THE Anti-WEESILS.  
A POEM. GIVING An Account of some Historical and Argumental Passages happening in the LION'S Court.  
Mark those who dote on Arbitrary Power,  
And you shall find 'em either hot-brained Youth,  
Or needy Bankrupts servile in their greatness,  
And Slaves to some to Lord it o'er the rest.  Vid. Mr. Dryden 's Spanish Friar. 
LONDON, Printed, and are to be Sold by Randal Taylor, near Stationers-Hall. 1691.   

THE PREFACE.  
ON reading the famed piece of Banter (for I can't call it a Poem) lately published against the Reverend Doctor, I had perhaps different thoughts from most others on that Subject, and do still believe that 'twill conduce more to his Honour than Disgrace with any thinking Men; both because it shows his Enemy's Arguments are all spent, and their Ammunition done, when they come to charge him with such Potgun weapons, and that they find 'tis impossible fairly to answer what he asserts, because they take the easier way of ridiculing it; that way which has been most blasphemously used against the best of Books, and best of Being's; and which, without the Fatigue of thinking, tickles a man out of an argument: for 'tis easy to imagine, if we once could dress up even an Apostle in a Fool's Coat, none would either believe or mind a word he says. 'Tis also an honour to the Doctor, that he has Persons of such Religion and Morals, as this appears to be, for his Antagonists, who in the very fourth line laughs at Christians expecting the Resurrection; who gives Preaching no better a Title than Bubbling Fools, and would persuade us that Religion is good for nothing but to make the World Blockheads, though he being one of the more refined and wise ones, it seems has the happiness to see through the Millstone, though others can't.  
Indeed, I can't imagine how any Englishman can with patience read himself there called a Freeborn Brute, or be pleased with the many palpable Reflections on the present Government; to have the taking the Oaths called no better a name than Perjury, and to be told that 'twas only a politic Faction drove out the late King James; who, poor Prince was betrayed by his own Subjects— though I fancy those Honourable, and Noble, not to add Royal persons, who left his Party, when they must either have left that or their Religion, won't think themselves much obliged to him for the Name of Traitors. Just as handsome is his Insinuation, that those who yet stand out, do it for Conscience, those who come in, only for Pay; full as civil as his calling the Doctor a wavering Brute, for his horrid Apostasy from King James.  
Let him after this pretend as long as he please, as he does in his Preface at the wrong end of his Book, (that it might be all surprising,) that he has a Veneration for the Church of England; I suppose Dodwells Church, or the late Bishop of Chester; whereas we must have more Faith than the Author has, and full as little knowledge, to believe he is a Church of England Man, who is not so much as a Christian; of which Character, it's notoriously known are many of King James' few Friends; that many who see what Blockheads Religion has made 'em in this Author's phrase, and who are better known than they suspect: Who have just as much Veneration for Almighty God, as this Gentleman for the present Monarchical Government of England, which here he pretends to flatter, though he dares not mention Their Gracious Majesties, for fear, in his own phrase, lest the late Lion should return. And for the same Reason, since I find him very cautious and reserved, I'll not ask the Gentleman what he means by those admirable, though plain Principles of the Church of England, which some Men, biased by Interest, wink at or forget.  
For the Poem itself, I have nothing to say to't, being such a natured thing as will bear nothing.— Who can answer the loud Laughter of a Fool? or the unlucky Grin of that Creature that looks so like a Man? Full as wisely would any one pretend to ridicule an Antic, or outmock a Scaramouch, all whose Wit lies in Impudence and Grimmace; in whose Company let's now let him alone to enjoy his sweet self as long as he pleases, though we possibly may meet him again before we part, and only observe this of the dress of his Poem, (for he shall still think the Arguments on't unanswerable,) that it lies obnoxious to all the Objections the ingenious Mr. Montague has made against the Hind and Panther; that he shifts Scenes unsufferably, and makes his Weesils excellently well acquainted with Divinity, Politics, or what else he pleases; and yet in the very next moment sets 'em a nibbling upon their old Cheese and Bacon.  
I shall say yet less of my own Poem, whereof 'twill be enough to tell the Reader, that I have endeavoured to avoid this fault in it which I blame in the Weesils, though thereby 'tis plain I lose a great advantage, that 'tis a hasty thought of a few hours Writing; and that (if he'll please to believe me) he can't think much more meanly on't, than I do myself. Farewell.   


The Anti-WEESILS. A POEM.  

HAppy those peaceful Lands, thrice happy they  
Propitious Heaven has freed from Beasts of Prey!  
Where the rich fleecy Households safely go,  
And graze all day, fearless of any Foe,  
Nor spotted Pard, nor nimble Tiger know.  
Pan guards their Folds, by no fell Wolf distressed,  
Both Sheep and Shepherd lay them down to rest.   

