Presbytery rough-drawn a satyr in contemplation of the late rebellion.
         Gould, Robert, d. 1709?
      
       
         
           1683
        
      
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             Presbytery rough-drawn a satyr in contemplation of the late rebellion.
             Gould, Robert, d. 1709?
          
           [6], 30 p.
           
             Printed for Joanna Brome ...,
             London :
             1683.
          
           
             Reproduction of original in the University of Illinois (Urbana-Champaign Campus). Library.
             In verse.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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           Great Britain -- History -- Puritan Revolution, 1642-1660 -- Poetry.
        
      
    
     
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           PRESBYTERY
           Rough-drawn
           .
           A
           SATYR
           .
           IN
           CONTEMPLATION
           OF
           The
           late
           Rebellion
           .
        
         
           LONDON
           ,
           Printed
           for
           
             Joanna
             Brome
          
           ,
           at
           the
           Gun
           ,
           at
           the
           West
           End
           of
           St.
           
           Paul's
           .
           1683.
           
        
      
       
         
         
         
           To
           the
           Right
           Honourable
           JAMES
           ,
           EARL
           of
           ABINGDON
           ,
           LORD
           NORREYES
           ,
           BARON
           of
           RICOTT
           ,
           AND
           Lord
           Lieutenant
           of
           His
           MAJESTY's
           County
           of
           OXFORD
           .
        
         
           
             My
             Lord
             ,
          
        
         
           I
           Am
           not
           insensible
           but
           that
           I
           go
           contrary
           to
           the
           Examples
           of
           my
           Contemporaries
           ,
           in
           writing
           a
           Dedication
           before
           a
           Poem
           of
           this
           Nature
           ;
           where
           the
           Satyr
           may
           seem
           to
           point
           at
           particular
           Persons
           ,
           and
           also
           to
           infer
           ,
           
           that
           they
           are
           already
           in
           the
           disesteem
           of
           the
           Patron
           .
           These
           Considerations
           (
           I
           confess
           )
           are
           sufficient
           to
           stifle
           the
           very
           Thought
           of
           a
           Dedication
           .
           But
           when
           you
           shall
           know
           (
           my
           Lord
           )
           that
           't
           was
           not
           the
           Ambition
           alone
           of
           prefixing
           your
           Lordship's
           Name
           to
           the
           Frontispiece
           (
           of
           which
           I
           must
           acknowledge
           my self
           guilty
           )
           but
           withat
           ,
           that
           it
           might
           be
           a
           guard
           to
           secure
           my
           first
           Essay
           from
           the
           malicious
           Censures
           of
           the
           Factious
           ;
           for
           ,
           if
           their
           unlimited
           indignities
           extend
           to
           the
           vilifying
           the
           best
           Frame
           of
           Government
           in
           the
           World
           ;
           how
           can
           I
           expect
           this
           slender
           Production
           of
           mine
           shou'd
           scape
           ?
           Wherefore
           ,
           when
           your
           Lordship
           shall
           know
           this
           ,
           I
           may
           reasonably
           hope
           for
           a
           favourable
           construction
           of
           a
           Freedom
           taken
           ,
           which
           others
           have
           not
           yet
           adventur'd
           on
           .
           And
           indeed
           ,
           of
           all
           the
           British
           Nobility
           ,
           to
           whom
           cou'd
           I
           with
           more
           security
           address
           my self
           for
           Refuge
           ,
           than
           to
           your
           Lordship
           ?
           Who
           in
           all
           the
           time
           of
           our
           Late
           Confusions
           (
           when
           Fears
           and
           Iealousies
           had
           wrought
           the
           Rabble
           into
           Madness
           )
           with
           so
           much
           integrity
           and
           Iustice
           maintain'd
           the
           Royal
           Interest
           ,
           and
           stood
           the
           shock
           of
           Faction
           in
           its
           highest
           Rage
           ;
           even
           when
           Loyalty
           was
           hardly
           able
           to
           support
           it self
           ,
           or
           thrown
           by
           like
           an
           unfashionable
           Garment
           ;
           when
           the
           Hypocrisie
           of
           the
           Tubb
           had
           stain'd
           the
           Purity
           of
           the
           Gospel
           ,
           and
           with
           its
           noisie
           Cant
           had
           almost
           driven
           three
           Kingdoms
           into
           a
           second
           Rebellion
           .
           To
           dare
           to
           be
           honest
           at
           such
           a
           time
           (
           my
           Lord
           )
           was
           certainly
           the
           most
           exalted
           Proof
           of
           a
           firm
           Obedience
           ;
           and
           made
           no
           less
           known
           the
           Character
           of
           your
           Greatness
           than
           
           of
           your
           Loyalty
           ,
           which
           is
           already
           ▪
           so
           truly
           eminent
           ,
           that
           to
           attempt
           to
           heighten
           it
           ,
           wou'd
           but
           derogate
           from
           that
           which
           I
           am
           oblig'd
           (
           though
           at
           an
           humble
           distance
           )
           to
           admire
           .
        
         
           It
           is
           beyond
           all
           doubt
           that
           to
           offer
           at
           a
           description
           of
           Heaven
           wou'd
           be
           utterly
           vain
           ;
           because
           it
           is
           impossible
           to
           be
           describ'd
           :
           for
           it
           may
           reasonably
           be
           thought
           ,
           that
           ,
           where
           Imagination
           it self
           cannot
           reach
           an
           Idea
           suitable
           to
           what
           the
           thing
           really
           is
           ,
           Language
           (
           though
           dress'd
           in
           all
           the
           Gallantry
           of
           Eloquence
           )
           must
           come
           infinitely
           short
           :
           Nevertheless
           ,
           if
           we
           may
           presume
           to
           aim
           at
           it
           with
           any
           Earthly
           comparison
           ,
           nothing
           can
           more
           resemble
           it
           than
           the
           Content
           and
           Felicity
           your
           Lordship
           is
           seated
           in
           :
           where
           you
           have
           all
           the
           Delights
           of
           the
           Court
           without
           the
           Vanity
           ;
           the
           Transactions
           of
           the
           Town
           ,
           without
           the
           Noise
           ;
           the
           Praise
           of
           good
           Men
           ,
           without
           being
           stumm'd
           with
           Flattery
           ;
           Diversion
           ,
           without
           Folly
           ;
           Plenty
           ,
           without
           Luxury
           ;
           and
           indeed
           ,
           all
           the
           Sweets
           of
           Life
           ,
           without
           the
           Gall
           ,
           which
           too
           commonly
           attends'em
           .
           Pardon
           me
           (
           my
           Lord
           )
           that
           I
           am
           so
           long
           upon
           a
           Subject
           that
           I
           cannot
           exchange
           for
           a
           better
           .
        
         
           As
           for
           the
           following
           Trifle
           ,
           I
           have
           little
           to
           say
           in
           defence
           of
           it
           ;
           onely
           ,
           that
           it
           carries
           no
           other
           design
           along
           with
           it
           than
           the
           reducing
           of
           Offenders
           to
           Obedience
           ,
           and
           to
           make
           the
           more
           moderate
           see
           their
           Errours
           ;
           the
           first
           step
           towards
           amendment
           .
           But
           that
           such
           a
           design
           (
           however
           pursu'd
           )
           shou'd
           please
           all
           Men
           ,
           I
           am
           not
           so
           vain
           as
           to
           expect
           ;
           for
           the
           World
           was
           never
           yet
           so
           honest
           ,
           
           but
           that
           it
           might
           mend
           .
           To
           be
           no
           farther
           troublesome
           (
           my
           Lord
           )
           should
           it
           gain
           the
           Success
           which
           I
           my self
           could
           wish
           it
           ,
           it
           would
           not
           equal
           the
           satisfaction
           I
           have
           in
           the
           honour
           of
           valuing
           my self
           ,
           as
           ,
        
         
           
             MY
             LORD
             ,
          
           
             Your
             Lordship
             's
             most
             Humble
             and
             Obedient
             Servant
             ,
             
               R.
               G.
            
             
          
        
      
    
     
       
         
         
           Presbytery
           Rough-drawn
           .
        
