ADVICE TO A PAINTER: BEING A satire UPON THE French King, Irish Camp at Haure de Grace, Admiral Tourvill, Murmuring, Jacobites, etc.  
— O Miseri, quae tanta Insania, Cives?  
Creditis avectos Hosts? Aut ulla putatis  
Dona carere Dolis Danaum; sic notus Ulysses!  
LONDON, Printed for Randal Tailor near Stationers-Hall, 1692.   

THE PUBLISHER TO THE READER.  
ADvice to a Painter has been so popular a Title, and so often the fair Frontispeice to very extraordinary Poems on many great and memorable Occasions, that our Author thought fit to take pattern from so many celebrated Originals, in this following satire: and how si●●t soever his own modesty might be, This I will presume to say for him, that he has put his best ●●and to the work, and laboured for your Diversi●. And I must add this farther Advantage that possibly the Subject is one of the greatest of late Ages, viz. The Defeat of the French Fleet: But notwithstanding the Height of the Theme, I hope your perusal will find that the Structure has not disgraced the Foundation.  
Considering how far the Fate of England depended on the success of this Naval Decision; and how melancholy an Aspect the whole Chain of the English Providences in that signal Victory has raised on the whole French and Frenchified Party; perhaps the Resentments of the Enraged Lewis, the beaten Tourvill, the mortified Teagues at Haure De Grace, and all the Drooping and desponding Jacobites at home, (all which are our present Arguments) are no unfit Thesis for a satire; and as we dare promise you that the Management is not altogether inferior to the Subject, we hope we have endeavoured your Pleasure and our Profit.   

ADVICE TO A PAINTER, etc.  

IT Monumental Piles to Ages stand,  
Raised by the Painter, and the Poet's Hand;  
Kind Pencil lend me thy assisting Part,  
For that great Theme, deserves thy Noblest Art.   

Draw then, in all thy boldest Rhetoric,  
At least, if Forms can Talk, and Shadows speak;  
Draw in their Flags of Blood, Wars Crimson Robe,  
Two Rival Champions for the watery Globe.   

A swelling Main beneath the Thunderers rise,  
The Ocean for the Stage, and Trident for the Prize:  
The Sovereignty o' th' Seas, great great the Stake;  
Th' Ambition long; but short the Trial make.  
So short, so swift, the vast Decision done;  
In one great Day, the finished Period run.   

Here paint that Happy, that Triumphant Shore,  
That, with such Champions blest, can fear no more.  
No Foreign Insult, no Invading Power;  
Those threatening Storms can now no longer lour.  
The Feeble Cloud, and vanished Vapour flies;  
For their kind Thunder has serened our Skies.   

Imperial Albion, now securely sleep,  
Fenced in thy watery Walls, and Guardian Deep:  
Reign the proud Sovereign of thy Rightful Sea.  
Thy Sons have taught thy Neptune to obey.   

O Glory never in thy Active Race,  
Were bolder Hunters, or a fairer Chase.  
Methinks I saw 'em waiting for the Alarm;  
No Bridal Longings ever glowed more warm:  
Courage so all Impatience, all Desire,  
As if their Souls and Cannon breathed one Fire:  
So wished they, and so fought. A Victory  
Pushed on so bravely bold, and crowned so high;  
Whose spreading Fame shall so unbounded run,  
Wide as the floating Plain, in which 'twas won:  
Far as the utmost travelling Wave ere rolled;  
The Globes remotest Shore shall hear it told.   

In that Great Day, how fragrant, how perfumed,  
All lovely Fair, the British Roses bloomed!  
But Oh, in that great Day, how faint, how dead,  
The Fleur-de-Lisses, hung their drooping Head?  
Pale as the Fears, their flying Tourville wore,  
And shaking like their frighted gallic Shore▪   

Yes, proud Britania, thy Renown Proclaim;  
Hug thy Great Sons of War, and Heirs of Fame.  
Inspired by that bold Genius of their Cause,  
To thy Immortal William's just Applause;  
Boast that one single Day, can now do more,  
Than thy long 30 sleeping Years before.   

Illustrious Russel, in thy charming praise,  
To thy Renown, what Altars must we raise?  
What must we owe thee in this Glorious Day?—  
What England owes thee, England's Lord shall pay.   

