution.
Ent'ring, I saw quite round a Table,
An ill-look'd thin-jaw'd, Calves-head, Rabble,
All stigmatiz'd with Looks like Jews,
Each arm'd with half a Sheet of News:
Some sucking Smoak from Indian Fuel,
And others sipping Turky Gruel;

Still searching after something new
In Nob, the Gazette, or Review.
Sometimes they smil'd, as if well pleas'd,
Then by and by look'd vex'd and teaz'd,
Alt'ring their sublunary Looks
According as they lik'd their Books.

At the low'r End o'th' Table, sate
Some High-Church Brethren, in a Chat,
Concern'd, as I suppose, to spy
The High-Church low, and Low-Church high.
Before them, in great Order, lay
The News authentick for the Day,
Mix'd with some High-Church Vindications
Against false Whiggish Defamations;
The Mercury, so much abhorr'd
By lofty Whigs, that rule the Board;
And the Rehearsal, whose keen Satyr
So closely shav'd the Observator;

And when he'd shewn how bald and bare
He was of Sense, instead of Hair,
He left him to his Cuckow Tone,
Laugh'd at by all, and lik'd by none.

'Twixt both the Parties I sate down;
Did neither dare to smile or frown,
Lest one should, by my Looks, discover
I was a better Friend to th'other:
For if a Man foresees a Squabble
'Twixt adverse Parties at a Table,
Tho' he's determin'd of one Side,
True Policy will bid him hide
His Conscience, 'till the Battel's try'd;
And when it's over, he that's crafty
Will chuse the strongest Side for Safety:
Before, a Man may be mistaken,
And 'stead of saving, lose his Bacon:
For when vain Hopes and jealous Fears
Set Fools together by the Ears,

And Justice must be scann'd by Fight,
The Cause that conquers is the Right.
Then who would shew he was a Lover
Of either, 'till the Danger's over?
Since he who takes the other Way,
Comes safely in at best o'th' Lay.

I scarce had fill'd a Pipe of Sot-weed,
And by the Candle made it Hot-weed,
But one of the Dissenting Crew
Began aloud with the Review,
And read it with a Grace becoming
A Low-Church Teacher, when he's drumming
Upon his Cusheon to his Humming,
To cuff his blundering Oration
Into the Ears of's Congregation:
For if their Fist a'n't reconcil'd
To their dull Tone, the Sermon's spoil'd;
For Gesture is the Life and Glory
Of Nonsense preach'd for Oratory:

Like Fidlers, they must keep their Time,
As sure as Poets do their Rime.
Tone, Words, and Actions must agree,
Or else they spoil their Harmony.

All was observ'd with wond'rous Care
By our Whig Libel Lecturer:
For when he came to th'Author's Letters,
From Tackers sent, or their Abettors,
As he pretends, wherein they threaten,
He shall (as he deserves) be beaten
For being sawcy in's Review,
To those he never saw or knew.
When this forg'd Tale the Zealot read,
He foam'd at Mouth, and shook his Head,
And did a Tone more frightful use,
Than those that cry sad bloody News.

Bless me, thought I, sure he that's wise,
Can see thro' these transparent Lies.

These poor thin tiffany Projections,
Contriv'd to heighten our Distractions,
And gull the Crowd at their Elections:
For who, thought he, will give their Votes
For Men that threaten to cut Throats,
And use such ruffainly Correction
To me, the Prop of all their Faction,
That dares, in Spigte of Truth or Laws,
Defend with Lies the good old Cause,
In Hopes the Magazine of Pow'r
May Church and Monarchy devour,
That Rebels may surmount the Throne,
And pull the Church establish'd down;
And sacred Rogues in Judgment sit,
To tread all Order under Feet.
Could we but thus inflame the Mob,
To bring about this happy Jobb,
Then hey for me and Brother Nob.

But this will spoil the forg'd Device
Of his Epistolary Lies.
How will he prove these fright'ning Letters,
From Tackers came, or their Abettors?
And not from some dear zealous Friends,
To serve their painful Prophet's Ends?
Or that the same Hand did not give 'em
To th'Penny Post, that did receive 'em?
I doubt, should we inspect the Matter,
The Author of the true-born Satyr
Would prove the Scribe, or the Dictator.
So the Jilt, courted by a Cully,
Imploys her self, or else her Bully,
To, with Love Letters, daily woo her
In Great Mens Names directed to her;
Which to her Spark the Doxy shows,
At which he raves, and jealous grows;
And that he may alone secure
The Prize, he proves the kinder to her.

Such Stratagems are often us'd,
That easy Fools may be abus'd.

So, if the Truth was to be known,
And these strange tacking Letters shown,
They'd surely prove the Prophet's own;
Or else a Pack of Low-Church Lies,
Sent from his Friends by his Advice,
To falsely blacken those with Crimes,
That dare be just i'th' worst of Times,
When subtle Knaves, in Consultation,
And Fools, thro' false Insinuation,
Unite, to sacrifice the Nation.

No sooner was this Libel read,
And gently down before 'em laid,
To shew how courteous and respective
They were to a Low-Church Invective;
But a High-Church-man, in Derision,
Faces them, and in Opposition

To F---'s Aspersions, that were spurious,
Reads out Politicus Mercurius.
Excuse me, that the Muses force
The Cart to stand before the Horse,
Because it will be so sometimes
With us that fumble for our Rimes;
Nay, Reason must in Verse give Ground,
Upon a Pinch, to empty Sound,
Or else those Points we shew our Art in,
Must often go untag'd for certain.

This Member of the High-Church Body
At Loyal News being very ready,
Run o'er the Merc'ry so compleatly,
Read it s' emphatically neatly,
That all the Saints within the Hearing,
Some listening, and others leering,
Seem'd as much vex'd and discontented,
As if the Church had circumvented

Those pious Frauds we daily see
Manag'd thro' that Hypocrisy,
Occasional Conformity.
At last, with Malice in their Faces,
They frowning started from their Places,
All moving Brother next to Brother,
Like Wild Geese, after one another.
Thus do they fly where e'er they find
Bright Truth with solid Reason join'd.

So Owls and Bats abhor the Light
Superior to their feeble Sight;
And for some dim Reflexion, shun
The perfect Glories of the Sun.

FINIS.

3. PART the Third.

CANTO IV.

I quitted now my smoaky Station,
Where Knaves and Fools preach Moderation,
And with that modish Cant, disguise
Their Spite, their Venom, and their Lies;
From whence, each Man of Sense may find
The Cobweb-Vertue is design'd
Only for Faction, to betray
The Crowd into a sinful Way,
And make them tamely, in the End,
Give up that Church they should defend.
So he that would a Man beguile,
Will talk devoutly all the while,

In Hopes the Bubble may believe him
Too good a Christian to deceive him;
By which fair Means he gains the Pow'r,
To wrong the easy Fool the more.

I had not long in open Street,
Been punishing my Corny Feet,
But creeping by the Side of Paul's,
Where Sinners flock to save their Souls,
I met a Pillar of the Church,
Just stepping out of Holy Porch,
Wrapp'd up in Rev'rend Gown and Cassock,
Looking as grave as Father Isaac.
Long painful Study, Age, and Cares,
Adorn'd his Head with Silver Hairs;
Kept warm within a Cap of Sattin,
With Wisdom lin'd, as well as Latin;
Whose humble Mein, and awful Face,
Were to his sacred Robes a Grace;
And when he spoke, his Language shew'd
He was not only Grave, but Good.

A faithful and a vertuous Guide,
Whose Conscience had for Years been try'd:
One who abhor'd Prevarication,
And all the Cant of Moderation;
But was a Christian Shepherd fully,
Who exercis'd his Vertues duly,
Not mod'rate Whiggishly, bat truly.

With equal Gladness did we meet,
And kindly one another greet.
When we had ended that old Strain
Of How d'ye do, and do again?
Into Saint Paul's we took a Walk,
T'enjoy a little farther Talk:
For what on Earth can be more sweet,
Than for two loving Friends to meet,
Who, e'er they did the Truth discover,
Thought themselves Miles from one another?

After we'd talk'd about the Craft
That rais'd the canting Tribe aloft,

And equally express'd our Wonder,
To see the Church turn'd strangely under,
At such a Time, when her Defender,
Altho' she's of the F---le Gender,
Does Tooth and Nail so nobly stand
By th'ancient Glories of the Land,
And with the Church walk Hand in Hand;
That Church, for which she spoke so warmly,
And ever since stood by so firmly.

My Friend in Sorrow shook his Head,
Then strok'd his Rev'rend Beard, and said,
Fair Speeches are a Prince's Talent;
But then, crys he Quid Verba valent?
'Tis hard sometimes by Words to find
The true Intention of the Mind;
Actions alone interpret best
The Meanings of a R---l Breast;
And when at any Time we see
Their Words and Actions disagree,

The latter we believe their Choice,
The former but an airy Voice.
Besides, he only is indeed
My Friend, that serves me in my Need;
But if he then shall suffer me
To want, and aid my Enemy,
A bare Acquaintance so unkind,
A Man had better lose, than find.
I must confess I would not trust
My Father, was he so unjust;
Nor can I credit such a Brother,
That says one Thing, and does another.

But, Rev'rend Doctor, pray, said I,
May not a mod'rate Man comply
With the establish'd Church o'th' Nation,
And thither go to seek Salvation,
Yet be allow'd to vote and stickle
For those that run to Conventicle?
Cannot he shew, without Evasion,
That modish Vertue, Moderation,

And keep in Charity with those,
He knows to be the Church's Foes?

Our Charity, the Guide replies,
We ought to shew to Enemies;
Without which Manly Christian Grace,
Mercy it self could have no Place:
But 'tis not Charity, or Vertue,
To strengthen those that mean to hurt you,
Or to advance the Reputation
Of such a vip'rous Congregation,
Who aim, thro' Envy, Pride, and Hate,
To overthrow both Church and State,
And bring that Faith into Disdain,
By which we hope to rise again;
And consonant to sacred Story,
Ascend to everlasting Glory.
No, no; such canting Moderation
Is wicked, base Prevarication:
All upright Christians must accuse it,
No Church-man can with Safety use it,

But he must lend a helping Hand
To sacrifice his native Land,
And bring that Church to Desolation,
On which depends his own Salvation.

Pray, Sir, said I, what think you then
Of such a mod'rate Race of Men,
Who entertain the Low-Church Notion,
Yet use the Church with great Devotion;
But shew in Words, and ev'ry Action,
They side with the dissenting Faction?

Says he, such Men of whom you speak,
Are very Knaves, or very weak:
The former use the Church, like those
Who do their wicked Minds dispose
To rob a House, and that they may
The Fam'ly with more Ease betray,
One takes therein a Room or two,
As the Low-Church-man does his Pew;
And when he finds a proper Time
To perpetrate his wicked Crime,

Made by's Confederates Assistance,
Too strong and pow'rful for Resistance,
They Beat, Gag, Bind, or Murder those
That durst their Villanies oppose;
Then run away with all that's good,
And leave the Family in Blood;
Or if not murder'd, at the best,
Much injur'd, plunder'd, and distrest.

No better Usage should we find
From such Low-Church-men once conjoin'd
With factious Numbers to their Mind:
For tho' they come to Church to Pray'r,
They'd be the first that would betray her,
And will be found, when Danger's nigh,
The Snakes that in her Bosom lie.

But the weak Wretch, that is misled,
To nurse wild Notions in his Head,
And fancies, thro' the Want of Sense,
Religion's chiefest Excellence
Consists in dull Indifference;

And thinks it cannot be a Fault
To between two Opinions halt;
Or that it is no sinful Crime,
When Int'rest calls at any Time,
To run wi' th'Hare, or hold wi' th'Hound,
Since he keeps still on Holy Ground:
He understands not, peradventure,
The Peak 'twixt Church-man and Dissenter:
He knows no Diff'rence in the People,
But what he thinks is caus'd by th'Steeple.
One side he fancies does approve it,
And that the other cannot love it;
His narrow squinting Reason sees
No Feuds, but what his Mind agrees,
Arise from Trifles, such as these.
Therefore he thinks it best, in Troth,
To be indifferent 'twixt both;
And is a Friend so much to either,
That in his Heart he's truly neither:

He speaks the Church-man very fair,
Of Surplice, and of Common-Prayer;
But when amongst the Whigs he enters,
He's partial for the good Dissenters.
Thousands there are just such as these,
Who're neither, both, or which you please,
That by the Want of Sense and Thought,
Shew they've been better fed than taught.
These join in that prepost'rous Cry,
O let the Church, the Church comply,
They care not how, and know not why.

Suppose a Knave so base be grown,
At Law to sue me for my own,
Must I comply with his Demands,
That we in Friendship may shake Hands?
No; I'd not part with Straw or Stone,
The Rascal should have all or none:
For he that will his Right decline,
And with such Knaves in Friendship join,
Abets their villanous Design,

And makes the World, by his Submission,
Believe their wicked Imposition
No other, than a fair Condition.

But, worthy Sir, said I, suppose
Your canting, half-fac'd Christian-Foes
Should tell you, they'd comply and join,
If you'd some friv'lous Things resign;
And they declare what 'tis they want;
Would not the Church those Trifles grant?

Says he, those Trifles which you spake on,
No Mortal can tell what to make on:
How should they, since we plainly see
Themselves about 'em can't agree?
They only quarrel out of Season,
Then study after for a Reason.
Like one that's frantick in his Cups,
Who hits his Friend a Slap o'th' Chops,
That offer'd nothing to provoke him,
Nor can he tell for what he struck him:

The same may of the Whigs be said,
With Pow'r and Wealth they're drunk and mad,
And in their Frenzy, huff and threaten
With what sad Stripes we shall be beaten,
In hopes, now Faction is so froward,
The peaceful Church, like feeble Coward,
Will such a tame Compliance shew,
As give their Cloaks, and Tunicks too:
But they shall find, that, Quaker like,
At second Blow we dare to strike,
And shall not to vile Hands deliver
That Church, of which Great God's the Giver.

Pray, Sir, said I, your Heat abate,
And tell me what they would be at?
What 'tis you think would satisfy 'em,
That in my Thoughts I mayn't belie 'em?
A Man of Sense, with half an Eye,
(Says he) may easily descry,
Thro' all their consciencious Cant,
What in Reality they want;

Which is, believe me, in a Word,
All that the Kingdom can afford:
Therefore they are asham'd to own
Those Terms their Pride insists upon;
Tho', like true Sots, they'll seem at first
With a small Draught to quench their Thirst;
But were they't Barrel-head, you'd find
The Dev'l a Drop they'd leave behind.

At first for Trifles they'll be crying,
Which they will blame us for denying;
But if we think to stop their Raving,
By giving, they'll be always craving.
So Miss, when first she's kept by Gully,
Begs modestly, to try his Folly;
But if she finds he'll not deny her,
His whole Estate shan't satisfy her;
But into Debt she'll even run him,
And glory when she's thus undone him.

The least of Things, at which they offer,
Were they supream, they would not suffer:

They only want so high to soar,
That nothing can controul their Pow'r:
So that the Saints might rule at length,
Not by the Scriptures, but by Strength,
That Cruelty their Foes might awe,
And their own Wills become their Law.
The Church and Crown, in that sad Day,
Must to the Club and Cloak give way:
Our Lands and Goods be torn asunder,
And made their own by Right of Plunder.
Therefore I must, with Sorrow, say
Our Pilates steer a dang'rous Way.
To hold a Candle to the Devil,
Is not the Means to stop this Evil;
For Whigs in Pow'r, are of that Nature,
They'll swell like Spunges thrown in Water.
Therefore we strength'n 'em, whilst we please 'em:
The Way to less'n 'em, is to squeeze 'em.

But how, said I, can we foresee
They'd thus unreasonable be?

Methinks the Church-men first should try 'em,
Or else, who knows but they belie 'em?

Crys he, your Folly makes me stare;
Such Talk would make a Parson swear.
Forbear to blunder out such Stuff;
I think we've try'd 'em oft enough.
Did not King Charles the First, to please 'em,
Do all that they could ask, to ease 'em,
Yet you find nothing would appease 'em?
The more he gave, the worse they us'd him;
When most kind he, they most abus'd him.
Thus all along, his mild Concessions
Made them but heighten their Oppressions.
He sacrific'd his Friends, we see,
To stop their Rage and Tyranny;
Did more than well became his Station,
To shew his peaceful Inclination:
Yet when they had obtain'd the most
That ever Rebels had to boast,

And had the Power, Lives, and Lands
Of all the Nation in their Hands;
The whole three Kingdoms were too small,
They'd not enough, when they had all;
But, like the Græcian, made wry Faces,
That they'd no more to pull to Pieces.
So finding there was nothing left,
To gratify their farther Theft,
Rather than be thus disappointed,
They stole the Blood of God's Anointed,
That their rebellious wicked Pride
And Av'rice, might be satisfy'd.
And would you have those Saints once more
Be try'd, who've done these Things before?
No, that would be like chusing those
For Friends, who were my Father's Foes.
A wise Man, sure, will ne'er agree
To trust to their Fidelity;
By whose repeated treach'rous Crime,
His Family, from Time to Time,

Have been molested and betray'd,
And more than twice unhappy made.
No, never trust the Villain more,
That has deceiv'd you once before.
Look round this sacred Place, St. Paul's;
View its large Iles, and stately Walls!
That lofty Dome, that seems to rise,
And join its Marble to the Skies!
See what vast Strength, and Beauty too,
Those bold Corinthian Pillars show!
With Wonder gaze on ev'ry Part,
Adorn'd with so much graceful Art,
Whose Order and Magnificence,
Does not alone delight the Sense,
But moves us to a Reverence!
Would you not tremble, should you see
All this despis'd for Popery?
And that a wild Fanatick Rabble,
Led by their spiteful Teachers Babble,
Should make this sacred Pile a Stable?

Sure all good Men must go distracted,
To see such Villany transacted.
Yet should the Tribe their Pow'r improve
Much farther under R---l Love,
Their Pride may soar so high, that we,
With weeping Eyes, once more may see
The sad Effects of Whiggish Rage,
Perform'd upon this sacred Stage.

Said I, I'd rather that the Murrain
Should turn my Grannum's Cows to Carion;
Or that the Dev'l once more would venture
Some other Herd of Swine to enter,
And not possess a factious Breed,
Or to such Freaks their Rabble lead;
For that would prove the Dev'l indeed.

But, Rev'rend Sir, before we part,
'Twould not a little please my Heart,
If you'd a true High-Church-man show,
Impartially, that I might know
The Diff'rence 'twixt the High and Low;

And make it to my Reason plain,
How that Distinction first began.

Says he, the proud dissenting Faction,
Malicious even to Distraction,
Viewing with Spite, such Love and Union
Establish'd in the Church-Communion;
That put them past the Hopes of rising,
To their old Pitch of Tyrannizing,
Unless they could by wicked Arts,
Divide the Body into Parts,
That some weak Sons might be ensnar'd
To have compassionate Regard
For all Fanaticks, that pretended
Church-Worship, (wanting to be mended)
Their tender Consciences offended.
T'accomplish this ill-boding Evil,
Hatch'd by th'Assistance of the Devil,
They cry'd aloud for Moderation,
To work their Ends by Insinuation.

This sweet'ning Term soon took Effect,
And rais'd i'th' Church a middle Sect,
That trim 'twixt both, and will be safe,
Let who as will command the Staff:
Averse to neither any longer,
Than just to see which Side's the stronger.
So Cowards to no Cause are hearty,
But join the most prevailing Party.
This makes the Whigs do all they're able
To shew themselves most formidable,
Because they've Craft enough to know
Those mod'rate Church-men, stil'd the Low,
Are not so fix'd in one Opinion,
But they can slide into an Union
With any Side that gets Dominion;
Judging their Principles the best,
Who with the greatest Pow'r are blest;
And so, instead of Fear and Trembling,
Work their Salvation by Dissembling.

These Measures did the Faction take,
To this absurd Distinction make:
And now, to widen the Division,
They feed the Mod'rate with Sedition,
And to set Brother against Brother,
Reproach one Side, and sooth the other;
Flatter the Low-Church to the Skies,
Blaspheme the High with odious Lies:
Thus win the Fools, and wound the Wise.

He that stands firm to save the Church,
And scorns to leave her in the Lurch,
Must be a Jacobite, at least
A monst'rous, strange, Ephesian Beast;
A Popish Perkenite, a Traytor;
A Foe to th'Crown, a French Abettor;
Nay, worse by half than I can speak him,
Were he as bad as they would make him.

But the Low-Church-man, whose Compassion
Is stretch'd so far by Moderation,

That he would rather Church and Crown
Should be depress'd, and trampl'd down,
Than his kind tender Heart should see
The Nation's Senate disagree
T'Occasional Conformity.
Such a Low Christian is befriended,
And for Mod'ration much commended:
His Whiggish Neighbours cry, Alas!
For all he goes to High-Church Mass,
Were you to hear him talk, you'd find
The Man has got a Christian Mind.
This in the Neighbourhood's spoke aloud,
The Fool of their Applause is proud:
Thus hears by some, what others say,
So grows more mod'rate ev'ry Day.
The Leacher, who the Fair pursues,
Does the same subtle Measures use;
Much Praise behind her Back he scatters,
With whom he would accomplish Matters.

This makes her proud, and kind to th'Sinner,
The first that found such Graces in her;
When his gross Flatt'ries seek her Ruin,
And only tend to her Undoing.

But since thou do'st desire to know
The Diff'rence 'twixt the High and Low,
I'll tell thee with impartial Care,
What distinct Characters they bear;
That whilst you can in Mem'ry keep
Their Marks, you'll know the Wolves from Sheep;
The High-Church first shall take their Places,
Because they wear most honest Faces.

The Church above the World they honour,
And fix their Happiness upon her;
The Artick and Ant'artick Poles
Are not more steddy than their Souls:
Int'rest nor Fear will make 'em waver,
Or from the Truth their Conscience sever.
No base Rewards, tho' ne'er so great,
Or Threats of a corrupted State,

Will make their Lips their Faith deny,
Or their Tongues give their Hearts the Lie.
They love Mod'ration with their Souls,
But not the mod'rate Cant of Fools.
They live in Love and Charity
With all, at lest those that do agree
T'Occasional Conformity.
Their Hearts are Loyal to the Throne;
They love the Queen that sits thereon,
And dare do all that Men can do,
To shew they're to her Int'rest true.
They honour Bishops as they shou'd,
For being pious, learn'd, and good;
And are not for a canting Crew
To model God's old Church anew.
In short, they're more devout and just,
More faithful, and more fit for Trust,
Than those loose Saints, whom now we see
Possess'd of all, but Honesty.