         
           A
           SATYR
           .
        
         
           In
           Contemplation
           of
           The
           late
           Rebellion
           .
        
         
           
             ROuze
             ,
             Rouze
             ,
             my
             Muse
             ;
             why
             dost
             thou
             silent
             lie
          
           
             When
             Truth
             's
             oppress'd
             ,
             and
             Mischief
             soars
             so
             high
             ?
          
           
             Rouze
             then
             ,
             and
             lash
             with
             thy
             severest
             Rage
          
           
             Th'
             ingraitude
             of
             a
             Rebellious
             Age.
          
           
           
             Oh
             Albion
             ,
             (
             to
             all
             sense
             of
             Glory
             dead
             )
          
           
             Whither
             is
             all
             thy
             ancient
             Grandeur
             fled
             ?
          
           
             That
             Grandeur
             ,
             which
             through
             France
             in
             Triumph
             (
             flew
             ,
          
           
             And
             onely
             Came
             ,
             and
             Saw
             ,
             and
             did
             Subdue
             :
          
           
             In
             vain
             vast
             Bul-warks
             ,
             and
             strong
             Walls
             oppose
          
           
             Against
             a
             Fate
             ,
             which
             was
             more
             strong
             than
             those
             ,
          
           
             A
             Fate
             ,
             by
             which
             our
             Vict'ries
             flew
             like
             Wind
             ,
          
           
             And
             left
             swift
             Fame
             panting
             for
             Breath
             behind
             .
          
           
             That
             Grandeur
             which
             once
             met
             the
             Pride
             of
             Spain
             ,
          
           
             Like
             a
             huge
             City
             ,
             floating
             on
             the
             Main
             ;
          
           
             Met
             it
             ,
             and
             to
             the
             bottom
             sunk
             it
             down
             ▪
          
           
             Oh
             ancient
             Glory
             !
             Oh
             unmatch'd
             Renown
             !
          
           
             And
             Oh
             th'
             uncertain
             state
             of
             all
             that
             's
             high
             !
          
           
             Those
             Masts
             which
             lately
             seem'd
             to
             touch
             the
             Sky
             ,
          
           
             Now
             low
             in
             the
             vast
             Ocean's
             Womb
             do
             lie
             ;
          
           
             And
             where
             th'
             Armada
             did
             its
             Pride
             display
             ,
          
           
             Fishes
             resort
             ,
             and
             wanton
             Dolphins
             play
             :
          
           
             Hard
             Fate
             !
             and
             yet
             they
             're
             happier
             far
             than
             we
             ,
          
           
             From
             all
             the
             sad
             events
             of
             Discord
             free
             ;
          
           
           
             For
             there
             they
             lie
             secure
             ,
             and
             now
             no
             more
          
           
             Will
             mount
             the
             foaming
             Waves
             as
             heretofore
             ,
          
           
             But
             quite
             beneath'em
             ,
             never
             hear
             'em
             roar
             .
          
           
             Nor
             stopt
             thy
             Genius
             here
             ;
             but
             with
             the
             Sun
             ,
          
           
             Round
             the
             vast
             Circuit
             of
             the
             Globe
             has
             run
             ,
          
           
             And
             came
             home
             cover'd
             with
             the
             Laurels
             won
             .
          
           
             But
             Ah!
             what
             art
             thou
             now
             become
             ?
             a
             Den
          
           
             Of
             Murth'rers
             ,
             Monsters
             ,
             and
             perfidious
             Men
             :
          
           
             What
             Vict'ries
             now
             dost
             thou
             atchieve
             or
             win
             ?
          
           
             As
             once
             in
             Arms
             ,
             so
             now
             thou'
             rt
             chief
             in
             Sin
             ,
          
           
             Hiss'd
             at
             without
             ,
             and
             damn'd
             to
             Strife
             within
             .
          
        
         
           
             Happy
             the
             Times
             ,
             when
             Man
             rejoyc'd
             to
             pay
          
           
             All
             just
             Obedience
             to
             the
             Regal
             Sway
             ;
          
           
             But
             now
             Rebellious
             Rage
             is
             grown
             so
             high
             ,
          
           
             Man's
             Cruelty
             does
             Savage
             Beasts
             out-vie
             ;
          
           
             For
             they
             all
             Tremble
             when
             the
             Lions
             Roar
             ,
          
           
             And
             grow
             as
             Tame
             as
             they
             were
             Wild
             before
             :
          
           
             To
             their
             great
             Chiefs
             they
             all
             Obedience
             pay
             :
          
           
             In
             which
             they
             prove
             us
             greater
             Beasts
             than
             they
             :
          
           
           
             For
             Man
             ,
             base
             Man
             ,
             will
             no
             Obedience
             own
             ,
          
           
             But
             in
             Contempt
             of
             it
             their
             Kings
             dethrone
             ,
          
           
             Although
             they
             know
             (
             as
             what
             they
             ought
             to
             fear
             )
          
           
             They
             Stab
             at
             God
             in
             his
             Vicegerents
             here
             .
          
           
             The
             Treach'rous
             Iews
             that
             never
             stopt
             at
             Ills
             ,
          
           
             But
             trac'd
             the
             Bent
             of
             their
             unbounded
             Wills
             ;
          
           
             Though
             one
             (
             perhaps
             )
             drunk
             with
             Ambitious
             Rage
             ,
          
           
             (
             For
             Villains
             are
             produc'd
             in
             every
             Age
             )
          
           
             All
             ties
             of
             God
             and
             Nature
             might
             disown
             ;
          
           
             And
             on
             his
             Sov'reign's
             Bloud
             erect
             his
             Throne
             :
          
           
             Yet
             I
             ne'er
             read
             the
             Factious
             Chiefs
             did
             joyn
             ,
          
           
             Associated
             in
             one
             Damn'd
             Design
             ;
          
           
             Or
             that
             they
             were
             such
             vain
             fantastick
             things
             ,
          
           
             To
             think
             that
             God
             design'd'em
             all
             for
             Kings
             :
          
           
             As
             our
             Religious
             Rebels
             did
             of
             late
          
           
             When
             they
             o'erthrew
             the
             long
             establish'd
             State
             ,
          
           
             And
             made
             three
             Nations
             groan
             beneath
             the
             weight
             :
          
           
             Brought
             down
             their
             God-like
             Sov'reign
             to
             the
             Block
          
           
             And
             which
             was
             worse
             —
          
           
             Worse
             than
             the
             Bonds
             of
             Loyalty
             when
             broke
             ,
          
           
             Proclaim'd
             that
             Justice
             gave
             the
             bitter
             Stroke
             .
          
           
           
             Vile
             Brood
             !
             can
             Justice
             an
             Injustice
             doe
             ?
          
           
             Cou'd
             ye
             ,
             when
             false
             ,
             at
             the
             same
             time
             be
             true
             ?
          
           
             At
             once
             be
             Royalists
             and
             Traitours
             too
             ?
          
           
             No
             ,
             no
             ,
             witness
             how
             unconcern'd
             ye
             stood
             ,
          
           
             And
             bath'd
             your
             hands
             in
             your
             dear
             Sov'reign's
             Bloud
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ah!
             Righteous
             God
             that
             sit'st
             in
             Peace
             above
             ;
          
           
             From
             whence
             thou
             showr'st
             eternal
             streams
             of
             Love
          
           
             Down
             on
             thy
             Church
             below
             ;
             what
             was
             it
             then
          
           
             Drew
             down
             this
             Plague
             ?
             that
             Sacrilegious
             Men
          
           
             Shou'd
             Plunder
             that
             ,
             and
             Rob
             the
             Land
             of
             more
          
           
             Than
             ever
             it
             was
             Bless'd
             with
             heretofore
             ,
          
           
             A
             King
             so
             Good
             ,
             so
             Mercifull
             ,
             and
             Just
             ,
          
           
             His
             chief
             delight
             was
             to
             pursue
             his
             Trust
             ,
          
           
             So
             far
             from
             thinking
             or
             creating
             Strife
             ,
          
           
             He
             bless'd
             that
             Hand
             that
             took
             away
             his
             Life
             .
          