But Oh, the fair Remains of that Great Name;  
The sleeping Carter's ever waking Fame!  
Here, Painter, ere thy too bold Pencil fix,  
Remember that thy softest Colours mix:  
The loveliest British Rose, that Sword ere cropped,  
All fragrant Sweet, though th' o'erblown Leaves are dropped:  
Here let thy Pencil make a Mournful Draught;  
Thou drawest a Laurel on a Cypress Graft.   

Now, Painter, could we his true Worth behold,  
Drawn in his loveliest Characters of Gold;  
Paint him, adorned with Courage, so Sublime,  
Like Superstition, heightened to a Crime.  
Think how, when the too Fatal Bolt had lopped  
His Limbless Trunk, and the brave Carter dropped;  
His untouched Heart still sound, his Soul too great,  
Scorning the common (and too poor) Retreat,  
Of skulking to the Hold, his Wounds to hide;  
The bloody Deck saw his too Manly Pride:  
Where both his Wounds and Foes, at once defied,  
Still his Commanding Seat the Hero filled;  
His brandished Sword even his last Grasp yet held:  
Majestic Bravery, too hardy bold,  
Around him still his fiery Deaths he doaled;  
Whilst his last gasp th' unfinished Vengeance breathed,  
And all his Iron Legacies bequeathed.   

So have I seen, when at a Country Stake,  
The Angry Bull does his horned Crescent shake;  
Some true got English Breed, too forward pressed,  
The briskest, keenest Gamester of the Lift,  
All gored and mangled, yet unconquered; though  
All over Wounds, up to his foaming Foe,  
With his torn Limbs, and dragging Entrails flies,  
Hangs at the bellowing Roarers Throat, and Dies.   

In the same List, enroled with the great Dead;  
Sleep, Noble Hastings, in fair Honour's Bed;  
Honour, that shall so keep thy Name alive,  
As even thy crumbling Marble to survive.   

But Oh, thou too hard-fated Glory! Why  
So rough thy Paths to Immortality?  
Thy Sons, for Deathless Names, so hard must pay,  
To live to Morrow, they must die to Day.  
Now Painter, when this pleasing Scene thou'st drawn,  
The smiling Britain in her Joys fair dawn:  
Mix thy next Oil with Gall, and try thy chance,  
In a more Gloomy Draught, the sullen France:  
And if thou darest engage thy Arts whole strength,  
To the Great Life, draw Lewis at full length.   

Here thy best Skill, Great Artist, wouldst thou show,  
Paint like the once bold Michael Angelo,  
Who on Shame Cross his brawny Hireling stretched;  
When his last Master-stroke of Art he reached;  
One Hand the Pencil-held, and Poniard too;  
And made a Murder, when a God he drew:  
To Rome's St. Peter's, the proud Relic given,  
The price of Hell, made Consecrate to Heaven.   

Thus let great Lewis to thy Pencil sit;  
To make thee all his liveliest Features hit,  
Let Perjury, Murder, Massacre, all stand,  
T' inspire thy Fancy, and inform thy Hand.  
The Gorge of hungry Death, and yawning Graves,  
Horror, and Ruin, his Obedient Slaves.  
Not one of all his Attributes forget.  
Lastly, to make the piece yet more complete,  
Rage, Fury, and Despair, the finishing stroke,  
So Paint his Eyes, as if his Tongue thus spoke.   

My Royal Navy lost! Lost, did I say?  
The Toil of Ages ruined in a Day!  
A greater Labour (yes, by all my Fears,)  
Than my slow Mothers thrice seven teeming Years:  
When the despairing Impotence of a Crown,  
Crucht up by Scarlet Cap, and Purple Gown;  
And Pregnant Dam, her high-veined Birth t' inspire,  
With Alexander's Soul, from Ammon Sire;  
A fated Brow for Empire to Adorn,  
For the Worlds Grasp, was the Great Lewis Born.   

And yet thus fated, and thus born; are these  
My Hopes of fettered Lands, and shackled Seas!  
This Earnest for my mounting Glories given;  
The World's Great Lord, no kinder Friends in Heaven:  
Not all my Cloystered Maudlin La Valeers  
Kind Prayers, nor my fair Maintenons soft Tears;  
Could all these move, nor Winds, nor Seas, nor Sky,  
No Eloquence to soften Destiny!  
If Deaf to these, your aiding Powers denied,  
Not one kind Star to Battle on my Side;—  
But why do I descend to lose a Prayer?  
By all th' Ingratitude of Heaven, I swear;  
Your smiles to Lewis but your Duty pay:  
I claim by Merit; and demand, not pray.  
Have I, to Mother Church a Son so true,  
In my Ignatian Zeal, resolved t' outdo  
The Great Nine Charles his bloody Barthol'mew?  
Two Hundred Thousand starving Exiles Groans;  
With all my Charnel Piles of Heretic Bones;  
Stakes, Dungeons, Gibbets, Graves; no Death untried,  
All these my Fame's eternal Pyramid:  
To Immortality such steps so trod;  
No wonder, deified the Jacobites God.   