Not so of old rich Albion's fertile Soil,  
 just severity had purged the Isle;  
A Wast there was, its Arms outstretching wide,  
Ardenna called, by Royal Severn's side;  
Where, in deep dismal Groves, untrod by Men,  
Couched the Wild Beasts in many a gloomy Den;  
The Kingly Lion Lord and Sovereign there,  
The Fox, the Pard, the Tiger and the Bear.   

All in the midst of the most secret shade,  
Close in an unfrequented gloomy glade,  
The Sovereign kept his Court, but late his own,  
His dying Brother newly left the Throne,  
(Fairly or not, to Jove is only known.)  
From Caledonian Woods their Lineage came,  
Proud of their Ancestors long purchased Fame:  
Two Ages passed to warmer Worlds they run,  
And bask in Southern Britain's kinder Sun.  
Where the Wild Nations them their Lords confess,  
New robbed by Fate of their loved Lioness:  
 since they held our Forest's wide command,  
Now with a fixed, now with a trembling Hand:  
Sometimes would on their Freeborn Subjects fall,  
Grasping too much they'd venture losing all.  
This cost a Life, the best of all their Blood,  
Torn by the furious Rabble of the Wood:  
Two of whose hapless Race their Country changed,  
And long, far off, in Foreign Deserts ranged,  
Till pitying Jove, when all their hope was past,  
To their own Realms restored 'em both at last;  
Where in soft Joys they quickly drowned their Pain,  
And little less than share an equal Reign:  
But Prodigies can never long remain:  
Two Suns are one too many for the Skies,  
And that must set, that this more bright may rise:  
His sudden Fall was ne'er well understood,  
He sets, at least in Clouds, if not in Blood.  
What Brutal Joy through all the Wild was shown,  
When next his Brother Lion filled the Throne!  
The Beasts get drunk to wish their Lord success,  
What reeling Loyalty did they express!  
Than Restauration Triumphs only less.  
Whilst the Wise few walk unobserved by,  
To some loan Covert haste, and steal a sigh.  
For they too well their Prince's Genius knew,  
Or loved the Old too well to wish a New:  
They knew his Inclinations harsh and cursed,  
As one had been by old Lycisca nursed;  
That with his Milk he sucked inveterate hate,  
And Malice deep against the Sylvan State;  
Enough they though to bear, too much to wish their Feet.  
Not so the giddy thoughtless multitude,  
Whose Joys all muddy like themselves and rude:  
Thus Jove was blest by every grateful Frog,  
When o'er the Fans King Stork succeeds King Log:  
Their deep hoarse Notes they to his Honour raise,  
And croak loud hollow Anthems in his Praise.   

Thus the New King of Arden's ancient Grove  
Is Crowned, with all the Forests Fear or Love:  
The Muse's Birds themselves, which seldom fail  
To build near Thrones, loud sung their— Caesar, Hail!  
The Brooks of distant Cam and Isis vie,  
Which most shall please him with their Harmony.  
Who with a surly pride the officious kindness bore,  
All was his due and they could give no more,  
'Tis true, nor we his memory would wrong,  
None but the Wolves could please him with a song.  
Who flocked from old Jerne's sacred Soil,  
And in full herds assault our trembling Isle;  
From Graves, and half torn Carcases they fled,  
From loan Churchyards among the mangled dead.  
Here a young Whelp comes over, and there appears  
Some hoary Murderer of fifty years,  
Of those who erst Jerne's Plains orepoured,  
Husbands, and Wives, and Maids, and helpless Babes devoured,  
And long before alone he filled the place  
The King had a strange love for all their Race:  
A Sympathy so violent and strong,  
That should we not his spotless Mother wrong,  
Who knew no shame because she knew no sin,  
We'd think his Sire of wild Sir Isgrims kin,  
The very same the howl, the very same the grin.  
With these, when young, he'd always hunt and sport,  
With these, when old, he filled his Royal Court;  
Ragged they came, with loud complaints and moans,  
No Coat to hid their Flesh, no Flesh to hid their Bones.  
Tho' soon they Battened here, for not a place  
But now is filled with some of Wolvish race;  
How sleek their Coat, how plump their side, how full their Face.   

This all the other Beasts unkindly bore,  
Keep in their Dens, and fill the Court no more;  
Yet not so high as since were their resentments flown,  
Because their Liberty was still their own;  
Their Rights, by ancient Forest-Laws secured  
Which had from immemorial times endured  
In mounds as firm as Sovereign Power immured:  
All yet enjoyed their own, by none oppressed,  
Each in his native Den could safely rest.  
Tho' this last blessing must not long remain,  
And every freeborn Subjects doomed to wear the Chain:  
The manner thus— the Court its Toils had set,  
And taken a young vigorous Lyonet;  
(To their late Sovereign born, who did compress  
In Foreign wild's a lovely Leopardess.)  
So like the Royal Race, so goodly grown,  
What Prince would blush so fair a Son to own?  
Hopes of a Crown, and 'twas a glorious prize  
Had seized too soon on his unwary Eyes;  
Nor longer Foreign Courts he'll now endure,  
But sowses down on the deceitful Lure,  
And landing on the fatal Western Coast,  
Was by his false Jackal betrayed and lost.   