        
         
           
             But
             tell
             me
             ,
             ye
             ungodly
             treach'rous
             Crew
             ;
          
           
             (
             Take
             't
             to
             your Selves
             to
             whom
             't
             is
             truly
             due
             ;
          
           
           
             For
             as
             things
             heavy
             to
             the
             Centre
             tend
             ,
          
           
             As
             Showres
             on
             Earth
             do
             fall
             ,
             or
             Flames
             ascend
             ,
          
           
             And
             in
             short
             ,
             all
             to
             their
             allotted
             place
             ;
          
           
             So
             Villany
             ,
             and
             ev'ry
             thing
             that
             's
             base
             ,
          
           
             Flies
             to
             your
             Hearts
             ,
             as
             to
             its
             proper
             Sphere
             ,
          
           
             And
             finds
             an
             everlasting
             Centre
             there
             .
             )
          
           
             Oh!
             tell
             me
             ,
             where
             's
             the
             Fame
             that
             does
             succeed
          
           
             That
             (
             still
             deplor'd
             by
             me
             )
             prodigious
             deed
             ?
          
           
             A
             deed
             so
             far
             beyond
             all
             flights
             of
             ill
             ,
          
           
             It
             can't
             be
             march'd
             in
             the
             Records
             of
             Hell
             :
          
           
             A
             deed
             so
             damn'd
             !
             as
             if
             design'd
             to
             vie
          
           
             Ev'n
             with
             the
             Iews
             boundless
             Impiety
             ,
          
           
             When
             they
             doom'd
             Christ
             unjustly
             to
             the
             Cross
             ;
          
           
             And
             frighted
             Nature
             trembled
             at
             the
             loss
             .
          
           
             But
             this
             you
             'll
             say
             was
             Mercy
             from
             above
             ,
          
           
             To
             shew
             th'extent
             of
             Heavens
             eternal
             Love
             ;
          
           
             Or
             else
             the
             Iews
             might
             here
             pretend
             some
             cause
          
           
             For
             his
             annulling
             their
             
               Mosaick
               Laws
            
             :
          
           
           
             But
             ah
             !
             what
             cause
             had
             you
             ,
             perfidious
             Brood
             ,
          
           
             To
             stain
             your
             hands
             in
             that
             illustrious
             Bloud
             ,
          
           
             Which
             never
             was
             employ'd
             but
             for
             your
             Good
             ?
          
           
             Or
             was
             it
             done
             because
             it
             was
             your
             will
             ?
          
           
             (
             That
             potent
             Cause
             by
             which
             y'
             are
             govern'd
             still
             ?
             )
          
           
             Oh
             curs'd
             effects
             of
             Arbitrary
             Zeal
             !
          
        
         
           
             I
             know
             you
             'll
             say
             ,
             't
             was
             your
             design
             to
             be
          
           
             From
             servile
             Slav'ry
             and
             Oppression
             free
             ;
          
           
             But
             those
             that
             shoot
             at
             random
             in
             the
             Night
          
           
             When
             darkness
             rules
             may
             sooner
             hit
             the
             White
             ;
          
           
             They
             must
             be
             wrong
             who
             ne'er
             were
             in
             the
             right
             :
          
           
             For
             when
             through
             all
             your
             treach'rous
             Paths
             y
             'ad
             ran
             ,
          
           
             Adverse
             to
             all
             the
             Laws
             of
             God
             and
             Man
             ;
          
           
             Had
             you
             at
             last
             your
             expectations
             Crown'd
             ?
          
           
             Or
             was
             the
             Liberty
             ,
             you
             sought
             for
             ,
             found
             ?
          
           
             (
             Indeed
             it
             were
             unjust
             to
             think
             it
             shou'd
             ;
          
           
             The
             way
             to
             Peace
             lies
             not
             through
             War
             and
             Bloud
             )
          
           
             No
             ,
             no
             ,
             that
             Pop'lar
             Idol
             of
             your
             own
             ,
          
           
             That
             load
             of
             Beast
             which
             once
             defil'd
             the
             Throne
             ,
          
           
           
             That
             Deity
             ,
             which
             your
             own
             Hands
             had
             made
             ,
          
           
             And
             then
             with
             so
             much
             frantick
             Zeal
             obey'd
             ,
          
           
             Did
             all
             your
             Rights
             and
             Liberties
             invade
             ;
          
           
             Those
             Liberties
             ye
             had
             so
             long
             enjoy'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             could
             not
             be
             ,
             but
             by
             your selves
             destroy'd
             ;
          
           
             Those
             Rights
             ,
             which
             with
             an
             unexhausted
             spring
             ,
          
           
             For
             ever
             flow'd
             from
             your
             indulgent
             King
             :
          
           
             Those
             Rights
             did
             an
             Usurping
             Conquerour
          
           
             Ravish
             ,
             and
             make
             you
             Slaves
             t'
             a
             lawless
             Pow'r
             ;
          
           
             For
             how
             could
             he
             Protect
             ,
             that
             did
             Devour
             ?
          
           
             Nay
             the
             base
             Sanhedrim
             ,
             whose
             lawless
             Pride
          
           
             Had
             to
             their
             King
             his
             Regal
             Dues
             deny'd
             ,
          
           
             With
             open
             Hands
             the
             Tyrant's
             Lust
             supply'd
             ;
          
           
             Which
             their
             proud
             Stores
             t'an
             Ebb
             as
             low
             did
             bring
             ,
          
           
             As
             they
             were
             full
             when
             they
             deny'd
             their
             King.
          
           
             Thus
             by
             their
             Aid
             he
             did
             the
             War
             commence
             ,
          
           
             And
             made
             'em
             wretched
             at
             their
             own
             expence
             .
          
           
             A
             just
             reward
             for
             raising
             Civil-war
             ,
          
           
             (
             And
             may
             no
             Traitours
             ever
             better
             fare
             )
          
           
           
             A
             fond
             imagin'd
             freedom
             to
             restore
          
           
             When
             we
             had
             all
             our
             Hearts
             cou'd
             wish
             before
             :
          
           
             'T
             was
             justly
             lost
             then
             ,
             when
             we
             sought
             for
             more
             .
          
        
         
           
             But
             lo
             !
             the
             Scenes
             are
             shifted
             streight
             ,
             and
             lo
             !
          
           
             His
             God's
             ,
             his
             King's
             and
             his
             own
             Countrie
             's
             Foe
             ,
          
           
             Is
             in
             a
             moment
             faln
             !
             't
             was
             Death
             that
             gave
          
           
             The
             fatal
             Stroke
             and
             sent
             him
             to
             the
             Grave
             ;
          
           
             Where
             he
             no
             sooner
             enter'd
             ,
             but
             the
             slain
             ,
          
           
             Who
             in
             the
             Vales
             of
             horrour
             did
             remain
             ,
          
           
             With
             dismal
             Groans
             pierc'd
             all
             the
             neighbouring
             Air
             ,
          
           
             As
             if
             he
             'd
             been
             deny'd
             an
             entrance
             there
             :
          
           
             Nor
             were
             the
             dire
             fore-boding
             Omens
             vain
             ;
          
           
             The
             Grave
             cou'd
             not
             such
             Villany
             contain
             ,
          
           
             But
             from
             its
             Entralls
             spew'd
             him
             back
             again
             .
          
           
             Thus
             he
             ,
             who
             while
             he
             liv'd
             no
             freedom
             gave
          
           
             Had
             not
             ,
             in
             death
             ,
             the
             freedom
             of
             a
             Slave
             ,
          
           
             The
             poor
             allowance
             of
             a
             six-foot
             Grave
             :
          
           
             Like
             the
             proud
             Persian
             ,
             in
             the
             Air
             he
             hung
             ;
          
           
             Like
             him
             too
             ,
             the
             Reproach
             of
             ev'ry
             Tongue
             .
          
           
           
             Ravens
             ,
             and
             all
             th'
             inferiour
             Fowls
             of
             Prey
             ,
          
           
             Which
             us'd
             to
             hover
             round
             where
             Carion
             lay
             ,
          
           
             Croak'd
             at
             the
             Tyrant
             —
             croak'd
             and
             flew
             away
             .
          
