Le Lutrin: AN HEROIC POEM, WRITTEN Originally in FRENCH, BY MONSIEUR BOILEAV: Made ENGLISH BY N. O. LONDON, Printed by J. A. for Benjamin Alsop at the Angel and Bible in the Poultry, 1682. Le Lutrin: AN HEROIC POEM. CANTO I. The ARGUMENT. The Argument? what needs a Proëme, To vamp a Three-half-penny Poëme? No, Reader, No; 'twas never writ For thy sake, but for little Chitt. St. George o'th' backside of the Hornbook, The Dragon kills, to Humour Scorn-book. And thus to wheddle in young Fops, The gilded Sign hangs o'er the Shops: Miss won't come in to Buy, before She spies the Knick-knacks at the Dore. Thus Queasy Madams meat forbear Until they read, The Bill of Fare. Instead of Frontispiece, or Babbie, Canto 1. We placed to please some puiney Rabbie, Who hates an Author that enlarges, And cons the Index to save charges. Discord, that Tearing, Hectoring Ranter, Provokes a Dean and his Arch-chanter, Who had lived friendly forty years, To fall together by the ears; A Rotten Pulpit placed i'th' Choir Furnished fuel to the Fire: Three swashing Blades, blind Fates agree Should do the work: but who they be, Pray ask the Canto, that can tell Better than I: and so Farewell. Thus far the Porch, now view the House, Here is the Mountain, there's the Mouse. IMmortal feuds, and more than Civil Wars, And Fights though fierce, disfigured with no Scars. I sing! And thee Great Prelate, who of late, Maugre the Chanter, and Reluctant Fate Didst raise at length a Pulpit in the Choir, Th' immortal Trophy of thy Mortal Ire. Twice the Pragmatic Chanter, though in vain, Presumed to discompose thy peaceful Reign; Twice with Schismatic Pride did enterprise To force the Chapter in Rebellion rise; As oft the Dean him swollen with envious rage, Hurled Headlong from high hopes; and by the sage Sexton assisted, terrified the People Who durst dispute the Title to his Steeple. Instruct me Muse, for thou canst tell, what Thirst Of sweet Revenge, though Dire, engaged first Religious Souls to break the Sacred Tie Of blessed Peace and heavenborn Amity, To make old Friends new Rivals; can there rest Such bitter Gall in a Religious Breast? And thou Great Hero, whose wise conduct stifled The growing Schism which else thy Church had rifled, With favour influence my Adventurous Verse, Nor dare to laugh, whilst I thy Acts rehearse. In melting Pleasures of Fraternal Peace An ancient Abbey long had dwelled at ease, Whose Scarlet prebend's bleared poor Mortals eyes, Whose Ermines, Winter's Frost, and Snow defies; Basking in fat, and Wealth, themselves they Bless In sweet Repose of Sacred Idleness: Thus Stretched at length on downy Featherbeds, To chant their Matines ne'er lift up their Heads, But before Dinner waked; for they could smell The Kitchen Steams, though Deaf to th' Prayer-bell; When Eyes and Ears Nights leaden Key composes, Kind Sleep yet open left their subtle Noses; These always Eat in Person, but did praise Their God by Proxy, in Harmonious Lays, Pawning the Chanters, and Poor Singing-boyes Condemned to those inferior Drudgeries. When Discord dappled o'er with thousand Crimes, The Villainies of our Debauched times Quitting the humble Seat of Parish Churches, On a Magnificent Cathedral Perches, The hideous clang of her hate-bearing wing Peace trembled: whilst the Fiend armed with her Sting Alighting swift before the Pompous Pile Of her proud Palace, stood and pawsed a while. Thence with observing eye, her Empire viewing, Fomented Feuds and Wars thereon ensuing, Hatred, and variance, herself she blesses, Applauds her Wit in these Achieved successes; From Norwich there, and Bristol Coaches, she Legions of Tories dear, arrived might see, And could her Vassals boast of all Degrees, Citizens, Nobles, Clerks, Priests, Dignities; But above all her Feats renowned in stories, In this she Prides herself, in this she Glories, That Troops of Barr-gowns ranged under her Banner Had routed Themes, and now Triumphed on her; And yet she saw, and raged, and Grieved to see One Church disturb this rare Felicity, One Church to brave her triumphs; one Alone Threaten to shake the firmness of her Throne, That amidst all these Herricanes and Scuffles No breath of Stormy Wind it's Quiet ruffles. Needs must so Odious a sight as this Awake her Rage, make all her Serpent's hiss; With Stygian Aconite her mouth she fills, From glaring eyes she streams of Flame distils: " What? (said she with a tone made windows Quiver,) " Have I been able hitherto to Shiver " The Union 'twixt Cordeliers, Carmelites, " Dominicans, Franciscans, Minorites, " Betwixt the Molinists, the Celestines, " Jansenists, Jesuits, and Augustine's? " Have I by secret Arts, nourished the Stickle " Between the Churchmen, and the Contenticle? " And shall one Paltry Chapel dare to Brave me; " Nay hope in time to its nice Laws t' enslave me? " And am I Discord still? who any more " With Incense will my Sacred Shrines Adore? Thus spoke the Hag! And in a trice unseen Of an Old Chanter takes the shape and mien: A corner'd Cap her Snake-wigged Head did cover, Her rich Face sparkling Rubies studded over, Her Nose, embossed with Carbuncles Divine Before her steps did like a Flamboy shine; Accoutred thus, with Red-coat Soldiers place Haughty she marched to find the Prelate's Grace. A Stately Bed, the Posts most richly Gilt, Covered with Sumptuous Crimson Damask Quilt, Enclosed with Double Curtains, scorning light Of midday Sun, and counterfeiting Night, Stood close in an Apartment like a Cell Where Sweet Repose and Silence chose to Devil; The Tester was all faced with Looking Glass, The rare Invention of this Golden Ass, Contrived mysteriously that he might peep And see how Blithe he looked, when fast a-sleep. Here lay the Mitred Head! in slumber drowned, Whilst gentle fumes his Dreaming Temples Crowned; A Sprightly Air adorns his Youthful Face, His double Chin hangs down with goodly Grace; The Claret shined through the transparent Skin, A broad conjecture where he late had been; And his Fat comely Corpse, so thick and short Made the Soft Pillows groan under his Port: Here, in Sack-posset armed, without repining He waits in patience the blessed hour of Dining. The Goddess entering, saw the Table spread, And all within doors rarely ordered, Then Softly marching to his lodging, took him Profoundly napping, and thus she bespoke him. " Sleepest thou, Great Prelate? Sleepest thou then Supine? " And to the Chanter meanest thy Place Resign? " Whilst he sings Oremus, makes Grave Processions, " And hurls about by wholesale Vows and Blessings? " Sleepest thou securely, till the Chanter come, " And without Bull, or Brief procured from Rome, " Whilst thou'rt wrapped up in sloth, and free from Fears, " Rotchet and Surplice shall pluck o'er thy Ears? " Sluggard, awake, arise, bestir thee quick, " Renounce thy Ease, or quit thy Bishopric! She spoke; and from her Poisonous Mouth did fling Into his Soul the Zeal of Quarrelling. The Dean awakes; The choler in his breast Fermented boils; yet he the Fury Blest! Have you not seen a Bull by Gad-fly stung, When his tormented pride flownced, kicked, and