And now the useless Vizard is cast by  
Which was before seen through with half an Eye,  
The Panther shows his Face, the Court gins  
To dare the Day, and boast unblushing Sins:  
What can a fairer happier juncture be  
Than a Rebellion crushed to hatch a Tyranny?  
Lest Rebel Sheep should harmless Wolves surprise,  
Or the young Lion from the Dead should rise;  
A standing Army must the Groves secure  
Of Bears, and Boars, and Wolves, a Herd impure.  
Now they the old Grand Forrest-Charter seize,  
And Liberties are only what they please:  
Those are kind Thiefs who half your Gold restore,  
You can't but thank 'em that they take no more.  
Some Beasts, 'tis true, when tamed were freed again,  
But none beyond their Circle and their Chain:  
All were, without exceptions, teddered down,  
Tho' some had larger Plaits to graze upon:  
A Peace indeed proclaimed with show of Grace,  
Tho' 'twas alone t' oblige the Wolvish Race.  
The public quiet can't too high be prized;  
These snarling Mastiffs must be sacrificed.  
Those Shepherds who their Folds would not betray,  
From Sheep and Folds at once were dragged away;  
Their Folds to Thiefs, their Flocks to Wolves, a prey,  
In Dens and Darkness to expect their doom,  
And Goats and Swine exalted in their room.   

This was to much, yet this they suffered too,  
And now indeed they little else could do;  
Tho' they beyond a Camel's patience bore,  
The Passive Beasts must still prepare for more.  
Must they pretend to feel whose sense was gone,  
Among their other Rights, who now must still bear on?  
They laid on load as fast as at the first,  
Nor must they kick it off altho' they burst.  
Nor would one Age suffice for their disgrace,  
The Slave must be entailed on all their Race.  
This Fate denys, but Fate in vain says nay,  
And Heaven, as well as Earth, the Lion must obey.  
Tho' hateful Age came hastening on amain,  
And what Promiscuous Loves had missed to drain,  
Licked the last drops of moisture from each shriuling Vein,  
Yet did he not of the success despair,  
And rather than have none, would make some Wolf his Heir.  
Blessed Heir, foretold by every dreaming Fowl,  
The long-lived Crow, and Sage Prophetic Owl,  
Who, e'er his Birth, described each matchless Grace,  
And knew each Line in his Majestic Face.  
The Lioness consents, a Whelp is found,  
Who all their most Luxuriant Wishes crowned.  
'Twas safely to the Royal Den conveyed,  
And with vain Vows, she cries,— Lucina aid!  
Miraculous Birth! No Grief nor Pangs succeed,  
By Proxy sure, a Lioness may breed.  
So sound, so firm, so like the Royal Race,  
The World might spell his Father in his Face.   

When the last Stake, even hope itself was gone,  
He must be a double Brute that still bears on.  
The Forest sent repeated Envoys over,  
And pressed for succour at the Belgic shore,  
Where they the bold Nassovian Lion find,  
Made for the Saviour of the Sylvan kind.  
From Britain he deduced his noble stem,  
Only not nearest to the Diadem.  
Rich in well-purchased Fame, and high Renown,  
Fit for, below, and yet above a Crown:  
He left his sweet repose, and calm recess,  
And sighing left his lovely Lioness.  
Endues his Hide, dreadful with many a Scar,  
And many an Honest Mark, of many a Glorious War,  
When erst with Gallic Wolves almost oppressed,  
Whole Groves of Spears were broke against his ample Breast,  
He shook 'em off, and with a furious bound.  
Leapt over the Toils, and scattered Fate around.  
Thus went he to glad Albion's clustered Shoar,  
And with himself wafted Salvation over.  
The Forest trembled at his Kingly roar,  
Whilst all the Coward Wolves—  
Whom even his Name did of their prey prevent,  
With bloodshot Eyes glared backward as they went.  
They spared his Arms, with fear already dead,  
Swift fled the amazed King, his Guards before him fled.   

So when the cheerful Harbinger of day,  
Claps his bright Wings, and warns the Shades away.  
The Birds obscene, fly from the ghastful Light,  
And howling guilty Ghosts sink back to Conscious Night.   

The Royal Signs, in hasty flight thrown by,  
Sceptre and Crown, the Marks of Majesty,  
A full convention of the Forest meet,  
And offer at their great Deliverer's Feet.  
This never was with greater merit worn,  
Nor that, with steddier Justice ever born.  
He lends 'em Light, nor does from theirs receive,  
They borrow better Glories than they give.   