           
             And
             now
             of
             all
             his
             noisie
             Pomp
             and
             Fame
             ,
          
           
             Nothing
             survives
             but
             a
             reproachfull
             Name
             .
          
           
             Thus
             Treach'ry
             though
             it
             may
             a
             while
             shine
             bright
             ,
          
           
             As
             Meteors
             at
             a
             blaze
             lose
             all
             their
             light
             ;
          
           
             And
             what
             they
             had
             from
             the
             dull
             Earth
             before
             ,
          
           
             When
             once
             it
             is
             dissolv'd
             ,
             is
             seen
             no
             more
             .
          
        
         
           
             And
             now
             (
             methinks
             )
             I
             see
             the
             Sun
             appear
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             is
             it
             onely
             thought
             ,
             for
             lo
             he
             's
             here
             :
          
           
             With
             gentle
             Beams
             he
             first
             proclaims
             the
             Day
             ,
          
           
             Then
             drives
             at
             once
             th'unwholsome
             Damps
             away
             .
          
           
             Ah
             welcome
             ,
             Sacred
             Sir
             ,
             welcome
             as
             Sight
          
           
             To
             those
             who
             from
             their
             births
             have
             groap'd
             in
             night
          
           
             And
             never
             hop'd
             to
             view
             the
             cheerfull
             light
             :
          
           
             Welcome
             as
             Spring
             ,
             after
             a
             bitter
             Frost
             ;
          
           
             Welcome
             as
             Peace
             ,
             where
             Peace
             has
             long
             been
             lost
             .
          
           
           
             What
             shall
             I
             say
             ?
             O
             what
             eternal
             spring
          
           
             Can
             furnish
             Words
             ,
             or
             set
             my
             Thoughts
             on
             wing
          
           
             To
             bless
             his
             Welcome
             ,
             and
             his
             Praises
             sing
             !
          
           
             But
             hold
             ,
             my
             Muse
             ;
             in
             vain
             that
             pitch
             you
             'd
             fly
             ,
          
           
             For
             Language
             there
             must
             yield
             ,
             as
             well
             as
             I
             :
          
           
             Back
             then
             to
             thy
             own
             Task
             ,
             and
             scourge
             the
             times
             ,
          
           
             Revile
             their
             Follies
             ,
             and
             disclose
             their
             Crimes
             ;
          
           
             How
             canker'd
             Villains
             into
             corners
             run
             ,
          
           
             And
             blush'd
             at
             the
             vile
             deeds
             their
             Hands
             had
             done
             ;
          
           
             But
             deeds
             of
             darkness
             dare
             not
             view
             the
             Sun
             :
          
           
             Too
             well
             they
             knew
             the
             Mischiefs
             that
             they
             wrought
          
           
             Were
             unreveng'd
             ,
             and
             trembl'd
             at
             the
             Thought
             ;
          
           
             As
             fearing
             (
             what
             indeed
             they
             ought
             to
             fear
             )
          
           
             That
             Vengeance
             for
             their
             Treach'ry
             now
             was
             near
             :
          
           
             But
             God-like
             Kindness
             (
             as
             in
             Man's
             first
             Fall
             )
          
           
             Gave
             them
             an
             
               Act
               of
               Grace
            
             ,
             and
             cancell'd
             all
             .
          
           
             An
             Act
             !
             which
             Reason's
             at
             a
             loss
             to
             scan
             ;
          
           
             And
             proves
             the
             Giver
             something
             more
             than
             Man
             ;
          
           
             Whose
             Goodness
             we
             in
             vain
             wou'd
             comprehend
             ,
          
           
             For
             he
             forgives
             as
             fast
             as
             we
             offend
             :
          
           
           
             So
             Mercifull
             !
             there
             's
             not
             a
             Thought
             Severe
          
           
             In
             all
             his
             Soul
             —
             too
             Mercifull
             I
             fear
             !
          
           
             For
             had
             that
             Hand
             of
             Justice
             (
             once
             oppress'd
             )
          
           
             That
             strook
             some
             Heads
             off
             ,
             but
             secur'd
             the
             rest
             ;
          
           
             The
             Hydra
             then
             might
             have
             been
             overcome
             ;
          
           
             But
             be'ng
             too
             mercifull
             ,
             and
             sparing
             some
             ,
          
           
             From
             the
             rank
             wounds
             more
             darling
             Monsters
             sprowt
             ,
          
           
             And
             ev'ry
             Neck
             a
             thousand
             Heads
             thrusts
             out
             ,
          
           
             Till
             the
             vast
             summ
             did
             soon
             amount
             to
             more
             ,
          
           
             And
             lewder
             Criminals
             than
             e'er
             before
             :
          
           
             So
             Thieves
             from
             Gallows
             sav'd
             ,
             still
             Thieves
             will
             be
             ;
          
           
             And
             cut
             the
             Throats
             of
             those
             that
             set'em
             free
             .
          
           
             But
             sure
             that
             King
             must
             needs
             be
             all
             divine
             ,
          
           
             When
             too
             much
             Mercy
             is
             his
             onely
             Crime
             .
          
        
         
           
             Say
             then
             ,
             ye
             bold
             Fanaticks
             of
             the
             Times
             ,
          
           
             (
             Ye
             that
             succeed
             those
             Monsters
             in
             their
             Crimes
             )
          
           
             What
             makes
             you
             thus
             Seditiously
             exclaim
          
           
             Under
             the
             Blessings
             of
             a
             peacefull
             Reign
             ?
          
           
           
             What
             ye
             wou'd
             have
             I
             know
             not
             ;
             but
             I
             know
             Ye
             might
             be
             happy
             if
             ye
             wou'd
             be
             so
             ;
          
           
             Happy
             as
             Lovers
             on
             their
             Bridal
             Night
             ;
          
           
             But
             that
             's
             a
             Happiness
             but
             vain
             and
             slight
             ,
          
           
             Where
             Pain
             and
             Trouble
             still
             succeed
             Delight
             :
          
           
             But
             yours
             might
             be
             all
             one
             continu'd
             Scene
             ,
          
           
             Without
             an
             interval
             of
             Grief
             between
             .
          
           
             Has
             not
             your
             God
             (
             if
             any
             God
             ye
             own
             ;
          
           
             But
             I
             much
             rather
             think
             that
             ye
             have
             none
             ,
          
           
             For
             God
             ,
             from
             whom
             all
             true
             Obedience
             springs
             ,
          
           
             Injoins
             us
             strictly
             to
             obey
             our
             Kings
             .
             )
          
           
             Has
             he
             not
             sav'd
             from
             Rebels
             impious
             Steel
             ,
          
           
             And
             the
             worse
             Fury
             of
             misguided
             Zeal
          
           
             A
             gracious
             Prince
             ,
             and
             bless'd
             us
             with
             his
             Reign
             ?
          
           
             In
             whom
             his
             Father
             seems
             to
             live
             again
             :
          
           
             By
             Heav'n's
             peculiar
             care
             made
             fit
             to
             Rule
             ;
          
           
             Wou'd
             ye
             leave
             him
             for
             some
             Usurping
             Tool
             ?
          
           
             A
             baseness
             never
             to
             be
             cancell'd
             more
             ,
          
           
             Unless
             by
             him
             that
             cancell'd
             it
             before
             :
          
           
           
             A
             Prince
             who
             has
             through
             all
             misfortunes
             trod
             ,
          
           
             With
             the
             unshaken
             Patience
             of
             a
             God
             :
          
           
             And
             as
             't
             is
             sung
             ,
             Alcides
             ,
             heretofore
          
           
             The
             weight
             of
             Heav'n
             upon
             his
             Shoulders
             bore
             ,
          
           
             So
             He
             (
             a
             nobler
             Subject
             for
             our
             Songs
             )
          
           
             At
             once
             sustains
             a
             World
             —
             a
             World
             of
             Wrongs
             ;
          
           
             A
             World
             !
             which
             were
             that
             once
             fam'd
             Hero
             now
             ,
          
           
             Thô
             he
             bore
             Heav'n
             ,
             beneath
             their
             Weight
             he
             'd
             bow
             .
          