fling? The vexed Air, with Echoes frighted rings! Whilst he exhales his Rage in Bellow! So stormed the Prelate, with his Dream o're-heated, Poor Page, and Chambermaid were rudely treated; His mettle moved with conceived Indignation, Needs will he go to''th' Choir before Collation. When Prudent Gilotin his Almoner With grave Advice stepped into stint the Stir; Shows him the Danger of that Rash Design, How mad to go to Prayers, before he Dine; " What Rage (quoth he) is this? what headstrong crotchet? " Pray Sir, regard the Honour of your Rotchet! " He that for Chapel lets warm Dinner cool, " May think himself Devour, I'll think him Fool! " Does our Church consecrate Prelates to Pray? " For shame, this Zeal unseasonable allay! " Shall all your Learning make me believe, " That this is Lent, or any Saints days Eve? " Then Reassume yourself, forbear to Dote, " Meat heated twice, is not worth half a Groat! Thus reasoned Gilotin, and very loath T' adjourn a Meal, bade 'em serve in the broth. The Prelate stood a while in deep suspense, He eyed the Soupe with Holy Reverence; O'ercome at last with Reason and good Nature He yields, and sits him down to taste the Creature: ‛ Yet inward Rage did all the while provoke him, 'twas feared each Morsel would go near to choke him; Gilotin saw't, and sighed! in Zeal he rises T' acquaint his party with these Enterprises; Tells them with Grief of Heart, what rude Affronters Of Lawn-sleeved Grandeur were these Saucy Chanters; Protests they'd vexed his Lordship so that day His Meat went down like Orts, or old chopped Hay! Nay I may safely say't without Presumption, This Course must bring him int' a Deep Consumption! Now might you see whole troops of Canons, all To Rendezvouz in the great Pallace-hall! So have you seen perhaps Legions of Cranes, Marching on Wing o'er Strymons Spacious plains, When the proud Pigmies, mustering their warlike Nation Design against them an Unjust Invasion! Surprised at sight of this great friendly Rabble, The Sweetened Prelate rises from the Table; Nodding he Touched his Hat, to keep Decorum; Nor seemed to slight, nor basely to Adore 'um! His face no longer shone with Orient Flame, But pleased, recalls the good Westphalia Ham; Then takes himself a lusty Beer-bowl brimmer Of Racy Claret, and Commends a Swimmer To the good Company; they with joint consent Fellow the Prelates gracious Precedent; And, whilst their circling Healths and Heads go round, Arnold and all his little Whigs, Confound! With Nectar, killing-thirst they will allay; The Voider comes, the Cloth is ta'en away, The Prelate then with words expressing Grief, Unto his Confidents declaims in brief! " My brave Confederates, in all Intrigues, " Propping my Interest with your holy Leagues, " Whose Votes Unanimous once made me Dean, " What boots this Meager Title? Honour Lean? " My Name but mentioned; Ay, and scarcely that, " Unless perhaps at the Magnificat; " How can you bear to see this Rascal Nose me, " And his Combined mates thus dare t'oppose me? " Invading all my Rights and Privileges, " My Compeer th' Impudent, himself alleges. " Thus leaping o'er all bounds of Law and Reason, " I think t'Indite the Rebel of High Treason; " For I have by me, or at least can get " Such Witnesses, be sure shall do the feat! " This very Morn ('tis no fond tale I tell thee, " A Goddess in a Dream showed what befell me) " This Insolent Upstart I was Dressing " Stepped up into my Throne, and gave the Blessing; " And now to cut my Throat, the last of Harms, " The Villain would usurp my proper Arms.— More would he fain have said, but briny tears Mixed with redoubled sighs and inward fears, Did intercept his speech, cut short his Story, And spoiled the Tenor of his Oratory. But Zealous Gilotin, who condoled his Merits, Had one Device yet left to cheer his Spirits: For marking how the Prelate's speech did vary, He calls for a brisk Glass of old Canary. Mean time came Sidrac in, whom Age made slow, Limping upon his crutch, the News to know; Full fourscore years, this Dotard in the Choir Had practised; all the Customs of his Sire, All Ancient usages he could Describe, For he was Dad of all the singing Tribe; Him time preferred, when waving many another, From poor Churchwarden to a Vestry-brother; He by the Prelates pale and fading colour Had quickly guessed the nature of his dolour, And sweetly smiling, he Addresses thus: " And why, my Lord! so Pusillanimous? " Leave to the Chanter fruitless moans and tears, " Attend the wisdom of now fourscore years, " Enriched with large experience of affairs; " If of thy wrongs thou hopest for Repairs, " Then lend thy Ear attentive, Sir, be wise, " And put in practice what the Heavens Advise! " At th' end o'th' Choir where now the Haughty Knave " Enthroned in borrowed lustre dares to Brave " Thy Sovereignty, upon that Iron Grate " Stood once a Pulpit square of Ancient date, " Behind this Machine, covered as with a screen, " The Sneaking Chanter scarce could then be seen; " Whilst on the opposite Seat, our Dean did shine " In Humane eyes with Majesty Divine; " Howed came about I know not, but some Devil " I do conclude the Author of this Evil; " Whether some envious hand had plucked it down " By Night; or Time, or rigid Fate had thrown " The Structure from its Base, yet this is true, " One morn we found i'th' Floor the Sacred Pew! " The Chanter I suppose might Plot with Heaven; " Be't so! we may with both in time be Even: " But down it came, and for the better Grace, " That Holy things might rest in Holy Place, " We lodged it in the Vestry strait, and there " IT has lain despised in dust, these thirty year " Fight with Worms and Spiders, who therein " Their curious Webs do wove, and fine thread Spin; " And thirty more might lie, for use of Preaching, " Yet 'tis a Tool for this Rogues overreaching. " Now mark me Sir! no sooner shall the Night " His sable Wings spread o'er the vanquished Light, " But three out of our Number, without Riot, " Will Slip into the Church, while all is quiet, " And under Covert of the darkness Strive " Once more the Ruinous Pulpit's Mass Revive: " And if next day the Chanter dares o'erthrow it, " By twenty Actions thou shalt make him know it, " What 'tis to rouse a sleeping Prelate! This " The Proper Glory of a Prelate is, " To Vindicate against Malignant People " The Jus Divinum of his Ancient Steeple; " To rescue from base Sacrilegious hands " His Tithes, his Offerings, Perquisites, and Lands; " This makes him Glorious to the present Age, " This future Immortality Presage: " What, wilt confine thy Glories to a Choir? " To Preach and Pray did Heaven award thy Hire? " Such Virtues might Adorn the days of Yore, " When Prelates only Humble, Pious, Poor, " Boasted in empty Epithets; new Times " Require new Manners, suited to our Crimes; " Let Churchmen now frequent the Bar and Plead, " And Cook and Littleton, not Fathers read; " The Law, the Law's thy work! then shall the Crowd " Pressing they Throne, with Prayers implore aloud " Thy Benedictions, which thou may'st Dispense " By dozen, scores, and Hundreds, and