But should high Heaven it sells a King provide,  
And drop him down from Jove's Illustrious side,  
Palladian-Form, all would not like him well,  
And some would rather wish him sent from Hell.  
Like these, a Discontented, Murmuring Crowd,  
Who dared not their Resentments snarl aloud:  
Nay, joined at first i'th' general Applause,  
To him who had retrieved their Forest Laws,  
And pacified their Tails, and licked their Frothy Jaws,  
Yet steal from Court, in Coverts to complain:  
They were indeed, unworthy such a Reign.  
The Hound, the Ass, the Badger, Goat, and Swine,  
These gladly did the unlucky Monkey join,  
And some yet left o'th' Ancient Wolfish Line.   

The Hound, produced, 'tis thought, from mingled strains,  
He had Isgrims' Blood, at least in half his Veins.  
With him had oft, form some loan Vale, or Wood,  
By early Morn returned, his Muzzle dipped in Blood.  
A Dog with Dogs, a Wolf whth Wolves would be,  
Never before o'th' weakest side was he,  
Well versed in all the Tricks of Currish Flattery:  
Oft welcome to the Mastiffs splendid board,  
And while they flourished, treared like a Lord.  
But when the Lion frowned, and they declined,  
With all the holing Herd against 'em joined.  
Oft he at Court would humbly begging stand,  
As oft advanced to Lady's Lap and Hand.  
Nay, it has by some, been in loud Whispers said,  
He stayed not there, but crept into their Bed.  
Unnatural Crime!— Tho' I'd believe as soon,  
That the fair Sex should dote on a Baboon;  
Tho 'scaped from many a Branch, his Fate holds fast,  
He has still an itching to be Hanged at haft.  
Next him, and not unlike, the Badger came,  
So near their Form, their Species thought the same.  
His Fangs unmerciful, so cursed his spite,  
They never fail to meet, where e'er they by't,  
The Sovereign gags him, when he can't assuage  
His madness— This the Cause of all his Rage.  
The Swine, foul Epicure; whose all desire,  
To feast on Grains, and roll on Beds of Mire.  
The only Beast intemperate Draughts disgrace,  
Degenerate from the sober Brutal Race,  
And justly angry he to ' velost the sport  
Of former Reigns— There's now no Mud at court,  
Levees and Couchees pass without the Swine's resort.   

For the same reason did the Goat forbear,  
To afford, as once, his Savory Presence there:  
By Pan, and all his Kingred Gods, he swore,  
He'd never serve a Prince that would not Whore.   

Nor did the Monkey his Confederates fail,  
Tho' he in old Adventures, lost his Tail;  
Since, tho' in other Reigns, a useful Tool,  
The Court's too busy now to play the Fool.   

But how, i'th' Name of Dullness, cameed to pass,  
They to their Party won the plodding Ass?  
Neither for Council, nor for Action made,  
So bold, he's even of his own Ears afraid;  
Grave Soul-less thing, to Slavery inur'd,  
He fears his Back should be from Loads secured,  
Brays at the Court, because no Burden's there,  
And thinks the sweetest thing on Earth's to bear.  
A Cave there was, far in the wildest waste,  
It's Mouth with luckless Ivy round embraced.  
Which Fame reports, no Mortal Foot invades,  
But restless Sprights, and discontented Shades,  
Or, drawn by Dragons through the mirksome Air,  
Canida foul, to keep her Sabbaths there;  
With many a secret Charms, forbidden sound,  
Calling the shackled Daemons from the ground,  
By fearful Traveller shunned, who near it trace,  
Loud Shrieks, and hollow Groans oft echoing from the place,  
Yet meet these discontented Murmurers there,  
The fittest Court for Mischief and Despair.  
Grinding their Teeth, they here consult in vain,  
How the old Lion might his Throne regain,  
And fill the Court again with all his Wolvish Train.  
Clearly foreseen by th' Sage Prophetic Ass,  
Expecting what will never come to pass.   

Here, while the rest discourse their grand concern,  
The Monkey's scent abroad some News to learn,  
Where both we'll leave—  
And, Ah! That it were such as these alone,  
Did the new Sovereign's happy Sway disown!  
O Grief! O Shame! That others won't come in!  
Only Mistaken Loyalty their Sin.  
They pay the Belgian Lion just esteem,  
And own the Forest, own their Lives to him;  
Wish they could give him more, and yet be true,  
But their Allegiance think to their old Sovereign due.   

Of these some Mastiffs were, who whilom stood  
Ready for their dear Flocks to lose their Blood.  
For these undaunted Bravery had shown,  
To save their Liberties they lost their own.   