           
             Yet
             still
             he
             Governs
             ,
             still
             he
             Rules
             in
             Peace
             ,
          
           
             (
             And
             may
             it
             ,
             Heav'n
             ,
             O
             may
             it
             never
             cease
             !
             )
          
           
             And
             still
             your
             Stores
             eternally
             increase
             ;
          
           
             Time
             was
             th'increas'd
             too
             much
             ;
             and
             that
             the
             thing
             ,
          
           
             That
             made
             thee
             ,
             London
             ,
             murmur
             at
             thy
             King
             ;
          
           
             And
             lift
             thy
             Proud
             Luxurious
             Head
             as
             high
             ,
          
           
             As
             it
             since
             low
             did
             in
             its
             Ashes
             lie
             :
          
           
             'T
             was
             that
             inspir'd
             thy
             Crowds
             with
             factious
             Rage
             ;
          
           
             The
             Crowd
             !
             whose
             fury
             nothing
             can
             asswage
             ,
          
           
             Nor
             Tears
             of
             Youth
             ,
             nor
             Eloquence
             of
             Age
             :
          
           
             It
             rowls
             o'er
             all
             with
             an
             impetuous
             sway
             ,
          
           
             Like
             Rivers
             when
             they
             've
             forc'd
             their
             Banks
             away
             :
          
           
           
             The
             Crowd
             !
             which
             does
             for
             ever
             look
             awry
          
           
             On
             those
             that
             true
             desert
             has
             mounted
             high
             ,
          
           
             And
             wou'd
             rebell
             although
             it
             knows
             not
             why
             ;
          
           
             And
             such
             a
             Crowd
             wer
             't
             thou
             —
             a
             Mass
             combin'd
          
           
             Of
             all
             adult'rate
             mixtures
             we
             can
             find
             ,
          
           
             That
             may
             infect
             the
             Soul
             or
             taint
             the
             Mind
             :
          
           
             No
             wonder
             then
             ,
             with
             such
             rank
             Weeds
             o'erspread
             ,
          
           
             Thy
             Body
             shou'd
             rebell
             against
             its
             Head.
          
           
             That
             Honesty
             that
             lodg'd
             within
             thy
             wall
             ,
          
           
             (
             For
             there
             were
             Thousands
             that
             ne'er
             bow'd
             to
             Baal
             )
          
           
             Like
             some
             poor
             wounded
             Deer
             was
             strieght
             cashier'd
             ;
          
           
             Or
             bore
             the
             brunt
             of
             all
             the
             Brutal
             Herd
             .
          
           
             And
             this
             the
             Faction
             wou'd
             be
             at
             agen
             ,
          
           
             For
             the
             same
             cause
             that
             they
             promoted
             then
             ;
          
           
             Were
             they
             not
             baffled
             ,
             curb'd
             and
             kept
             in
             awe
          
           
             By
             Men
             that
             love
             the
             King
             ,
             the
             Church
             ,
             the
             Law
             :
          
           
             And
             such
             the
             Bench
             of
             Aldermen
             are
             now
             ;
          
           
             Compar'd
             with
             whom
             ,
             how
             dim
             the
             Factious
             show
             ?
          
           
             Nor
             shou'd
             we
             here
             those
             Citizens
             forget
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             Acts
             are
             proof
             that
             Faith
             's
             a
             Vertue
             yet
             ;
          
           
           
             Since
             by
             the
             Good
             (
             as
             in
             a
             Mirrour
             )
             still
          
           
             We
             may
             descry
             the
             Failings
             of
             the
             Ill
             :
          
           
             But
             why
             do
             I
             presume
             those
             Faults
             to
             scan
             ,
          
           
             Which
             in
             the
             Action
             are
             so
             lively
             drawn
             ?
          
           
             Witness
             for
             proof
             th'
             imparallel'd
             abuse
          
           
             (
             Beyond
             Example
             ,
             as
             beyond
             excuse
             )
          
           
             To
             their
             last
             Loyal
             Chief
             —
          
           
             Which
             from
             no
             other
             Cause
             but
             this
             cou'd
             spring
             ;
          
           
             The
             Man
             was
             honest
             ,
             and
             he
             lov'd
             his
             King.
          
           
             Help
             Heav'n
             !
             what
             but
             confusion
             can
             succeed
             ,
          
           
             When
             to
             be
             Loyal's
             a
             pernicious
             deed
             ,
          
           
             Faith
             to
             the
             Crown
             ,
             a
             Crime
             ?
             —
             but
             to
             proceed
             .
          
           
             Has
             he
             not
             stoop't
             beneath
             his
             Royal
             Stem
             ,
          
           
             Lower
             than
             ever
             Rebels
             stoop't
             to
             him
             ?
          
           
             Has
             he
             not
             all
             his
             Subjects
             wants
             supply'd
             ?
          
           
             What
             did
             they
             ask
             him
             that
             he
             e'er
             deny'd
             ?
          
           
             Unless
             it
             were
             (
             invincible
             constraint
             !
             )
          
           
             What
             Nature
             ,
             Law
             and
             Conscience
             cou'd
             not
             grant
             ?
          
           
             Has
             he
             not
             too
             (
             though
             now
             the
             Scenes
             are
             chang'd
             )
          
           
             Like
             a
             poor
             Pilgrim
             through
             the
             Nations
             rang'd
             ?
          
           
           
             Distress'd
             ,
             despis'd
             ,
             nay
             almost
             left
             of
             all
             ;
          
           
             And
             by
             the
             Rage
             of
             an
             ambitious
             Saul
             ,
          
           
             As
             many
             various
             turns
             of
             mis'ry
             bore
             ,
          
           
             As
             God's
             good
             Shepherd
             David
             did
             before
             ?
          
           
             Yet
             now
             as
             soon
             as
             God
             is
             pleas'd
             again
          
           
             To
             give
             us
             Peace
             ,
             by
             giving
             Him
             to
             Reign
             ;
          
           
             Rather
             than
             they
             'll
             be
             honest
             or
             reform
             ,
          
           
             Ev'n
             in
             the
             Sacred
             Port
             they
             'll
             force
             a
             Storm
             :
          
           
             But
             all
             in
             vain
             —
             for
             the
             Eternal
             Will
             ,
          
           
             (
             The
             Guardian
             Pillar
             that
             directs
             him
             still
             )
          
           
             Will
             now
             as
             well
             protect
             him
             from
             the
             Rage
          
           
             Of
             an
             unsatisfy'd
             ,
             seditious
             Age
             ,
          
           
             With
             the
             same
             mighty
             Love
             as
             heretofore
             ,
          
           
             When
             War
             did
             rave
             ,
             and
             all
             the
             Billows
             roar
             .
          
           
             Assur'd
             of
             this
             ,
             how
             dare
             Men
             disapprove
          
           
             What
             Heav'n
             protects
             ,
             and
             Heav'nly
             Angels
             love
             ?
          
           
             Who
             is
             a
             Subject
             fit
             for
             Songs
             divine
             ;
          
           
             Alas
             ,
             how
             far
             above
             the
             reach
             of
             mine
             !
          
           
           
             And
             then
             his
             Princely
             Brother
             (
             whom
             their
             hate
          
           
             Brands
             with
             the
             Name
             of
             Traytor
             to
             the
             State
             ;
          
           
             But
             falsly
             —
             false
             as
             the
             Tongue-murth'ring
             Blade
          
           
             That
             first
             made
             Perjury
             to
             be
             a
             Trade
             .
          
           
             So
             false
             !
             ev'n
             they
             theirselves
             cou'd
             ne'er
             deny
             ,
          
           
             But
             that
             their
             Hearts
             gave
             their
             bold
             Tongues
             the
             lie
             :
          
           
             For
             why
             shou'd
             he
             conspire
             against
             that
             Throne
             ,
          
           
             Which
             Legally
             may
             come
             to
             be
             his
             own
             ?
          
           
             No
             ;
             that
             's
             a
             work
             for
             him
             that
             's
             Born
             to
             none
             ?
          