from thence " To his Regrett, the fretting envious Elf " Shall see thee thousands Bless; and hang himself! To see the Mighty Power of Eloquence, How little short 'tis of Omnipotence! Sidrac's discourse had charmed their Ears and Heart, And Planet-strook the Dean stood for his part; Now on the Place before a foot they stir, The Lot must tell whom Destinies prefer To this important service; All pretend Both Zeal, and Fitness for this Noble end; The Prelate then stroking his Milk-white Beard With Wisdom spoke, with Reverence was Herd: The Lot, my Masters! I ordain your Law; From Urn Impartial each his Fortune draw: 'Twas said, 'twas done; Now all leave off their Quibbling, Each Mother's Son betakes himself to Scribbling; Full thirty Names at least, in Tickets rolled Were reckoned; And that none might be cajolled, William, a Novice 'mongst the singing boys (Who served in time of Need to make a Noise,) Must draw the Lots; And now from fatal Bonnet Each man abides his Doom, what e'er comes on it. Thrice had the Dean with hands lift up to Heaven Unto this Pious Work the Blessing given; His holy Hand thrice shakes the fatal Cap, And happy man he's Dole who has the Hap! Now William trembling to the Work Addresses, Him too the bounteous Dean All-to-be-Blesses; The Boy was newly shorn, of ruddy Hue, But when he came to't, the poor Lad looked Blue; And now he draws! first Brontin's Name appears, Thrice happy Name to cure the Prelate's fears! For what less could that Thundering Name presage, Than that he'd prove The Terror of the Age? All's hushed again; and for the second turn The boy advanced his shaking hand to th' Urn; When the kind fates gave out th' Auspicious Name Of John the Clockmaker: A Cock o'th' Game, This John had been, but now a jolly fellow Had yoked himself to Nan, his dear Bed-fellow; This happy pair, (say they) before their Marriage Had guilty been of some unhandsome carriage, But after three years stealing secret pleasure The Priest had joined their hauds, at least, together. A third remains; The Prelate takes the Urn, And to play fair gives it a double turn: Their fligg'ring Souls do now on Tiptoes stand, 'Twixt fears and hopes for the deciding hand; How blithe wast thou, how Buxom, and how chicket, When once thy Name proclaimed by the Ticket, Past all the fear of Contingent Disaster, Appeared before the face of thy great Master, Boirude (I mean) the Sexton? Some do say, Thy livid Front while as pale as Clay, Glowed into Sanguine; and thy Rosy Hue Did the Wan Sallow of thy Hide Subdue! Thy Gouty Legs and Toes benumbed before, Ventured to cut three Capers on the Floor! Now might you hear the Crowd at cheerful Rates Applaud the Justice of the Gentle Fates, Who by their peremptory strict commands Disposed the work into such able Hands; Faith with the Court Dissolves, all satisfied, And to their Quarters in great Triumph hied. The Dean alone, to cool his Zeal enraged, Slumbered till a soft Supper might assuage it! CANTO. II. Canto 2. The ARGUMENT. Forsaken Nancy in this Canto, Brings 'gainst her John a Quo Warranto, 'Cause he had left her in the Lurch, To rear a Pulpit in the Church: And under colour of Religion Courted another pretty Pigeon. Now you must know that all the Blame Was laid upon the Baggage Fame; Who raised between them the sad Squabble, By forging of this Idle Fable! Next you shall see in Sluggish Dress, That Gallant Lady Idleness; Who has more Suitors waiting on her, Than the most virtuous Maid of Honour; But here I almost had forgot To own the Error of our Plot, The Poet laid his Scene in France, But I can't tell by what Mischance, He now and then dares venture over, And steps as far as Deal or Dover. MEan while a Hag, made up of Mouths and Ears, Who prates both what, and more than what she hears, The Moderns call her Fame: This crafty Jade Of Slandering drives an unknown subtle trade; For she had got the Faculty to Brew With dubious, Certain; and with false, things true; And with such Art she her Ingredients mixed, That where she pleased A Calumny she fixed; This Baggage once in her mad Moods and Tenses Had Lombard nead, the Master o'th' Sentences; Thence she had learned to spread a Lie Malicious, And then to serve a Turn, used the Officious; When her light business called her to the Court Used the Jocose, and lewdly lied in sport; Her trade she practised first in private Letters, Bespattered there, and vilified her Betters: In Coffeehouses than she grew a Prater, Broke off all Trades, she sets up Observator. A Justice once clapped her i'th' Stocks and stripped her, Then by a tough-backed Knave severely Whipped her; Not warned, the Brazen-face would out be flying Against the State with her Opprobrious Lying; Jockey for Leasing put her to the Horning, In England she was Pillory'd for Suborning; A thousand pounds for False News she was fined; And till she paid the fine to Gaol Confined: Venturing at last on Scandalum Magnatum, Two Thousand more; yet still the Jade did rate 'em: Thus did the Gipsy flutter up and down Through City, Country, Village, and good Town; Once at a Barber's Shop she took a Lodging, But fickle in her Humour soon was trudging To th' Cross-keys, Gun, and Ship: still her Headquarters Where she roamed by day, was the Crack-farters! Forging, and telling Stories, with swift Wings This tale at last to Jealous Nancy brings: She tells (her tale I'm sure, lost nought i'th' telling,) How John's misguided zeal, 'gainst Vows rebelling, Under a acquaint pretence to set upright A Pew (forsooth!) intends to watch that Night; But the perfidious wretch, intends (says fame) To Gratify another kind of Flame! For tired with Lawful Love, and honest Kisses, He elsewhere pays the Tribute of Caresses Due to his Spouse alone: Easy Belief Received the News with Terror mixed with Grief! With finger in Eye, and Hair about her Shoulders, Poor Nan runs out; thought Mad by the beholders, Nor caring much whether she wrong or right him, In this rude language strait gins t'Indite him. Dissembling Traitor! could not Faith once plighted, Nor those Embraces wherein we delighted, Nor thy Poor Wench ready to run a Madding, Cool thy hot Codpiece, but thou must be Gadding? Perfidious Wretch! didst thou sit up to make A Clock or Watch, some Comfort I might take; And hope of Lawful gain might slake my Anguish, Whilst in thy Absence, I, poor I did Languish: But what wild Frenzy? what capricious Folly? What Whimsy? what Religious Melancholy? What strange Conundrum's got into thy Head, To leave for Rotten Pulpit thy sweet Bed? Ah! whether goest my John? dost Fly thy Nancy? Can our delightful Nights forsake thy Fancy? What! canst with dry Eyes view my tears still Dropping? See how the Stupid Block stands mute, and moping! If my soft Heart easy to thy Desires Hath always met with Equal Flames thy fires; And if to gratify thy Itch, (my Honey,) I stood not on th' nice points of Matrimony; If in my Arms, thou, thou hast had sole part, Speak not that wounding, kill word, Depart. Thus spoke our Lover whining, plain and round, And closed her speech with an half-dying