The Low-Church are Prevaricators,
Proud of the Name of Moderators:
By subtle Arts made factious Tools.
In short, they're the Dissenters Fools,
Design'd in some more wicked Times
To bear the Slander of their Crimes,
That when they find proper a Season
T'attempt some Massacre or Treason,
The cunning Saints may shift the Shame,
And cast upon the Church the Blame;
Because the Low-Church Moderators
Were all along their kind Abettors.
Like Moths, that round a Candle fly,
They either can't, or won't espy
The Danger that's before their Eye;
But court those Flames they should avoid,
And sooth their Ruin, 'till destroy'd.
Tell 'em, the Church declines in Glory,
They cry, they hope 'tis all a Story.
Thus make you think they would not have her
Hurt, yet will nothing do to save her.
They must comply with Toleration,
Their Hearts quite melt with Moderation;
Yet have not Patience to be taught
The sad Calamities they've brought
Upon the Land, or to be shewn
What Mischief to the Church they've done.
'Tis true, they use Church-Worship duly,
Yet think a Meeting full as Holy:

Lawn Sleeves and Surplice they approve,
The Common-Pray'r they like and love;
Yet will not see the Hurt they do,
By siding with a factious Crew.
In short, these Men of Moderation;
These Low-Church Whigs, so much in Fashion,
Are true to nothing, in my Sense,
Except to dull Indifference;
But like a Lump of Wax or Clay,
Can take Impression any Way.
Lord clear their muddy Intellects,
Recal them from pernicious Sects;
Make them more Holy, and more Steady,
More Wise, more Willing, and more Ready,
To guard the establish'd Church o'th' Nation,
In whom they seek their own Salvation;
That when the Tempest shall arise,
She may not fall a Sacrifice
To Wolves crept into Sheeps Disguise.

FINIS.

4. Part the Fourth.

CANTO V.

When thus my Friend had let me know
The Diff'rence 'twixt the High and Low,
By which a Man might eas'ly see
True Zeal from canting Knavery,
And learn most rightly to distinguish
The Mod'rate from the Church that's English.
His Bus'ness calling him aside,
I parted with my Rev'rend Guide,
Who left me now to walk, and ponder
On many Things that rais'd my Wonder;

When (after I was thus forsaken)
A thoughtful Turn or two I'd taken,
For th'Benefit of Rumination,
On Matters worth Consideration;
I bid adieu to th'Holy Ile,
And wander'd from the awful Pile;
Down Ludgate-Street I gently strol'd,
Where Helps for blinking Age are sold,
And where Quack Surgeon, or Physician,
That doubts of Harvey's Proposition,
May also see, for Confirmation,
The Blood of Fish in Circulation.
Thus scated I with Care along
The slip'ry Stones, amidst the Throng,
Kept level for old Cuckolds Corns,
Whose Feet, as well as Heads, wear Horns:
It is but Justice that each Toe
Should the same Pennance undergo,
Because they treach'rously together
Conspire to carr'us God knows whether,

Whilst Cuckold-makers who are crafty,
Graft on our Antlets with more Safety.
I shot the Porch that bears the Name
Of good King Lud, of ancient Fame;
Within whose Monument lies bury'd
A living Tribe, by Fortune worry'd,
First squeez'd, then hither haul'd and hurry'd:
A greater Number, let me tell ye,
Than dwelt in Trojan Horse's Belly:
Besides the Legeons that they wear,
In matted Locks of uncomb'd Hair,
And listed Troops of eight-leg'd Strolers,
That march from Wrist-bands to their Collars.
What Pity 'tis, thought I, that Men
Should live, like Sheep, within a Pen!
Or else, like Owles, that hate the Light,
Lie hidden in perpetual Night!
There forc'd to spend their Days in Lousing,
Debauching, Gaming, and Carousing,

To th'Shame and Scandal of a Nation,
When Fighting is so much in Fashion!
These Stony Traps the Laws have set
To catch the poor Unfortunate,
Thought I, most strangely disagree
With boasted Christian Charity.
If Men, for Poverty alone,
Must wear such Dublets made of Stone;
We wrong the Faith that we pretend to,
And punish those we should be kind to;
For Heav'n Commands us o'er and o'er
To be assisting to the Poor,
And not take Liberty from those
Who've nothing else to give or lose;
And make their Misery more compleat,
Which is already much too great.
Thus persecute our Fellow-Creature,
Ruin'd perhaps by's own good Nature.

The King of Christians gave his Bosome
To Lazarus, when poor and lo'hsome,
But modern Christians now, instead,
Would heap more Mis'ries on his Head,
And give him Stones, instead of Bread.
From thence, along that tipling Street,
Distinguish'd by the Name of Fleet,
Where Tavern-Signs hang thicker far,
Than Trophies down at Westminster;
And ev'ry Bacchanalian Landlord
Displays his Ensign, or his Standard,
Bidding Defiance to each Brother,
As if at Wars with one another:
Their only Quarrel being, who
Can with most Art and Int'rest Brew;
That is, in short, about who is't
That can the most deceive his Guest:
Draw the worst Wine, and thrive the best.

I pass'd the Bridge, whose Sides were loaden
With Holland Socks, and hot bak'd Puddin,
And where nice Epicures may see
Knit Night-caps, and rare Furmity;
Plaisters for Corns, and Well-fleet Oysters,
Standing in Rows, and some in Clusters.
All girt with Chaps, Men, Boys, and Women,
Traps, Divers, Punks, and Serjeants, Yeomen;
Some chaff'ring for their Feet or Toes,
Some judging Oysters by the Nose,
And others buying Balls for Cloths.
So have I seen on Board of Ship,
Some knawing Beeff, some spewing Flip;
Another smoaking Indian Fuel,
A sick Man sipping Water-Gruel:
Some others chewing Bisket-Bread
Round one that's lousing Shirt or Head:
Some making of a Sea-man's Pye,
And others picking Toes just by:

A curious Mixture to invite
A squeamish Lady's Appetite.
From thence I gently pass'd along,
Where num'rous Hierogliphicks hung;
Such Whims that would, I dare engage ye,
Have puzzl'd an Egyptian Magi:
A Swan, a Mortar and a Pestle,
And in the Air a swinging Castle;
A Shopful of Mundungus Ware,
A Grey-Hound mouthing of a Hare,
Who wins the Course from all the rest,
Because his Master draws the best.
Three Tuns, that very lately started,
A huge white Horse that never farted.
A Flemish Boar in a blue Jerkin,
One Tun no bigger than a Firkin.
A Leg, that as some People say,
Instead of running, hopp'd away.

A Bishop's Mitre and a Horn,
Both which may at one time be worn;
For since, like us, our Prelates Marry,
Why not their Wives, like ours, miscarry?
A Black Bull's-Head, a Dragon Green,
A King, two Devils, and a Queen;
A brace of Logg'r-Heads o'er the Porch,
To guard the Clock, and grace the Church,
Which serve to shew each Lady bright,
That stroles that way by Day or Night,
That Wooden Men, like Brasen Whore,
By Clock-work Art, obtain the Pow'r,
To knock four Times within the Hour;
That is, can thump about the Quarters
As roundly as two living Porters:
Who then can blame the Maids, that under
Stand gaping at so strange a Wonder,
To see two Block-heads made of Wood,
Perform like any Flesh and Blood.

As I was taking this my View,
Like Country Hodge at Barthol'mew,
Observing here a Temple Fop,
And there a Cuckold in his Shop;
A Cutler fixing up Sword Hilts,
Informers dogging Punks and Jilts;
A Gold-smith telling o'er his Cash,
A Pipping-monger selling Trash;
One Sempstress in her Hut a stitching,
Another just strol'd out a B---ing;
A Country Ruddy-fac'd Attorney
Just lighted from his dirty Journey,
In stubborn Coat of Drab-de-berry,
And wrinkl'd Boots all over Miry;
A huge long Sword, with which he Vapours,
In's Hand a Wallet stuff'd with Papers,
To some old Inn of Chanc'ry trudging,
In which he keeps a dusty Lodging,
Lock'd closely up from Term to Term,
Where Fleas, instead of Clients, swarm,

And Cobweb-Emblems of his Trade,
Hang full of Pris'ners o'er his Head.
As I was thus amus'd to see
This Mixture of Humanity,
Who should step by, but Doctor Trotter,
That Astrological Promoter,
Reeling from E---ms's Diapente,
Advanc'd at least to nine and twenty,
With a long Cole-black Fury's Wig on,
And flaming Nose, like fiery Trigon:
He sometimes run a-head straight forward,
Then tack'd from Southward to the Norward;
And sometimes like a wand'ring Star,
Mov'd Retrograde, then Circular:
Finding himself in Dangers tost,
At last, for fear he should be lost,
He anchor'd safely at a Post:
With that, said I, old Friend, how chear ye,
I'm glad to see you here so merry:

Come, let's go drink some Turky Puddle;
'Tis Cordial for a swimming Noddle:
Thou'lt grow, with one half Pint of Coffee,
As sober as a Persian Sophy.
With that, I took him by the Arm,
And led the Wizard out of Harm,
Who, for my Kindness, was as Civil
As Doctor Faustus to the Devil.
So Cheek by Jole away we went,
Like old Nick, and the Earl of Kent,
'Till to a Coffee-House we came,
To quench the Doctor's liquid Flame,
Where at a Table down we sat,
And gravely talk'd of this and that;
Drank Coffee, 'till the Doctor found
The World that turn'd so lately round,
Had of a suddain stopp'd its Motion,
In spight to the Copernian Notion;
When the reviving Fumes that rose
From scolding Ninny-broth to's Nose,

Had soberiz'd his Brains a little,
And made him fit for Tattle Tittle.
(Pray let not this my Transposition
Incur your Censure or Derision:
Poets are apt to change a Letter,
Or Word, to make their Rime the better:
For when we Pegasus bestride,
And after Wit a Hunting ride,
Our noisy Lines would all run single,
Were they not coupl'd by their Jingle.)
I say, when Coffee piping hot,
Had rais'd the Man, and cur'd the Sot,
And by its Crust-burnt Excellencies,
Restor'd the Conj'rer to his Senses;
Doctor, said I, then bowing low,
You, I, and all the Kingdom, know
Your're famous in your Generation,
And learn'd in ev'ry Constellation;
I therefore beg you'll answer me
One Question in Astrology,

Because I'm sure, were Albumazer,
Or Ptolomy, the Plannet-gazer,
Tom Saffold, Lilly, or old Coley,
Now living, none could tell more truly;
Therefore I beg, that you'll impart
One Spec'men of your noble Art.

With that, the Doctor rubb'd his Eyes,
Then looking at me twice or thrice,
At last Majestically cry'd,
In what would you be satify'd?
Pray state your Question, and be free, Sir,
If Art can solve it, I am he, Sir,
That knows as much, and am as Wise,
As all the Plannets in the Skies:
Long have I travell'd, Night and Day,
That Heav'nly Path, the Milky Way;
Counted the Stars on ev'ry side,
Shook Hands with Time, survey'd the Tide,

And have as often, by my Soul,
Drove Charles's Wain about the Pole:
Nay, stood a Tip-toe on the Horn
Of Aries, and of Capricorn;
View'd all the Heavens, where I found
The Stars like Whirligigs go round;
Visited all the bless'd Abodes,
And drank rich Nectar with the Gods;
But by my Life, a merry Bowl
Of Elms's Punch, is worth it all.
These things are all to me as common,
As Scolding to a Basket-Woman.
I'd have you think I'm not the Ass
That deals in Fern-Seed, and a Glass,
And to deceive the World, does brag on
His green, his yellow, and black Dragon;
That dwells in Allies, God knows where,
Down seven Steps, and up one Stair:
I'm no poor, ignorant, dull Liar;
No Mene Tekel Prophesier;

No Doctor Case, no riming Noddy,
But one who knows, thro' painful Study,
What's what, as well as any Body.
Therefore, pray state your Question right,
With all the necessary Light
That you can give, or I require,
And you shall find, as you desire,
I'll tell you Truth, or I'm a Liar.

Doctor, said I, I must agree
You've made the Heav'ns your A, B, C,
And understand th'Egyptian Knowledge
Beyond all Gresham's learned Colledge:
Therefore I'm sure you cannot miss
Answ'ring my Question, which is this:
Full two Months since I did invite
Three Friends to Sup with me one Night,
And when we'd plentifully eat,
A Bowl of Punch was next my Treat,
Made of right French, upon my Word,
Good, says the Doctor, by the Lord;

And so, said I, we sipp'd our Fuddle,
As Women in the Straw do Caudle,
'Till ev'ry Man had drown'd his Noddle;
And when they found their Heads grew light,
They thank'd their Host, and bid good Night:
But the next Morn, soon after Rising,
I found my Punch-Bowl Ladle missing.
Now, if the Plannets can inform ye
Who 'twas that stole the Ladle from me,
I'll own Astrology's amazing,
And that the Stars are worth your gazing.

But, Sir, replies the Doctor, then
Of what Religion were these Men?
For Plannets, like to sov'reign Princes,
Have very diff'rent Influences,
And make a strong or weak Impression,
As Mortals differ in Perswasion.

One, said I, was a Church-Man, true
As ever sat in Church-War'n's Pew,
And went twice ev'ry Sabbath-Day
To hear the Parson Preach and Pray:

One that has long paid Scot and Lot,
And deals each Year for G*d knows what.

Poh, crys the Doctor, never think
A Church-Man Knavish in his Drink;
He's a true Trout that scorns, Ads-fish,
To Porridge beg, and steal the Dish.
Go on, I'm sure he's just and true,
The Ladle lies 'twixt t'other two.

The next, said I, was a Dissenter,
No Saint, but one that dares to venture
At Night to take off his Decanter,
Yet shuns both Common-Pray'r, and Lawn,
To hear a Hide-bound Block-head yawn,
And ev'ry Sunday thinks 'tis fitting
To crowd in at a hum-drum Meeting,
And there in Holy Exercise,
Strain hard to shew distorted Eyes,
Which every now and then, by fits,
Are strangely troubl'd with the Whites;
Yet all his Neighbours do declare
His Dealings are profoundly fair,

And that he scorns, tho' ne'er so little,
To wrong the Rich, or rob the Spittle,
But's nicely Honest to a Tittle.

The Doctor turning up his Eyes,
And grimly looking, thus replies:
I know not what to think of him,
'Tis rare to find a Mill-stone swim:
However, I'll suspend my Censure,
To hear what t'other was, and then, Sir,
I'll freely give my final Answer.

Said I, the third Man was, in Troth,
A trimming Christian 'twixt 'em both;
A modern, strange, bifarious Creature,
By Knaves and Fools call'd Moderator.

Nouns, crys the Doctor, in a Fury,
That was the Rogue, I can assure ye:
You need not speak another Word, Sir,
He stole the Ladle, by the Lord, Sir;
The Plannets punctually declare it,
The Stars are ready all to swear it:

I'm sure, as right as Man can guess it;
Tax him but home, and he'll confess it;
He's a rare Mes-mate for the Devil,
And makes a long Spoon of your Ladle.
But now you know how Matters lie,
Pray take this Counsel by the by.

Be sure you never trust herea'ter,
In any Case by Land or Water,
The Value of a Rope of Onions
With him that halts 'twixt two Opinions,
For if you do, you'll find (my Friend)
Your self the Looser in the End.

Pleas'd with the Doctor's lucky Notion,
I thank'd him kindly for his Caution;
And well contented with his Answer,
Took formal Leave o'th' Nigromancer.

CANTO VI.

No sooner had I cross'd the Gound-sel,
Thus fortify'd with good old Counsel,
But a long Train of hawking Varlots,
Together mix'd with screaming Harlots,
Came flying by me in a Heat,
With their Hair tagg'd with Pearls of Sweat,
Running 'gainst all that did not mind 'em,
As if the Dev'l had been behind 'em;
Bawling a Speech with hideous Voice,
That made, like them, a wond'rous Noise,
Which, tho' 'twas spoken by a N---le,
To shew how England's made the Bubble,
And did i'th' Title boldly wear
The Name and Sanction of a P---r;
Yet (tho' with great Concern I tell it,)
'Twas cry'd as Wenches cry pick'd Sallet;
A lumping Pen'worth will you buy,
You've all this for a Half-penny.

Surely, thought I, a wise Oration,
Intended for the Good o'th' Nation,
Must needs be worth so small a Token,
Or else 't had better ne'er been spoken:
So out I pull'd a piece of Copper,
And bought this celebrated Paper:
I conn'd it o'er, it proving Witty,
With as much Pleasure as a City
Apprentice does a new Love-Ditty:
No Fault could I discover in 't,
Except too true to put in Print,
At such a time when 'tis the Fashion,
With Lies and Shams to gull the Nation,
And with destructive Querks and Tricks,
Those damn'd Fanatick Politicks,
To draw the Crowd from their Allegiance,
Into a State of Disobedience.
The Devil us'd, as all believe,
The self-same Policy with Eve,
And made her, by his wicked Lies,
Turn Fool, in hopes to be more Wise.

So Nations, by that Knavish Cry,
Of Liberty and Property,
Are oft brought into Slavery.

Again I pauz'd on this Oration,
And read it still with Approbation;
Some Truths it very plainly hints,
At many more the Author squints;
Well worthy of the L---'s Inspection,
And better worth the S---te's Correction.
Why should a Subject be debarr'd
From saying 'tis unjustly hard,
That we should lead the Martial Dance,
To save the D---ch from Spain and France,
And still th'ingrateful, thankless Skippers,
Shall make poor England pay the Pipers:
Their Trade with France does plainly shew
They thrive; so give the Dev'l his due,
And let them pay the Musick too.

Since the Wise D---ch will not appear
To th'World such errant Fools as we're,

And we no Measures can devise,
To Cullies make of our Allies;
Let us by them Example take,
And manage wisely our last Stake;
Least Head-long we pursue our Ruin,
And save them at our own Undoing.

E'er I could make my Observation
Upon the Han'ver Invitation,
And all the parts o'th' Speech which were
Just half as many as appear
In Lilly's Grammer, which by Pain
And Dint of Whipping, we retain;
But a new Flat-cap, scoundrel Fry,
With daggl'd Tails, came bawling by,
Here is his Lordship's Noble Speech,
And De F---'s Answer, cry's a B---ch,
A Half-penny apiece for each.
Here, said I, take your Mumper's Fee,
Let's see one; Thank you, Sir, said she.
Thought I, what means this Tack-about?
What makes old Thumond's Cocks fall out,

Who, when they heretofore were try'd,
Shew'd themselves always of a Side?

Eager of knowing what was in't,
Expecting Wit or Argument
From a bold Champion, that should dare
To thus confront a Noble P---r;
I read, and read, still forward went,
But wonder'd what the Dev'l he meant;
At last I found, instead of Answer,
Meer dull Scurility and Banter,
Which shew no Honour could restrain
The scoundrel Freedom of his Pen;
And that, according to his Use,
He cannot write without Abuse,
Or sure he would not have preferr'd
His Lousy Tinker to my Lord.

But that which is above the rest,
The pretty'st, paultry, cunning Jest,
He tells his Reader, he shall shew
The Def'rence to a P---r that's due,

And yet he says most rudely plain,
That he believes no Mortal Man
Of Truth, good Manners, or Discretion,
Or that esteems his Reputation,
Could without Scandal or Dishonour,
Confess himself that Sp---'s Owner;
Yet sees his L---p in the Title,
To shew it was a true Recital,
And that for th'Benefit o'th' Nation,
'Twas printed by his Approbation.

Thus thro' his Cant, the World may see
His due Respect to Qualitie.

So have I heard an evil Tongue,
With Malice and ill Nature hung,
Revile a Man behind his Back,
And rend'r him odiously Black;
Yet vow he honours and respects
The Person whom he thus detracts.

Next does our mannerly Respondent
Sum up four Topicks he has found in't,

And humbly begs he may have leave
To answer, and to undeceive,
Without Offence, which when h'as done,
Truly he answers ne'er a one;
The first three Heads he scorns to handle,
But then the fourth he mauls with Scandal,
And to the better shew his Spleen,
He head-long hauls Mercurius in,
As Poet Bays, does, by my Soul,
His Petty-coat upon a Pole.
Thus on a sudden turns his Britch,
Clown-like, upon his L---p's Sp---ch,
And out of all due Place or Season,
Attacks the D---r without Reason,
As if the Noddy, thro' Mistake,
Had thought himself a Match for D---.

So have I heard, when charming Linnet
Delights the Meadows with her Sonnet,
A Hedge-bird churring sit hard by,
To answer t'other's Harmony,
Believing that she sung as well
As any warbling Philomel;
When her dull Discord, all the while,
Serv'd t'other only for a Foil.

FINIS.

5. Part the Fifth.

CANTO VII.

Now gently cruzing up and down,
T'observe the Follies of the Town;
Wand'ring about like starving Bully,
Or stroling Punk, in search of Cully,
Just bolted from some Bawdy-house Alley;
I glanc'd an Eye at ev'ry Body,
This jutting Minx, that strutting Noddy;
One hugging Home a Bag of Pelf,
Another handing half himself:
Some striding on in sweating Haste,
As if they fear'd their Time was past:

Some plagu'd with Corns, and some with Gout,
In Shoes with Pen-knife pink'd and cut,
Who pick'd with Care the smoothest Places,
And at sharp Flint-stones made wry Faces:
Others, tho' lusty, young, and strong,
Mov'd on so carelessly along,
That their delib'rate Walking, shew
They had but little else to do.
Young Drunkards reeling, Bayliffs dogging,
Old Strumpets plying, Mumpers progging,
Fat Dray-men squabling, Chair-men ambling
Oyster-Whores fighting, School-Boys scrambling,
Street Porters running, Rascals batt'ling,
Pick-pockets crowding, Coaches rattling,
News bawling, Ballad-wenches singing,
Guns roaring, and the Church-Bells ringing.

Bless me! thought I, sure ancient Babel,
Confus'd with all her jab'ring Rabble,
Who understood not one another,
Ne'er made such a confounded Puther;

Nor half th'amazing Wonders knew,
That this strange Town does daily shew;
The Bustle round her lofty Tow'rs,
Was nothing, if compar'd to ours;
For Heav'n their stately Pile beholding,
Was only angry at their building,
And stopp'd their bold presumptious Labour,
By unintelligible Jabber;
But then by cavelling Discourse,
They could not make their Discords worse,
Nor, like us English, by Disputes,
Reason themselves from Men to Brutes.
'Tis plain, because each Neighbour's Tongue
Was with a diff'rent Language hung;
So that when one spoke Dutch, the other
Perhaps spew'd Irish at his Brother;
Both perhaps vex'd, but neither able
To rend'r 'emselves intelligible,
So their Talk pass'd for Bibble Babble.
But we that well know what we say,
Torment our selves a diff'rent way,

And by our wise Debates and Speeches,
Make our selves sad confounded Wretches.

Some prophane Atheists make a Doubt
How th'old Confusion came about,
And to appear more learn'd and wise
Than Fools, that do such Criticks prize,
Conjecture, tho' perhaps amiss,
The Bus'ness was no more than this.

The Lab'rers by the Masons hir'd,
Bilk'd of their Wages, soon grew tir'd,
And swore, unless they'd better pay,
No couz'ning Knaves would they obey,
But leave their Work, and fall to Play.
From hence strange Language soon arose,
That is, ill Words, as some suppose,
Such that oft terminate in Blows.
So that the Slaves, with Anger fir'd,
Against the Artificers conspir'd,
And (tho' 'twas but a cross-grain'd Trick)
Carry'd them Lime, instead of Brick.

This made the Masons repremand 'em;
The Lab'rers would not understand 'em,
But sullen grew upon this Peak,
And then would neither Work nor speak.
So the grave Spaniard, in the Praise
Of Monkeys, very wisely says,
That they are Human, and can Talk
As well as any Christian Folk,
But that they fear to Speak, lest we
Should make them do our Drudgerie.
If these Conjectures keep them mute,
Their Silence is, without Dispute,
A wise Forbearance in the Brute.

But we, worse Monkeys of the two,
Repugnant Sentiments persue,
And talk t'each other with such Spight,
That we confound both Wrong and Right;
Distract the Nation by our Babbling,
And seek eternal Peace by Squabling.
The Cloak sets up against the Gown,
And rails at Apostolick Lawn;

Proclaims the Surplice to be foppish,
And damns the Common-Pray'r as Popish;
Meer Porridge, from the Mass-Book stole,
Unfit to feed a Christian Soul,
That dates its Method of Salvation
From old King Harry's Reformation.