           
             Has
             not
             that
             Prince
             mov'd
             in
             the
             self-same
             Sphere
             ?
          
           
             With
             Patience
             born
             all
             wrongs
             that
             Man
             can
             bear
             ?
          
           
             Who
             ,
             though
             your
             Envy
             does
             his
             Fame
             pursue
             ,
          
           
             He
             still
             has
             fought
             both
             for
             your
             Rights
             and
             You.
          
           
             In
             foreign
             Lands
             his
             conduct
             he
             has
             shown
             ;
          
           
             And
             found
             no
             Valour
             braver
             than
             his
             own
             .
          
           
             Conquest
             was
             still
             his
             Prize
             ;
             and
             as
             Success
          
           
             Crown'd
             him
             at
             Land
             ,
             't
             was
             on
             the
             Sea
             no
             less
             ;
          
           
             Where
             on
             the
             Deck
             (
             for
             his
             dear
             Countries
             good
             ,
          
           
             Whose
             Cause
             he
             fought
             )
             he
             has
             undaunted
             stood
          
           
           
             Amidst
             the
             wildest
             rage
             of
             Canons
             roar
             ;
          
           
             Whose
             sound
             has
             frighted
             Cowards
             on
             the
             Shore
             .
          
           
             Black
             Clouds
             of
             Smoke
             have
             dimm'd
             the
             Sun's
             bright
             ray
             ,
          
           
             And
             made
             a
             Night
             at
             the
             full
             Noon
             of
             Day
             .
          
           
             One
             wou'd
             have
             thought
             ,
             who
             from
             afar
             had
             seen
             ,
          
           
             They
             in
             the
             Bosome
             of
             the
             Clouds
             had
             been
             ,
          
           
             And
             round
             their
             Heads
             Light'ning
             and
             Thunder
             flew
             ;
          
           
             And
             through
             the
             Air
             ten
             thousand
             Terrours
             threw
             .
          
           
             The
             Sun
             himself
             look'd
             pale
             ;
             amaz'd
             to
             see
          
           
             Deaths
             scatter'd
             through
             the
             Air
             like
             Atoms
             flee
             ;
          
           
             And
             Nature
             was
             concern'd
             as
             well
             as
             he
             .
          
           
             Not
             so
             the
             Duke
             —
             who
             did
             through
             all
             appear
          
           
             Fierce
             as
             a
             Storm
             ,
             and
             was
             himself
             a
             War.
          
           
             O
             who
             in
             such
             a
             Cause
             wou'd
             danger
             shun
             ,
          
           
             Bless'd
             with
             so
             brave
             a
             Chief
             to
             lead
             'em
             on
             ?
          
           
             Who
             scorn'd
             to
             check
             his
             Rage
             ,
             or
             leave
             the
             Fray
             ,
          
           
             Till
             h
             'ad
             quite
             drove
             the
             shatter'd
             Fleet
             away
             ;
          
           
             Too
             wise
             to
             trust
             to
             Fate
             another
             day
             .
          
           
             Thus
             he
             ,
             sole
             Victor
             ,
             did
             our
             Fame
             regain
             ;
          
           
             And
             rode
             unrival'd
             o'er
             the
             conquer'd
             main
             .
          
           
           
             Enrich'd
             by
             Princes
             so
             Divine
             ,
             so
             Good
             ,
          
           
             (
             Brothers
             in
             Vertue
             ,
             as
             they
             are
             by
             Bloud
             )
          
           
             What
             Frenzy
             is
             it
             makes
             you
             think
             y'
             are
             Poor
             ?
          
           
             When
             Heav'n
             in
             them
             showres
             down
             so
             vast
             a
             Store
             ,
          
           
             '
             Twou'd
             be
             impiety
             to
             wish
             for
             more
             ;
          
           
             Which
             as
             't
             is
             great
             ,
             we
             ought
             to
             think
             it
             good
             ,
          
           
             As
             drawn
             from
             th'
             Fountain
             of
             a
             
             Martyr's
             Bloud
             .
          
           
             But
             as
             when
             some
             wild
             rav'nous
             Beast
             of
             Prey
          
           
             Has
             seiz'd
             a
             Lamb
             which
             in
             his
             passage
             lay
             ;
          
           
             The
             Bloud
             's
             first
             suck'd
             ,
             and
             finding
             that
             so
             sweet
             ,
          
           
             He
             crams
             his
             Maw
             with
             the
             delicious
             Meat
             ;
          
           
             Yet
             the
             same
             moment
             ,
             painted
             with
             the
             Gore
             ,
          
           
             Rouzes
             again
             ,
             and
             roams
             the
             Woods
             for
             more
             .
          
           
             So
             you
             ,
             flush'd
             with
             your
             former
             Royal
             Bait
             ,
          
           
             Grow
             mad
             again
             ,
             and
             for
             more
             Bloud
             do
             wait
             ,
          
           
             In
             the
             subversion
             of
             the
             Regal
             State.
             
          
        
         
           
             From
             whence
             else
             can
             our
             wild
             divisions
             grow
             ?
          
           
             Can
             such
             a
             Prince
             be
             his
             own
             Countries
             Foe
             ?
          
           
           
             At
             the
             same
             time
             he
             does
             their
             Battails
             fight
             ,
          
           
             And
             makes
             their
             happiness
             his
             chief
             delight
             ?
          
           
             True
             ;
             but
             you
             'll
             say
             (
             perhaps
             )
             others
             have
             done
          
           
             As
             brave
             exploits
             ,
             as
             glorious
             Fields
             have
             won
             .
          
           
             Well
             ,
             and
             suppose
             it
             true
             ?
             yet
             when
             their
             Fame
          
           
             We
             once
             compare
             with
             
             York's
             illustrious
             Name
             ,
          
           
             It
             blushing
             shrinks
             into
             itself
             again
             .
          
           
             None
             sure
             but
             such
             as
             have
             abandon'd
             Sense
             ,
          
           
             Will
             stoop
             to
             an
             Usurper
             for
             a
             Prince
             ;
          
           
             And
             like
             the
             rough-cast
             Heathen's
             heretofore
             ,
          
           
             Rather
             than
             want
             a
             Patron-God
             t'
             adore
             ,
          
           
             Before
             some
             Stock
             or
             Stone
             will
             Homage
             pay
             ;
          
           
             Or
             to
             some
             uncouth
             Creature
             Kneel
             and
             Pray
             .
          
           
             Dagon
             ,
             to
             those
             who
             did
             before
             him
             fall
             ,
          
           
             (
             As
             the
             All-high
             to
             us
             )
             was
             all
             in
             all
             ;
          
           
             But
             God
             forbid
             we
             shou'd
             their
             steps
             pursue
             ,
          
           
             Or
             for
             to
             serve
             the
             False
             ,
             Blaspheme
             the
             True
             ;
          
           
             Whose
             Laws
             (
             though
             spurn'd
             at
             by
             Fanatick
             spight
             )
          
           
             Instruct
             us
             to
             distinguish
             Wrong
             from
             Right
             .
          
           
           
             Right
             ,
             when
             we
             do
             the
             true
             Succession
             own
             ;
          
           
             Wrong
             when
             a
             false
             Pretender
             mounts
             the
             Throne
             ;
          
           
             Right
             ,
             to
             obey
             those
             rightfull
             Sov'reign
             Pow'rs
             ,
          
           
             Who
             lose
             their
             own
             repose
             to
             procure
             ours
             ;
          
           
             But
             Wrong
             ,
             against
             such
             Goodness
             to
             declame
             ,
          
           
             Or
             with
             base
             Libels
             strive
             to
             wound
             his
             Fame
             .
          
           
             But
             they
             that
             took
             away
             his
             Father's
             Life
             ,
          
           
             Defame
             the
             Royal
             Duke
             ,
             spare
             not
             his
             Wife
             ;
          
           
             Such
             Undertakers
             rightly
             understood
             ,
          
           
             Can
             mean
             their
             present
             Sov'reign
             little
             good
             .
          