But for my hard hard Fate, my dismal Loss;  
Why do I thus upbraid the unkind Cross?  
Upon the more Ungrateful Crescent all  
My louder Murmurs, heavier Curse, should fall.  
What, though the Christian Powers were all so poor;  
Have I from Mahomet deserved no more?  
For all my Vows, t' his Mufti and Divan,  
My plighted Faith this Idoled Alcoran;  
Had the great Prophet in his Heaven of Love,  
Amongst his large-eyed Montespaigns above,  
Not one kind Star, to lend a Friendly Glance  
To his most Christian Mussulman of France.  
By all th' immortal Honours I have got,  
By Facing Dangers beyond Canon Shot:  
The Trophies which my undrawn Sword has swept▪  
In Fields, where Danger awful distance kept:  
And all the Brazen Leaves I've filled in Story,  
With my Recorded Scarless Marks of Glory:  
And if there be a sound more loud, by all  
My blazing Glories, Spire, Worms, Frankendall:  
Those Desolation Piles, so vastly great,  
That Horrors self even trembles to repeat.  
By these, and Lewis' Name, that all Divine;  
Preserved and sweetened in Eternal Brine:  
Brine from whole Millions of sad Widows Eyes,  
And Thousand Thousand tuneful Orphans cries.  
Have I for this (success no greater) drained  
So many emptied Veins, in Blood so reigned:  
For this, th' effeminate Britannia lulled,  
With Thirty long Lethargic Summers dulled:  
Lose all her Nerves, and lazy her Desires,  
Her Martial quenched, to light her Wanton Fires.  
Her old Fifth Henry, and Third Edward's Dust,  
All her forgotten Heroes Memories hushed;  
In Lust, and Ease, and Luxury worn down,  
Taught by the Great Example of a Crown.  
Oh, our vast Influence, when we could Sing,  
Her pensioned Senate, and her Hireling King.  
Her Royal Judah's Lion, tamed so far,  
Transformed to our assisting Issachar.  
Two Princely Brothers of most soft Renown,  
The One that wore, and th' Other swayed the Crown;  
True supple Spanish Breed, so abject poor,  
To lick that Foot once spurned 'em out of Door.  
Oh, that long Reign, when by French Siren lured,  
Britain's Crown'd-Head by gallic Charms secured,  
We bought Alliance, Forces, Timber, Stores,  
Whilst in a poor Exchange we bartered W— s.  
Thus trucked for Universal Empire, thus,  
Like Whittington, bought Greatness for a Puss:  
Sent forth our Armies, plumed our Flour-de-lysses,  
Whilst santring R— fed his Ducks and Misses.   

Had those dear blessed Days continued on,  
Oh to what height had our Ambition flown.  
How had we given th' whole shackled Europe Law;  
But all, all dashed by that loathed Name, NASSAV:  
Nassau, our Curses everlasting Theme,  
That haunting Form that waked our Golden Dream;  
That worse than flaming Sword to all our Bliss,  
The fatal Bar t' our towering Paradise.   

Damnation seize those Hireling Miscreant Tools!  
Hen-hearted Cutthroats, dull relenting Fools!  
Curse on their undispatching Hands! So crossed!  
So Heavenly a Design, so balked, so lost!  
Eight Hundred Thousand Livres wisely paid,  
Yet by Vile Conscience, the great Blow betrayed.  
Had that blow struck, How had we sent him Post,  
Sent to shake Hands with sleeping Lorrain's Ghost?  
A Blow enough t' have rung so loud in Story,  
Great Lewis highest, vastest, boundless Masterpiece of Glory.  
'Sdeath! Do his Guardian Gods so take his part,  
Not all our plotting Hells can reach his Heart!  
William our Vengeance less than Lorraine feel!  
Or kill our Poisons surer than our Steel.   