The Church-men justly growl to see
Fanaticks storm the Hierarchie,
And that the Force of Toleration,
Once under such a Condemnation,
Should set each canting, proud Fantastick
Above their Courts Ecclesiastick,
And give such buzzing Wasps the Pow'r
To suck the Sweets of ev'ry Flow'r,
And robb the more industrious Bees
Of Honey as the Vermin please:
But that which makes the Church-men wonder,
And strikes them worse than Bolt of Thunder,
Is, that an E--- H--- of Oak,
Who, like a Friend, so kindly spoke,
Should put upon them such a Joke,

'Tis true, we often have been told
In Proverbs very wise and old,
That Men of Words, and not of Deeds,
Are like a Garden full of Weeds;
And that fine Compliments and Speeches,
Stuff'd full of Thank ye's, and Beseech ye's,
Will neither purchase what we lack,
Nor fill a Bushel, or a Sack.

Fair Promises avail but little,
Like too rich Pye-crust, they're so brittle,
They seldom signify a Tittle.
Good Deeds become an E---h H---t;
Fine Words don't countervail a F---t.
Heroick Actions are alone
The Glories of a Camp or Throne:
For if bifarious Tittle Tattle
Could storm a Town, or win a Battel,
Or varnish o'er with true Renown
That Sov'raign Gugaw call'd a Crown,

Then any Tongue-pad that could flatter,
Might make a supream Legislator,
Or huffing Bully, Pimp, or Pander,
Serve for a General Commander:
But wheedling Tongues, unactive Swords,
Deceitful News, and blust'ring Words,
No more can make a Prince Victorious,
Than broken Vows can make him Glorious.

Fraight with these jarring Cogitations,
Confus'd with sundry Observations,
Thinking sometimes, and sometimes gazing
On things both pleasant and amazing;
At length did on Crony stumble;
Old Friend, said I, your very humble:
Whither art trudging on so fast?
Thou walk'st as if in woundy haste.
Says he, There is an old Curmudgeon,
A hum-drum, preaching, Clapperdudgeon,
Who in my House has ta'en a Lodging;
He wears the Independant Cloak,
Yet the old Stiff-rump loves a Joke;

And of a hide-bound mungrel Teacher,
Has no small Kindness for the Pitcher:
He's an old Western Soul-Physician,
That narrowly escap'd Perdition
In wicked Times, almost like these,
When M---nm---th went to gather Pease;
But having shunn'd a Rebel's Fate,
He Coach'd it up to Town of late,
And does this Night dispense, hard by,
A Lecture to the Holy Fry;
And I, to tell you Truth, am jogging
To hear him give the Pope a Flogging;
And if you're not engag'd, said he,
I'll thank you for your Companie:
I fancy 'twill be worth your while;
His Cant, I know, will make you smile;
For tho' he's not a Man of Letters,
He'll banter Heav'n, and scoff his Betters,
Beyond old B---rg---s or Hugh Peters.

'Tis done, said I, I'll see you thither;
And so away we jogg'd together,

Not doubting but I there should find
Some Hodg-podg of the Hum-drum kind,
Fit to awake a drowzy Mind.

CANTO VIII.

When we came near the Rebel's School,
Where Treason's daily taught by Rule,
And sullen Knaves in Crowds agree
To sacrifice their Loyaltie;
And where our Monster of an Ape,
Was fond to shew his ugly Shape,
And to the list'ning Frape, dispense
The very Cream and Quint-essence
Of Envy, Pride, and Impudence.
A Throng of Searchers after Truth,
Were crowding at the Alley's Mouth,
Wherein the Conventicle stood,
Like Smithfield Droll-booth, built with Wood;

All shoving to obtain Admittance,
As if they hop'd for full Acquittance
Of all the Evils they had done
From that Time back to Forty One:
Some wrapp'd in Cloaks that had been wore
By Saints defunct, in Times of Yore:
Others in Coats, which by their Fashion,
Bore Date from Charles's Restauration,
Shelter'd beneath Umbrella Hats,
And Canoniz'd with Rose Cravats,
That by their Querpo's and their Quaints,
The World might read them to be Saints;
Their sweaty Rats-tail Hair hung down
To th'Shoulders from each addled Crown,
Kept thin, to cool their frantick Brains,
And comb'd as strait as Horses Manes;
Their Bodies almost Skelitons,
Reduc'd by Zeal to Skin and Bones,
So lean and envious in the Face,
As if they'd neither Grease nor Grace.

Two halting Saints, among the Crew,
With no small Pleasure did I view,
Each made upright with Patten-Shoe;
Whose Iron Stilts so plagu'd the Crowd,
That some I heard cry out aloud,
For Heav'n's sake, good Neighbour Barns,
Be careful how you crush my Corns.
Another Zealot, plagu'd with Gout,
In painful Fury roaring out,
I wish your Pattens at old Nick,
They've touch'd me to the very Quick.
Can you not tread, but stump my Toes
With your Vulcanian limping Shoes?
What! come you here to plague and spight us,
And vilely trample on the Righteous?
Thou art not fit for Christian Crowding;
Thou'rt Shod like any Roan or Dobbing.

The Women next, in awkward Dresses,
Made up the Feast of ugly Faces:
Some did in tatter'd Scarves advance,
Jagg'd like the Trophies won from France:

In Hoods too so defac'd and torn,
That had you seen 'em, you'd have sworn,
In Bleinheim Battel they'd been shotten,
Th'appear'd so ragged, and so rotten.
Some in green Aprons look'd more tite,
Others, like Flags of Truce, wore white,
Houss'ives that seem'd a Grain too light.

The good old Dames, among the rest,
Were all most primitively drest
In stiffen-body'd Russet Gowns,
And on their Heads old Steeple Crowns;
With pristine Pinners next their Faces,
Edg'd round with ancient scollop Laces,
Such as, my Antiquary says,
Were worn in old Queen Bess's Days,
In Ruffs, and fifty other ways:
Their wrinkled Necks were cover'd o'er
With Whisks of Lawn, by Grannums wore
In base Contempt of Bishops Sleeves,
As Simon Oxthodox believes.

These did not only serve to hide
Their wither'd Dugs, but seem'd beside
To be the chiefest of their Pride.
Some few indeed had got behind 'em
Their pretty Daughters, to attend 'em;
But they were dress'd and Furbulow'd
According to the present Mode;
In whom such Innocence appear'd,
That they no Prick of Conscience fear'd:
For those who never knew the Curse
Of Sin, can never dread Remorse.
Next these, came up a sore-leg'd Dutches,
Grunting and whining on her Crutches,
Who grin'd and look'd (the Lord defend her)
As hagged as the Witch of Endor;
Crying, when squeez'd, Good Folks, for Shame
Don't shove so hard against the Lame,
But shew some Mercy and good Nature
To a poor, ancient, crazy Creature,
Who sixty Years since, let me tell ye,
Have heard good Preaching in this Alley;

But now alass! I'm Lame and Ill,
And Deaf, yet by the L---d's good Will,
I love to see a Preacher still.

My Friend and I brought up the Rear,
Squeez'd in, and Elbow'd pretty near
The consecrated Tub, in which
The Gospel Emp'rick was to teach:
At length up step'd the formal Prater,
Who was of Countrey May-pole Stature,
Slender, Stiff-neck'd, extreamly Tall,
Long-fac'd, and very Lean withal.
No sooner had old Heart of Oak,
Upon a Peg hung Hat and Cloak,
But round their Sockets did he rowl
The little Windows of his Soul;
But soon we found his Eye-balls hid,
Turn'd up beneath each upper Lid,
And then he work'd about the Whites,
As Madmen do in raving Fits;
Reel'd in his Tub from side to side,
And wrung his Hands, as if he Cry'd.

His Beard from Shoul' to Shoulder rov'd,
And like the Clock-work Drummers mov'd;
He yawn'd, and gap'd, and gently stir'd
His Head, but yet said ne'er a Word;
Made many strange Geneva Faces,
And out did twenty Apes Grimaces.
At last his Tongue its Silence broke,
And thus the Rev'rend Spintext spoke:

O L---d, thou art, we know not what;
We only know what thou art not,
And from a Negative, infer
Thou'rt Good, because thou can'st not err:
Look down upon us, sinful Creatures,
So chang'd by our corrupted Natures,
That loe thou know'st we are not Men;
And if not so, what are we then?
I'll tell thee, if thou want'st to know,
We're Monsters bent to Satan's Bow,
Meer Brutes; ay, ay, and are we so?
Yes, very slothful, wicked Elves,
That love not Heaven, or our Selves,

Thou may'st believe me, L---d, for why?
Thou know'st I never tell a Lie;
Therefore we pray thee, at thy Leisure,
Bestow thy Grace, that Heav'nly Treasure,
Upon our Souls, that we may be
Such Good, Good, Good,—ah, let me see,
Defenders of those Holy Truths,
That came from out thy Prophets Mouths.
O strengthen us, thy lowly Creatures,
To trample down Lawn Sleeves and Mitres,
And High Church Nobles bind in Fetters;
Or if they prove for us too strong,
O let 'em live so long, so long,
'Till thy Elect shall flout and scoff 'em,
And all the World grow weary of 'em.
Humble the High Church, bring her low,
That she her wicked Pride may know;
And let the Book of Mass be brought,
With all its Popish Dregs, to nought;
And in its room, to thy great Glory,
Establish our old Directory,

And open all thy Peoples Eyes,
To read th'Assembly's Catechise.

Let no Tyrannick, Crown or Steeple
Triumph or Tow'r above thy People;
But give them, with their Popish Lands,
Into thy Holy Servants Hands,
That we, thy Saints, may save this Nation,
And by a true Illumination,
Compleat a Blessed Reformation.

Let no high-flying Jacobites,
Those Birds of Prey, those Hawks and Kites,
Bear any Office, or Command,
In this our Isle, thy Promis'd Land:
But let thy Holy Saints pull down
Those Props o'th' Babylonian Crown:
May they be scatter'd as the Dust,
For if they do not fall, we must.

O stifle all those wicked Papers,
In which the High Church make their Vapours:
Let the Memorial and Rehearsal,
Which we poor Lambs are bound to curse all,

Be doom'd t'illuminate our Pipes,
Or give our Backsides cleanly Wipes.

Confound Politicus Mercurious,
Whose Reas'nings might have prov'd injurious,
Had not the Threat'nings of the Laws
Made him turn Tail upon his Cause,
And many Weeks before he dy'd,
For Safety, court the strongest Side.
No Shame! for honest Men may doubt,
And sturdy Champions tack about:
Besides, by Right of Human Reason,
We may desert at such a Season;
When, by the cow'rdly Eye of Fear,
We do foresee some Danger near,
If we should farther persevere.

We more particular pray,
That thou would'st find some speedy way
To save us, hide us, and relieve us,
From Hudibrasus Redivivus,
That Antichristian, Popish Book,
That makes thy Saints like Devils look,

And wounds and persecutes the Righteous,
Much worse than Laughing Heraclitus.

Let not that Cause, good L---d, thy own
As well as ours, be trampl'd down
By High Church Pamphlets, Songs, and Libels,
Or made the Sport of Puns and Quibles;
But hold for us thy Peoples Sake,
The Hands of L--- and of D---:
Banish them to some Land remote,
Where Wit don't signify a Groat;
Some new-found, rude, unpolish'd Nation,
Where Learning never was in Fashion,
But where they neither read or think,
Or deal in cursed Pen and Ink,
Those wicked Tools, by Hell design'd
T'annoy the Peace of Human-kind:
There let them cavel, and contend,
To shame the Cause they would defend;
And tho' their Principles agree,
Yet squable to their Infamy.

Next, lay thy scourging Hand, good L---d,
Upon that High Church Scribe, N---d W---d:
May all his spiteful, Bitter Nuts,
Be drown'd in th'empting of our Guts;
The stinking Fate of Doctor's Bills,
Confound his Kernels, and his Shells;
May all his pointed Prose and Rime
Throne at us, Saints, from time to time,
Be punish'd one Day, as a Crime;
Not Dooms-day, L---d, I do not mean;
There's other Days 'twixt this and then,
Wherein, I hope, the good old Cause,
In spight of High Church Rooks and Daws,
May have the whetting of the Laws.

But kindly show'r thy Mercies down
On Saint De F---e, and Captain J---n:
O Snuff that intellectual Light,
By which they think, and which they write;
For if it long should burn thus dim,
As now it does in Sessions-time,

The good old Cause must be confounded,
Up Cavalier, and down goes Round-head.

O sanctify the Calves-Head Club,
Those valiant Patriots of the Mob;
O make them stedfast, wise, and wary;
Strengthen their Zeal, they ne'er may vary
Their good old Feast in January.
O Bless the Calves, whose Heads they chuse
For this their Pious Heav'nly Use:
May they abound with Brains, to fit 'em
For Sauce, above the Saints that eat 'em:
Protect them at their solemn Dinner,
Least some malicious High Church Sinner,
Should hatch (assisted by the Devil)
Some Powder-Plot beneath the Table,
Which at one Blast should spoil their Feasting,
And blow them down to Everlasting.

Bless all our kind industrirous Friends,
Whose Zeal and Courage gain'd our Ends,
And did so cordially assist
To get that Popish Bill dismis'd;

That Bill, which, had it took Effect,
Had cramp'd our Cause, and thy Elect;
Brought us to th'Cross, the Cowl, the Cope,
T'obey the Pope, good L---d, the Pope.
O bless those zealous Saints, I say,
That sav'd us but the other Day
From High Church Arbitrary Sway:
Give them the Grace of Bradshaw, Noll,
Pride, Danvers, Ireton, Cook, and all;
Those Saints, who did not by their Knavery,
As Papists say, but by their Bravery,
Save us from Popery and Slavery;
That these good Men, for whom we pray,
The very self-same Game may play,
And break, by Dint of Sword and Fist,
The sturdy Neck of Antichrist:
Confound her, hunt her, worry'r, rend her
With all vain Pomps that do attend her,
Crowns, Crosiers, Caps, Hooks, Crooks, and Mitres;
L---d, let them all be broke to Shatters,

That we, thy Saints, may prove ascendant,
And all the Land be Independant.
Then shall we, free from Fear or Shame,
Sing Hymns and Praises to thy Name,
And gather, with a thankful Hand,
The Fruits of all thy Promis'd Land.

But, L---d, I pray thee, by the by,
Look down, and cast a jealous Eye
Upon our cunning Elder Brethren,
Call'd by the Name of Presbyterian;
Let not that persecuting Faction,
Too pow'rful grow, for our Correction;
But make them, in these happy Days,
Thy crafty Instruments, to raise
Us Saints to thy eternal Praise;
As heretofore thou thought'st 'em fitting
For that Great Work, when Rump was sitting;
For if thou suffer'st them to climb
Above thy People, at this time,
Still must thy poor distressed Saints
Persue thee with their sad Complaints,

And Cry aloud, in great Confusion,
O Persecution, Persecution.
L---d, humble 'em to our Hearts desire,
And let them not too high aspire,
Because they are too much like Fire:
They serve us well in our Disasters,
But are too hot to prove good Masters.

O sanctify this Congregation;
Scatter their Seed throughout the Nation,
And cleanse their wicked Souls within,
From all the filthy Dregs of Sin;
Wash them from all their Blots and Stains,
As Houswives do their Pots and Pans:
O stretch their Consciences, I pray;
O stretch 'em largely every way,
That by that means they may embrace
A greator Portion of thy Gracee;
Which well improv'd by Pray'r and Fasting,
May make them Saints for Everlasting.

This he repeated o'er again,
And all the People cry'd, Amen.

FINIS.

6. Part the Sixth.

Is this, thought I, the winning Way
That Saints Enthusiastick pray?
Can Malice, mix'd with Scoffs and Blunders,
Produce such rare ex temp're Wonders?
And Monkey Faces, Yawns, and Stammers,
Delude the pious Dames and Gammers,
To think their mumbling Guides Precation
So full of Heav'nly Inspiration,
That the Majestick Excellences
Of Common-Pray'er, in their dull Senses,

Must of that Holy Force be wanting,
The Zealots find in off-hand Canting?
So they believe, because they're taught,
That the Church Liturgy is naught,
Old Popish Stuff, not worth a Groat;
And being by their Holy Guide,
The reading Common-Pray'r, deny'd,
His Doctrine, and their Ignorance,
Do still their Prejudice advance,
'Till Heav'nly Grace, nor Human Reason,
Can kill at last the deadly Poyson;
Which working on the Mind so long,
Becomes s'unconquerably strong,
That unknown Exc'lence they abuse,
But praise the Errors that they use.
So have I seen a French-man eat,
In Spittle-Fields, most stinking Meat,
Toss'd up with Leeks into Raggoo,
To overcome th'unsav'ry Hogo;

Then swear, Begar, 'tis very good,
Because he knew no better Food.
Thus they applaud their way of Feasting,
Despising ours for want of tasting.

By this Time, all the Auditory
Began to sing to th'Praise and Glory,
Like Pigs and Hogs in Pease-field hunted,
Some squeak'd aloud, and others grunted,
All vary'ng in their Tune and Tone,
Which each might justly call their own;
For no kind Sister, or good Brother,
Kept Time or Key with one another;
But as they'd all discording Faces,
So all sung diff'rent Tunes and Graces,
Such as they us'd to lull and diddle
To froward Infants in the Cradle.
So have I heard, in Christmas Time,
When noisy Rev'ling is no Crime,
A Crowd of Country Wags and Wenches,
Seated on Buffet Stoolls and Benches,

When o'er their knappy sugar'd Beer,
Sing, Ponder well, you Parents dear,
Each straining forth her Screech-owl Voice,
Making some Godly Tune her Choice,
Which Gammer Crump, and Goody Burch,
Had squeak'd for many Years at Church.

When Psalms, for half an Hour, they'd sung
And howl'd, from Stave to Stave, along,
'Till Sternhold's old and rugged Strains
Had made them Hoarse, they took such Pains,
That in a Sweat, the Congretation
Ended their jingling Supplication;
On which they all were so intent,
And seem'd so musically bent,
Each Member of the Holy Club,
From lofty Saint, to lowly Scrub,
All strain'd their Throats to bear a Bob;
That sure no Mid-night Catter-wawling,
Could e'er produce a stranger Squaling,

Than did, according to my Notion,
This bawling Consort in Devotion,
Where ev'ry gaping, thin-jaw'd Brother,
Strove zealously t'out howl the other,
As if the Psalm they had been singing,
Was penitential to their Swinging;
And that th'were destin'd by the Psalter,
To all die Martyrs of the Halter.

CANTO IX.

The Teacher, after some Delay,
In which h'ad study'd what to say,
With Grace and Gravity affected,
Rose from his Seat, and stood erected.
Then opening of his Lips most nicely,
He made us t'other Pray'r concisely;
Which Work he did with Amen Crown,
And then the sighing Saints sat down:

Then with his horny Thumbs, he spread
A Book, which, when 'twas open laid,
He did therein precisely look,
And thus his Text he gravely took.

Most Holy Brethren, if you mind,
In the last Book of Kings, you'll find,
Mark you me, Chapter Forty Eight,
When Israel's Saints were Rich and Great,
These Wonders in the thirtieth Verse,
Written in bloody Characters:
This Day the haughty Tyrant fell,
And with him all the Priests of Baal:
Bless'd be the Hand that gave the Stroke,
Which freed all Israel from her Yoke.

This is a hopeful Rogue, thought I,
He'll preach rare Doctrine by and by;
Sure he and all his list'ning Mob,
Are Members of the Calves-Head Club;
None but such Rebels would dispence
With so much Heath'nish Impudence.

I sha'n't, says he, divide my Words,
O'th' Text, as Joiners do Deal Boards,
And as too many Knaves have done,
Make half a Dozen out of one;
But keep in Union all its Parts,
And Glue them closely to your Hearts.
My Words are not like Human Sorrow,
That comes to Day, and goes to Morrow;
But will, by th'help of Pray'r and Fasting,
Stick by your Souls for everlasting.

In the first place, my Text imports
The Massacres, the Spoils, and Hurts,
That to the Righteous have been done
By wicked Tyrants on the Throne.

Thought I, not half so many, sure,
As have been done in Times of Yore,
When Rogues, like you, by Hell appointed,
Pull'd down God's Church, and his Anointed.

After he'd made a little Pause,
Again he stretch'd his Lockrum Jaws;

But now, says he, 'tis worth our Wonder,
T'observe how th'Lord brings Tyrants under,
As Ahaz, Jeroboam, Saul,
Jehoram, and the Dev'l and all,
Who were so wicked, that they valu'd
No more Religion, than a Ballad;
And gave the Priests no more Respect,
Than if they'd been a lousy Sect
Of Heath'nish Sophisters of Old,
Who, as we've been in Proverb told,
Were such poor despicable Wretches,
They us'd to shew, thro' fallen Stitches,
And Pocket-holes, their naked Britches.

Thought I, for all your Pulpit-Drumming,
Had you no Hose to hide your Bum in,
But what true Merit would procure you,
I then might venture to assure you,
Your poor Deserts would scarce be able
To find you Trouzers to your Bauble;

But all the Holy Tribe might see
Your Label of Mortalitie
Hang dang'ling down, in sorry Pickle,
To th'Grief of all the Gender Fickle,
That Comfort seek in Conventicle.

Said he, 'tis for this Cause, we see
Proud Kings reduc'd to Miserie,
From their high Thrones and Scepters torn,
And made God's Holy People's Scorn.

Kings have no longer Right to Reign,
Than they the Covenant maintain;
Nor ought the People to obey
Their Prince, but in a righteous Way;
So that when e'er he breaks the Law,
Allegiance is not worth a Straw;
Or if he falsifies his Oath,
His Crime absolves us of our Troth;
For when us Saints are disappointed,
The Sovereign Pow'r is quite disjointed,
And he no longer God's Anointed:

As you may read Review th'Eleventh,
And Observator Twenty seventh;
In many Godly Books beside,
If you'd be further satisfied.

Rare Doctrine for a Rogue to scatter,
And exc'lent Proofs to clear the Matter.

But then, says he, perhaps you'll say,
How shall we know, that do obey,
When he that rules, the Law abuses,
And when his Pow'r he rightly uses.
I'll answer this with greater Ease,
Than Boys catch Flies, or Women Fleas.
You must depend upon your Guide,
'Tis he that must these Things decide:
We know by special Revelation,
When a King means to hurt his Nation,
For Instance, James's Abdication;
And when we're pleas'd to let you know,
That Things are carry'd so and so,

You Nolens Volens, must believe us,
For curs'd is he that does deceive us:
Nay, lost for ever, d---n'd as sure
As the Wind changes every Hour.

Thought I, if Priests the Pow'r should have,
Assum'd by this Imperial Knave,
A Hero sure would sooner choose
To carry Brooms, and cry old Shooes,
Than rule a Kingdom at the Pleasure
Of such a Pack of Knaves as these are;
For should such Wolves, in Shepherds Clothing,
Who bear to Kingly Pow'r a Lothing,
Be Judges of their Prince's Actions,
And Kings be bound by their Directions;
The Ax, or some more cruel Fate,
Would on each wretched Sov'reign wait,
That we alass! should find too soon,
More Revolutions than the Moon.
For how should Kings endure the Teaz
Of hum'ring such damn'd Guides as these,
Whom Earth can't bind, or Heaven please;

For as all Kingdoms are the Lord's,
They prove, by wresting Scripture-Words;
His Saints, that is, themselves, Pox on 'em,
Have th'only Right to over-run 'em.