           
             —
             Nor
             stops
             the
             Frenzy
             here
             —
             when
             ev'ry
             Drone
          
           
             Inspir'd
             by
             foggy
             Ale
             's
             a
             Statesman
             grown
             ,
          
           
             And
             takes
             upon
             him
             to
             dispose
             the
             Crown
             ;
          
           
             Drivels
             out
             spitefull
             Treason
             o'er
             his
             Pots
             ,
          
           
             With
             as
             much
             Zeal
             and
             Gravity
             as
             O
             —
          
           
             Go
             to
             your
             Looms
             ,
             Cobble
             your
             Shoes
             ;
             and
             there
          
           
             We
             will
             allow
             y'
             are
             in
             your
             proper
             Sphere
             ;
          
           
             Those
             Paths
             by
             Beasts
             of
             Burthen
             may
             be
             trod
             ;
          
           
             But
             leave
             the
             Crown
             to
             the
             dispose
             of
             God
             ;
          
           
           
             "
             Whose
             Voice
             to
             say
             you
             are
             ,
             were
             Blasphemy
             ;
          
           
             "
             For
             there
             all
             Parts
             do
             with
             the
             Whole
             agree
             ,
          
           
             "
             And
             with
             a
             Concord
             so
             Divinely
             sweet
             ,
          
           
             "
             As
             never
             can
             with
             Contradictions
             meet
             :
          
           
             "
             Shou'd
             the
             almighty
             Voice
             —
          
           
             "
             With
             the
             Profane
             dull
             Crowds
             run
             Parallel
             ;
          
           
             "
             'T
             would
             turn
             ev'n
             Heav'n
             it self
             t'
             a
             kind
             of
             Hell.
          
           
             'T
             were
             better
             far
             to
             let
             the
             State
             alone
             ;
          
           
             And
             mind
             your
             little
             Common-wealths
             at
             home
             .
          
           
             But
             if
             't
             is
             needfull
             it
             shou'd
             now
             be
             known
             ,
          
           
             Who
             must
             or
             ought
             hereafter
             wear
             the
             Crown
             ;
          
           
             We
             need
             no
             other
             Guide
             than
             Reason's
             light
             :
          
           
             Whose
             shou'd
             it
             be
             ,
             but
             whose
             it
             is
             by
             Right
             ?
          
           
             His
             Right
             alone
             (
             which
             onely
             is
             withstood
          
           
             By
             such
             a
             sullen
             and
             contentious
             Brood
             )
          
           
             Whose
             sure
             it
             is
             by
             all
             the
             Ties
             of
             Bloud
             .
          
           
             Ye
             hate
             the
             King
             ,
             yet
             ye
             all
             Kings
             wou'd
             be
             ;
          
           
             Why
             do
             ye
             strive
             to
             Rule
             else
             more
             than
             he
             ?
          
           
             And
             while
             ye
             are
             contending
             who
             shou'd
             wear
          
           
             The
             Regal
             Crown
             ,
             the
             Regal
             Sceptre
             bear
             ;
          
           
           
             By
             fraud
             and
             Treach'ry
             (
             marks
             by
             which
             y'
             are
             known
             ,
          
           
             Well
             as
             your
             Tub-men
             by
             their
             canting
             Tone
             )
          
           
             Wou'd
             from
             his
             Brows
             ,
             transplant
             it
             to
             your
             own
             :
          
           
             But
             finding
             that
             y'
             are
             baffl'd
             in
             your
             Will
             ,
          
           
             Run
             drudging
             on
             ,
             and
             will
             be
             Rebels
             still
             .
          
        
         
           
             Yes
             Rebels
             ?
             what
             else
             can
             the
             meaning
             be
             ,
          
           
             Of
             Bellowing
             after
             Rights
             and
             Liberty
             ,
          
           
             When
             't
             is
             impossible
             to
             be
             more
             free
             ?
          
           
             Of
             all
             the
             Nations
             that
             enclose
             you
             round
             ,
          
           
             Point
             me
             out
             one
             with
             half
             your
             Freedoms
             Crown'd
             ;
          
           
             Freedoms
             too
             great
             ,
             too
             much
             in
             't
             to
             express
             ;
          
           
             Nor
             is
             each
             Man
             's
             particularly
             less
             .
          
           
             The
             Wild
             has
             liberty
             the
             World
             to
             roam
             ,
          
           
             To
             France
             ,
             to
             
               Spain
               ,
               Smyrna
               ,
               Iapan
            
             or
             Rome
             ;
          
           
             But
             ne'er
             will
             find
             a
             better
             place
             than
             Home
             ;
          
           
             Where
             Nature
             in
             her
             bloom
             for
             ever
             waits
             ,
          
           
             And
             ev'ry
             morning
             fresh
             delight
             creates
             .
          
           
           
             Th'
             Old
             and
             Studious
             may
             enjoy
             their
             ease
             ;
          
           
             And
             this
             may
             plough
             the
             Land
             ,
             and
             that
             the
             Seas
             ;
          
           
             The
             Crowds
             too
             ,
             may
             almost
             doe
             what
             they
             please
             :
          
           
             Oh
             that
             they
             might
             not
             ;
             't
             is
             th'
             unhappy
             Cause
          
           
             From
             whence
             our
             Discord
             still
             more
             Discord
             draws
             :
          
           
             For
             when
             the
             Conscience
             it
             s
             own
             way
             may
             go
             ,
          
           
             How
             boundless
             ,
             wild
             a
             Monster
             will
             it
             grow
             !
          
           
             Pulpits
             are
             dwindled
             into
             Tubs
             ;
             and
             Kings
             ,
          
           
             Esteem'd
             unnecessary
             useless
             things
             :
          
           
             All
             wholesom
             Doctrine's
             Banish'd
             with
             the
             Creed
             ,
          
           
             And
             Blockheads
             Preach
             ,
             who
             never
             learnt
             to
             Reade
             .
          
           
             Kings
             to
             their
             Subjects
             must
             Obedience
             pay
             :
          
           
             Nor
             is
             it
             strange
             the
             Flock
             shou'd
             go
             astray
             ,
          
           
             When
             they
             theirselves
             are
             in
             the
             wrong
             that
             guide
             ;
          
           
             'T
             is
             best
             then
             when
             such
             Liberty's
             deny'd
             .
          
           
             Does
             not
             your
             Land
             with
             Milk
             and
             Hony
             flow
             ?
          
           
             Canaan
             cou'd
             not
             such
             Crops
             of
             Plenty
             show
             ,
          
           
             Or
             
             Iordan's
             lov'd
             ,
             and
             unpolluted
             Streams
             ,
          
           
             Produce
             more
             Wonders
             than
             our
             fruitfull
             Thames
             .
          
           
           
             Do
             not
             all
             things
             that
             feast
             the
             Eye
             and
             Ear
             ,
          
           
             The
             Tast
             and
             Smell
             for
             ever
             flourish
             here
          
           
             With
             an
             unbounded
             ,
             unexhausted
             Spring
             ?
          
           
             And
             to
             Crown
             all
             —
          
           
             Are
             we
             not
             Crown'd
             with
             an
             indulgent
             King
             ?
          
           
             Having
             all
             this
             ,
             what
             wou'd
             ye
             more
             possess
             ?
          
           
             Having
             so
             much
             ,
             why
             wou'd
             ye
             make
             it
             less
             ?
          
           
             Why
             shou'd
             that
             pleasant
             tune
             of
             Concord
             cease
             ?
          
           
             Can
             e'er
             Rebellion
             be
             the
             way
             to
             Peace
             ?
          
           
             Why
             do
             ye
             your
             pernicious
             Doctrine
             sow
             ?
          
           
             And
             through
             the
             Land
             seditious
             Libells
             strow
             ;
          
           
             Spurn
             at
             the
             Vertuous
             ,
             vilifie
             the
             Just
             ,
          
           
             (
             As
             if
             their
             Loyalty
             debauch'd
             their
             Trust
             )
          
           
             Rail
             at
             the
             Law
             ,
             nay
             rail
             at
             one
             another
             ,
          
           
             And
             ,
             which
             is
             yet
             more
             base
             than
             all
             the
             other
             ,
          
           
             Stab
             the
             King's
             Reputation
             in
             his
             Brother
             ?
          