With these a Generous Steed in Friendship tied,  
For the same Cause in fiercest Battle tried,  
From the new Sovereign the same Fears divide.  
How did the Wolfish Crew rejoice the while,  
And spite of their Misfortunes grinned a Smile.  
Mistaken Malice thus itself to please,  
Tho none so near, eyt none so far from these;  
They wished the Old Lion back, he prayed to Jove  
So great a Curse from Albion to remove.  
The Crystal Streams that drench the thirsty Land,  
(Miraculous Streams, they flowed at Pan's Command)  
Ungrate they scorned, and gazing from the Brink,  
Or troubling with their Feet, refused to drink:  
He, like the thirsty Hart, compelled to go  
From Horns and Hounds, and winged Deaths below,  
To some old hoary Mountain, vast and high,  
Whose Shoulders, Atlas-like, support the Sky;  
Looks from the Brim, whose distant Prospect yields  
Fair Brooks, Sweet Groves, safe ever-smiling Fields,  
Looks down with longing Eyes views all around,  
But ah! the Leaps too large, he cannot reach the ground.  
They leave the Light, in secret Caves to vent  
Their Rancour deep, and festering discontent,  
He open Walks, his Virtue his Defence,  
What need of Coverts where is Innocence?  
Argued, discoursed to gain his doubtful Mind  
That Satisfaction yet it could not find;  
The greatest Favourites of the new Sovereign's Court,  
To his not seldom gladly did refort  
Who fain would give what he so much did need,  
They the Young Lion loved, yet loved the Steed.  
Of these an aged Hart for Worth prefereed,  
Who sixty Summers now had ruled the Herd.  
Aged and Wise, than him none better knew,  
Where the sharp Dittany, and Jove's own Moly grew;  
Against bleak Storms and Rain, the surest Fence,  
Where Serpents lurk, and how to drive 'em thence.  
A pleasant Vale there was, with Woods embraced,  
With purling Streams, and rivulets interlaced,  
Where oft sweet Zephyr to his Chloris brings  
Panchean Odours on his Balmy Wings:  
Not far from Cows, where wont the Steed to pass  
His thoughtful hours, revolving on the Grass,  
Him here he meets—  
Neither , nor perhaps unsent,  
And press with Kingness and with Argument;  
(For rarely Reason's Darts successless prove,  
When edged with Friendship, & when winged with Love.)  
He entertained him with a cheerful Face,  
And did his Offer willingly embrace:  
By a small Hilleck with thick Osiers crowned  
They couched 'em soft upon the verdant Ground;  
Near a fair Brook, which gently murmuring ran,  
Where soon the kind Adviser thus began.    

THE Anti-Weesils.  
PART II.  

So may great Neptune ever grant increase  
Of happy Years, and long unenvied Peace,  
So kind Apollo your lost Health restore,  
And hardly love his own winged Courser more;  
As I design your Happiness; as you  
Believe my kind Intentions just and true.   

But say, by all our ancient Friendship, say  
So long what makes you from the Palace stray?  
Why never yet did you at Court appear?  
And why this close retirement holds you here?   

Nor sullen Malice is't, nor vain Desire  
Of Rich Caparisons, or mounting higher,  
Has kept me thence, replies the generous Steed,  
Nor this I have, nor those I ask or need:  
Let the proud Mule on golden Trappings dote,  
Embroidered deep to hid his ragged Coat;  
These Plains afford enough, and when they're gone,  
Worst hap that may, the Common's still my own:  
But to be free, and tell you in a Word,  
Allegiance to my last unhappy Lord  
Still chains me here, and holds my Captive Mind  
Stronger than Links of Adamant can bind;  
That Gordian Knot I now almost despair  
Myself to untie, and less to break it dare,  
Tho either soon would make me free as air.   

If that be all, rejoined the Hart, you're free,  
Trust your own Eyes, unless amiss they see,  
You are long since at perfect Liberty.  
Those fatal Links whereof you thus complain,  
Are only an Imaginary Chain:  
Did not th' Old Lion with enraged Claws  
Rend that at once, and all the Forest Laws?  
Levelled each Fence, and every ancient Hold,  
And Garrisoned with Wolves each trembling Fold;  
The faithful Mastiffs too were dragged away  
From their loved Folds at once, and cheerful Day,  
And in the Royal Dungeon Fettered lay.  
And worse than all, cursed Isgrim's Whelp designed,  
Posterity as well as us to blind,  
To fill the Throne, and Lord it o'er the Sylvian kind.  
Was ever stupid Goodness more abused,  
So much we gave, he thought we'd nothing have refused.  
Of such Success may ne'er such Master's fail,  
As he who sent the Dog to fetch his Tail.   

Of Love repeat the Story, quoth the Steed,  
The courteous Hart consenting, did proceed.   