Did not Jehojada, says he,
The Lord's chief Priest, as I may be,
Command Athaliah to be slain,
With all her Idolizing Train:
It's true, she bawl'd out Treason, Treason,
But all her Crys were out of Season;
For tho' a Queen, when once the Priest
Did her false Gods and her detest,
Pronouncing Heav'n's Degree upon her,
Alass! what signify'd her Honour?
Just nothing, for she might have been
As well a Vagrant, as a Queen;
For once beneath the High-Priest's Curse,
Sh'ad neither better far'd, nor worse;

For whatsoe'er he doom'd her to,
That Fate she was to undergo;
For when the Priest has said the Word,
Deliver'd to him by the Lord,
Be it to Hang, to Burn, or Drown,
The bitter Portion must go down.
Thus when Athaliah was subjected
By the High Priest, by Heav'n directed,
In spight of Aid, she met her Fate,
And fell before her own Horse-Gate.
From hence we learn what mighty Things
The Priests have done by Queens and Kings;
Therefore the Lord commands, I say,
That you his Ministers obey;
For if you side for Love or Money,
With Crowns that have so oft undone ye,
The Dev'l will get a Hank upon ye.

'Tis strange such canting Knaves, thought I,
Such Emp'ricks in Divinity,

Should sour the People with such Leven,
And all the while look up to Heaven,
As if they thought to please the Lord,
B' abusing thus his Holy Word;
And by confounding silly People
With Notions, so profoundly evil,
Not fit for Christians, but the Devil.
How should the Peace of Kingdoms flourish,
Where Pulpit-Quacks such Discords nourish,
And by false Jealousies and Fears,
Set King and People by the Ears,
And by the Doctrines that they spread,
Their spiteful scabby Flocks perswade
To hold this dangerous Opinion,
That they by Grace have all Dominion,
For Pow'r they hold in Grace is founded,
And Grace, they say, alone is bounded
Within their Holy Tribe, the Round-head?
Thus, like the Roman Church, we see
They hold Infallibilitie,

Only the one more wisely guess
'Tis seated in his Holiness;
Whilst our Geneva Dunces squabble
To place it in their gracious Rabble,
And make them Lords, that have a Right
By Dint of Grace, that is, by Spight,
Their Prince at Pleasure to abuse,
Reproach, Imprison, and Accuse,
Try, Condemn, Murder, then proceed,
When from all lawful Pow'r they're freed,
To raise some Rebel in his stead:
Thus change, thro' Preaching, and their Pray'rs,
Their Kings, as often as Lord May'rs;
That every bold rebellious Brother
Might hope, by making of a Pother,
To climb the Throne, one time or other.

So Rogues, that live by Rape and Spoil,
The Laws Severity revile,
And labour to themselves perswade,
That Theft's a consciencious Trade,

And downright Robbery, no more
Than Justice, in a Man that's poor.

But now our Teacher stretch'd his Jaws,
And cry'd aloud, Observe the Cause
Why Queen Athaliah dy'd the Death,
And thus resign'd her sinful Breath?
'Twas not with common Female Fraily,
That she dishonour'd Sov'reign Royalty,
Nor did she fall for Sins so paultry,
As Fornication, or Adult'ry;
But Crimes more damnable than both,
Such that provok'd the L---d to Wrath,
And made the Priests so vex'd and mad,
There was no Mercy to be had:
In short, sh' was guilty of a Sin
Unpardonable in a Queen.

After strange Gods she ran a Whoring,
An Itch beyond the High Priest's curing;
Which grew at last to such an Evil,
That made her prove a very Devil:

False Gods she to her self erected,
And the true Worship she rejected;
Upon the Levites turn'd her Tail,
And countenanc'd the Priests of Baal,
With Idols, to polute the Temple,
And shew the Land a bad Example.
Thus she defil'd the House of David,
And took new Measures to be saved;
Ador'd false Gods for Love or Lucre,
For which the Levites did rebuke her,
But still in vain, 'till God forsook her:
And then, altho' a Queen before,
Abandon'd thus, she was no more;
No more, I will be bold to say
To the High Priest Jehojada,
Than the poor'st Gossip, if compar'd
To me, that teach the Holy Word;
For if against the Lord you Sin,
And we, his Priests, declare wherein:

If you don't speedily repent it,
And when we bid you do't, recant it,
We're bound in Duty to resent it.
So if you Evil heap upon us,
And don't repair the Wrong you've done us,
The Lord resents the sad Offence,
As offer'd to Omnipotence,
And will most surely find a Time
To punish, nay, revenge the Crime.
Therefore you Saints, that would be bless'd,
And of the Promis'd Land possess'd,
Must do as we, your Teachers, bid you,
And follow us, or Woe betide you;
For what can signify a Guide,
If Satan's Hobby you bestride,
And turn a head-strong, wicked Rover,
As if the Devil was your Drover.

I say, Go on as we direct ye,
And Heav'n will bless ye, and protect ye;

Then we, the Elect, shall trample o'er
The Babylonian scarlet Whore;
Then shall the Holy Saints prevail,
And pull down all the Priests of Baal;
Confound their Bag-pipes, and their Fiddles,
Despoil their Images and Idols,
Deface their gilded Pagan Altars,
And turn their Girdles into Halters;
Stop all their old romantick Stories
Of Lymbo's and of Purgatories;
Consume their Anti-christian Base-Books,
Their Aves, Ros'ries, and their Mass-Books,
That they no more shall Preach or Prate in
That Heath'nish, Roman Language, Latin,
But Worship God as Christians shou'd do,
That is, as Holy I and you do:
Our Practice of their own Receipt,
Will make the Heav'nly Work compleat:
Faggot and Fire are exc'lent Tools
To humble Knaves, and punish Fools:

There can be no true Reformation,
Without a gentle Conflagration:
Therefore remember, that I say
This is the true and only Way
For you, the Saints, to rise to Glory,
And make the Wicked fly before ye.
Rush on at all; make no Delay;
Like Soldiers fight, like Prophets pray,
And we shall surely win the Day;
For where the Gospel and the Sword
Unite, to propagate the Word,
The Lord will, at our humble Call,
Become his People's General:
Therefore I say again, go on;
Ne'er flinch 'till the good Work be done,
And the whole World be made our own;
For Satan's Kingdom now shall perish,
And in their stead the Saints shall flourish:

For which Success, we ought to pray,
That full of Grace and Peace, we may
Conclude the Service of the Day.

Sure none, thought I, that hear a Knave,
With Noddle grey, and Looks so grave,
Delude a brainless Congregation
After so vile and wicked Fashion,
Can wonder at our sev'ral Factions,
And stand amaz'd at our Distractions,
Or blame the Crowd for their Divisions
About their Morals and Religions;
Since such illit'rate, envious Praters,
Are suffer'd to seduce poor Creatures,
And op'nly draw them to dissent,
Both from the Church and Government;
For every poys'nous Principle,
When Scripture's made the Vehicle,
In Pulpit spread by such a Villain,
Nurs'd up in Treason and Rebellion,
Will in short time infect a Million;

For all Contagions of the Tongue,
Are blown insensibly along
Into by Alleys, Nooks, and Holes,
Among such Pestilential Souls,
Whose Lungs still make the Poyson worse,
And break it forth with greater Force,
'Till the Plague does it self expand
To every Corner of the Land,
And gains such Epidemick Pow'r,
'Tis past the State-Physician's Cure:
Who then must flatter the Disease,
And paliate what he can't appease.
So Princes, that command a Throne,
When Faction is too pow'rful grown,
And forc'd, for Ease, to Favour shew,
Where Punishment is only due.
Thus, when our Bab'ler had confounded
What Fools believ'd he had expounded,
He chang'd his formal preaching Air
Into a Godly Mein, for Pray'r,

And so began a new Oration,
To bless his sighing Congregation,
Who look'd as if their meagre Chaps
Were chiefly fed with Pulpit-Scraps,
And that their skinny Sides and Faces
Were almost starv'd with hungry Messes
Of tedious Pray'rs, and cooling Graces.

Having thus screw'd his Parchment Jaws
Such sundry ways, to gain Applause,
He rowl'd his Ogles with a Grace
Becoming so a zealous Face,
That all the Brethren groan'd to see
Such exquisite Hypocrisie,
And by a sympathetick Force,
Look'd full as bad as him, or worse:
At length this Utterance he made,
And spoke his Words with doleful Dread,
Like Fryar Bacon's Brazen Head.

O L---d, says he, O L---d of Host,
We are thy Saints, and that thou know'st;

Stick by us now, that we may scatter
Our Foes, and stick by thee herea'ter.
Exalt the Horns of us thy People
Above the Dragon of Bow Steeple,
That by thy Grace's Contribution,
We may have Strength of Constitution,
To knock down High Church Persecution.

O let not this thy Holy Place,
E'er want that Scavenger, thy Grace,
That ev'ry Soul that comes herein,
May be new vamp'd, and made so clean,
That not one Speck of Sin or Folly
May any tender Conscience sully;
So that each Saint, who hither comes,
May return back to their own Homes
As undefil'd from Head to Rump,
As a new Jug just rinc'd at Pump.

O L---d, look down, and bless thy People,
The Young, the Old, the Blind, the Cripple.

May they thy Holy Word remember,
Above the Fifth Day of November.
O bless each Saint that edifies
By this Day's Holy Exercise:
Let thy Grace hover round about 'em,
And dwell within 'em, and without 'em,
That they may all Dominion gain,
And o'er thy Foes in Triumph reign;
So, L---d, with us say thou Amen.

FINIS.

7. Part the Seventh.

CANTO X.

The Vip'rous Congregation, pleas'd
With what they'd heard, were now dismiss'd;
So squeezing forth, brim-full of Grace,
Each turn'd his Rump on Holy Place,
And with his Elbows and his Feet,
Made way into the open Street.
I shov'd my bulky Corps along,
But look'd, amidst the skinny Throng,

Like Stall-fed Bullock, fat and fine,
Amongst King Pharaoh's famish'd Kine.
I puff'd, and blow'd, and thrust, and bussl'd,
'Till thro' the narrow Gulph I'd jossl'd,
Which stunk as if their Teacher's Pray'rs,
That crept into their list'ning Ears,
Too windy were to be confin'd;
So working down, made way behind.

When I, with much ado, had clear'd
My self of the infected Herd,
And turn'd (good Manners quite forgetting)
My low'r End on their Low C---h Meeting,
The poys'nous Fumes I'd suck'd in there,
I gladly chang'd for sweeter Air,
Not knowing, but the Breath that comes
Out from between a Rebel's Gums,
If long imbib'd, might plague and spoil
The Body, and the Mind defile;
Turn our sound Principles to sad ones,
And change good Consciences to bad ones.

Why not, as well as Mists and Fogs,
That rise from filthy Fens and Bogs,
With Aguish Fits, make Mortals tremble,
Like quaking Zealots, that dissemble,
When to their Brethren they aver it,
The Workings of the Holy Spirit;
If thus the Vapours that do swarm
From slimy Fens, can do us harm,
The dang'rous Breath, that flows each Day
From Men more filthy far than they,
Must give to greater Mischiefs Birth,
Than all the Quagmires of the Earth.

When thus deliver'd from the Crowd,
Precisely dress'd, devoutly proud,
I left them at the Alley Gate,
Each waiting for his Friend or Mate,
That they might all creep home in Couples,
The better to debate their Scruples,
And canvas o'er the Cant they'd heard
From Lanthorn Jaws, and picked Beard.

My Friend, that to the Lecture led me,
Now walking leisurely by side me,
Began to ask my Approbation
Of our dull Quirpo's dark Oration.

Old Friend, said I, to tell you Truth,
I have not heard from Block-head's Mouth
Such worthless Cant, such senseless Blunders,
Such frothy Quibbles and Cunnunders,
Such wicked Stuff, such poys'nous Babble,
Such uncouth, wretched Ribble Rabble,
Never since Cromwell's frantick Porter,
Who whilst he did in Bedlam quarter,
Thro' Iron Bars roar'd out aloud,
Mad Doctrine to the madder Crowd.

With what bold Ignorance can a Dunce,
The Worship of the Church renounce,
Where Sacred Order moves the Sense,
And raises awful Reverence
Tow'rds that great Pow'r, to whom we pray,
And those our Guides, that teach the way?

What Hypocrite, that once but hears
The Holy Exc'lence of her Pray'rs,
Can cavel at those Heav'nly Words,
Whose Christian Force so well accords?
With all Conditions and Degrees
Of Human Souls, who pray for Ease,
Oppress'd with sinful Miseries,
What formless, poor, ex temp're Matter,
Compos'd of Non-sense and Ill-nature,
Squeez'd out from the illit'rate Noddle
Of some dull, canting Tom a Doodle,
Can without spiteful Blasphemie,
To th'Church's Form compared be,
Which was at first from Scripture drawn
By Bishops worthy of their Lawn;
Good Men, well learn'd in Sacred Story,
Who labour'd hard to set before ye,
Instead of Int'rest, God's true Glory?

With what strange Ins'lence can a Wretch,
That hears a grave, wise Doctor preach

With awful Mein, and Parts so great,
They Honour both the Church and State,
Whose searching Truths Words a Passage make
To e'ery Heart that hears him speak,
And force ill Thoughts to fly away,
Like Mists before the God of Day?
I say, with what strange Impudence?
What Prejudice and want of Sense,
Can Calvin's whining Saints compare
The hum-drum Non-sense that they hear;
The canting Lies, instead of Truth,
Yawn'd from a stubborn Block-head's Mouth,
With the learn'd Doctrine of a Guide,
By Heav'n and Nature qualify'd,
Whose Words have that commanding Sense,
They make us feel their Eloquence,
And by their Influence, incline
Our sinful Souls to what's Divine?
Whilst those illit'rate, gaping Fools,
Who prate in Barns and Dancing-Schools,

Would make a Christian, by their Teaching,
Abhor their Praying, and their Preaching,
And think they study'd to advance
Rebellion, Pride, and Ignorance;
And that, instead of propagating
True Christian Practice by their Prating,
Their bawling Dunces only meant
To teach their Hearers to dissent
From all that's good and excellent?
Right, says my Friend, the Truths you say,
Are clear as any Sun-shine Day;
For oft i'th' Country have I seen,
When at a Meeting I have been,
An Ape, o'er Back of Leathern Chair,
Squeeze out a Sermon, or a Pray'r,
Screwing his Phiz the time he's prating,
As if h'ad been Exonerating;
For every Utt'rance of the Fool,
Came from him, like a hard-bound Stool,

Wiping his Lips at each Expression,
As if his senseless, dull Oration
Was such a foul Reverse of Truth,
His very Words defil'd his Mouth,
And made the sinful Trumpet need
More Wipes, than Nature's Sink just freed
From the loose Dregs of Meals and Messes,
Our Drunken Vices, and Excesses;
Yet such a bold illit'rate Dunce,
That can but rattle, rave, and bounce,
Altho' he little more can say,
Than Laud and G---d, and Eke and Aye,
Shall follow'd be by larger Flocks,
Than a Learn'd Guide, that's Orthodox.

Said I, we by Experience know,
Obstinate Fools will still be so:
The wisest Occulist can't find
A way to cure the self-will'd Blind,
But still, like Bats that love the Night,
They'll turn their Tails upon the Light.

By ancient Grannums we are told,
In Proverb true, as well as old,
That Birds, who are of the same Feather,
Delight to meet, and flock together:
So that the neigbouring Owls will follow
The Howlet, that they hear, but hollow;
Nay, if a Wolf but makes a Noise,
And elivates his howling Voice,
The rest will from their Dens come out,
And gather round the bawling Brute;
As Zealots, join with one another,
To hear the Howls of Holy Brother.

Hush, says my Friend, mind what you say;
You know this is not Time of Day
For Truth to be so obvious made,
We must not call a Spade, a Spade.

In Troth, said I, I cannot flatter,
My Muse abhors to mince the matter;
A Knave she like a Knave will draw,
In spight of that grim D---n, L---:

She seeks no Int'rest, knows no Fear,
But as they be, makes things appear;
And if the Truth be deem'd a Libel,
Good Heav'n preserve the Holy Bible
From all those Hypocrites, that use it
Only to wrest it, and abuse it;
And make it, by their canting Whines,
Subservient to their base Designs.

Be silent, says my Friend, a while,
I'll tell a Tale, shall make you smile.

A Clergy-man, of great Renown,
Well known in Country, and in Town;
Fam'd for an exquisite Conjunction,
Of Parts becoming Holy Function,
Had writ a learned Tract, to show
The Dangers that from Schism flow;
And willing, as became his Station,
To have his P---'s Approbation,
He humbly shews the painful Piece
To th'B--- of the D---e:

With much Content, the Book he read,
And gave the Applause it merited;
But, Sir, says he, tho' Schism's a Crime,
This is alass! no proper Time
To trouble tender Consciences
With such Polemick Points as these:
Besides, 'tis dang'rous to disturb 'em,
We must not either spur or curb 'em.

My L---, reply'd the Country Priest,
Since there's no bridling of the Beast,
And that your L---p's pleas'd to say,
At present 'tis the better Way
To stop good Works, and wink at Evil,
For once, like you, I'll be so civil,
To hold a Candle to the Devil.

I find, said I, you make this Motion,
Like a true Friend, by way of Caution,
To shew this is no proper Time
To publish Truth, dress'd up in Rime;

Nor is it Treason, if I say,
In Prose or any other Way,
Without the Danger of offending
A potent Tribe, who are intending,
Under Pretence of mending Matters,
To bring us into S---sh F---rs;
Therefore, since you have been so kind,
In merry Tale to hint your Mind,
And give me good Advice, I'll take it,
Not tell the Truth, or yet forsake it;
But hug her closely in my Breast,
And both submit to be supprest,
Till Time, that brings all Things to Light,
Shall rescue her from Error's Night,
And make her shine Divinely bright.

No more will I presume to meddle
With up-start Rump, leap'd into Saddle,
Or in his odious Colours paint
That Hypocrite, a Modern Saint;

Nor shall my Muse in doleful Verse,
The Tragick Villanies rehearse,
Done by that Sanguinary Brood,
That wash'd their Hands in Royal Blood.

No more the merry Jade shall jest
Upon their solemn Calves-Head Feast;
Or eke prophane that mod'rate Zeal,
Which we and they know both too well;
Is only meant when things accrue,
As Holy Tribe would have 'em do,
To make us mod'rate Christian S---s,
To Heath'nish F---s, and fiery K---s:
For he that's cunning in undoing,
And seeks to work another's Ruin,
Will coax him first to be his Friend,
And that blind Side the most commend,
By which he hopes to gain his End.

With that my Friend look'd up, and snorted,
And thus upon me he retorted:

Tho' Rods you know are soaking for you,
I find, says he, it won't deter you:
Did you not say, you would forbear,
And yet you're rambling G*d knows where.

Pox take, said I, this Itch of Scribling,
Like Fish, we Poets must be nibling.

But have a Care, says he, at last,
The bearded Hook don't hold you fast;
And let me, like a Friend, advise,
As you are merry, pray be wise:
For if you will be boldly casting
Your Flirts at those that love no Jesting,
They may return, when you provoke,
In earnest, such a spiteful Stroke,
You'll like as bad, as they your Joke.

Said I, these wise Considerations
Have cool'd my hot-brain'd Cogitations;
Thou'st damp'd at once my Muse's Fury,
She's a meer Coward, I assure ye,
And dreads a d---d Fanatick J---y.

Well! since she whispers out her Fears
On both sides of my list'ning Ears,
And tells me, If I don't comply
To scribble modishly, that I
May thirst for Wine, and starve for Hunger,
Ere she'll stand by me any longer;
I find, to save my self from Harm,
Like modern W---g, I must reform,
That is, not speak the Truths I shou'd do,
Nor scourge the Factions as I wou'd do;
For as their Pow'r of doing Ill
Can ne'er be equal to their Will,
So is my honest Will to shew
The Ills and Mischiefs that they do,
Above the Pow'r of my weak Sense
Now cramp'd by a R---.

Farewell, ye proud aspiring Herd;
May you be neither lov'd or fear'd,
But only rais'd aloft, like Rain
In Season, to come down again;

For sure the h---r P---s must see
You ever was, and e'er will be,
A Snake to those that cherish ye.

CANTO XI.

Bus'ness now calling for my Friend,
T'our Conversation put an End;
So that I now began to think,
B'ing drowthy, on a little Drink;
And glad to chuse the saving'st way
To spend the Remnant of the Day,
I sneak'd into a little House,
Where Porters do their Belch carouse,
Where by the Kitchen Fire, there sate
Two Toapers in a warm Debate;
One was the Sweeper of a Chimney,
That dirty Rhime to Polyhimney,

With Nigro Hands and Face, as black
As was his Sooty Bushel Sack,
That hung across his sturdy Back.
The other was a Mealy Blade,
All powder'd o'er from Heel to Head;
One that prun'd frowsy Beards for Two Pence,
And therefore Master but of few Pence;
Which sad Misfortune caus'd a hot
Dispute between each Brother Sot,
About the Payment of a Pot:
The Chimney-Sweeper sate in State,
And swore he'd make the Barber pay't,
Or else, before he left the Room,
He'd make a Puff of's little Broom,
And dipping it in's Bag of Soot,
Wou'd powd'r him o'er from Head to Foot,
'Till he had put him into deep
Mourning, like any Brother Sweep.

The Barber, who was trim and neat,
Vex'd at his dirty Opposite,

Bit's Nails, as Men enrag'd are wont,
And thus return'd the gross Affront:

You sooty, smutty, nasty Slouch,
Not fit for cleanly Hands to touch:
Thou ill-look'd Picture of the Devil,
That can't be Tipsy, but must cavil;
A Heath'nish Sot, that roars and swears,
Only fit Company for Bears.—

These Words provok'd the Sweeper highly,
Who handling Soot-bag very slighly,
Says he, A Heathen do you cry?
I say, you Wash-ball Rogue, you Lie
I chuse Religion by Discretion;
That which most profits my Profession.
Therefore you Dog, I'll make you know,
If you are High-Church, I am Low.
No Heathen, but a Tipling Saint,
That loves a Church with Chimney in't:
Then mounting of his sooty Sack,
He gave the Barber such a Thwack,

That made him look of party Colour,
Betwixt a Collier and a Fuller.

Couragious Tonsor, highly scorning
To thus be put in second Mourning,
Without revenging with his Fist
Th'Abuse from his Antagonist,
Starts up, and with a Manly Rage
Does his black dusty Foe engage.
Sometimes the Battel doubtful grew,
That we, the Standers by, scarce knew
Which would prove Conqu'ror of the two.
At last Smut grew too hard for Smug,
And gave him such a Cornish Hug,
Back'd with s' unmerciful a Cuff,
That made poor Tonsor cry, Enough.
With that, the Conqu'ror crow'd and strutted,
The while the Victim snub'd and pouted;
With Hands and Face his Cloths beside
From White to Black so truly dy'd,

That any Stranger would have said,
They'd both been Brethren of a Trade.

You know, says Sweep, I told you my Church,
And now I'll make you tell me thy Church,
Or by my Word, and you may take it,
I'll thrash my Soot from out your Jacket.

The Barber now b'ing tame and cool,
And seated on repenting Stool,
Not caring for a second Beating,
Reply'd, He liv'd 'twixt Church and Meeting,
And therefore was oblig'd in Troth
To Trim for Profit 'twixt 'em both.