           
             O
             tell
             me
             ,
             to
             what
             end
             can
             this
             be
             done
             ?
          
           
             Unless
             you
             'd
             like
             your
             Predecessors
             run
          
           
             And
             damn
             our
             Eighty
             two
             ,
             to
             Forty
             one
             ;
          
           
           
             For
             they
             (
             like
             you
             )
             mouth'd
             after
             Liberty
             ,
          
           
             And
             they
             (
             like
             you
             )
             too
             ,
             knew
             that
             they
             were
             free
             ;
          
           
             But
             found
             too
             soon
             (
             Experience
             dearly
             bought
             )
          
           
             Their
             seeking
             for
             't
             ,
             destroy'd
             the
             thing
             they
             sought
             .
          
           
             Yet
             ,
             though
             they
             got
             so
             little
             by
             't
             before
             ,
          
           
             (
             When
             their
             own
             Lust
             and
             Rapine
             rob'd
             the
             Poor
          
           
             In
             opposition
             to
             all
             sacred
             Laws
             )
          
           
             Once
             more
             you
             wou'd
             revive
             the
             Good-Old-Cause
             ;
          
           
             Once
             more
             o'erthrow
             the
             Church
             ,
             the
             State
             ,
             and
             King
             ,
          
           
             And
             from
             bless'd
             Order
             make
             Confusion
             spring
             ;
          
           
             That
             wild
             Confusion
             which
             of
             late
             did
             rave
             ,
          
           
             And
             sent
             so
             many
             Thousands
             to
             the
             Grave
             :
          
           
             But
             you
             may
             spare
             the
             Toil
             —
             the
             Veil's
             pluck't
             off
             ,
          
           
             And
             ev'ry
             Soul
             that
             has
             but
             Sense
             enough
          
           
             To
             choose
             the
             Right
             from
             Wrong
             :
             may
             plainly
             see
          
           
             What
             you
             have
             been
             ,
             and
             what
             you
             'll
             ever
             be
             :
          
        
         
           
             And
             as
             you
             are
             ,
             I
             fear
             you
             'll
             such
             remain
             ,
          
           
             (
             And
             shou'd
             I
             wish
             ye
             honest
             't
             were
             in
             vain
             )
          
           
           
             For
             they
             that
             spurn
             at
             Mercy
             ,
             cherish
             Ill
             ,
          
           
             And
             own
             no
             Pow'r
             above
             their
             Lawless
             Will
             ,
          
           
             Will
             certainly
             continue
             Ill
             Men
             still
             ;
          
           
             Too
             rank
             for
             Earth
             ,
             and
             onely
             fit
             to
             goe
          
           
             To
             murmur
             in
             their
             grand
             Caball
             below
             ;
          
           
             Y
             'ad
             best
             be
             cautious
             then
             ,
             and
             have
             a
             care
             ;
          
           
             Ingratitude
             will
             find
             no
             favour
             there
             ,
          
           
             Although
             't
             has
             miss'd
             the
             stroke
             of
             Justice
             here
             :
          
           
             —
             As
             yet
             I
             mean
             has
             miss'd
             of
             —
             for
             I
             've
             seen
          
           
             A
             Morning
             ,
             though
             it
             were
             at
             first
             serene
          
           
             As
             thought
             can
             form
             ,
             has
             in
             a
             trice
             been
             clogg'd
          
           
             With
             gloomy
             Clouds
             ,
             and
             almost
             choak'd
             with
             Fog
             :
          
           
             The
             Sun
             himself
             ,
             as
             if
             oppress'd
             with
             Night
             ,
          
           
             Has
             shrunk
             his
             Glories
             in
             ,
             e're
             while
             so
             bright
             ,
          
           
             And
             had
             not
             pow'r
             to
             bless
             the
             World
             with
             Light.
          
           
             Thus
             sullen
             signs
             approaching
             storms
             fore
             told
             ;
          
           
             And
             lo
             !
             loud
             Thunder
             through
             the
             Air
             has
             rowl'd
             :
          
           
             Mountains
             which
             one
             wou'd
             think
             stood
             firm
             as
             Fate
             ,
          
           
             Have
             reel'd
             as
             if
             they
             bent
             beneath
             their
             weight
             .
          
           
           
             When
             of
             a
             sudden
             the
             all-seeing
             Sun
             ,
          
           
             Angry
             as
             't
             were
             with
             what
             the
             Storm
             had
             done
             ,
          
           
             Through
             the
             thick
             Shades
             his
             pointed
             Beams
             has
             thrown
             ▪
          
           
             And
             in
             a
             Moment
             chas'd
             'em
             all
             away
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             fresh
             Glories
             dress'd
             the
             new-born
             Day
             .
          
           
             So
             in
             the
             wild
             disorders
             of
             the
             State
             ,
          
           
             When
             mighty
             Charles
             shall
             yield
             to
             mightier
             Fate
             ;
          
           
             (
             Which
             may
             it
             first
             be
             long
             ,
             for
             Monarchs
             Breath
          
           
             Is
             frail
             like
             ours
             ;
             like
             ours
             must
             taste
             of
             Death
             :
             )
          
           
             What
             cou'd
             we
             wish
             shou'd
             that
             black
             hour
             arrive
             ,
          
           
             More
             than
             some
             glorious
             Hero
             to
             survive
             ?
          
           
             Prepar'd
             by
             Heav'n
             ,
             by
             Nature
             ,
             and
             by
             Right
             ,
          
           
             For
             all
             the
             Functions
             of
             the
             Royal
             Seat
             ;
          
           
             And
             fitted
             thus
             ,
             why
             not
             the
             Heir
             ,
             the
             Brother
             ,
          
           
             To
             fill
             that
             sacred
             Place
             before
             another
             ?
          
           
             Who
             ,
             guided
             by
             the
             same
             eternal
             Will
             ,
          
           
             Wou'd
             all
             the
             roaring
             Winds
             of
             Faction
             still
             :
          
           
             For
             he
             who
             has
             so
             many
             Wonders
             wrought
             ,
          
           
             Crown'd
             with
             success
             in
             all
             the
             Fields
             he
             fought
             ,
          
           
           
             Whom
             Heav'n
             has
             sav'd
             from
             Rocks
             and
             Treach'rous
             Sand
             ▪
          
           
             And
             the
             more
             treach'rous
             dangers
             of
             the
             Land
             ,
          
           
             War
             ,
             Envy
             ,
             Banishment
             ,
             Intestine
             strife
             ,
          
           
             Slaunder
             ,
             and
             all
             the
             Snares
             that
             catch
             at
             life
             ;
          
           
             He
             sure
             must
             be
             for
             some
             great
             End
             design'd
             ,
          
           
             Proportion'd
             to
             the
             greatness
             of
             his
             Mind
             ;
          
           
             For
             nothing
             less
             were
             fit
             to
             carry
             on
             ,
          
           
             What
             our
             good
             Monarch
             has
             so
             well
             begun
             :
          
           
             In
             such
             a
             Cause
             ,
             bright
             as
             the
             Sun
             he
             'd
             rise
             ,
          
           
             And
             dart
             his
             Glories
             through
             the
             sullow
             Skies
             ,
          
           
             Dissolve
             or
             drive
             the
             Factious
             Gloom
             away
             ,
          
           
             Unrip
             Caballs
             ,
             where
             Treasons
             brooding
             lay
             ,
          
           
             And
             show
             'em
             all
             to
             the
             clear
             Eye
             of
             day
             ;
          
           
             And
             with
             a
             Justice
             splendid
             and
             sublime
             ,
          
           
             Wou'd
             punish
             Treach'ry
             equal
             to
             the
             Crime
             .
          
           
             Then
             wou'd
             the
             Land
             a
             firm-wrought
             Peace
             enjoy
             ,
          
           
             Which
             wild
             Sedition
             wou'd
             not
             dare
             t'
             annoy
             ;
          
           
             Nor
             all
             the
             angry
             Storms
             of
             Fate
             destroy
             .
          
        
         
           THE
           END
           .