A Yeoman once near Arden was possessed  
Of three fair Farms, and lived upon the best;  
In all his Virtues list, (not over-large)  
Too much good Nature ne'er was laid t'his charge;  
His Servants he'd forgive, when first he'd banged 'em,  
And pardon all Offenders, when h'had hanged 'em.  
A Dog he had, with dreadful Teeth and Paws,  
Who right or wrong would fight his Master's Cause;  
True Spaniel Breed, did those that beat him love;  
He was a right old Dog at Stick or Glove;  
To run, to fetch and carry, or seek out,  
To swim or dive, or range the Fields about;  
Nimble as ever Juggler's Dog was seen,  
And would as fast come o'er for King and Queen:  
Besides an House-dog true— Heavens! how he'd roar,  
If Friend or Foe came near his Master's Door?  
The more ungrateful he such Faith t'abuse,  
So tame, so true a Slave, so ill to use.  
It chanced as on a day they went abroad,  
His Master met some Friends upon the Road.  
Or Friends they were, or such at least they seem,  
Tho more 'tis thought, they loved his Flocks than him;  
For this the Dog they hate, whose watchful Cry  
At midnight oft revealed when Thiefs were nigh,  
And ask his Master why the Cur he'd keep,  
For nothing fit but worrying harmless Sheep.   

Friends, your mistaken Guests, says he, is lost;  
Then his good Qualities gins to boast:  
The chief, that he might kick him like a Ball,  
Yet durst he not refuse his Beck or Call;  
To a revengeful Snap did ne'er incline,  
His worst Resentments were a gentle whine.  
But I'll convince you all beyond dispute  
My Power and his Subjection's absolute.  
His Hanger drawn, he with a grisly Wound  
Cuts off his Tail, and throws it on the ground;  
Then, thinking Spaniel-Love would still prevail,  
He gives the Word— There Fray, go fetch thy Tail!  
Anger, and Pain, and Shame at once Surprise,  
The wounded Cur, he rolls his bloody Eyes,  
And scarce forbears, but at their Throats he flies.  
How're no more with such a Lord will stay,  
But at the next Cross-road runs quite away.  
Now let his Master walk from France to Spain,  
He'll never such a Spaniel find again;  
Who if he e'er returns from whence he fled;  
Will give 'em leave after his Tail to send his Head.   

The sober Steed kept Countenance a while,  
But at the Stories end indulged a Smile;  
Then answered thus— The Moral I confess  
Is but too plain for any one to guests,  
As clear our Patience has too far been tried,  
And what was felt, in vain would be denied;  
That Right or Wrong no longer were observed,  
Nor Property, nor Oaths, nor Laws preserved:  
That the Old Lion by his Wolves misted,  
Resolved on all our Liberties to tread;  
Resolved our Spacious Forest to enslave,  
And took those Charters which he never gave.  
But is not here Obedience more Divine?  
If he has broke his Oaths, must I break mine?  
No need, returned the Hart, 'tis loosed before,  
The Chain's unlinked, and holds you now no more.  
He has his End untied, and sets you free,  
Woven you be won to use your Liberty?  
Nor with such airy Chains your Conscience bind  
And drag an useless Load of Links behind.   

I by your Judgement might perhaps abide  
Did any Forest Law the Case decide,  
But this I ne'er could see, the Steed replied.  
To this the Hart— Tho such there once might be,  
Expect not now those Sacred Rolls to see,  
Destroyed long since by wolfish Policy.  
Yet Footsteps of a Contract still remain,  
Nor sure are our Consents yet asked in vain,  
The first glad day of each new Sovereign's Reigh:  
And Contracts fastened with a mutual Oath  
Have mutual Bands, whoever breaks one breaks both.  
If his Condition ben't therein declared,  
'Tis so invidious, it might well be spared;  
But Reason wills it should be still employed,  
As 'tis betwixt the Bridegroom and his Bride.  
What Reason dictates none can disapprove?  
The Laws of Reason are the Laws of Jove,  
Who gave the Kingly Lion Sovereign Sway,  
Obliging all the Forest to obey;  
For what but all the furry Nations Good,  
Not that he still should revel in their Spoils and Blood.  
Their dear-bought Prey by Force and Rapine seize,  
And by his Lawless Lust do what he please,  
For our Defence, and not Destruction sent:  
Protection is the end of Government,  
The Reason why o'er many, one prevails;  
And when that Groundwork sinks, the Superstructure fails.  
Better the General than his Army fall,  
Tho more than one he be, he's less than All.   

All this I grant, might Reason be the Rule;  
But here, alas! we leave her humble School.  
The Steed rejoined— Pan's Followers must aspire  
To something vastly more sublime and higher.  
Tho Reason Light in common walks supply,  
'tis sometimes Reason Reason to deny.  
I'd Sacrifice myself at Pan's Commands,  
And who can strike when he has tied their Hands?   