swoon; Upon a Pallet backwards down she fell, Fortune had placed the Couch exceeding well; Twenty to one she else had broke her Rump, Up starts amazed John, bestirs his Stump, 'Twixt Zeal and Love, his heart stood long divided, Till Zeal at last the Question decided; And thus his smothered passion got vent, Smoothing with kind words o'er his wild Intent. Dear Spouse, (said he with voice unkindly kind) Shall thy favours slide out of my mind? The Rhine shall first his streams mix with the Loire, I forget the sense of my Devoir; Nay first shall France keep Faith and Oath with Spain, I thy lovesick Agonies disdain: But never Dream, that when I gave my Troth, I would become a Slave unto my Oath; Our Nation knows no such nice Obligation, The Ancient Faith's now quite worn out of fashion; Had the Fates trusted me with mine own Lot, I ne'er had rashly knit the Wedlock Knot; But from those subtle Rites had still been free To taste the fruit of the forbidden Tree; But since that matters in this posture stand, Grudge not my Glory, if I lend a hand To this blessed work, the Height of my desire, To Raise the Pulpit in the sacred Quire. Compose these passions struggling in thy Breast, Dry up those Tears! Come Sweet! Lie down and rest! He said; but what, the Wench regarded not, half was done, the first she had forgot; With hollow Cheeks, and staring Eyes she viewed him, Trembling she lay, and in her heart beshrewed him; Long silent, stifled thoughts with pain at last Broke prison, Raging than she Railed as fast. No, no, Base Varlet! Thy Sire ne'er was Baker, Nor cam'st thou of the blood of a Clockmaker! Thy Mother never road in Hackney Coach, A Bastard-brat rather of some Turn-broch, Or Caucasus did form thee, of a Pibble, Or some fell Tigress nursed thee with her nibble; Sure with her milk thou drewest in Feritie, Other I'll ne'er believe until I Die: For to what end should I the Rascal flatter? Let me sob, roar, or swoon, 'tis all a matter To marblehearted John; and all I gain Is to draw on fresh injuries again! A Pew! what Mortal throat can ever gulp it, Thus to compare me with a Rotten Pulpit! Has all my scolding squeezed from's Eyes one Tear? Has he expressed the least Remorse for's Dear? When he came hither first, this paltrey Jack Had scarce a Shoe to's foot, a Rag to's back; Nay I can safely swear't, because I know't, The Villain was not worth a single Groat; I like a Fool took him to Bed and Board, And now the Rascal swaggers like a Lord: But why thus Raving do I beat a Rock, Only to purchase foam? Base Spirits mock Abject complaints; Humble Petitioning, Are still contemned, but in the breasts of Kings. Then study brave Revenge, despised Love, Nor shall Repentance my Pity move; And when thy Ears shall hear my Passing-bell, Then, then expect Another kind of Knell; My Angry Ghost shall haunt thy Conscious Soul, I'll Ring thee such a Peal, shall make thee Howl; Hobgoblins shall thy house turn topsey-turvey, Conscience shall then upbraid thee, what a Scurvy Knave thou hast been to thy Deserted Wife, And make thee Pulpits Curse, whilst thou hast Life! Nay, I'll pursue thee to the Stygian Lake, And ugly Ballads, Boys of thee shall make. This said, she dropped backwards upon her breech, For raging sorrow quite had stopped her speech; The noise awakened Ass her trusty Maid, Who Hobbling soon came in unto her Aid. Now Darkness had exiled th' expiring Day, Supper to Service had given leave to play; The fuddling, Chanters now in Clubs were got, Wetting their Whistles with the good Ale-pot. Brontin, whom Zeal for th' service had made quicker, Bethought himself, A Punch of Nappy Liquor In a Gold Winter's Night was no false Latin, To qualify Devotion for the Matine; This Cargo, Gilotin's deep providence Laid in; he was (say truth) A man of sense, The smell o'th' Bottle made him easily lug The grateful Cumber of the Double Jugg; Thus trudged he nimble: Whom should he stumble next on, But that tough stick of Wood, Boirude the Sexton? Now both together warmed with Zeal were hasting To meet the Clockmaker, for Time was wasting: Come! come away! (cried they) with quick devotion, The Sun's now gone to tipple in the Ocean! The Murky Night which veils the Evenings bravery, Will make a handsome Cloak to hid our Knavery; What ails thee Man? where hast of late been mewed up? Thou look'st as if first eaten, and then spewed up: Where is that morning Zeal, that with thee rose? Cheer up, and pluck thy Heart out of thy Hose! Come, fear no Colours! The end the Act will hollow! Then whether Honour calls thee, bravely follow. The Clockmaker knew not well how to take it, Nor whether Jest or Earnest he should make it, Half Pale, half Red he looked with motley passion, For Shame and Rage had died him in that fashion; Yet, on my word the Knave had wit in's Anger, And wisely took along his rusty Hanger; For he resolved at a Dead pinch to knock it, And scorned to stand, and sneak with hands in Pocket: Nails he a handful took, and on his shoulders A Massy Beetle, frighted the beholders; An Axe, a Saw, a Hammer, and a Mallet The sturdy knave had trussed in Leathern Wallet; They march accoutred in Warlike Parade, And John appears at th' Head of the Brigade; The silent Moon, viewing their stately Port, Withdrew her Beams, she might not spoil the sport. Discord saw all, and set up a loud Laughter, Th' Echo rebounds and shaken Heavens hollow Rafter; The Noise had almost wakened Idleness As she at Court with Ease held sweet Caress, The frisking Pleasures danced by her side, The Nuns her Votaries, her Deified; One, in a Corner Stufft the prebend's hides, One, pleasantly the Canons' robes Deribes; Luxury to her State devoutly bows, And Sleep dropped Poppy-water on her Brows. This Even the sleepy Dose they had redoubled, In vain! for Discords cries her sleep had troubled! And envious Night conspiring with that Devil, Buzzed in her Drowsy Ears the Tragic Evil; Night tells her how the Prelate did design To make Disturbance in the Sacred Shrine; How she had seen three Mortal Foes to Quiet, March in Battalia; and Three will make a Riot: How Discord threatened, to augment the fray, A Pulpit to erect by Break of Day; Which would the people raise in Mutinies, Thus, thus the Fates had written in the Skies! At this Report, portending deadly Harm, Idleness raised herself up on one Arm, One Languid Eye she opes, and with weak Voice Dropped these soft whispers; fearing her own Noise. Ah Night! sad tale thou tell'st! what envious Fiend, With new Combustions doth my Quiet rend? Ah! what's become of those thrice blessed Days, When Idle Princes crowned with withered Bays Slept on their Thrones, and tamely worshipped me, Leaving their Sceptres to a Deputy? All Night the Court did Feast, and slept all Day, Creeping abroad perhaps when verdant May With Gentle breathing Zephyrs sweet approaches Called them to th' Park, drawn in six Horse-and-Coaches. That happy Age is fled; for now a Prince Has got the Throne, and banished me long since; Scorning my Pleasures: to my melting Charms He stops his Ears with Thundering Drums Alarms: And breaks my pleasing Dreams with Trumpets Sound, Nor Summers' Heat, nor Winter's Frost confound His Daring projects; warlike preparations, Resolved to Attack the World with fresh Invasions! Nay all my Subjects ripe for Insurrection Imbibe with eagerness the Dire Infection. ‛ Twice had I hoped with flattering Peace to cool His Martial Ardour; ' twice to shut the School Of Janus: All in Vain! except I find More World's to satiate his Ambitious Mind! 