Next, honest Painter, for some small Adorner  
To thy great Landscape, in some odd by-Corner,  
Draw those big Sons of Hope, the dear sweet Face  
Of the great Jac'bite Camp, at Hav're de Grace.  
Delineate first, a hungry starveling Power,  
Lean Kine, more keen fat England to devour,  
All waiting for the great Embarquing Hour;  
That Mongrel French, and Bogland Army draw,  
The Spirit of Brown-George, and Usquebaugh;  
Resolved to give the conquered Britain Law.  
I— s, with his dear Twin-Saints, Monsieur and Teague,  
Joined in a more than Holy Triple League.  
The poor thin Glean (such his Harvest yields)  
Of running Boyne, and scattered Agrim Fields:  
Monsieur and Teague, a Union most Divine,  
Hands in this mighty Work too fit to join.  
Souls, which one animating warmth inspires,  
True Sparks of I— s's own bold Promethean Fires.  
Poor Credulous I— s, both on, and off a Throne;  
Still, in all States, by Flatterers undone.  
By Romish Sycophants dismounted first,  
And even, beyond thy fall, by the same Vermin Cursed▪  
Flattered (for who so blind, as they that wink?)  
So lewdly, grossly flattered, as to think,  
So wondrous fair, thy Restoration lay;  
So easy thy Access, so paved thy Way;  
The British Necks (hushed all their yielding Swords)  
Prepared for Irish Masters, and French Lords.  
Oh Rome, to what wild Lunatic Extremes  
Thy Ignes fatui, thy deluding Beams,  
Can guide thy Zealots Visionary Dreams!  
Dreams. of that Prodigy, as even t' excel.  
Their Transubstantiation Miracle.   

So over Credulous I— s, as if designed  
To stand a lasting Riddle to Mankind,  
Whether thy Faith in Man, or Heaven, shall be,  
Oth' two the more Recorded Bigotry.   

Here, Painter, draw their Leader in their Head,  
Their Royal Hero,— Hero, was't I said?  
Yes, thy Prerogative I'll ne'er dispute;  
Pencils may Heroes write, where Pens stand mute.  
Draw him a Hero then in Nature's spite,  
His Mrs. War, and Danger his Delight.  
If possible, put Vigour in his Arm;  
What though thou flatter'st, make the piece look warm.  
Paint all the Fire, but let no I'll be shown;  
The modest Lewis' Frailty, and his own.  
Thus Capapee, impatient let him stand,  
Big with the Blessings of the promised Land.  
That Milk and Honey-Tide, by Front so bold  
Of his Oraculous Jacobites foretold.   

Here, Painter, shift the Scene; and from the height  
Of towering Hopes, even beyond Eagle flight,  
Paint the defeated labouring Sons of Earth,  
In the hard Pangs of their new Mountain Birth.  
Here in a Panic Fright, a chilling Damp,  
And Wolfe-land Howl, run through the rising Camp;  
Whilst a Contagious Grin their Faces wear,  
The only Native Irish Poison, Fear.  
Nay, the sad J—s himself here blasted stands,  
With Eyes erected, and uplifted Hands.  
Here, Painter, let him from the frighted Shore,  
In the great Lewis Burning Sun deplore,  
His own dear Phaeton's now can drive no more:  
Whilst in the Transports of new Desperation,  
By that all blazing Fires Illumination,  
He Reads his more than second Abdication.  
Here, Painter, draw him with a tristfull Look,  
As if (at once by Man and Heaven forsook,)  
Resolved to bid the frowning World adieu,  
No longer three cold-scented Crowns pursue:  
Nor tyre out Providence, on its deaf Side;  
But 'twixt his Prayers and Hounds his life Divide:  
His darling Hounds, an easier Chase to run,  
Some little harmless flying Animal down;  
Than with his full-mouthed Hunting Bloodhounds fly  
At three bold Stubborn Kingdom's Liberty.   

Now, Painter, thy exalted Fancy raise,  
To one rich Thought, in the Great Tourvil's Praise:  
Paint him a true French Hero, both ways Great,  
Furious in Fight, and furious his Retreat;  
With his first Onset his whole Courage Fired,  
Rapid he came, more rapid he Retired:  
Whilst his eclipsing Sun, his shame to Shroud,  
Skulks to the Shore, for a poor borrowed Cloud.   