That Pan has freed 'em now, the Hart rejoined,  
And who dares knit what he'll himself unbind?  
From Pan at first, 'tis true, all Power did rise,  
Laws are the measures of its Exercise;  
These our Obedience must direct alone,  
These bid submit to him that fill the Throne.  
But these strange Doctrines sure, replied the Steed,  
Will hollow Villainy if it succeed.  
False Robbers and Usurpers will defend,  
Nay even the Titans too, should they attend,  
And Jove's own Diadem from his shoulders rend.   

High heavens Decree nought of Injustice knows,  
And what it does not will, it may dispose,  
Replies the Hart— But tho' we cannot see  
Into the Councils of the Deity,  
By the Event at least they're understood,  
Guided by that great Law, the Public Good.  
To that Asylum Robbers cannot fly,  
We justly them resist, they justly die;  
As justly we Usurpers may disown,  
Till settled by Consent, by Law secured i'th' Throne.  
Those Sacred Beasts no other Title knew,  
Who all the World ot their Obedience drew.  
They Ruled at first, because they overcame,  
And willing Nations yielded to the same:  
What settled else the Goat, the Bear, the Ram?  
What all the four, whose sway was stretched so wide,  
And every Kingdom in the Earth beside?  
But thanks to Jove, our case is much more fair,  
The vacant Throne is filled by the immediate Heir,  
Who to th' young Lion yields the better share.  
To all the Forest who such Love had shown,  
Such Valour for her Title and his own,  
Such Mercy as must melt and conquer quite,  
All but a Devil or a Jacobite.  
Who cleared the Wolves from Britain's pestered Shore,  
We hear 'em howl their Vespers here no more;  
Whose Whelps did all our Sacred Groves profance,  
Nor spared the Temples of immortal Pan.  
Strong Arguments for the young Lion move  
Honour, Religion, Gratitude and Love.  
Returned the Steed, the chiefest I must own  
Our Altars had long since been overthrown,  
Had he not propped 'em. But since you began,  
This once yet more I'll mention mighty Pan,  
Who will his Power, who will his Priests believe,  
Or to their Oracles just Reverence give;  
If as the Wind their Conscience changes so,  
If hot and cold with the same Breach they blow,  
If thus their practice give their words the Lie,  
If Oaths they take, and Oaths again deny?   

Even Pan himself we hardly could defend  
If we all change should rashly discommend  
The Hart rejoins, tho' through false Lights we see,  
And think he changes when 'tis only we:  
Thus should his Follower's act, the way he has shown,  
Tho' after all 'tis no disgrace to own  
Immortal is immutable alone.  
That Change we may's by all the World confessed,  
The question's only whether 'tis for th' best?  
And here 'tis plain, for should we still teach on  
Allegiance due when the old Sovereign's go;  
No Hope, no Remedy, but all must bear  
Such Miseries as drive 'em to despair;  
Nay even refuse Salvation when it came,  
And press all this in Pan's adored Name;  
How soon would then the Irreligious Crew  
Conclude what was not Good could ne'er be true,  
And laugh aloud at once at Pan and you?  
Revenge should rather to the Fiends be given,  
For Mercy is the Darling Name of Heaven;  
Let's then despise the Rabble's rude complaints,  
There would be Atheists tho' all Priests were Saints.   

One heavy prejudice, the Steed rejoined  
Hangs with dead weight on my emerging mind.  
I know not how to think this Doctrine true,  
To me it looks so singular and new;  
Was't ever in the Forest taught before?  
Show me but that, and I desire no more.  
Then that you're ours I now no longer fear,  
Replies the Hart— See what you ask is here!  
With that unfolds a Scroul, whose Date did show  
It had been Writ at least Five Reigns ago.  
When first the Royal Caledonian Line  
Forsook cold Albany, and passed the Tyne,  
In Concourse of the Furry Race decreed,  
And by concurring Suffrages agreed,  
Whence what he urged did plainly taught appear  
Beyond Objections evident and clear.  
I yield, I yield, the cheerful Steed replied  
And am henceforth of yours and Reason's side.  
This Hour I'll to the Court— be you my Guide.  
Gladly he the wished Office did embrace,  
For now indeed 'twas time to leave the place.  
Since the fair Rising Moon bright Silver Beams  
Began to Gilled the softly curling Streams;  
The Bear around his shining Stake did room,  
And lengthening Shadows beckoned Shepherd's Home.   
End of the Second Part.   

PART III.  