'Twould tyre my feeble feet to trace the way Where the hard Stages of his Valour lay; But yet I pleased myself with hopes to meet For my disturbed Soul some safe Retreat: I fancied that A Church might ease afford, Where Churchmen sleep in Bed, and wake at Board; But Oh! these Chanters, Canons make a Pother, A Dog can't rest, whilst one worries another: And which provokes me most to Indignation, The whole world's set a gog on Reformation. What Holy Mother Church, Imposing saith, This Age receives not with Implicit Faith; Nay Blind Obedience now is styled A Vice, Saucy Dissenters will be counted wise; Men now Plead Conscience, make a heavy Din With Heaven and Hell; of Duty prate, and Sin: These empty Names have set the World on fire! Now they swallow, they will first inquire; They'll see a Reason given for Church Commands, And use their Eyes, they bestir their Hands. Who can Remember, and not sadly grieve, Those easy days when on the Prelate's sleeve The supple Laity had pinned their Soul, Nor Private durst the Public Faith Control; When Canons, Conscience; Rubric, Reason mated, And Souls had learned to bow, and ne'er debate it? Then Masse's, Aves, Credo's Glory earned, Canto 3. Blind Votaries than could reach it unconcerned! But now the Begging Friars are all for travel, They exercise their Toes in Dust and Gravel; The preaching Friars such a coil do keep, My aching head can get no wink of Sleep! Yet my Cistercians did a little bless My hopes, in Cloisters pamp'ring Idleness, When a Mischievous Pulpits Cursed intent Threatens to force me thence to Banishment! Ah Night! the Dear Associate of my Sleep, Will't with these Villain's Correspondence keep? Ah Night! Sweet Night! If e'er thou didst Essay With me the Joys concealed from the Day, Then suffer not— Much more she would have spoke, Had not a Qualm crept o'er her heart, and broke The Languid purpose: Down she sank in Bed, Sighed, stretched her Arms, closed Eyes, and Slumbered! CANTO III. The ARGUMENT. An Owl instructed by the Night, Cunningly counterfeits A Spirit: In Pulpit close she lies Perdue, And terrifies the Prelate's Crew! They Routed fly with heavy Clatter, The Canto tells you, what's the matter; But Discord to Retrieve the sport Rallies them soon in Warlike sort: All Oppositions overpast, They set the Pulpit up at last: But fear not lest the Prelate Preached in't; Alas he has a further reach in't! To spite his Foes, yet for all's Feating, The proof of th' Pudding's seen i'th' eating. BUt Night in haste with her Dark Canopy, Shrouding the viny Plains of Burgundy, Flew back to th' City; and as suddenly Wheeled round to view the Towers of Monlheri; Those walls, whose towering Summits mate the skies, Built on a Rock which Duskie Clouds disguise. And objects representing seen from far, That they did move persuade the Passenger. Here ominous Birds, here Ravens foreboding fate, In ruinous Chinks do roost, and keep their state; Here thirty Winters mured in obscure Cell An Owl-secure from hateful Light did dwell: This trusty Messenger of Dire mishap Has the first News of Ill dropped in her lap; And always ready to proclaim sad Tiding Waits in these Deserts, Nights approach abiding: At whose return her Accents rend the Skies, And fright the Vicinage with black Destinies; Complaining Progne answers to her Tones, And mourning Philomela renew her Groans. To whom Night thus: Come, follow me! The Bird Obeyed, when first her Mistress voice she heard: With flight Precipitant, the Pair, out spring And reach the Town high sailing on the Wing, Then wafting at one Reach, they proudly Perch On highest Pinnacle of the fatal Church! Night cursed her Eyes to see the Comrades march, For now All three had reached the Porches Arch; She saw the Clockmaker, with faithful fingers A glass of smiling Wine hold, glad, nor lingers: Here Trusty Mates, A health I here Begin, They pledged him, to their Patron Gilotin: Oh see (says Night) these Rogues sing Huzza! proud Of sure success, under my favouring Shroud; But come! the Traitors soon shall feel our Might, If I at least be justly styled Night! This said, she leads into the Sacred Vault, Into the Vestry flies, there makes an Alt, And in the Concave of the fatal Pew, Order Madge-Howlet there to lie Perdue! Mean while, our three great Champions flown with Wine, And Wines effects, Audacity; with Design To push their Project on, without regard To Danger near, had passed the Palace-yard, Emboldened with success, still on they go And mount the Stairs, leading to th' Portico, Here a Bookseller in his back-shop slept, And under double Padlock safely kept Rogero's worthy Works! and he may still Keep 'em entire, for sure no other will. Now wary Boirude, fearing Danger nigh Stops his rash Friends in heat of Zeal; to try How they might light a Candle: from his Pocket He takes his Marchasite, gins to knock it With hardened Steel, out springs an Active spark, The hope of Light in the Despair of Dark; The spark in Tinder cherished, touched with Metch In Sulphur dipped, kindles with quick dispatch The Torch; which like a Comet blazing bright Supplies the Office of Don Phoebus Light. Boirude the Sexton, kept the Church-door Key, And if he entrance got, then why not they? With equal pace the Temples Nave they measure! Into the Vestry came: Here lies the Treasure! Here prostrate they behold the Pulpit's frame, And with due Reverence adore the same! The Gloomy shades of that Religious place Horror begat, the Bigot Church-man's Grace, Horror awakes Devotion; they pray! And dread those Deities they Scorned by day. When thus the Clockmaker: Why stare ye thus, My Masters, A-la-mort? time's precious! Why stand we trembling, trifling, shall I, shall I? Our work's before us, let's not longer dally! The Pulpit must be raised, that by to morrow Our Dean may see't with Joy, his Foes with Sorrow! So said, he laid his bones to't; and did strain To roll it o'er, with all his Might, and Main; He scarce had moved it, O portentous wonder! When from its hollow womb a Voice did Thunder; Brontin starts back! The Sexton looked like Dead! John with his Dear, twice wished himself in Bed! But on their purpose obstinately bend, They roll it o'er, true Zeal will ne'er relent! Out flies the broad-faced Chorister of the Night, And with her ruffling wings strikes out the Light: This struck their Souls with horrible Confusion, Amazed they stand, they doubt; but in conclusion, As soon as Fear lent them the use of Feet Away they trudge, filled with shame and Regret; The Nave they soon recover; whilst their hair Stands bristling on their heads, dissolving fear Makes their Knees quiver underneath their