Pox take thee, says the sooty Brute,
How came we two to thus fall out?
I find Religion is in thee
The very same that 'tis in me.
Int'rest I find, that pow'rful Guide,
Leads thee or me to any side.

They say, crys Tonsor, 'tis the Fashion,
Follow'd by Men in ev'ry Station;

And tho' we're poor, why should not we,
Like other Fellow-Christians be?
And from our Betters learn the way
To live and thrive, as well as pray?
And in that Faith and Party trust,
By which we hope to gain the most?

Nouns, crys the Sweeper, being mellow,
Thou talk'st like a good honest Fellow;
I'm sorry that the strong Beer Barrel
Should make us two such Fools, to quarrel,
Since now, by thy Discourse, I find
We're both intirely of a Mind;
For what thou say'st, is very true,
All Stations do the Pence pursue.
Religion, once the Nation's Darling,
Now bows its Head to pow'rful Sterling.
Money does every thing command;
Without, Efaith, as Matters stand,
We now can't shake a Knave by th'Hand.

In short, Queens Pictures, by their Features,
Charm all Degrees of Human Creatures,
From the black Robe of deeper Dye,
To less black Mortals, thee and I.

By this time the offensive Soot,
That in the Scufflle flew about,
Began to op'rate in my Snout,
And made me so Cheho and Snivel,
As if I'd got the Sneezing Evil:
It set m' a Wheezing worse than Pthisick,
And downwards work'd like any Physick,
That I was forc'd, in Cellar first,
To empty what would else have burst,
And chang'd without, for Air more clean,
The sooty Fog that 'rose within:
Thus leaving with Regret of Mind,
The rest o'th' Comedy behind,
'Twas now about that Hour of Night,
When stroling Hussies, much too light,

Those Paramours of Pimps and Bayli's,
Creep out from Garrets and from Allies,
Pursu'd by poor reforming Rogues,
As Bitches Proud by Curs and Dogs;
Some Jilts in Tally'd Furbulows,
Dress'd up as if in Quest of Beaus,
New powder'd, patch'd, and painted o'er,
The Marks of a retailing Whore,
Came jutting by with Muff and Fan,
Six Harlots to an honest Man,
Mix'd here and there with low-priz'd Vermin,
Rigg'd out for Porters, and for Carmen;
With Arms wrapp'd up in Aprons white,
Which in dark Corners shone as bright,
As Glow-worms Arses in the Night;
Each at some Distance off behind,
Attended by a Rogue, design'd
To guard and vindicate his Jewel
With Mutton Fist and Oaken Towel,

From the Affronts of Brother Rabble,
Or any accidental Squabble.
Thought I, O happy pious Nation!
O bless'd Effects of Reformation!
By which we find, in ev'ry Place,
In spight of Pulpit and of Press,
More Rogues, but not one Whore the less.

I found, for all the pious Care
Of Aldermen and good L---d M---r,
And Holy Projects put on foot,
To tear up Evil by the Root,
By arming broken Knaves with Staves,
To punish Whores that Sin by ha'ves,
And cannot with obliging Crowns,
Bribe old Sir Macril's Mermadons,
That still the City Jilts and Jades
Would claim the Freedom of their Trades,
And exercise their sinful Tails
As long as pow'rful Rump prevails;

For whilst Hypocrisy and Cant
Make up a true blue Protestant,
So long will Reason stoop to Roaring,
And Sanctity concur with Whoring,
After a most Religious manner,
To shew the Saint, and hide the Sinner.

Thought I, the Tongues of Faction may
Ring Peals of Holiness all Day;
Preach Lectures of their Reformation,
Election, and Regeneration,
And fill the Crowd upon a Sunday,
With Hopes of growing Righteous one Day;
Spread ev'ry City Coffee-house Table
With Libels, to reform the Rabble,
Where they may find at large exprest,
What Church and Government are best;
And learn at once, from the Review,
Religion, and Rebellion too.

Yet all their Pains and Politicks,
Their Shams, and Flams, and pretty Tricks,

I fear will prove but quaint Devices,
To purge our Pockets, not our Vices.

So Factious Knaves, to cheat the Crowd,
Cry out, Reform, Reform, aloud,
When all the Goodness they intend,
Is but to marr, and not to mend,
That hungry Saints, whom Int'rest draws,
To shoulder up the Holy Cause,
May thro' their Cavils and Debates,
Lay Godly Hands on good Estates.

FINIS.

8. Part the Eighth.

CANTO XII.

When silent Sleep, that hates the Light,
Had lock'd my Senses up all Night;
'Till Somnus snatch'd in a Surprize,
His leaden Plummets from my Eyes;
And th'Eastern Blushes of the Morning,
Gave waking Mortals early warning,
That Sol from Thetis was returning;
For Gods, the Poets do maintain,
Have Mistresses, as well as Men;

And are like us, in bawdy Cases,
Tir'd as soon with their Embraces;
For am'rous Joys, we always find,
Leave a repenting Sting behind,
That makes that odious in Reflection,
Which proves so pleasant in the Action:
'Tis for this Cause the Sun looks red,
When rising from his Thetis Bed,
Blushing to think her Female Charms
So long detain'd him in her Arms;
'Till he was glad to fly so fast
From what he sought with equal haste
So th'Lover, tho' he's young and kind,
Must own he does more Pleasure find
In his next Morning's hasty Flight,
Than in fair Celia's Arms all Night.

Just at the very peep of Day,
As thus in Bed I musing lay,
With thoughtful Brain, and active Mind,
To strange Poetick Dreams inclin'd,

My Fancy rang'd from Pole to Pole,
To feed with new Delights my Soul;
Sometimes on Honesty I mus'd,
Talk'd on so much, tho' little us'd.
Methoughts I heard each Villain claim
An Int'rest in the Sacred Name,
And ev'ry Jilt and Villain say,
That they were Honest in their Way.
The arrant Knave that never knew her,
Would still pretend some Title to her;
And in his Looks, dissembling Grace,
Would wear her Liv'ry in his Face.
So a lewd Punk, so well we see,
Will counterfeit true Modesty,
And look so Pious and Demure,
That few would think the Saint a Whore.

Each Party labour'd to deceive
The rest, and make the World believe,
That they, and only they, ingrost
The Jem, and could the Secret boast;

In Rage, denying to the rest
The Honesty themselves possest;
Yet none would own they were without it,
But cavil'd furiously about it;
So have I known hard Words and Battles
Among a Crew of Tittle Tattles;
About their Virtue, when the Jades
Were Thieves and Strumpets by their Trades,
And had no more Pretence to cavil
About it, than the very Devil;
But Rogues and Whores will disagree,
And squabbl' about their Honesty;
Altho' they have no more to show,
Than Guinea has of Frost and Snow.

Then did my rambling Thoughts proceed
To Friendship, that deceitful Reed,
And range from Place to Place about,
To find the precious Jewel out:
In Courts, Ambition, Envy, Pride,
The cordial Sement quite distroy'd;

There it but in external Shew
Appear'd, as other Virtues do;
Was mimmick'd as if highly priz'd,
But never truly exercis'd:
So will each Bully look and prate,
As if he had a good Estate;
But when into the Knave we pry,
We find he 'as none to occupy.

In Cities, Avarice and Gain
Dissolve the mutual happy Chain,
And mercenary Ends, divide
The Gordian Knot, as soon as ty'd:
Besides, true Friendship cannot dwell
Where Int'rest does alone prevail,
And Money does their Minds delude
From Justice, and from Gratitude:
Money, that Guide that makes 'em stray
From Truth, to go the gainful'st Way:
Money, that causes 'em to break
The strongest Oaths that they can make,

That wicked Root of every Evil,
Which leads 'em headlong to the Devil;
Yet each Man strives to make the rest
Believe he 'as Friendship in his Breast,
And talks as earnestly about it,
As if he had it, tho' without it.
So have I heard a Crowd of those
Vain foppish Animals, call'd Beaus,
Prattle of Wit, 'till very hot,
Altho' they never had a Jot.
Thus many Fools, their Parts to show,
Will talk of Robin, and his Bow,
That never, by Enquiry, knew
Whether 't was made of Steel or Yew.

I'th' Country too, 'tis quite mistaken,
And valu'd less, than Flitch of Bacon;
For there they know no Obligation
Beyond a Neighbour or Relation;
Nor can those Trifles bind them longer,
Than whilst Self-Int'rest, which is stronger,

Preserves the Tie that is between
Themselves and Neighbours, or their Kin:
For Friendship is of a Dimension,
Too large for rural Apprehension;
Their narrow Souls can't comprehend
The sacred Bonds 'twixt Friend and Friend;
Nor are their Faith and Wisdom big
Enough for such a solemn League;
For Friendship, if that Name it bears,
It must be free from Doubts and Fears,
And is so credulous a Tie,
Dissolv'd at once by Jealousy:
For if we e'er our Friend mistrust,
It shews we do not think him Just;
And if we harbour such a Thought,
Our Friendship is not worth a Groat;
For who would hazard all, to save
A Man from Harm, he thinks a Knave;
Yet he that Friendship does pretend,
And will not do't, to save his Friend,

Is, as the Learned do surmise,
A Snake that in the Bosom lies:
Therefore my Muse could no where light on
That Friendship Men of Honour prate on;
Because, as they define the Matter,
It is too strict for Human Nature;
For Avarice, Revenge, and Pride,
Hypocrisy, and Lust beside,
Have so corrupted Flesh and Blood,
That we abandon all that's Good;
Exclude all Virtue from within,
And wear it but in outward Mein:
For 'tis acquir'd by every Fool,
Not now, by Philosophick Rule,
Nor at the Church, but Dancing-School.
Thus Virtue is become, alass!
No more than an external Grace;
And those that from Geneva Books,
Have learn'd to shew it in their looks;

Altho' they should deserve a Gallows,
Would still be counted honest Fellows.
How then should Friendship raise its Head,
When Virtue, it's Preserver's Dead?

If Holy Sister chance to stray,
For God Almighty's Lambs will play,
She still will have the canting Face
To boast her Right to saving Grace;
Altho' she does in Conscience know
The Devil governs all below,
And finds a Way thro' sinful Hole,
To please her Lust, and damn her Soul:
Thus Women will contend, we find,
Altho' their Virtue be resign'd,
T'enjoy the Honour till they're dead
Of a chast Wife, or modest Maid.
Pray, why not still possess the Name,
Tho' Virtue's gone, that gave the same,
Since Men of War their Titles boast,
Altho' they've their Commissions lost?

Captains and Cuckolds, all Men know,
Once dignify'd, will still be so;
Therefore why should not ev'ry Dame,
That once enjoy'd an honest Name,
Have still the Benefit o'th' same,
Since ev'ry Woman may aver it,
She once had Virtue's Pattent for it?
And tho' she Captain-like, has lost
Commission, yet she ought to boast
The Honour of her former Post.

Next these, true Loyalty I thought on,
But that I found corrupt and rotten;
So faint, and in that sick Condition,
Giv'n over by her old Physician;
And when she languish'd thus dejected,
By all upbraided and neglected;
Begging for Christian Consolation,
Yet scarce a Levite in the Nation,
Of any Church, amongst so many,
Would by their Pray'rs afford her any.

So wealthy Men, who in their Prime
Have nobly flourish'd for a time,
When once they are by Fate depress'd,
And of their Riches dispossess'd;
Those very Friends the first abhor 'em,
That should in Reason do most for 'em.

Religion, did my Fancy next
Chuse for her Theme, that is, her Text;
And thus inspir'd by way of Sonnet,
She rim'd, that is, she preach'd upon it:
Methoughts I saw her quite forlorn,
Her sacred Body rent and torn;
And as her Limbs thus mangled lay,
In a Tempestuous Factious Fray,
Dissected by a fatal Knife,
Sharp whetted in Schismatick Strife;
The Church in Tears most sadly mourn'd,
And her true Sons were much concern'd;
But all the rest seem'd pleas'd to see
Religion's sad Catastrophe.

As thus she lay, all pale and wan,
Expos'd to those that work'd her Bane,
Each jarring Party strove to take
A Limb, for Memorandum's sake:
The Church industrious for a Part,
Most wisely chose the Head and Heart,
And soon by Faith and Grace reviv'd
That Life, of which they were depriv'd.

The Presbyterians, and the In-
Dependants, who were near a kin,
Advanc'd, and in a numerous Swarm,
Chose each a Leg, and each an Arm;
Because they love like Bully Huff,
To Things decide by Kick and Cuff:
'Tis nat'ral for a Tribe to claim
Those things, that best will serve their Aim.

The Baptist Teachers, being wise,
Came in the next, and chose the Thighs;
Because when wicked Satan's in 'em,
They dearly love to creep between 'em;

For these more lustful than the Pigeon,
Do nothing but debauch Religion.

So rav'nous Gluttons at a Feast,
Secure the Bit, they like the best.

The Quakers next came sidling in,
And for their Portion, chose the Spleen,
Which fills them so with Melancholy,
They can't like other Sects be jolly:
But sighing in their Meetings sit,
Like Hypochondriack Bedlamite,
As if they fancy'd by their Sadness,
Religion was a hum-drum Madness.
So Cats, if once with Milts they're fed,
Sit moping by they Fire side,
And choak the Spirits in their Blood,
By their dull malancholy Food.

Seekers and Singers next took Pains
T'approach Religion's poor Remains;
The Guts and Garbich they possess'd,
And thought themselves most highly bless'd;

From whence they love to exercise,
As 'tis conjectur'd by the Wise,
Religion in a Beastly manner,
To their own Shame, and Heaven's Dishonour:
So ev'ry Bear and Wolf delights
To please their Savage Appetites
With stinking Carrion, that is nasty,
Much rather than a Ven'son Pasty.

The Pope adorn'd with Crowns and Crosses,
In all's Pontificalibusses,
Came puffing next in mighty Sweat,
As if he fear'd h'ad staid too late,
With a long glitt'ring Train behind him,
Of Crazy Card'nals, to attend him;
Each dizen'd in his Robes of State,
And cap'd with bloody-colour'd Hat,
Follow'd by Troops of Popish Liars,
Priests, Jesuits, and bald-pate Fryars:
Some from their Churches, some from Cloysters,
All mumbling o'er their Pater Nosters;

But all th'Religion they could find,
Was th'empty Carcase left behind,
Mangl'd, without the Head or Heart,
Depriv'd of every noble Part;
With that, they lifted up the Trunk,
And cry'd, Habemus eam nunc;
But when the Clergy all had seen it,
And finding truly nothing in it;
They form'd this Project in a Trice,
To cheat their silly Biggots Eyes;
A huge prepost'rous Paste-board Head,
The Priests most exquisitly made,
And did with Colours so contrive
To make it look as if alive;
Then plac'd it on Religion's Shoulders,
To cheat the credulous Beholders.
Huge Legs too, they compos'd of Plaster,
That the poor Trunk might stand the faster.
Her Arms of Massy Brass they made,
The better to defend her Head;

And when so far they had proceeded,
That she was legg'd, and arm'd, and headed
The empty Carcase to replete
With somthing to improve the Cheat,
They stuff'd (to gull believing Fools)
With Reliques, and false Miracles,
And such like Toys, by whose Assistance,
The Sides were kept at proper Distance,
Which if it had not been for that,
By this time would have fall'n so flat,
That the poor patch'd prepost'rous Puppit,
Must needs have been much more decrepit.
When thus their Monster they had rais'd,
The Priests their ill-shap'd Idol prais'd,
And cry'd, Here only's to be found,
The true Religion safe and sound;
Forgetting England had the Heart,
The Head, and ev'ry noble Part.

So Romish Priests, like those poor Fellows
That live by shewing Punchionello's,

Make their own Puppets, then invite
Poor Fools to wonder at the Sight.

CANTO XIII.

Dosing again, methoughts I saw
Six stately Flanders Horses draw
A gallant Lady of Renown,
Some few Miles distance out of Town,
To meet a Spark of no great Honour,
Whose chief Dependence was upon her;
And when with eager Arms she 'ad met
Those Joys she went so far to get,
And eas'd what will remain: We see
A raging Itch in Quality.
Methoughts I saw her Honour rise,
And wink and pink her drowsy Eyes,

As if she wish'd with all her Soul
To have a Woman's Belly full
Of what young Harry gave to Dol;
But finding little hopes of more,
And that the pleasing Game was o'er,
Her grateful Offering she made,
And seem'd content with what she had;
Rewarding all his kind Behaviour
According to the Joy he gave her:
So aft'r a Cursy, and a Kiss,
Protesting she was only his,
Away in haste her Coach-man drove her
In quest of some more strenuous Lover;
For Women, if they once are lewd,
They'll lie and swear by all that's Good
They're only yours, when ev'ry Whore
Will vow the like to twenty more;
Yet twice a Day methoughts I found
Her prostrate upon sacred Ground,

With such Devotion in her Face,
Mix'd with that Gravity and Grace,
That when at Church she put the Saint on,
No Mortal would have thought her wanton;
Yet could she turn a very Devil,
T'indulge her Lust with carnal Evil.

Thought I, tho' Grandeur puts a Blind
On Great Folks Vices, yet I find
Rich Harlots, who are so devout,
That ride in Coach and Six about,
Are lewd as those that walk on Foot;
Only this Diff'rence we may make,
The rich Whores give, the poor ones take.

When at these Wonders I had gaz'd,
A mighty Man my Fancy rais'd,
Seated in open rural Chariot,
That People might the better stare at;
The flaming Beau, who like a God
Appear'd, so proud, as if he aw'd
Whole Kingdoms with Majestick Nod;

A Troop of Servants mostly arm'd
To keep their L---d from being harm'd,
Mounted on Hunters, Pads, and Tits,
Came riding after thro' the Streets:
The Charioteer drove on in haste,
The Servants posted on as fast;
But who should prove his Pomp-degraders,
But a long Train of unpaid Traders,
Who follow'd not to wait upon him,
But at his Baiting-place to dun him.
Some spurr'd their Jades in mighty Hurry,
And curs'd his Honour in a Fury;
Others cry'd out, Is this his way
To name a certain Day to pay,
And then to thus steal out of Town
A Week before the Time comes on?
Since he, to sham us, does begin?
'Egad we'll plague him at his Inn;
And fearing neither Frowns or Curses,
Still dun him on, 'till he disburses.

'Tis strange, thought I, that Men of Title
Should make their Noble Selves so little,
To be by such a craving Brood
Of Trades-men, baited and pursu'd
For a few Shillings, Pence, and Pounds,
Worse than the noble Stag by Hounds;
Whilst by their Vices and Debauches,
Whores, Bawds, and Gamsters, keep their Coaches.

At last, methoughts I saw a Throne,
And Mercy seated thereupon:
Her noble Ensigns all display'd,
Flying around her shining Head,
To signify to all the Nation,
Her tender Pitty and Compassion;
Her charming Eyes much brighter shone,
Than all the Glories of the Sun;
And ev'ry Feature look'd more bright,
Than Luna in a Winters Night.
No sooner had she took her Place,
And shown her kind inviting Face,

But Crowds of mighty Men became
Most humble Suiters to the Dame.
At last a Man of double Honour,
Fixing his am'rous Eyes upon her;
Did with a courtly kind Behaviour,
In humble Words implore her Favour.

Mercy with that, began to change
Her Countenance, and looking strange
Upon him, told him, that she wonder'd
How he, of all the many hundred
That stood before her, thus could Face her,
And with such Confidence address her?
Have you not done, says she, of late
Those Cruelties you know I hate,
And by your want of Human Mercy,
Bound num'rous Families to curse ye?
Have you not done things out of Season,
And injur'd others for no Reason?

But that your Malice, Int'rest, Pride,
And all your vicious Lusts beside,
Might be the better gratify'd.
No, no, says Mercy, I abhor ye,
Withdraw, for I've no Favour for ye.

Next him, another Don as great,
Loaded with Honour and Estate,
Approach'd her Presence like a Beau,
Made three long Slides, then bowing low,
Told her, he was a Man of Honour,
Therefore presum'd to wait upon her;
Hoping his Quality and Birth,
And large Possessions here on Earth,
Would move her Heav'nly Grace to save,
By her kind Smiles, her humble Slave.

This fawning Speech made Mercy frown,
And look as Stern as Justice down;
Altho', says she, your G--- can boast
High Honours, and a pow'rful Post,

Yet 'tis not all the glitt'ring Pomp,
Or Honours, that a Prince can stump,
That will engage my righteous Mind
To shew that Pitty you would find.
Have not those wicked, base, unjust,
Ensnaring Agents, that you trust,
Seduc'd young Creatures to your Lust?
Have not large Promises betray'd
Young Beauties t'y'r adult'rous Bed?
And when by Baits you've drawn 'em in,
And taught poor Innocence to Sin,
Have you not then with Scorn and Scoff,
Broke all your Vows, and cast them off?
And to retrench the keeping Charge,
Turn'd 'em a Drift, to Sin at large;
Which they pursue, 'till Beauty fails,
And then for Debt, they die in Jayls,
Or rot in loathsom Hospitals.
My L---d, if you had call'd sometimes
Into your Thoughts, these heavy Crimes,

Tho' you're so Great, you would have never
Came hither to have sought my Favour;
For how can he that does neglect
All Rules of Vertue, e'er expect
My Mercy, (tho' a Man of Title)
Who all his Life has shown so little?

Next him, a bold brisk Man advanc'd,
Expecting to be countenanc'd;
To Mercy's Throne full low he bow'd,
Then made this homely Speech aloud.

Madam, says he, by all that's Good,
I love you with my very Blood:
I've shar'd the Influence of your Smiles
Even in Battels, and in Broils,
And never from your Dictates swerv'd,
But always have your Rules observ'd;
Not only among Human Nature,
But Cat and Dog, and every Creature.
I therefore hope from your just Throne,
To find that Mercy I have shown;

For all these C---s have so little,
They'll not afford a Man a Tittle.

Says Mercy, you that love to shew me,
Shall always have a Title to me;
But he in Pow'r, that shall refuse me
To such as would to others use me,
Shall, when he needs me, always find
I'll leave him begging far behind,
Expos'd to the Contempt of those
His want of Mercy made his Foes.
When thus she'd spoke, the lovely Dame
Flew up to Heaven, from whence she came,
And left the rigid World to shew
Severity, where Mercy's due.

FINIS.

9. Part the Ninth.

CANTO XIV.

The Sun advancing as I lay,
My Whimsies vanish'd all away,
Unable to endure the Light,
Like wand'ring Ghosts, that walk by Night;
Who, as our learned Spirit-Raisers,
And Cat-ey'd Apparition-Gazers
Aver, are seldom to be seen,
But when the Batts and Owls begin
To open their ill-boding Throats,
And fright us with their screaming Notes;

Which, as old Nurses say, portend
Sick Mortals to be near their End,
And that the froward Babe, possest
Of Horse-shoe Mould, and narrow Chest,
Will change, the next revolving Moon,
His Cradle for an Angel's Crown,
And leave his weeping Mother sorry
To see this State so transitory.

When thus my Visions all were fled,
And I left waking in my Bed,
By th'Eastern Sun-beams in my Eyes,
I found 'twas now high time to rise,
And like good Housewife, mind my Knitting,
With that Industry which was fitting;
For Knitting, tho' by Gammar Biddle
Confin'd to Stocking and to Needle,
Yet 'tis a Word that, by the by,
May other Bus'ness signify.