WHen Fame to Court did these Glad-tydings bear,  
'Tis quickly guessed if they were welcome there.  
Welcome as the two Friends, who closing their Debate,  
Entered at once the Royal Palace gate;  
The Sovereign saw, and nearer bid proceed,  
Then stretched his Sceptre to the Convert Steed,  
And bids his willing Officers restore  
Those seemly Honours he enjoyed before;  
The while the News the tattling Goddess bore  
In her swift flight to that unhappy place  
Where met the favourites of the Wolvish Race.  
Where a free vent was to their Poison given,  
They Cursed, they Banned, they Railed at Earth and Heaven.  
But who can tell the rest— sure none can tell,  
Unless they knew the wild Despair of Hell.  
When this was added, by the Monkey found,  
As Fame was busy to divulge it round,  
Who mingling Truth with Lies, as 'tis her wont,  
Beyond what was indeed enlarged the account  
And told— (Ah that in this she had been true!)  
The Generous Mastiffs were converted too.  
Scarce was the rage of the Rebellious Crew  
More black, more deep, more hideous or ferine  
When late they heard the Wonders of the Boyne:  
When Troops of Wolves upon the distant side  
Did the young Lions Kingly wrath abide.  
When all the Elements at once he stood,  
And passed through Streams of Sweat, and Fire, and Blood,  
Whilst the discoloured Waves, a ghastly throng  
Bodies and Shields, and Helms promiscuous roulled along:  
He wins the Bank, amidst their Troops he flies,  
Shoots Thunder from his Arms, and Lightning from his Eyes;  
They run, they fall, their well-known Bogs they find,  
And leave long faint departing yells behind.  
Scarce then more hearty than now they cursed,  
What help? the poisonous Creatures else must burst.  
They throw their ghastly flaming Eye balls round,  
And gnash their teeth, and lash their sides, and tore the ground.  
But most the Hound his Enmity expressed,  
If possible, more mad than all the rest;  
From his wide Jaws, with fury doubly red,  
He threw the poisonous Foam, and thus he said.   

And has he basely then thus left i'th' lurch,  
Our poor distressed persecuted Church,  
So small, so thin, so scorned by Beasts and Men,  
Shut up within the corner of a Den?  
What Vengeance merits such a foul disgrace?  
Speak all ye Grandees of the Wolvish Race!  
Ah! could I but my youthful Fangs regain,  
When warmth and fury flowed in every vein,  
When like a Shaft I flew across the Plain,  
And worried every Sheep that durst but stray  
Beyond their bounds out of the Wolf's Highway,  
Nor would their Sovereign's Royal Will obey.  
Like Aesons Age, could mine renew-agen,  
I'd quickly leave this melancholy Den,  
And venture all my Teeth against his Pen.  
For not content alone t'Apostatize  
Others to damn for company, he tries.  
But since I've nought but will, say which of you  
Will with more strength the Noble game pursue?  
Which will abate his Confidence and Pride?   

Up starts the unlucky Ape, and thus replied,  
By open War t'attempt him were but vain,  
Perhaps disgrace and shame would only gain  
Some cunning Stratagems more likely sound,  
And I've the very way this moment found.  
Some pretty Picture would the business do,  
His Name beneath exposed to public view,  
To which shall some Street-Rymer lend a Line or two.  
Think but how pleasant such a sight appears;  
A Weasels Trunk to a Horse's Crest and Ears.   

I with this monstrous sight about will go,  
And be myself the Zany to the show:  
For I have merry-andrew's tricks good store,  
And will for this invent a thousand more.   

A brutal Hum ran round the horrid Cave,  
And Acclamations to the project gave,  
Like that some Fury from the Daemons wins,  
When she her hateful Voy'ge to Earth gins.  
Nor stayed the Ape, but from the Cave did run,  
And soon his worshipful design begun,  
Which to a Miracle he did achieve,  
For 'tis a subtler Beast than you'd believe;  
Witty and wild, well versed in female Arts,  
And is, to say the truth, a Brute of parts:  
Will show a thousand merry Tricks together,  
Will bound i'th' Air as light as Cork or Feather,  
Will vault or dance, or tumble, choose you whether;  
With his Rare Show he wanders up and down,  
By Pence apiece picks up full many a Crown,  
Amusing each poor silly Country Clown:  
Persuading them where ere the fight was shown,  
'Twas a strange Beast was lately come to Town.  
Thus fared the vulgar, but the wiser few,  
Who saw the signs of Wolvish Craft all through,  
Could not but praise the Piece who ere it made,  
And own he was the Master of his Trade.  
A witty Thief, more cunning than his Fellows,  
Who, if 'twere possible would scape the Gallows,  
But none admired the Inventer's lucky Vein,  
Like those suspected of Sir Isgrim 's Strain.  
They cluster round in Troops, they laugh, they grin,  
Where e'er the uncouth Monster's to be seen.  
The Steeds true Friends with different passions gazed,  
Some grieved, some smiled, these angry, those amazed;  
Some speedily took care to let him know  
That 'twas the unlucky Monkey dressed him so.  
Unmoved he stands, the unequal War disowns,  
Nor deigns a single stroke to crush his Bones.     
The End.