Bodies, And there they sneaking stand like baffled Noddies, Sheltered by the same Darkness brought them thither, The Squadron flies at last, they knew not whither. So when a Jolly Crew of Truants gather Into some Nook, to play their pranks together, Secure of Eyes from Monitor and Master, They burn the day in game, and sport the faster; If now by chance, the Tyrant's Eye doth watch 'em, And unawares at Cards or Dice he catch 'em; The sad surprise, their Mirth and Pastime dashes, And each shifts for himself to scape his lashes. Such was our Warriors plight when once the Owl Sprung from the Pew, set up her Doleful howl. Discord, who saw unseen their fowl disgrace, Clapping her wings, pitied their woeful case: Their Spirits quailed, their Courages abated; Rallies in haste the Troop disanimated. Of Sidrac, she th' Audacious Visage borrowed, His front she smoothed into a smile; but furrowed His face with wrinkles deep; A Truncheon strong Confirms his staggering steps; thus stalks along The Marble Pavement; guided by a Torch, Finds out the skulking Cowards near the Porch; Then with a squeaking Voice spoke fourscore years, A wakes their mettle, dissipates their Fears. Rascals! where are you? what Panic Dread does rout you? Run from one paltry Owl? ne'er look about you! Where are those boasts which late breathed nought but Thunder? Fie! shall a harmless Bird disperse ye asunder? How would you sneak, vile Souls, if at the Bar, My daily sport, you met with horrid War? How would you stand a tedious Chanc'ry Hearing, If poor Hobhowchin puts you in this fearing? How would your hearts misgive to bide a Trial, No Friend at Hand, nor in your Purse a Ryall? Believe me (Cowards!) I, with Grace be't spoken, Simply though I stand here, have foiled and broken A Chapter, with her Canons, prebend's, Dean; Nor was my Soul so Abject, Base, so Mean, But I durst look the Proctors in their faces, And scorn their proudest braves, their stern Menaces! I have pursued 'em all, Ashamed, confuted, 'Tis Persecutors, cried out, Persecuted! All this I did, and ten times more in sooth, With the sole Breastplate armed of Naked Truth! The Church of old was manned with Gallant Spirits, A Novice then confiding in the Merits Of the famed Good Old Cause, dared to Defend it In formâ Pauperis, and make 'em end it! But this Decrepit Age to Sloth inclines, Nor brings forth now such Puissant Divines! Thus far howe'er their Virtues imitate, Let not an Owl your Courages abate: Think what a Blot it draws upon your Glory, How it does slain the lustre of your story: If once the chanter learns your base Defeat, Your flight Ignoble, and your vile Retreat, Where e'er he meets you, he'll thus fleer and flout you; Hark, the Owl cries! brave Soldier's look about you! Then will your conscious guilt with shame upbraid you, You'll curse your slavish fears that Cowards made you! Then reinforce your Spirits, by preventing Th' Affronts, which will be bitter in resenting: Remember, Sirs, whose Cause your hands engages, First win, then bravely wear his Laurel wages: Recall your wont worth, new frights forgetting; 'Tis Yorkshire Cloth, you know, that shrinks i'th' wetting! But I perceive success my speech doth follow, Then march, run, fly (brave Boys!) where dangers call you! That our Great Mitred Prince, may see his Engines Before th' Affront be spread, taking due Vengeance. This spoke, the Fiend disguised in flash of Fire Vanished, with fresh rage did their hearts inspire. Just so it was, Great Conde! at that battle When thy brave Arms made Rhine and Sheld to rattle, Thy wings, and Battle on Lens' spacious Border Inclined to rout, and leaned to foul disorder, Thy Valour firmed the wavering Troops that day, And spirited their Files with flesh arry! Inspired new Hearts, and gave 'em all New Hands, Till vanquished Victory followed thy Commands! Thus in a moment Rage succeeded Fear, And clouded courage once again shone clear! They countermarch! The Owl Retreats quite routed, And now they scorn her, whom so late they doubted. Not unrevenged! for as she flew, she muted In Boirude's gaping mouth, triumphed and hooted; Rascally Bird, (said he) All Face and Feather! The Shame of Day; the Boder of Ill Wether! Darest thou presume (profane!) to spice i'th' Choir? And make the Pulpit A Sir-Reverence higher? And this! No, no, I'm not in sport; I'll trounce and bounce thee for't i'th' Spiritual Court; Where Doctors, Proctors, Paritors together Shanned leave upon thy Naked back one Feather; I'll make thee then for all thy Hooting, sneak Like her that scaped the Devil's Arse i' th' Peak: But talks but talk! Come Boys, let's fall to action! The Owl is flown! the last o'th' Chanters faction! The Pulpit now is heaved into the Choir, And on the Chanter's Seat advanced higher, Her Rotten ledge repaired; her Joints that gaped With Planes united; all was comely shaped! The Wainscott echoes to the labouring hammer, The Roof back to the Walls resounds the Clamour; The Organ-pipes provoked with this rude Rumbling, Struck up a Base, and gravely fell a grumbling! Now Chanter! black's thy Day, thou little thinkest What work's a brewing; Sleep in Bowls thou drinkest, On both ears; snoring after late Debauches, Nor dreamest what mischief now thy Head approaches: Secure thou liest unarmed, unwarned of Harms, Hugging thy Dainty Doxy in thy Arms! O that some friendly Ghost, in Nightly Vision Would timously reveal thy sad condition! Now! now they heave! the hateful Pulpit rearing! 'Twould strike thee dead, were't thou within the Hearing; Alas! above thy Seat, the Machine glories To have surmounted thee five lofty stories; The Sexton at three strokes, makes the Nail enter, And now the Pulpit stands firm on its Centre. CANTO IU. The ARGUMENT. Alas! The Poems curious Model Is Altered quite i' th' Poet's Noddle! So Nature oft, for want of Tools, Decrees Wise men, produces Fools: To tell you True, my Muse and I Designed at first, the Victory To Master Dean; how it came about I cannot tell; but now the Rout Is His: yet so, The Fancy's richer To end in Pot, commence in Pitcher! Such was the Project! such th' Event! But listen to the Argument! The Chanter's Dream: A Chapter called; Fine Speeches made; The Pulpit mawled; This Counter-Scuffle, I dare stand in't, The Goddess Discord had a hand in't: The Prelate's foes; Canto 4. The Chanters friends; The Canto, and the Poëme ends. THE Pulpit now lifting its lofty Head With carved Canopy stands Covered; When the Church-clocks with their melodious chime, Summoned the Singing-boyes to rise: 'Tis time To Rise to Matins! Thus the Bells did Chink! Thus did at least the dreaming Sluggard think. Drowned in sweet Sleep th' Arch-chanter rolled at ease, (A Sovereign Medicine 'gainst the twinging Fleas,) Whose roving Fancy traversed many a Theme, Startled at last with terror of a Dream; He cried out, wakened at his own fierce crying, And parboiled in his mellow Sweat lay frying. His Pages starting at the sudden Noise, Began to bustle, rubbing their gum-glewed Eyes; One frighted runs, but poor fool, knew not whither, And from the door leaps