Upright I sate a while in Bed,
First scratch'd my Elbows, then my Head,

A Trick we learn when Boys, and then
Retain the Habit 'till we're Men,
As Stories by our Nurses told,
Will still infect us when we're Old:
Besides, in such warm Times as these,
When Malice bites much worse than Fleas,
And Envy strikes at Human Ease,
A Man may find true Cause of Scratching
Without the common Reason, Itching.
But finding little Consolation
In melancholy Rumination,
And recollecting as I sate,
An Adage of an ancient Date,
That 'tis our Prudence to endure
With Patience what we cannot cure.
From thence concluding all those Fears
And Thoughts, that magnify our Cares,
Were but the Marks of Human Folly,
I shifted off my Melancholy,

Rising with full as good a Will
As Lover that had Kiss'd his Fill,
And stole away from sleeping Bride,
Who waking, ne'er was satisfy'd.

When thus erect, in dext'rous Haste
I button'd Britches round my Waste,
And slipp'd on all that modern Pride
By a poor Fig-leaf once supply'd;
Then by the Help of Razor, Ball,
Comb, Powder, and the Dev'l and all,
Improv'd my Face, as well as Figure,
'Till I appear'd all Youth and Vigour,
Looking as brisk as Play-house Whore,
New painted up at Thirty Four,
Who had full Twenty Years in Town
Retail'd her Favours up and down,
'Till she had burnt with Claps and P---xes,
More standing Ware than Sampson's Foxes;
For 'tis become a modern Rule
To act like Knave, and dress like Fool,

That Cloths the better may disguise
The Rogu'ry that within us lies.
The very Saint loves outward Show,
And tiffles up like any Beau.
The most precise invet'rate Whig
Goes loaded now in Whores-hair Wig,
Who us'd, in spight to High-Church Pride,
To wear but nine Hairs of a Side.
The teaching Saint, in Times of Yore,
The Pot-lid Hat demurely wore,
Beneath whose Umbrage was a Face
Screw'd into Gravity and Grace,
That Hum-drum's, Hypocritick Look
Might suit with Puritannick Cloak,
To make Fools think he was no less
Than Good, by's Apostolick Dress:
But now each canting Knipper-doling
Has left off that Extream of Fooling;
And tho' their Stiffness can't comply
With the establish'd Liturgy,

Yet have they so conform'd their Cloths,
As to become most zealous Beaus,
Hoping by their external Pride,
To gain the Ladies of their Side,
Knowing they love to hear the Word
By a spruce Guide administer'd,
Who, whilst he spins his tedious Pray'rs,
Can please their Eyes, as well as Ears,
And lend them Masculine Assistance,
When feeble Spouse is at a Distance;
To sanctify the good fat Fowls,
And bless the Wine that chears their Souls,
That by the Force of Cap'n and Claret,
The Flesh may conquer Holy Spirit.

When Poet-like I'd spent some Time
In tagging these my Thoughts with Rime,
And had an Hour or two bestow'd
In dressing like a Man of Mode,
'Till all things I'd in Quirpo put
Artfully on from Head to Foot;

Thought I, 'tis strange that Men of Brains
Should thus in Dressing take such Pains,
And waste one quarter of the Day
T'appear so foppish, and so gay;
Yet 'tis the Custom of this Nation,
For Wits to copy Fools in Fashion
So near, that as the Times now go,
I must confess 'tis hard to know
A modern Poet from a Beau;
For both admiring Female Beauty,
For Charms that lie above the Shoe-tye,
Turn Fops, to please the fickle Gender,
In hopes to tempt 'em to surrender.

I then stept out, like Crop-sick Sinner,
To air my Lungs against my Dinner,
And gain an Appetite most fitting
For one that takes Delight in Eating,
That when I'd strengthen'd Flesh and Blood
With Wine, and some refreshing Food,

I might with Humour brisk and gay,
Dispatch the Bus'ness of the Day;
Which, when attended with Success,
Affords the greatest Happiness
That Man's aspiring active Mind,
Beneath the Starry Orbs, can find:
But if ill-natur'd Fortune crosses
Our pleasing Hopes of Gain, with Losses,
Then does it prove so great a Curse,
That nothing can on Earth be worse.
Thus Bus'ness is to Human Life,
The true Resemblance of a Wife:
If she proves well, she is a Blessing;
If not, a Curse beyond expressing.

But as I gently sail'd along
The Street, among the busy Throng,
I met an old establish'd Whig,
That look'd as sowr, and swell'd as big,
As if some Jacobitish Rumour
Had put the Hot-spur out of Humour.

Old Friend, said I, I'm glad to see thee
So hearty, and so well; but prethee
What makes thee now appear so surly,
That us'd to cant it so demurely?
Says he, 'twould make a Saint run mad,
To see things go so very bad,
At such a Juncture too, Ads-Fish,
When we have all that Heart can wish.

I find, said I, your're Idem Semper,
Still troubl'd with the old Distemper;
Must grumble on, altho' your Sect
Have more than you could well expect.
But who can wonder, that your Pride
And Av'rice ne'er are satisfy'd;
Since nothing e'er could stop your Raving,
The more you have, the more you're craving?

But Man, says he, I'll tell thee what,
We've found such Difference of late
Betwixt a modern Whig, whose Craft
Has slily rais'd him up aloft,

And what he seem'd to be before
He climb'd to Honour and to Pow'r,
That no Man would have thought the Creature
Could so have chang'd his former Nature;
And that Court Air and Conversation
Could make so strange an Alteration.

But why, said I, should that seem strange,
That Whigs in warmer Climes should change?
Since Worms and Maggots, as 'tis said,
Turn Flies, if in the Sun-shine laid,
Then sporting with their Wings, they tow'r,
And such the Sweets of ev'ry Flower;
Disdain the lowly Dirt that fed 'em,
And scorn the very Filth that bred 'em?
Thus turning, as their Wings grow great,
High-Flyers now, that crawl'd of late.
So worthless Mortals, mean by Birth,
Creep humbly o'er the dusty Earth;
'Till rais'd by Fortune, and by Fame,
Then soon forget from whence they came,

And Lord it o'er their Fellow-Creature,
As if their Pride had stretch'd their Stature
Above the Pitch of Human Nature.

But since thou seem'st to have a Sense
Of some uncommon Difference
Between a Whig in Office put,
And the same Zealot when he's out;
Disclose your Thoughts, and let me hear
What diff'rent Characters they bear?
And how they alter their Behaviour,
When once crept into Fortune's Favour?

Says he, since you desire to know 'em,
I'll in their proper Colours show 'em;
And you will find, when once you've seen 'em,
As much Disparity between 'em,
As e'er was found in Servant Maid,
Before she was to Sin betray'd,
And after she has stood the Thrust,
To satisfy her Master's Lust,

And from her Scrubbing and her Sweeping,
Is for her Charms, advanc'd to Keeping.

Marry, said I, at this same Rate,
The Diff'rence must be very great;
F'r a Servant made her Master's Whore,
Tho' humbl' and diligent before,
Grows twice as proud as Lucifer.
But prethee, Friend, without Delay,
Let's hear what 'tis you have to say.

A Whig, says he, o'th' City sort,
That's unacquainted with the Court,
I justly must define to be
A Man of pure Integritie;
One, who by seeking out the Lord,
And constant hearing of the Word,
Does so abound in saving Grace,
That you may read it in his Face;
By which you'll know him at a View,
As eas'ly as you can a Jew:

Besides, he never swears an Oath
Beyond his Conscience or his Troth,
Nor Lies, except to let us see,
That no Man is from Error free.
He hates the Vanity of Kings,
And Pomp of all such useless Things,
Scorning those Idolizing Asses.
That bow to either Crowns or Crosses,
Except it be to those we find
Stamp'd on our Silver when its Coin'd.
All Right to Rule, he does premise
Did from Agreement first arise,
And that our K---s, for all their Vapours,
Are but the People's Under-strappers.
Government he declares to be
Built up by Human Policie;
And that the Saints may change its Nature
As oft as they can form a better.
He owns no more, for all our Struggle,
Of Jus Divinum in the Juggle,

Than in a Pack of Cards, where Kings
And Knaves beat all their Underlings.
He Tooth and Nail aloud denies
All Titles fetch'd beyond the Skies
Or Pow'r, but what the People grant
By solemn League and Covenant;
And dare affirm, by Dint of Reason,
In spight of Law, that calls it Treason,
That if the Monarch strains a Point,
And knocks the Balance out of Joint,
Whate'er he thus should do, to force
The Springs beyond their legal Course,
Can merit no Denomination,
But Tyranny and Usurpation:
And this old Argument he brings
Against th'incroaching Pow'r of Kings.

If Subjects do the Compact break,
Their Lives and Fortunes are at Stake:
Then how must those that rule the Roast,
Be punish'd when th'abuse their Trust?

Next these, a stanch old Whig is he,
Wh' untainted with Authority,
Is one, that for the publick Good,
Will venture Fortune, or his Blood,
Or is at least so very crafty,
To say he'll do't for common Safety:
In all things, he declares to be
For Liberty and Propertie;
And e'er he would be mulct one Penny
By King or Bishop, or by any
But Parliament, he'd draw his Dagger,
And like a true old Roman Swagger,
Or whet his Pen-knife, or his Razer,
And turn a Brutus unto Cæsar.

In's Principles he's stiff and stout,
And is so sturdily devout,
He scorns to b' either led or drove
To what his Conscience can't approve.
Thus, sooner than he'd change his Path,
He'd die a Martyr for his Faith;

And rather would embrace a Rope
Or Faggot, than obey the Pope.

He's one that firmly does maintain
Himself a true Republican;
And that he means the Nation's Good
In all things that a Subject shou'd.
Thus he pretends, where e'er he goes.
These are the outward Signs he shows,
But what is in him, Heaven knows.

I find, said I, you only scan,
As yet, the Outside of the Man,
As Boys at School, where I have seen 'em
Do Verse, before they know what's in 'em:
But since you've drawn the Saint, before he
Has rais'd himself to Pomp and Glorie,
Pray now proceed, and let me see
The Zealot in Authoritie;
His Justice, Mercy, and good Nature,
When climb'd above his Fellow-Creature.

Says he, I grieve at the Occasion,
But yet will speak without Evasion.
A modern Whig, when once he feels
The pleasing Warmth of S--- smiles,
He shifts his Principles, and then
Loves Int'rest just like other Men.
So when the Sun does hottest shine,
The subtle Serpent sheds her Skin:
And changing thus the Coat she wore,
Becomes more speckled than before.

The honest Man, of whom we speak,
Once so Religious, and so Meek,
Who rav'd at others Faults aloud,
To please, and to amuse the Crowd;
No sooner is he rais'd on high,
His mod'rate Management to try,
But all his old pretended Zeal
For th'Welfare of the Common-weal,
Most basely dwindles in a trice
To Pride, Revenge, and Avarice,

That his old Love he soon withdraws
From us, the Champions of the Cause.
So Chanticlear, that takes a Loose
From Muck-hill to the Top o'th' House;
Flutt'ring his Wings, does proudly Crow
O'er all the cackling Train below.

Altho' before he loudly cry'd
Against all those that misapply'd
The publick Stock to their own Uses,
T'enrich themselves by such Abuses;
Blaming his envy'd Predecessors
For vile and treacherous Transgressors,
In sinking, by their crafty Stealth,
The bubbl'd Nation's publick Wealth:
Yet when himself, thro' R--- Grace,
Is chosen into Pow'r and Place,
The self-same Failings soon appear
Blots in his own new Character;
For what before he render'd odious,
He now finds useful and commodious;

So reconciles each gainful Cheat
To be a lawful Perquesite;
And to heap up an ill-got Store,
Out-does the K--- that went before.
Thus one R--- will another blame
For Ills, and spread abroad his Shame;
But when himself obtains a Place
Of Trust, quite fearless of Disgrace,
He proves more greedy, and more base.

The publick Good, which was his Tone,
Is now less minded than his own.
Conscience, that wary faithful Guide,
Religion, Justice, Grace beside,
Which us'd to be his whole Discourse,
Are now made servile to his Purse.
His Av'rice does his Morals blind,
And solves all Scruples of the Mind.
No Favour to his Friends he shows,
Nor Human Mercy to his Foes:
Honesty ebbs, as Int'rest flows.

His Moderation's quite forgot,
Altho' he's for no Party hot;
For like a Rook at Gaming-Table,
Whilst others wrangle, bet, and squabble,
The Cards he does with Cunning deal,
And cheats all Sides with equal Zeal.

Tyrannick arbitrary Sway,
At which he bellow'd ev'ry Day,
And made so much a Rout about it,
When all Men knew we were without it,
He would be now for exercising,
As if he thought that Tyrannizing
Would prove essential to his Rising.
So does the Pious Dame, in Passion,
Her Venom spit at Fornication;
But warm'd with Lust, she's soon prevail'd on
To act the very Sin she rail'd on.

The Cause for which he us'd to squabble,
He now but values as a Bauble,

And is so far from being Low-Church,
That Int'rest has confirm'd him No-Church,
Which is alone the wav'ring Guide,
That leads him o'er to any Side,
And makes him still appear most hearty
For those that prove the gainfull'st Party.
So cunning Pleaders strain the Laws,
And wrangle for the richest Cause;
Which shews, that Gold is the Ascendant
That wins for Plaintiff, or Defendant.

The very Friends that rais'd him high,
In hopes of Benefit thereby,
That so applauded all his Gifts,
And us'd so many subtle Shifts
To make our Tribe believe no other,
But that he was a faithful Brother:
Nay, we that magnify'd his Merit,
And prais'd his Anticrown-head Spirit,
Extoll'd his Qualities and Graces,
And all his old Republick Paces;

Yet notwithstanding all our Arts
To rend'r him as a Whig of Parts,
Deserving truly of our Hearts,
Now Great, he looks no more upon us,
Than if the Trimmer ne'er had known us,
Tho' we, like Pack-threads to a Kite,
Were Means to mount him to his Height.
So th'Vintner, when he first begins,
Submits to all our Drunken Sins,
And to gain Custom and Applause,
Bows low with ev'ry Pint he draws:
But when grown Rich, he looks awry
On Fools that rais'd him up so high,
The sharper too, who'as long depended
On him, by whom he'as been befriended,
When once kind Fortune Rich has made him,
Disdains the very Hand that fed him.

The humble Look, and formal Grace,
That sanctify'd his meagre Face,

From Eye to Chin are chang'd, and now
An awful Pride adorns his Brow.
His Frowns demand low Reverence,
And nods like Comma's point his Sense.
Each solemn Promise that he makes,
If not with Int'rest back'd, he breaks;
Ensnaring even those that love him,
Oppressing such that can't approve him,
And undermining all above him.
He looks with a revengeful Eye
On all that at his Mercy lye,
And blusters in Authoritie
Like Boreas in a Storm at Sea,
'Till hated worse by Men of Sense,
Than Flatt'ry or Impertinence.
He's scornful, jealous, and severe,
Base, false, and proud as Lucifer,
And thinks his Rise but justly due
To Merits, which he ne'er could shew.

Tho' Rich and Great, he's ne'er at Ease,
But restless as the rowling Seas,
Which are to Rage so much inclin'd,
They swell with ev'ry Blast of Wind.
His Trust he does but ill discharge;
His Pow'r is exercis'd at large.
The Bags which do his Coffers load,
Are gain'd by Sinistry and Fraud.
Gold is the Magnet whose Attraction
Commands his Heart in ev'ry Action:
To that his Avaricious Soul
Points like the Needle to the Pole:
By that alone he steers his Course,
And yields to its prevailing Force.
In short, his Malice and Ambition,
His Avaricious Disposition;
His Pride, his Cruelty, his Hate,
His hasty Temper to be Great;

His Heat, his Fury, and his Passion,
Makes him appear to all the Nation,
The meer Reverse of Moderation.

Said I, if one dissenting Brother
Can speak no better of another,
But little K---s upbraid the big,
And Whig thus raves and rails at Whig,
Well may the Church expect no less
Than Usage infamously base
From such a spiteful stubborn Race.

FINIS.

10. Part the Tenth.

CANTO XV.

Having thus heard from Holy Brother,
One Whig's Opinion of another;
Says he, Your Servant; Friends must part.
I'm yours, said I, with all my Heart.
Thus humbly shew'd my self as civil
As Doctor Edwards to the Devil;
So kindly bidding each farewel,
Like fighting Mares, we both turn'd Tail;
And had not Decency forbid,
Like them too we had kick'd and neigh'd;

For all the friendly Love between us,
Was from Teeth outwards, not within us.
So fawning Courtiers often meet,
And bow to one another's Feet,
Who seek, by Means profoundly base,
To bring each other to Disgrace.

When thus I'd gladly turn'd my Back
Upon a Knave of Calvin's Pack,
And rescu'd my impatient Senses
From all his dull Impertinences,
It being a Whitsun Holy-day,
When 'Prentice Boys have Leave to play,
I rambled on from Street to Street,
To see what Pastimes I could meet;
And as I wander'd up and down
With twenty Crotchets in my Crown,
Begot by sundry pretty Sights,
And various giddy-brain'd Delights,
By Lovers Ages since appointed
To bring young Men and Maids acquainted,

That all their merry harmless Sporting
Might end in Kissing and in Courting,
That Adam's Folly might go round,
And Marriage still maintain its Ground;
That State which caus'd our Parents Fall,
And introduc'd the Dev'l and all.

Some Lasses were at Stool-ball sweating,
And to and fro their Balls were patting,
That longing Youth might stand and see
Their airy brisk Activity;
And for their nimble Steps and Straddles,
Their panting Breasts, and slender Middles,
Commend 'em, flatt'r 'em, and admire 'em,
And in some other Place desire 'em,
Where they, exempt from Fear or Shame,
Might play a much more foollish Game.
So wanton Jilts, to win Mens Hearts,
Oft dance to shew their active Parts,
That by their airy nimble Footting,
Their lofty Cap'ring, and their Cutting,

They might by Lookers on, be guess'd
Most charming Devils when undress'd.

Others in Pairs stept into Coaches,
To ride Post-haste to their Debauches;
Whipp'd up the Sashes made of Tin,
To hide their Impudence within;
Tho' what they did when so inclos'd,
I grant can only be suppos'd;
But when thus hid from Human Eyes,
A jealous Sinner would surmise,
That Lovers something more were doing,
Than just the common Bus'ness Wooing;
For she that will admit her Spark
To bear her Comp'ny in the Dark,
Most certainly excludes the Light,
To do the Bus'ness of the Night.

Among the rest, were booted Cits,
Mounted on Galloppers and Tits,
Whose Spurs are new, and eke their Bridles,
As often as they mount their Saddles.

Some had their Wives, and some their Jades,
Trick'd up behind on ambling Pads,
Wrapp'd up in Dust-Gowns, richer far
Than Quality presume to wear,
Beribbonn'd down from Head to A---se,
Like any Lord May'r's stately Horse.
Their stiff Commodes in Triumph star'd
Above their Fore-heads half a Yard.
With Top-knots, which did bobbing answer
The Motions of each Lady's Prancer;
That by their Heads, a Man might know
Whether the Nag that mov'd below,
Walk'd, Trotted, Gallopp'd, Pac'd, or Ambl'd,
And also when he tripp'd or Stumbl'd:
For as a Friggat's Pendant shows
When the Wind veers, and how it blows;
So by the Flip-flap, and the Nod
Of Madam's Top-knot and Commode,
We knew what Pace the Jennet trod;

And could, without a Wizards Sense,
Judiciously infer from thence,
If Madam sate with Ease, or whether
She rode in Danger of her Leather?

Thus dress'd like Goddesses of May,
The Ladies, as a Man may say,
Rid Post, because in great Decorum;
Their Husbands rid with Horns before 'em
So large, they could not chuse but shew 'em,
Altho' they did not care to blow 'em:
The Reason's plain, because they fear'd
They should alarm the City Herd;
Knowing where Cuckoldom goes round,
A Horn must give an odious Sound,
Ingrateful to the Ears of those,
Upon whose fruitful budding Brows
The shameful Crest in Triumph grows.
So a Welsh Thrummer's slaving Ass,
That carr's his Harp from Place to Place,

Teaz'd with the Instrument he bears,
Its Sound grows odious to his Ears.

Thus did the sundry Female Troops,
Conducted by their Ninconpoops,
In scatt'ring Numbers, jostling meet,
And raise the Dust in ev'ry Street;
Some going East, and others West;
Some to be Kiss'd, and others Press'd;
Some to behold fine Chelsea Colledge,
Others to Epsom and to Dulledge,
To rince their Insides first with Water,
And when that's done, to foul 'em a'ter.
So beauteous Dames of high Renown,
In Summer, leave the vicious Town,
For Tunbridge or the Bath, to clean
Their Charms without side and within,
But oft perverting their Intent,
Return when three Months Time they've spent,
Much more poluted than they went.

Thus London-Cuckolds and their 'Spouses,
Young Merchants, and their Jilts and Huzzies,
Rich Vintners mounted on their Pads,
Fat Vict'lars on their founder'd Jades,
Match'd with such red-fac'd Blowzabella's,
That by their tawny Hides and Tallows,
A Man might know them to be Fellows
Mounted on hirling Tits, who cost
But Eighteen Pence a Side at most:
Leaden-Hall Butchers, with their Brides,
Whose Buttocks had devour'd their Sides,
Mounted on Scrubs that us'd to scowr,
Upon a Trot, eight Miles an Hour.
These mix'd with Brewers, and their Mopsies,
Half dead with Timpanies and Dropsies,
For want of taking timely Warning
Against huge Draughts of Ale i'th' Morning,
Mounted on Pads that take small Pains,
Puff'd up like Hogs with Goods and Grains,

And, like their Riders, wanted Breath,
To rescue 'em from approaching Death.
Some fat-ars'd Sows and lusty Loobies
Were got on Gallaways and Hobbies,
Scarce half so big as Jills and Jacks,
The poor Tits carry'd on their Backs.
All these confus'dly mix'd together,
Were jogging on the L---d knows whether,
To spend that Time they had to spare
I'th' Country Dust, instead of Air,
Which flew much thicker, tho' not higher,
Than Clouds of Smoak from Brewer's Fire;
For such a Crowd of Trotters, Pacers,
Pads, Hunters, Hobbies, Tits, and Racers,
Must grind the drowthy Roads to Powder,
And raise a most confounded Smother.

This Cavalcade b'ing gone and past,
All scamp'ring out of Town in haste,
The sinful Troops soon disappear'd,
And left the Streets of London clear'd,

Where Shops and Stalls were all shut in,
And Passengers appear'd so thin,
As if some Pestilential Curse,
Not the Horn-Plague, but something worse,
Had drove the frighted Cucks from thence,
To shun the fatal Consequence;
At last advancing to the Change,
That seem'd, thro' Silence, very strange,
Whose Walls, like Babel's Tower, us'd
To eccho with strange Tongues confus'd,
That humm'd and buzz'd, and made a Pother,
To cheat and cozen one another.
From this gay Pile I had not gone
So far as I could toss a Stone,
But in my Walk I chanc'd to meet
Such aukward Creatures in the Street,
Saunt'ring along by two and two,
So foolishly, as if they knew
Not what they were about to do.