Here, Painter, when thy finishing Touch has made  
This melancholy Peice of Night and Shade;  
No Blacks too deep, the Figure to express,  
A running Admirals too proper Dress:  
When the last Sanguine Line thy Pencil drew,  
Couldst thou but Paint his Gloomy Inside too;  
Oh, the dark sullen Peice, how 'twould talk Great,  
Would breathe out Curses loud as his Defeat!  
More hot his Rage, than his own Barfleur Fires,  
Whilst thus his little Friends in Heaven he tires:   

Oh, the cursed Stars that influenced this Day,  
Ye false, false Lights, that 〈◊〉 Mankind Betray;  
Eternal Pitch your blotted Orbs confound,  
In your whole Painted Roof, and spangled Round',  
Not one Spark left, one borrowed twinkle Shine,  
Your Sun that lights you, roll as dark as mine.  
But why, believing Fool, so cozened? These  
My English Friends, the Fairy Promises;  
Snared and Deluded to this Fatal loss,  
Was ever Shame so great, or Cheat so gross?  
Fortune, and all her Flatteries, Jilts and Whores!  
My hopes all lost, nay worse, my Lewidores!  
Those leading Trumpets to our safe Martial Dance,  
Th' infallible Artillery of France:  
Whose sure unerring Blow ne'er missed till now;  
The Moulten Calves that have made Europe Bow  
But failed at last in our Old Battery, GOLD!  
What Towns, Forts, Castles, nay whole Kingdoms Sold;  
Those Danae's of the World, have felt the Powers  
Of our descending Jove's Triumphant Showers?  
If truckling Worlds the Golden Lewis Meet,  
Is th' only Pistole-Proof an English Fleet?   

But why do I descend to curse that Cause,  
That rather Merits all my best Applause?  
The English firm unstaggering Truth, too brave,  
To sell their Faiths, or Country to enslave:  
To raise my juster Curse a strain more high,  
Against the true Cause made beaten Tourvil fly,  
Curse not their Honour, but our Infamy!  
Be that low-Spirited Ambition Damned,  
Down his own Throat his melting bribes be rammed,  
Who at so poor a Game can meanly Fly,  
To Trade for Laurels, Truck for Victory.  
Weak Pillar to an everlasting Name,  
That makes the Basis of its Glory, Shame:  
Shame, of that hideous Stamp, a Brand so hard,  
When Crown'd-Heads stoop, vile Treason to reward.  
But whilst in these resenting Thoughts employed,  
To France's all expiring Naval Pride  
These Funeral Rites do thy sad Griefs perform,  
Look forwards, Torville, t' a more hideous Storm.  
Prophetic Fears! methinks my trembling Soul,  
Hears that engendering British Thunder roll;  
The haughty France reduced t' a Fright so poor,  
To dread Invasions, it could threat before:  
That single Thought does all our Peace confound:  
There, there the sickening Pain, and kill Wound.   

But let me breathe that frightful Theme no more,  
That Voice of Terror to the gallic Shore;  
That at the very sound the whole Divan  
Of wooden shoes, the mustered Arrierban,  
Do with that trickling Dew their Cheeks bewray,  
Their very Blood all Curdles into Whey.   

Now, Painter, wafte thy working Fancy o'er,  
And take a Landscape of the English Shore;  
Here humbly stoop to paint the lively Graces,  
Of th' ill looked Tribe, the Jacobite sour Faces:  
A Tribe so rancord with their Gall and Spleens,  
And so deformed with their distorted Grinns;  
That they appear a perfect Aesop Crew;  
Nay, and their Souls the greater Riddles too.  
Who toiled their tiresome Liberty to draw,  
In the dull Reigns of Softness, Peace, and Law;  
Palates so strange, that with crude Ease oppressed,  
Like Ostriches, want Iron to digest:  
A Race with that prodigious Nightmare haged,  
Loaded with Freedom, and with Blessings plagued;  
And for an exercising hand, to try  
Their boasted high-flown Passive Faculty;  
To Lewis all their whole tuned pulses Dance,  
Their very Veins all stummed with Lees of France: Religion, Liberty, Truth, Honour; Nothing  
That's English Glory, but 's their perfect Loathing;  
All great and good their Hate: and if remains  
Aught in the World they truly Love, 'tis Chains.   