back, well got thither: Girot, (a trustier Slave ne'er waited on him,) Runs to his Master, ne'er a Rag upon him; What the Rope ails you? (cried the testy Lackey,) Does th' Nightmare ride you, or the Old Witch make you Roar at this rate? What a mad coil you keep here, That people cannot steal a Nap, or sleep here? Compose yourself for shame! The wiser Sun His race Nocturnal has but halfway run; Is this a time for Prayers? Let Singing-boyes Whose Pensions pay for't, do those Drudgeries! Ah friend! (replied the quaking Chanter) friend! Insult not o'er my juster Passion; lend Thy patiented Ear to my sad Fate, and join Thy secret sorrows to these tears of mine! Attend I say! (I tremble whilst I'm speaking,) The weighty Reasons of my poor heart breaking! God Morpheus long before the peep of day, Had locked my Senses up with leaden Key In second sleep; when dulcet fumes and vapours, In Fancies Cell, disport in frolic Capers; Methought I sat enthroned in the Choir, Where crowds of Choristers my Grace admire; There blest the gawping throng; there Incense sweet, Stolen from the Saints, my pleased Senses meet, When from the bottom of the Vestry came A Prodigy too terrible to name; From Dusky Clouds (methought) of wreathed Smoke Wide opening, A Hideous Monster broke, Whose Mouth, Eyes, Nostrils, vomit flame, fume, fire, How pale looked all the Choristers i'th' Choir! Him the proud Prelate dragged along in Chains, Tame like a broken Colt, with Bit and Reins; But, that which struck us all more than half dead, A Pulpit issued from the Dragons Head. Horripilation seized me! my flesh quivered! My loins relaxed with dismal horror shivered! We all conclude from the Sulphureous smell, Dragon and Pulpit both must come from Hell; Led by his Guide, the Monster doth aspire Unto my Seat, there placed himself i'th' Quire. Think! think, my Ganymede, how was I appalled To see the Horrid Fiend thus high installed; I scriecht in vain, in vain I fled the Fury! This I'll depose, is Truth before a Jury! But here the chanter pawsed: he judged it best To let his Eyes and Looks speak out the rest. Girot essayed to comfort him in vain; This Vision, Sir! perhaps might rise from pain In your disturbed Head; Melancholy Vapours Careering in the Brain beget these Capers: The chanter crossed, storms, rages, and in choler Leaps out of bed to mitigate his dolour; Scorning with sorry Page to brawl, and quarrel, He calls in haste for's Holiday Apparel! A fair silk Cassock, richly lined with Plush Tho' dusty (Girot could not find the Brush,) He first put on; next a silk Mohair Gown Which to his heels with draggling train hung down; A pair of Purple Gloves his proper badges, A Rotchet which the Dean once gave as wages; Yet jealous lest his Tail the ground should sweep, The Shears had dockt it short, three Inches deep. His corner'd Cap (for fear of cold) on's Head, His Hood in's hand for haste, he hurried; Away he speeds thus gorgeously equipped, Never did seventy years so nimbly trip it! He cursed an old Sciatica that Stopped him, But yet his wooden Crutch most stoutly propped him; Rage added wings; inspired with Zealous Fire (Whilst others lagged) he first arrived i'th' Quire. O Thou, who in a Rapture, tranced in Boggs, Describest the Battle of the Mice and Frogs! And Thou! whose curious Pencil drew to th' Life All Italy for Goats-wooll fallen at strife; Or rather thou, whose Muse did Pen the Stories Of the sad Contrasts between the whigs and Tories! Lend me a Tongue that may express a Passion, Of mixed Envy, Spite, Rage, Emulation, First pale and dumb he stood, like one confounded; As if ten thousand Furies him surrounded; His Mass of Blood boils, all his Humours bubble; Such power have Pulpits to create our trouble! His belly swelled like Sibyl's raptured Priest, With hollow sounding noise like Pythonist, Struggling he stood under this inward load, Released at last he thus shook off the God See! Girot see! the True Interpretation Of my late Phantasm, which thy foolish Passion Called a Delusion! thus the Dream I construe, This Pulpit is the Hideous Hellborn Monster! This! this the fatal, the Malignant screen Will never more let me, poor me, be seen! Ah Prelate! treble Vengeance now indeed Thy plotting pate has heaped upon my Head! Can not thy Malice hug itself in bed, Between two Nappy blanckets covered? To force my cold Seat, thy warm Couch resign? Put out thy right Eye, to put out both mine? O Heavens! O Hell! see how this Hateful Mass Has made a Tomb of my once glorious Place? Where I may sleep Inglorious, Sans Regard, Nor more than Powers Unseen, be seen, or heard! Nay rather than endure this fowl disgrace, A thousand times I'll quit this loathed Place: ne'er sing Te Deum more! Renounce the Altar! And end my days at Tyburn in a Halter! I ought not, cannot, will not live a Minute I' th' Church, whilst hateful Pulpit triumphs in it; Come Girot! lend thy friendly helping hand, If I have breath and strength, it shall not stand! He spoke! his Arm waited upon his words, Strength filled his Arm, and Fury strength affords: Arrests the Pulpit; and with haughty frown, Come down thou Idol! or I'll pluck thee down! Just in the juncture of this flaming hate, As the wise Destinies ordained, and Fate, Who should come in, but Girard the Bell-ringer? And at his heels amain, Ribout the Singer? No couple greater Bigots of the Chanters, Against the Prelate none more desperate Ranters; At the Dire sight though both did Sympathise, Yet they advised his Worship to be wise! Pray Sir! said they, for once be ruled by Fools! 'Tis dangerous meddling naked, with edged Tools! 'Tis ten to one the Prelate will Allege This fact of yours guilty of Sacrilege! Nay who can tell but at the General Diet We may be Questioned, and Condemned of Riot? Call then a Chapter; put it to the Vote, Let faithful tellers take the Poll, and note The ay's and Noe's; And if we carry't, than Sir! Down goes the Innovation, once again Sir! This sage Advice reprieved some little while The trembling Pulpit: The Chanter feigns a smile! Call then a Chapter! Run! Make haste! Away! Summon the Drowsy Drones! Nay Pray you stay, Quoth Honest Ribout the famed Chorister; No more haste than good speed, beseech you Sir! Rash actions often bring too late Repentance! Girard was hugely taken with the sentence, And seconds him: Great Sir! this weighty Business, This Nice point will not bear Haste, or Remissness! Perhaps the Chanters and the Monks may be Awaked, but did your Reverence ever see prebend's and Canons before break of Day Frequent the Chapel, there to sing, or say Sursum Corda! Believe me, Sir! believe me, I speak't with troubled Heart, the thing does grieve me, When six bells jangling, for these thirty Years Can never pierce their Barricadoed Ears, What hope two snivelling Chanters cries should wake 'em, And to Cold Prayers from their warm Beds betake 'em? Can you send Jove with his loud Thunderclaps, Your Plot perhaps might take, and but perhaps: With what Charms then, hope you here to prevail? These Adders stop their Ears with their own Tail. The Chanter nettled heard in fustian fume rejoining Girard thus saucily presume, And thus! Nay now false heart, I plainly see What leg thou halt'st on! 