They gap'd and star'd, and crep'd along,
And now and then an Arse they hung,
As if the foremost Fools were jealous,
That they should loose their hindmost Fellows.
Their Limbs all mov'd, from Head to Gammon,
As if hung on by Madam Sammon;
And sure I am, more antick Faces
Were never carv'd on Viol Bases:
Some had Hare Lips, and some wry Necks;
Some bandy Legs, some crooked Backs;
Some squinted, some for Teeth, had Snags
At least as long as Cobler's Pegs;
Which made them look as if their Mother
Had long'd for some Boar's Head or other.
Some had their formal Noddles put
In Wigs of the Geneva Cut,
Such as hung out some Years ago
On Barbers Blockheads for a Show,
And had no Curl as I could find,
Besides the Duck's-tail Turn behind,

As if the Zealots meant to hide,
By humble Dress, their inward Pride.
So Misers, who command full Bags,
Take Pleasure to appear in Rags,
The better to preserve their Store,
And cheat the World, to think 'em poor.

Others did most precisely wear
Their own lank puritannick Hair,
Barb'd to one standard Length, and hung
To th'Collar down, or scarce so long;
For by some formal Tonsor's Care,
'Twas snipp'd so round and regular,
That one would guess he clapp'd a Bowl
On each Enthusiastick Poll,
So did his Bus'ness with a Jirk
By th'Wooden Cap, to make true Work;
That by the Locks on formal Pate,
Like Hemp new comb'd, so very strait,
They might prevent the World's Suspicion
Of their damn'd crooked Disposition.

Their flapping Hats were of a Size
That hung like Bongrace o'er their Eyes,
And Panthous like, so skreen'd the Noddies,
No Rain could touch their ill-shap'd Bodies.
Their Coats were of so old a Fashion,
As if deriv'd from the Creation,
And copy'd by the Thief that made 'em,
From the first Taylor, Father Adam.
The Sleeve, the Skirt, the Pocket-hole,
The Button, nay, the Button-moul',
Seem'd by their Make, the very Sort
Once worn at Father Abraham's Court.
Court may I say without Offence,
Because the Scripture does evince,
That ev'ry Patriarch was a Prince.
Thus habited, the Godly Throng
In solemn manner march'd along.
So have I seen a cunning Knave,
Dress'd up most exquisitely grave,

The better to deceive Mankind,
And work those Ills he had design'd.

With these, were kindly mix'd together,
Their goodly Wives, or Hand-maids rather,
Because this nonconforming Sect
Ne'er Marry as our Laws direct,
Except when Lands are in the Case,
And then 'tis true they have the Grace
To save their Children from the Flaw
Of being Bastards in the Law.
The Pious Dames, amongst the rest,
Advanc'd most primitively dress'd;
The black Silk Hood, with formal Pride,
First rowl'd, beneath the Chin was ty'd
So close, so very trim and neat,
So round, so formal, so compleat,
That not one Jag of wicked Lace,
Or Rag of Linnen white had Place
Betwixt the black Bag and the Face,

Which peep'd from out the sable Hood,
Like Luna from a sullen Cloud,
That had but just a Hole to show
Her beauteous Face to us below.
The strait-lac'd puritannick Gown
They wore, was of a Colour brown,
As was the Country Ale they drank,
To make the Spirit brisk and crank,
That their Enthusiastick Light
Might shine more fancifully bright;
For G*d Almighty's Lambs, some say,
Will Tipple too, as well as Pray,
And when the Spirit moves 'em to't,
Will gratify the Flesh to boot;
For Nature will sometimes take place,
And Fancy grow too hard for Grace,
That Saints in their regen'rate State,
So much refin'd from Reprobate,

No more can stop their sinful Courses,
When Love and Liquor join their Forces,
Than Maids can manage unback'd Horses.

With Aprons green they cover'd o'er
Woman's most sinful Part before,
Except the Tongue, which some allow
Is the more wicked of the two:
But why like Milk-maids they are seen
So oft i'th' May-day Colour, Green,
With which they hide that tempting Spot
That caus'd old Adam's Fall, G*d wot,
For me, the L---d above us knows,
Except (as I suppose) because
Eve's Fig-leaf Apron that she wore,
The very self-same Colour bore?
Which decent Shift the modest Dame
Invented first to cover Shame.
So that in pious Memory
Of our old Grannam's Modesty,

They still retain the verdent Flag,
Which puts in Mind each merry Wag,
What Care our Mother Eve was in
To hide beneath an Apron green,
The very Original of Sin,
That Adam might not gaze with Wonder
At what his lovely 'Spouse had under
But that when his wild Herbal Food
Had put him in an am'rous Mood,
He should be forc'd to court his Bride
To lay the Fig-leaf Fence aside;
Which tho' for Vertue we agree
Was but a thin Security,
Yet well consid'ring Adam's Diet,
A small Defence might make him quiet;
For he that for his Living Grazes,
But little minds his Wife's Embraces.
High Feeding 'tis that makes us jolly,
And prompts the wanton Flesh to Folly:

This moves the Lambs of Grace to play,
And leads too oft their Flocks astray;
For tho' they look that one would think
They weigh'd their Vict'als and their Drink,
For fear they should by chance exceed
Their Stint of Liquor, Meat, or Bread;
Yet were you once but to inspect
The Lives of this reforming Sect,
You'd find no greater Gormondizing
Than daily they are exercising;
For tho' they look, and tho' they dress,
As if avers'd to Wickedness,
And wear such Holy Signs without 'em,
As if they hid no Vice about 'em:
Yet notwithstanding all their Shew
Of Grace, in private they pursue
Their Pleasures just as others do.
So have I seen at Christ'ning-Feast,
A Harlot so demurely drest,

She look'd as modest as a Maid
That ne'er had been to Sin betray'd,
When in her private Conversation
Sh'ad Lust enough to damn a Nation,
And tire the whole Male Generation.

As thus I strol'd along the Street,
Such Gangs and Parcels did I meet
Of these quaint primitive Dissemblers,
In old Queen Bess's Days call'd Tremblers;
For their sham Shaking, and their Shivering,
When the kind Spirit was endeavouring
With Flint of Faith, and Steel of Grace,
To strike a Light, as now-a-days
We have it in a modern Phrase,
To illuminate the Tenebrosity
Of Conscience with some strange Curiosity
In Holy Matters, that they might,
By vertue of their new-found Light,
Discover some untrodden Path,
As wild and crooked as their Faith.

I gaz'd at every Annanias,
Who seem'd so serious, and so pious,
And walk'd so stiff, as if they meant
To govern ev'ry Step they went
By th'Rules of the Old Testament;
Mix'd with their Sarah's and Rebec's,
With holy Mein and stubborn Necks,
So prim, so trim, so chast and pure,
So learn'd in Scripture, so demure,
That any Man that understood but
Their Phisiognomies, and wou'd but
Inspect their Features, they might find,
Nay, read, excepting they were blind,
Rachel and Ruth's old Godly Books
Reprinted in their very Looks:
But could we search another Part,
And read what's written in the Heart,
Perhaps we there at large might see,
In spite of all that Modesty

That sits on puritannick Brow;
O John, come Kiss me now, now, now;
For Saint, as well as sinful Creature,
Alas! must do the Deeds of Nature;
For Flesh and Blood, 'till Age prevail,
Of all Religions will be frail,
And vicious be by Starts and Fits,
According to their Appetites.
'Tis not th'external Shew of Grace
That dwells upon a Zealot's Face,
Or formal puritannick Dress,
That makes 'em wicked e'er the less;
For by Experience we have found,
That Vertue does no more abound
In quirpo Hood, or Pot-lid Hat,
In Lute-string Whisk, or Rose Cravat,
Than in the flanting high Commode,
Or Wig that does the Noddle load.
Bullies, whose Courage lies in Words,
Delight to wear huge hacking Swords,

That we by th'Length of their Toledo's,
May think 'em to be stout Bravado's;
But if Fame's Trumpet don't bely 'em,
They'll prove rank Cowards when we try 'em.
So Puritans, the World to cheat,
Appear in Garb precisely neat,
In hopes the erring Multitude,
Because they're grave, may think 'em good;
When if we try 'em, we shall find
Their Dress is but a Holy Blind
The Hypocrites put on, to hide
Their Envy, Avarice, and Pride;
Besides, Religion, Vertue, Grace,
Cannot be seated in the Face;
Nor are these Blessings seen without us,
In quaint Apparel worn about us,
But are of such a Heav'nly Kind,
They only can possess the Mind;
There form a Conscience, by whose Force
We steer an upright steady Course;

Discharge those Duties that we owe
To Heav'n, and all Mankind below;
For Mercy, Love, and Charity,
The Touch-stone of our Deeds should be.
Religious Actions must alone
By the good Fruits they bear, be known,
And ev'ry Christian-like Intent
Be constru'd by the just Event.
'Tis not a Whine, a Pine, a Groan,
A shaking Head, a canting Tone,
A leaning on a Crutched Staff,
A Hypocritick Frown or Laugh,
That shew the Vertues of the Mind,
Or how the Heart does stand inclin'd.
Our outwards Actions best will tell,
Whether the Mind meant ill or well;
Or else short-sighted Human Nature
Can no ways judge of's Fellow-Creature;
For Human Knowledge first commences
From Things demonstrate to our Senses.

What lies beyond's no more or less,
Than barely an uncertain Guess.

As these by Notions fill'd my Pate,
The scatter'd Flock grew still more great,
Creeping as slow as slimy Snail
In Vict'lars Cellar fill'd with Ale.
I wonder'd, as I march'd along,
At this strange puritannick Throng:
Thought I, what sudden Reformation
Has sanctify'd our English Nation,
That Crowds of Ramsy's Saints thus meet
At ev'ry Corner of the Street?
Thus pond'ring on these Holy Streams
Of Zealots, who rely on Dreams;
Those old Enthusiastick Cheats,
The Products of their Drunken Fits;
At last it jump'd into my Head,
That at the Time of Whitsun-Tide,
The Q---s Yearly think it fitting
To hold in Town a Gen'ral Meeting,

That distant Friends may talk with Friends,
The better to effect their Ends,
And some new subtle Means provide
To cozen all Mankind beside.
Thought I, since now I recollect
The weighty Bus'ness of your Sect,
I'll e'en attend you in the Rear,
And see where 'tis you mean to steer.
Accordingly I took my Post,
Lieutenant Gen'ral of the Host,
The better to observe (G*d love 'em)
Which way the Spirit meant to move 'em;
That Ignis Fatuus, which betrays
Dull F---ls into erroneous Ways;
That flaming Vapour of Conceit,
Produc'd i'th' Brain by Slime and Heat;
That false Enthusiastick Light
Which leads Men wrong, instead of right;
That glim'ring Ray, which fiery Zeal
Can only to dark Souls reveal;

That Spark, which wiser Heads less mind,
Than the poop Lanthorn which we find
Seated in Glow-Worm's Arse behind.

FINIS.

11. Part the Eleventh.

CANTO XVI.

After the gentle Lambs of Grace
I stalk'd along a Spaniard's Pace,
Like Hampshire Roger, Ralph, or Will,
Driving his Hogs to Tower-Hill.

From Cornhill up tow'rds Lumbard-Street,
Where Friends in mighty Numbers meet,
The Quaking Zealots, with their 'Spouses,
In solemn Wise all turn'd their Noses,
'Till to an ancient Inn they came,
The Bull and Mouth by Sign and Name:

So call'd, as I suppose, because
Horn'd Zealots there, with gaping Jaws,
Roar, when the Spirit moves, aloud
Strange Nonsense to a brainless Crowd.
At last they came to Holy Ground,
On which there stood a Wooden Pound,
Where the stray'd Lambs in great Compunction
All met together in Conjunction,
With one Accord, to seek that Light
Which Father Ramsy first, in spite
To old King Harry's Reformation,
Struck up, to plague the English Nation.

By Dint of Elbow, mov'd by Grace,
They crowded in a wond'rous Pace,
Like zealous Whigs upon St. Michael,
Who sweating squeeze in dripping Pickle
Into Guild-Hall, that by their bustling,
Their clawing, clam'ring, and their jostling,
They might at last elect a Lord
That would with their Designs accord,

Without the least Consideration,
Whether the Work in Agitation,
Be right or wrong, be ill or well,
Deriv'd from Heaven, or from Hell?
When this same Slit-deal Tabernacle,
Where Coxcombs Crow, and old Hens Cackle,
Without a Pulpit, Pew, or Steeple,
Had drain'd the Yard of Pen's good People.
Amongst the rest, I shuffl'd in,
T'observe their Exercise within,
And what strange furious Zeal could lead
This superfine reforming Breed
From the Church-Worship to dissent,
That's so Divinely excellent,
To serve the L---d-like canting Scrubs,
With Hypocritick Sighs and Sobs,
As if good Heav'n, who loves to hear,
From contrite Heart, a chearful Pray'r,
Was pleas'd with the prepost'rous Fancies
Of frantick Saints bereaft of Senses.

No sooner had I squeez'd my Carcase
Near to the Foot of Gall'ry-Staircase,
But such a Humming, as I live,
Went thro' the penitential Hive,
Mix'd with such hollow Sighs and Groans,
Express'd with such pathetick Tones,
That would have mov'd a Wall of Flint,
Except the D---l had been in't,
To've eccho'd back by Repetition,
Their woeful, sinful, sad Condition.
As for my part, I stood amaz'd,
And thought the whole Assembly craz'd,
And that their melancholy Fits
Had quite depriv'd 'em of their Wits;
For who'd imagine Human Nature,
So wise, so rational a Creature,
Should think to work out their Salvation
By such strange forc'd Dissimulation.

Their stiff-neck'd Pride disdain'd to shew
That Rev'rence which to Heav'n is due,

But on their Haunches did they sit,
In crowded Gall'ry, and in Pit,
Squeez'd up like Holy-day Spectators
At one of R---ch's lewd Theatres.
Had Hodmedod's and Prestor John's
Been mix'd with Sarazens and Huns,
Or Irish wild, and Scotch Highlanders,
Been join'd with sullen Boars from Flanders,
They'd not have made, with all their odd Looks,
A Composition of such bad Looks.
A Shew of such uncommon Faces,
Such Pouts, such Grins, and such Grimaces,
As grac'd this whining Congregation,
Were sure beyond all Imitation:
No Roman Artist e'er could draw
The strange Variety I saw:
Such Leers and Snears, such frowning Glances,
Such strain'd ill-favour'd Countenances,
Were ne'er touch'd up to like Perfection
In Michael Ang'lo's Resurrection;

Nor was the Scene I'm representing,
Unlike that Sacred Piece of Painting;
For those that did to Gall'ry rise,
Cast up tow'rds Heav'n their wishing Eyes,
Whilst those that sighing sate below,
Look'd down, as if they meant to show
Which way they were decreed to go.

In this Surprize I stood a while,
And sometimes cough'd to hide a Smile;
For Flesh and Blood, that did but see
Their Looks, and their Hypocrisy;
The Postures of the Zeal-mad Noddies,
The Motions of their Heads and Bodies,
Could not forbear a Laugh, to smother,
At some odd Passage or another.
Some held their Hands upon their Jaws,
As if the Tooth-Ach was the Cause,
Whilst other Zealots thump'd their Breast,
As if with Grief or Flegm opprest,

And such strange antick Gestures had,
That shew'd 'em not devout, but mad,
As if old Satan had, in spite
Of all their boasted inward Light,
Blown out the Heav'nly shining Spark,
And left the inward Man i'th' Dark:
For Satan is a cunning Fiend,
That lies perdue to gain his End,
And most industriously invents
Strange Ways to disappoint the Saints.
At last a Churl, with grizly Beard,
Whose Eyes like any Fury's star'd,
I'th' Gall'ry from his Seat arose,
With Hat pull'd o'er his Beetle Brows,
Who when he'ad posturiz'd his Face,
And humm'd for some few Minutes Space,
As if his hollow Skull had been
A Hive fill'd full of Bees within,
Who had, by their industrious Pains,
To Wax and Honey turn'd his Brains;

For the long Speech he did transmit,
Was sometimes hard, and sometimes sweet.

I say, when he with great Devotion
Had waited thus the Spirit's Motion,
At last he thump'd his working Breast,
And thus he prattl'd to the rest:

My Friends, the Spirit bids me tell ye,
You're sick, and I am come to heal ye.
I say, the Plague, the Plague of Sin
Infects you ev'ry Soul within.
Hypocrisy, Vain-glory, Pride,
Do o'er the inward Man preside,
And lead ye to such evil Courses,
That you're turn'd Satan's Hobby-horses;
With wicked Lust he Shoes your Feet,
And Saddles you with vain Conceit,
Then mounts ye, whips ye, spurs ye, rides ye,
And with a Twine-Thread Bridle guides ye;

Teaches you all your wicked Paces,
Hurries you on to sinful Places,
As Country Tinkers do their Asses,
Where Darkness does the Light controul,
And evil Sports delude the Soul;
Where Men grow Drunk, and Women Whorish,
And all Abominations flourish.
Ah! Friends, since you're so oft forbidden,
Why will you thus be slav'd and ridden
By Satan, that insnaring Fiend,
That vile Seducer of Mankind,
That Popish Babylonian Lyar,
Who dwells in Brimstone and in Fire,
That Father of the Scarlet Whore,
Who for that Pride we should abhor,
Was damn'd, damn'd, damn'd for evermore?
Therefore, mistaken Friends, what mean ye
To thus forsake the Light within ye?
I say, beware, forbear, take heed,
Turn Tail about, and stop your speed.

Rend Satan's Bridles from your Necks;
Shake off his Saddles from your Backs;
Throw off your Rider in a Rage;
From his curs'd Service disingage,
And when he's down, oppose him, fight him,
Trample upon him, kick him, bite him,
Subdue him, worry 'm, make him fly,
And watch him with as sharp an Eye
As now the Low Church do the High:
Shew him less Mercy, and more Spite,
Than Whig would do a Jacobite;
That is, deride him, mock him, scoff him,
And make worse than a Devil of him.
This is the way to snuff the Light,
And make the Spirit shine more bright;
That Spirit which is mov'd by Grace
To guide us to yon Heav'nly Place;
That Grace which does the Light new vamp,
As Oil revives the fading Lamp;

That Light, by which the Saints in Glory
Have truly walk'd by long before ye;
That shining Gospel-Light moreover,
By which the L---d's Elect discover
That Coast, which, free from Rocks and Shelves,
Is known to none except our selves.

Therefore, my Friends, I say again,
Give Ear unto the inward Man;
Observe the Motions of the Spirit,
And mind the Light, or (I aver it)
You've neither Faith, G*d's Grace, or Hope,
But have a darker Way to grope,
Than a blind Beggar near a Well,
Fumbling without his Dog and Bell,
Who nigh him has no Friend or Stranger,
Or Staff, to warm him of the Danger.
So you that are without the Light,
Have nothing to direct you right,
But like a Ship in Tempest tost,
Whose Compass, and whose Rudder's lost.

You'll loose your Course, and split your selves
On Satan's wicked Rocks and Shelves,
Where Canibals Infernal wait,
Enrag'd with Envy, and with Hate,
To seize you, tear you all asunder,
And make your sinful Souls free Plunder.

Therefore I say, my Friends, beware
Ye fall not into Satan's Snare;
For if you do, when once you're taken,
The Saints in Heav'n can't save your Bacon.
Besides, when you're in Satan's Clutches,
Lock'd safe beneath his dismal Hatches,
He'll use you worse than Doctors Commons,
Or those vile Catholicks call'd Romans;
Nay, scorch ye, broil ye, boil ye, roast ye,
Baist, drudge ye, scald ye, burn ye, toast ye,
And put ye in a worse Confusion,
Than ancient High-Church Persecution.

Therefore, I say, if you'd inherit
The promis'd Land, observe the Spirit;

Mind ye the Light, and hear the Word,
And walk uprightly in the Lord.
Abandon all your fleshly Lust,
And be to all the Godly just;
That is, trade one among another,
And deal as Brother should by Brother:
But if by chance you deal with those
O'th' High-Church, use 'em as your Foes;
That is, out-wit 'em ev'ry way;
'Twill be your own another Day.
Deal sharply, warily, and wisely,
Cunningly too, and yet precisely,
But take this Caution by the by,
Be sure you neither Swear nor Lie,
For they are deadly Sins, that we
The Saints abhor like Popery;
But what the Steeple-House calls Cheating,
And we the Holy Saints, Out-witting:
Alas! it is a Sin so small,
In short, no Sin in us at all,

But a poor Priviledge that's given
To th'Saints on Earth by those in Heav'n;
For we th'Elect are always blest
With greater Portions, than the rest,
Of Worldly Wit, as well as Grace,
To arm our selves in ev'ry Case
Against all Human Snares and Tiles,
As well as wicked Satan's Wiles.
Therefore to 've Wit, and not to use it,
Is to despise it, and abuse it:
And how d' ye think, since we enjoy it,
The L---d expects we should employ it,
I say, against the Sons of Baal?
And who those are, we know full well,
Such as in Triumph long have wore
The Trappings of the Scarlet Whore:
The Priests of Dagon, those vain Praters,
And all their wicked vile Abettors;

Those who in Whores-Hair hide their Heads,
And wear, altho' the L---d forbids,
Revengeful Weapons by their Sides,
To wound and persecute the Saints,
And awe them from their just Complaints;
Those who annoy the Common-weal
With Arms of Flesh, and Swords of Steel,
And in their drunken wild Disorders,
Commit vile, wicked Rapes and Murders:
Also against those Hawks and Kites,
Those Carrion-Crows call'd Jacobites;
Those Reprobates that think so odly,
And talk so vainly of the Godly.
But hold a little, I mistake,
My Friends, the Spirit gives a Check,
And bids me not be too severe,
But tow'rds 'em some Compassion bear,
Because, like us, they will not Swear.

But as to those vain wicked People,
That worship Organs, Bells, and Steeple;

I say, my Friends, it is no more
To over-reach 'em o'er and o'er;
No more a Sin, I do aver it,
If Light be Light and Spirit,
Than 'tis to cherish feeble Nature
With a refreshing Cup o'th' Creature;
For we the Lambs of Grace, should hate
The Wicked and the Reprobate;
Make them, like Satan's evil Brood
Of Serpents, lick the Dust for Food;
Not suffer them to tyrannize
O'er us the Saints in Holy Wise,
But let the Righteous undermine 'em,
And by the Light of Grace, out-shine 'em,
That we may crush the Sons of Dagon,
As George for England did the Dragon.
But how shall we th'Elect o'er-power 'em,
And in this promis'd Land reign o'er 'em,
Except we grow too cunning for 'em?

Therefore, my Friends, be rul'd by me,
Use all your Holy Subtilty,
Let no smooth verbal Craft be wanting,
Altho' the Wicked call it Canting:
Out-wit 'em by the Dint of Grace,
And coz'n 'em with a Righteous Face,
That when they deal w'ye, or imploy ye,
They ne'er may gain one Penny by ye,
But get by them whate'er you can,
The Word says Godliness is Gain:
And ye, my Friends, that have a Mind,
May there the Holy Saying find:
But still in all you do or say,
Take these Instructions by the way;
Follow the Light, that faithful Guide,
And you can never step aside.
Attend and mind the Spirit's Motions:
These, these, my Friends, are Heav'nly Cautions.