To set 'em forth in their full Pomp installed,  
Till this Sea-Battle, they were Legion called;  
But since that fatal Day, I must confess,  
Their shrinking number dwindled somewhat less;  
From Cape La Hogue, the Thunder roared so high,  
As put 'em in that Aguish Agony;  
That by a worse, then fit of a i'll Tertian,  
Some of 'em have been cooled into Conversion.  
Their Characters, as various as you please,  
Of none, or all Religions, all degrees;  
From struting Quality to fawning Pimps;  
From Grandees down to Slaves; from Fiends to Imps.  
In short their Massey Virtues to Define,  
They be Heroes all so stout for Jus Divine;  
They d' venture hanging all in a right Line.   

So, Painter, on this copious pregnant Text,  
Be those the Beauties that thou copiest Next;  
These Lineaments thy Pencils Guide: nor doubt  
To the full Life to draw their Portraits out.  
For this Sea-fight has Physickt 'em so near,  
That every Feature of their Face is clear.  
To draw this sullen Scene, perform thy part:  
Draw to the Life (if in the power of Art)  
As from their trembling Lips, these Murmurs broke,  
And thus the very grumbling Shadows spoke.   

" With what impatient Longings did we burn,  
" For the French-Fleets approach, and Jame's Return:  
" A Fleet, that more than Jason's Treasure brought,  
" A second constellated Argonaut!  
" So true, so fixed, his blessed Return foretold,  
" Not Delpho's Oracle ere spoke more bold.  
" What less than that new Revolution Day!  
" Not Destiny more firm, so paved his way;  
" From high to low, all, all with Joy made Drunk,  
" From trolling Coach and six, to strolling Punk.  
" The tatterdst Mendicant did th' Omen Bless,  
" And every Maudlin turned a Prophetess:  
" Not poor Alsatian, but, from Temple-shore,  
" ' Would snuff up for the Wind to waft him o'er.  
" Nay, not so much as a Non-juring Vicar,  
" But o'er a chirping Bowl of humming Liquor;  
" He saw Jame's, and a Bishopric so fair,  
" He thought there did not need a second Prayer.  
" So all agape we stood, so all unbar'd  
" The prospect of our Bliss, so all prepared  
" For his Congratulation to his Crown,  
" Th' hosannah's were all tuned, and Palms cut down.  
" So plain we saw the Wonders should restore him,  
" The fiery Pillars that should march before him;  
" We so foresaw the Heaun-dropt sweets, should dwell  
" I' th' Tents of our Returning Israel:  
" That we prepared the very Baskets, all  
" For gathering up the Manna that should fall.   

" But in the highest sweetest Titillations,  
" Of all our dearest Darling Expectations;  
" To have our Signs and Wonders all deceive us;  
" The Winds and Sea and the whole Elements leave us!  
" Oh, 'twas that fatal Blow, that severe Bang,  
" That on the Willows all our Harps must hang.  
" Our Harps! nay, (mercy Heaven!) we scarce know how  
" Even to forbear to hang ourselves there too.  
" Than farewell Jacobite; Our Exit calls,  
" 'Tis our last Act, and here our Curtains falls.   

" But hold! one parting Epilogue— Adieu  
" Our last lost Hopes, and all the Heretic Crew.  
" For ever of our Dagon James bereft,  
" And not even one poor Stump to help us left!  
" Well, Williamites, you have your Triumph made;  
" And all our glory's shrunk into a Shade.  
" Then for one last Farewell, Oh, could we call  
" A Mugletonian Tongue, and Curse ye all.   

Now, Painter, if thou livest to see that Day,  
When I— s his last Remains to Fate must pay;  
If on his Monument thou canst find Room;  
That is, if sleeping, J—s can find a Tomb:  
A Favour with his Brother Charles ne'er found,  
Poor Charles so Slovenly dropped under ground.  
Without a Funeral Rite, unhonoured Shade,  
By Midnight Hands, thy huddled Relics laid.  
Were all thy Smiles to J—s so poorly paid?  
Well, thy contented Bones with patience stay,  
Beneath thy homely Turf thy Ashes lay;  
So sleep, forgotten Charles, till the great wakening Day.   

But if the happier I— s more honoured Dust,  
Shall meet with Friends more kind, and Heirs more just;  
If some kind Marble Pile shall rise, t' enfold,  
What once three Law-bound Kingdoms could not hold;  
On the fair Stone this short Inscription lay,  
('Tis all his whole Memorials have to say;)   

Twice exiled James (Experience dearly Bought)  
By thy Misfortune first, and last thy Fault.   
FINIS.