But ah! my Friends, I plainly see't,
The Tares are sown amongst the Wheat:

The Weeds of Satan sprout apace
Amidst ye Saints, in spite of Grace.
Ah! Friends, the Spirit bids me tell ye,
Luxurious Cramming of the Belly,
And Tippling like insatiate Sots,
O'er Quarts, instead of half Pint Pots,
Makes your swoln Paunches look much fatter,
Than Stall-fed Oxen for the Slaughter:
Nay, some amongst ye do so tipple,
Ye suck the Pot as Babes the Nipple,
'Till grown beyond all Christian Size,
Bloated like Hogs fed up in Styes.
Ah! Friends, forbear this vile Excess,
Mind the Light more, the Bottle less;
For by this sad Abomination,
You scandalize your good Profession;
O Moderation! Moderation!
For that, you know, will never hurt you;
O! Moderation is a Vertue,

A Vertue which the Saints should prize,
And always place before their Eyes.
Ah! Friends, would those that are in Pow'r,
Talk of it less, and use it more,
Satan's Designs would surely perish
With those that do our Discords nourish,
And Peace thro'out the Land would flourish.

My Friends, I must be close upon ye,
Another Evil reigns among ye;
To ye I speak, who look as thin
Ald old King Pharaoh's famish'd Kine.
Ah! Friends, the Spirit tells me plainly,
The Cause that makes you look s' ungainly.
The Deeds of Darkness and Uncleanness,
Have brought your Bodies to that Leanness.
Ah! Friends, methinks I hear you wish,
That no vile Workings of the Flesh,
No sinful Pleasures of the Night,
In black Rebellion to the Light,

Had thus deluded ye astray,
And made ye subtle Satan's Prey.
I say, beware of wicked Woman,
She's like an open Field or Common,
Where ev'ry Goose, and ev'ry Ass,
Has leave to trample down the Grass:
Deliver up the filthy Jade
To Satan to be buffetted;
Avoid her for a loathsome Sinner,
Hell Fire, I tell ye, burns within her;
For Satan's Children all are free
To 'er Oven of Iniquity:
There does she bake 'em to a Crust,
To satisfy her flaming Lust;
Then leaves the poor repenting Fools
To carnal Smiths and Hospitals.
Therefore, my Friends, beware, I say,
Of such a wanton Dalilah;
Were you as brisk, as strong, and bold,
As sturdy Sampson was of old,

Should Satan tempt you to have at her,
She'd make you soon as weak as Water.
Could you to those Perfections rise
Possess'd by Solomon the Wise,
How like a Fool you'd look at last,
When all your filthy Deeds were past?
Could you command the Bank of London,
Be rul'd by her, you'd soon be undone.
Therefore, my Friends, once more I bid ye
Avoid the Snare, or Woe betide ye:
Shun, by the Spirit's good Direction,
Those Iv'ry Pillars of Destruction;
For lo between, there hidden lies
A Pit, a Pool, a strange Device,
That cost old Adam Paradice.
Therefore let no such wanton Witches,
Bedaub'd with Paint, and stuck with Patches,
Trick'd up in vain alluring Cloths,
Profane Commodes, and Furbuloes,

Seduce ye with their cunning Wiles,
Or tempt ye with their treach'rous Smiles,
To stroke their Breasts, or pat their Hips,
Or touch their soft alluring Lips;
For Kissing is a great Temptation,
And F---ll---g an Abomination.
But ah! my Friends, that Putting in
Is a most beastly deadly Sin.
Therefore the Spirit bids me tell ye,
You're damn'd if you pursue this Folly,
For Sins committed under Belly.

But thou, I say, amongst the Saints,
That want'st the Gift of Continence,
Look round the loving Lambs of Grace,
Seek out for some inticing Face,
Some Rachel, Abigail, or Ruth,
That minds the Light, and loves the Truth;
And if thou lik'st her, take her to thee,
The Damsel may be glad to know thee:

Tell her thou lov'st her for the Light
That in her Count'nance shines so bright;
Nay, tell her, that thou need'st must do't,
Because the Spirit moves thee to't:
But whatsoe'er thou do'st, I say,
Still do it in a Righteous Way;
That is, thy Wife or Hand-maid make her,
And not for once, but always take her.
Use not the Maid as wicked Varlets
Do their lewd Concubines and Harlots,
Delude 'em, flatt'r 'em, treat 'em, woe 'em,
Debauch 'em, and at last undo 'em,
Raise Seed which they refuse to nourish,
And leave their Off-spring to the Parish,
To be nurs'd up in Lice and Rags
By filthy Sluts, and frowsy Hags,
'Till ripe for Newgate, and the Gallows,
Or Pimping in some Bawdy Ale-house.
O wretched, wicked, vile Transgression!
O mad, bad, sad Abomination!

The Laud forbid such Sins as these
Should reign among the Sons of Peace:
No, sure it cannot, cannot be,
And yet alas! methinks I see
Some Saints among you leer and look
As if you'ad nibbl'd at the Hook;
But have a Care, if once you taste
The Bait, ye will be catch'd at last,
Like ------, that wicked Sinner,
That fornicating old Cord-wainer,
Who, to the Shame of our Profession,
Was catch'd in the unclean Transgression;
She underneath, and he on top,
His Breeches down, her Fig-leaf up.
Therefore when both sides thus agree,
What wicked Doings must there be?
O! Shame upon the sinful Couple,
To scandalize the L---d's Pe---ople,
When we with all our Hands and Eyes
Disdain such vile Discoveries.

Therefore, my Friends, abhor such Evils,
For publick Shame's the Spite of Devils.
But should the Flesh, by Dint of Claret,
At any time o'ercome the Spirit,
So that you can't forbear, be sure,
E'er you begin, you bolt the Door,
That no informing zealous Brother,
Who lies perdue to trap another,
Should, to our Friends Disreputation,
Detect ye in Abomination.
The Sin will give the Spirit Trouble,
But to be catch'd in't, makes it double.
Therefore, my Friends, I say be wary,
Learn to be wise, as well as merry;
For if ye bring, thro' Indiscretion,
Shame on this Righteous Generation,
We'll spew ye out with one Accord
From us the People of the L---d;
Detest ye, mock ye, scoff ye, flounce ye,
Forsake ye, cast ye off, renounce ye,

That Satan, with a wicked Will,
May buffet ye from Head to Heel.
Therefore, my Friends, dread Holy Vi'lence.
The Spirit moves me now to Silence.

FINIS.

12. Part the Twelfth.

CANTO XVII.

When quaint Aminadab had done
What better he had ne'er begun,
I left the formal dreaming Sinners
To creep precisely to their Dinners,
Highly commending one to th'other,
The Labours of their gifted Brother,
Who painfully had snuff'd the Light,
And made the Spirit shine so bright,
That ev'ry Zealot, as he march'd
Along the Street, so stiffly starch'd,

Devoutly chew'd the Heav'nly Food,
Not as fat Oxen do their Cud,
But dully shew'd a deep Regard
To th'off-hand Non-sense they had heard.
Some shak'd their pensive Heads, to think
How oft they'd drown'd in wick'd Drink
The inward Man, and made him totter
Like Vessel mov'd by Wind and Water.

Others appearing so dejected,
As if their Brains had recollected
How oft they'd tempted Holy Sister,
And how unlawfully they'd kiss'd her,
When the proud Flesh, by Dint of Claret,
Was grown too pow'rful for the Spirit.

In this sad melancholy Pickle
I left the scatt'ring Conventicle,
Shewing their Sorrow for their Sins
In penitential Leers and Grins.

For their Repentance, you must know
Chiefly consists in outward Show.

To Female Vertue 'tis a-kin,
For like their Modesty, 'tis seen
Without, but seldom found within.

I rambled on to Tower-Hill,
To view that famous Cittadel,
That Terror of the Rich and Great,
Where Princes oft have met their Fate;
That Jayl for mighty Knaves design'd,
Where Lords and Lyons live confin'd;
From whence we ought to learn, that Traytors
And Rebels are such odious Creatures,
That faithful Subjects should contemn,
As Company for Beasts, not Men.
As I was walking round about,
Viewing its rusty Walls without,
And spending some few Thoughts upon
Those Ills that had within been done
By Ruffains of the greatest Figure,
More cruel far than Woolf or Tygar;

A Man came mounted on a Horse,
No Post-Boy e'er bestrid a worse:
I'll therefore first describe the Gennet,
And him that strutting sate upon it;
And when that's done, I'll let you see
What the fierce Rider prov'd to be.

Imprimis, The stupendious Beast
Was sixteen Hands in Height at least,
And seem'd, as the Spectators said,
By his huge Buttocks, and his Head,
Some super-annuated Coach-Horse,
Of Flanders Breed, or else a Dutch-Horse.
His Back was rounder than a Hog's;
His Sides so poor, that some arch Rogues
Affirm'd him rescu'd from the Dogs.
His Ribs appear'd, as if he eat
Nothing but Wrack-staves for his Meat,
Except sometimes the Carrion knaw'd
The Manger for a Change of Food.

His Buttocks were adorn'd with Hair
Much rougher than a Greenland Bear;
But Age or Mange had been unkind,
And left his Dock quite bald behind,
As bare as flat-nos'd Bawd appears
Upon the Crown at sixty Years.
His Eyes were sunk into their Sockets,
Deep as the Money in our Pockets,
That I profess I cannot tell,
Tho' I observ'd him very well,
Which would be harder of the two,
You to see them, or they see you.
No Jockey would, I dare engage,
Look in his Mouth to know his Age;
For ev'ry Feature of the Beast,
Proclaim'd him twenty Years at least.
Altho' his Sides no Fat could show,
He was too greasy grown below,
For ev'ry scabby Heal (confound 'em)
Had got a Quaking Pudding round 'em,

And were so weak, and swell'd with Matter,
That's fore Legs drew his hind Legs a'ter.

Excuse me, Reader, that my Muse
Should such indecent Language use.
I'm forc'd to keck my self, 'tis true;
I wish you may not do so too:
But beastly Words best suit the Nature
Of such an ill-look'd beastly Creature.

The Pace he crawl'd along, I'm sure,
At most, was half a Mile an Hour;
For ev'ry Step he cough'd and wheez'd,
Farted extreamly, often sneez'd,
That he who follow'd him, must find,
By the unsav'ry Whiffs behind,
He 'ad nothing in his Guts, but Wind.
His Huckle-bones on either side,
Between 'em did his Rudder hide;
So that his Bob-tail could appear
To none, except they stood i'th' Rear;

But cover'd the unseemly Vent
So very close, as if 'twas meant
Futurely, to prevent his Hay
From stealing out the backward way,
In case he should be thought deserving
Of being longer kept from starving.

Yet, notwithstanding all his Graces,
His Age, his Poverty, his Paces,
His Looks, his ugly Shapes and Failings,
His Galls, his Malanders and Ailings;
A Bridle did his Head adorn,
That old Buceph'lus might have worn,
Set forth at no Mechanick Rate,
With Studs and Stars, as bright as Plate;
Fine Buckles, ornamental Crosses,
Restraining Curb, and gilded Bosses,
That one could scarce distinguish whether
'Twas made of Metal, or of Leather.

His arched Back a Saddle bore,
With Crimson Velvet cover'd o'er;

Belac'd as richly, you must know't,
As well-kept Harlot's Petticoat.
Upon his raw-bon'd Buttocks, lay
A Crupper cloath so rich and gay,
That any C---'s prancing Gennet
Might, without Scorn, have travell'd in it
Thro' Cheapside down to Blackfry'rs Stairs,
And no Dishonour to our M---rs.
Altho' in Flesh the Beast was poor,
He was so rich in Furniture,
That the lame, hide-bound, founder'd Jade
Appear'd bedeck'd from Arse to Head,
Like an old worthless, wither'd Bawd,
Who 'ad vainly on her self bestow'd
A gawdy Gown, and fine Commode.

The Rider, who was got a straddle
On this alluring noble Saddle,
Which, tho' 'twas very rich and gay,
Look'd something ancient, by the way,

Was proudly dress'd from Head to Arse,
Almost as splendid as his Horse.
An English Face the Hero had,
But 'twas with Flemish Whiskers made,
So incoherent, and so frightful,
So very ugly, and so spightful,
That no Dutch Wizard could advance,
Or Skipper, when he's drunk with Nantz,
A more Infernal Countenance.
An old long Wig he'ad on, as black
As th'Inside of a Small-coal Sack,
Tuck'd in behind t'a Silken Purse,
No Play-house Fury wears a worse,
Or Barber's Block in Drury-Lane
Was e'er disgrac'd with such a Mane.
To shew his Impudence, or Pride,
His Hat was cock'd on ev'ry side,
With Brims contiguous to the Crown,
Like blust'ring Bully of the Town.

His Coat had Silver Button-holes,
And Buttons large as Tennis Balls,
Such as each gawdy brainless Beau
Us'd to affect ten Years ago,
His vain Extravagance to show;
Or such as Church-Ward'ns often wear,
When they at Parish-Feasts appear,
Where the good Brethren o'er their Liquor,
Contrive much safer Ways, and quicker,
Than had been us'd by Knaves already,
To cheat the Hungry, and the Needy.

His Boots, altho' 'twas sultry Weather,
Took up at least a Hide of Leather,
That in each Top he might have worn
A Peck, if not a Strike of Corn,
To 've comforted, in time of Need,
The Vitals of his drooping Steed.
His Legs might well their Safety boast,
And scorn the Rubs of stubborn Post,

For the stout Armour they had got,
Might stand the Force of Musket-shot,
Or bid Defiance in his Way,
To the rough Squeeze of Coach or Dray.

For Use and Ornament together,
For one or both, I know not whether,
Each threat'ning, terrifying Heel,
Like fighting Cock, was arm'd with Steel,
Pointed like Spokes of Cath'rine-wheel.
The Leathers buckl'd on before,
To make the Weapons more secure,
Were very broad, as if design'd
To hide the pointed Spears behind,
That when the poor distressed Jade,
By chance should turn his jolter Head,
His dim Beholders should not see
The Causes of his Misery,
Those dreadful Ticklers of his Hide,
That gall'd him so from Side to Side,

For 'tis believ'd by some wise Men,
That could the slaving Drudge have seen
His cruel Master so prepar'd,
His faithful Service to reward,
It might have made the Beast consider
Which way to 've broke the Neck of's Rider.

Upon his Loyns a Leathern Zone,
Above his Coat was girted on,
Made, I suppose, of Bufflers Hide,
And was at least four Inches wide,
That from its Breadth, a Man may rather
Say he was hoop'd about with Leather.
This Belt, for so it was indeed,
In Fight, would prove of wond'rous Stead,
For Arse and Paunch were almost quite
Secur'd in trusty Armour by 't;
For 'twas so thick, that Point of Sword
Might sooner penetrate a Board,
Than by a Cut or Thrust divide
The Context of the stubborn Hide.

The Edges were with Silver lac'd,
Like Belt about Life-guard-man's Waste,
Which made him look, about the Crupper,
As fine as any new-cloath'd Trooper.
In this Bellonian Girdle, hung
A Scymeter both broad and long,
Such as are us'd by Turkish Soldiers
To cleave their Foes from Head to Shoulders.
The rugged Handle of his Weapon,
Made to carve Man, as Knife a Capon,
Did once adorn the armed Brows
Of Buck or Stag, which Hunters rouze,
And by the Help of Dogs and Rabble,
Pursue them to their very Table.
The Guard was made of shining Metal,
Not Brass, like Gammer Gurton's Kettle,
But such as greedy Misers hoard,
The very same that, in a Word,
Makes the Clown reverence the Lord;

The Cause of all our mighty Pother,
That stirs up Brother against Brother,
And makes Mankind hate one another;
The Bait that does the Wise enslave,
And makes the wav'ring Fool turn Knave;
The Toy that bears, by artful Means,
The Images of Kings and Queens.
With this same Metal was his Sword
Adorn'd, becoming of a Lord.

That his stern Ignorance and Pride
Might be the better fortify'd,
Beneath his Nose, in mighty State,
A Brace of mortal Engines sate,
Such dreadful Pot-guns of Correction,
That threaten'd nothing but Destruction.
The Handles peeping out their Cases,
Stood pointing up to his Grimaces,
That had some pregnant Dame came by,
And on his Worship cast an Eye,

It might, in Mischief to her Marriage,
Have cost her a severe Miscarriage.
His Housings were in ample manner
Embroider'd, like a Prince's Banner,
And fring'd as rich, I dare be sure,
As any Gen'ral's Furniture:
But that which most his Pride disgrac'd,
Its Beauty was by Age defac'd;
But since a Soldier, maim'd in Wars,
Is honour'd by his Wounds and Scars,
And tatter'd Flags in Battel rent,
Bring Glory to a Regiment,
Who, among all the gazing Crew,
Could know, by such a transcient View,
But that his old decrepit Pad,
With all the Trappings of the Jade,
Had both their Youth and Beauty lost
In some Man-killing War-like Post,
To th'Honour of the doubty Knight,
That now sate mounted such a Height,

As well as to his prancing Slave,
That thro' the Danger bore the Knave.

In this Array this Mortal Wight,
Thus arm'd, as if prepar'd to fight,
Spurr'd on his Steed from Place to Place,
Who crawl'd about an Ass's Pace,
And look'd, from his Camelian Feeding,
As if he 'ad chiefly had his Breeding
Beneath some Scavenger o'th' Town,
To hawl his Dust-Cart up and down;
Or else, that he had took much Pains
In dragging Tom T---d's Caravans.

About the Hill this flaming Hero,
With Countenance as fierce as Nero,
Saunter'd, as if, in all his Pride,
He 'ad nothing else to do, but ride
In vain, to give his Horse new Breath
An Hour or two before his Death;
For all the idle gazing Throng,
That saw the Dogs-Meat crawl along,

Believ'd he could not waking creep
So slow, but that he walk'd in's Sleep;
A Pack-horse Pace to his compar'd,
Would have been riding very hard;
A Dyal's Hand, I dare to say,
Would almost steal as fast away;
For none but a discerning Eye,
At Bow-shot Distance, could discry
Whether he mov'd along the Hill,
Or that the dull Machine stood still.

I wrack'd my Thoughts, but could not guess,
Either by's Pad-Nag, or his Dress,
What Bus'ness could prevail upon
A Hero, arm'd with Sword and Gun,
Whose torvid Aspect made him show so
Like some revengeful Furioso,
Struting about on hide-bound Strammel,
Mounted like Turk upon a Camel.

Sometimes I could not but suppose
Some new Don Quixot was arose,

And hither came, with armed Force,
Mounted upon his hide-bound Horse,
T'exert his Courage, Skill, and Pow'r,
For Honours Sake, against the Tow'r,
As Brother Hero, to his Glory,
Attack'd the Wind-mill in a Fury.

These Thoughts soon took their Farewel on me,
They prov'd too light to gain upon me.
Then musing, I was apt to dread
He had worse Mischief in his Head,
And that he was some angry Beau,
Or wrangling, fighting Bontefeu,
Who hither came in a Bravado,
To meet some Brother Desperado,
Arm'd on his Dromedarian Brute,
In order nicely to dispute,
After a noble, war-like manner,
Some windy Point of squeamish Honour.

My Brain thus fill'd with various Notions,
I watch'd the Hero's further Motions,

Hoping before the Scene was over,
I should, to my Content, discover
What wond'rous Bus'ness brought to light
So 'ncommon a fantastick Sight;
At last I saw a grinning Looby,
Come mounted on a She Scotch Hobby,
Whose humble Size did not surpass
The lowly Stature of an Ass:
Close to her Neck her Ears she laid,
Like an ill-bred unlucky Jade,
That when she's handled, has the Trick
To give a Horse-Buss, or a Kick.
'Tis a rude way ungainly Tits
Make use of, to exert their Wits;
For rusty Scrubs, like us that write,
Can't jest, but they must spurn or bite.
Her haughty Tail, that graceful Stump,
Stood cock'd upright above her Rump,
As if the Filly took a Pride
T'expose what Tails were made to hide.

Her Fetlocks were so ruff and shagg'd,
Her long-hair'd Belly so bedagg'd,
And her Bears Arse with Dung so tagg'd,
That from her Buttocks to the Ground,
Great Signs of good Luck might be found,
For all the Way (I'm well assur'd)
She forward went, she backward scowr'd,
From whence, I will be bold to say,
Her Food was Grass, or Grains, not Hay,
Which made her Back-side so profuse,
And her lank Buttocks hang so loose,
That her Arse trembl'd, when she run,
Like quaggy Earth, when trod upon.
The Bridle of this Highland Beast,
Seem'd aged seven Years at least,
For here and there 'twas ty'd together
With Coblers Ends, and Thongs of Leather,
And I believe the very same,
In which she out of Scotland came,

Because, as I have heard some say,
Their Hobbies Bridles in the Day,
Are made alone for Use, not Sight,
And serve for Halters in the Night;
That is, good Husbandry excites
The Highland Scotch t'inure their Tits
To Hempen Reins, that have no Bits;
Which shews their Runts, as well as they
That ride 'em, scorn to run away.

Her ancient Saddle, I aver it,
Was better fed, than she that wore it;
For I could see, thro' its Decay,
The Seat was stuff'd with good old Hay,
Which started thro' each Hole and Rent,
Where mould'ring Age had giv'n it Vent,
Like stuffing of a Leathern Chair,
When worn by lazy Buttocks bare.
The Pony seeming such a Stranger,
By her lean Sides, to Wrack and Manger,

Could (if she 'ad had her Will) have eat
The Saddle Stuffing for a Bait,
For Scotland, by her wretched Case,
Seem'd still to be her Feeding-place.
So hungry Rats will knaw their Way
Thro' Cubboard Side, to gain their Prey,
And their devouring Gullets please
With mouldy Scraps of Bread and Cheese.

The Sanca Panca, that had mounted
This Tit, by Feed and Nature stunted,
A painted gawdy Jacket wore,
That all the Rainbow-Colours bore.
Thought I, this party-colour'd Owl
Must be some riding Doctor's Fool;
That is, his Herauld, hither come
From all the Parts of Christendom,
In's Coat of Honour, to proclaim
His Master's universal Fame;
And he that has been ranging thus
On yonder old Bucephalus,

Must be the Doctor, as I take it,
Dress'd up in all this Pomp, to Quack it,
With some strange never-failing Packet.
I gaz'd a while, t'observe their Meeting,
And view'd the Manner of their Greeting,
Which was perform'd with great Decorum,
In sight of all that stood before 'em.
The merry Fool, with great Submission,
Bow'd to the grave Fool, the Physician,
Who made no Conge in return,
But look'd on t'other Fool with Scorn,
Just as Great Nobles do at Court,
Upon the lesser humble Sort,
Who cringe and creep to those above 'em,
Not 'cause they're wise, or that they love 'em;
But fancy'ng Titles solid Things,
Bow to the windy Breath of Kings:
But if you'd know the Reason of it,
These flatt'ring Nods are all for Profit.

So one Fool makes himself a Scoff,
To set the Fool his Master off,
As Andrew clowns it to the Doctor,
Because he proves his Benefactor.

When Quack and Zany thus were met,
The gorgious Emprick seem'd to fret,
Both looking round the spacious Hill,
As if they wanted something still.
At last a Negro Devil came
On a dun Kefield, blind and lame,
Riding Post Haste, with Spur and Whip,
Fast as the founder'd Drudge could creep,
Laden before him with a Wallet
Of—no Man e'er knew what to call it;
Promiscuous Sweeps of Druggists Shops,
Made into Plaisters, Pills, and Slops,
All mix'd, as you'll hereafter see,
Up with Infallibility:
Tho' could the World but at one View
Foresee the Evils they would do,

They'd say with me, (a Murrain rot 'em)
That 'twas the Dev'l indeed that brought 'em,
And that this Bag of damn'd Expedients,
Compounded of unknown Ingredients,
Brought from all Climates of the World,
Confus'dly thus together hurl'd,
Contain'd more Curses, Plagues, and Poxes,
Than fifty of Pandora's Boxes.

FINIS.