'Tis the Prelate, he That mortifies thy base enfeebled Spirits, Vile Venal Soul! what knowst thou not my Merits? I oft have seen thee cringe with supple Hams, To woe his blessings; Alas! mere flim-flams! Well! go, and basely bend thy Oiled knees, I have enough without thee, to make 'em rise. Come Girot! Come, my trusty steel-edged friend, Thee on this Errand I dare send, Nor fear success: Take me the Thundering Hammer, On Holy Thursday used to raise a Clamour; And trust me friend, The Rising Sun shall see The Chapter met in its Formality! 'Twas said, 'twas done! forth from the sacred Chest Where it did lie from year to year at rest, The Mawl is brought: Away they March, and cry The Chapter waits you; waits you instantly! Discord would not be wanting in the Brawl, She enters strait the Prelate's Palace-Hall, Augments the Din; the Neighbourhood she scares With rising Scare-fires, sudden Massacres; The Canons now Awake! Strange tale to tell, Such wonder in an Age had scarce befell! One swears the Lightnings did invest the Town, That Thunderbolts had beat the Houses down, And one cries, Fire! Fire! Fire! the Church doth burn A second time; A third hopes a new turn, For Holy Thursday! some whose guts chimed Noon Blessed the Occasion that called them so soon From Bed to Board; for all Agree, no Knell Can more concern them than the Dinner-bell! But yet the Noise that had unglewed their eyes Can not persuade the Sluggish Canons rise, Nor leave the Pleasures of th' enchanted Bed, Till wily Girot got this trick in's Head; With Stentors Voice he makes loud Proclamation▪ O yez! I'th' Chapter House, A rare Collation Stands ready dressed to meet your Appetite! He needed say no more: O blessed sight To see the prebend's haste in Numerous throngs! What Rhetoric has Soup! how little Songs! Deaf Bellies now found Ears: one Cannon ran With one hose off, the other scarcely on; Another durst not stay to tie his shoes, But slip-shoed hobbled, lest he Breakfast lose. A third, whose appetite severely itches Had not due time to hook his dropping Breeches! Fallacious Hopes! here was nor bread, nor Wine! The cheated Fools must with Duke Humphrey dine! Yet mute they sat, expecting when at last The Servitors bring in the hoped Repast? Nor was it Reason that the gutled Fops Should spend their Tongues, who could not use their Chaps. The Chanter though he saw his plot succeed, Yet feared Delay might unseen Danger breed; Rising with blubbered eyes brim full of Tears, Unbosoms to them all his Griefs and Fears. But Cannon Everard, whose barking Maw All Hungry Guests, but yet no Victuals saw, Impatient of delay, as he was able, Cried out aloud; Pray Sirs, bring in the Table; What mean you thus to frustrate our raised Hopes? Must we sit always pining in our Copes? The Chanter conscious of his cheat, gave way To his Just Indignation; nor durst say Aught in Reply; till Father alain broke The Horrid silence, and most gravely spoke: This alain you must know, was a learned Rabbin, Who spent his days at study in his ; Twice twenty times had he turned o'er the Sums Of Father Bauny, had picked up the Crumbs Of Thomas à Kempis; he knew the Latin, Although his Gown was neither Silk nor Satin; He gravely caught, and coughing gravely Rose, Discharged his mind in Ciceronian Prose; Which cause the sense was Great, the language terse, The Poet has Immortalised in Verse. I'll pawn my Life on't (said the Canonist) This is the Knavery of some Jansenist! I dare believe my own eyes Information! Our Prelate's pleased with Gurniers Conversation: Arnold that Heretic waits our Destruction, And this Tool uses for the Deans seduction: No doubt but he can from St. Austin prove That one St. Lewis sent from Heaven above, In after Ages rising in our France, A Pulpit in this Chapel should advance: Now to confute him there lies all the skill, he'll plague us with the Torrent of his Quill; One Argument 've yet left to confute him, Let's burn him in Effigy, that will rout him! Let others turn o'er each Voluminous Father, That's not my Province; To be short, I'd rather Consult with Father Bauny; he alone With me is twenty Anstins, all in One: Go then and Rumage all Antiquity, If any footsteps there, of Pulpits be; 've time enough day! fall to your task, No longer space than till daybreak we ask: So many Heads, and hands I doubt not, can Before Sun-rise perufe the Vatican! This uncouth motion startled all that heard it, Till fatguts Everard opened, and quite marred it: A wise device! (quoth he) And pray, what Gains Shall answer all this Cumber, all these pains? For one poor lousy Pew, to break our Brains: 'Tis more Ingenious to Study Meat, Let his Thin Chaps his Musty Authors Eat! 've other Fish to fry! I am a man That Read alike Bible and Koran! If I can learn what Rents my Tenants own; When Mortgaged Vineyards forfeited do grow; Can I precisely learn the Quarter's day, When wooden Shoes trudge up their deuce to pay; There lies my Talon! I no Learning lack, But what is entered in my Almanac. Imprimis, fifty Marks a year in Ground-Rents; Item, twice fifty more Per-ann. in Pound-Rents! When Wheat, and Malt in crowded Garners lie, I boast me of a well-stored Library! Why vex we then Dead Fathers, Greeks and Lattins? Our Mother Tongue will serve to Mumble Matins; I'll ask no help of Scotus to pull down A Pulpit! This great Arm the Work shall Crown. All's one to me, let Arnold judge or quit me, I'll hit him home again, whoever dares hit me: Fie on these long Harangues! Let's live, and Drink! And let censorious Whigs think what they think! Thus Everard spoke! A heavy Abbey Lubber! Whose Head was always nuzling in the Cubbered! Ribout the Chorister then demurely risen, And these Impertinencies stiffly oppose. I never liked tedious Circumlocutions, And shall advise to more concise conclusions! Let Trombaut make but the great Organs roar, They'll blow the Pulpit quickly out o'th' door! Needs must the Chanter own each man his friend, Though differing in the Means, they jumped i'th' Eend! The General cry went still, Ay! one and all! Let the Proud Pulpit, Let the Pulpit fall! Thus all Unanimous held the Conclusion, But in the Premises was great Confusion: Just so at Trent, when Concord in a Bag Came Post from Rome, they hit it to a Tag! The lest he liked was he that last had spoke, His Patience that a little did provoke: I ne'er Approved (quoth he) this moral work! Who knows what fallacy may under't lurk? Who can assure me but the Pulpits blast May puff the Organs out of Doors at last? We sometimes saw the sad experiment, Away with that Dubious Expedient; Come, Come! Let's make (said he) a Quick dispatch! Whilst we prate here, we fast in pain, and watch! Down with the Idol! As I am a sinner, My eager stomach croaks, and calls for Dinner! There will we sit, Chat, Eat, Drink, Laugh, grow fat, Exiling fretting Care, that kills a Cat! He rose in hasty Zeal; The faithful Troop, Armed with the Pregnant hopes of Sacred Soup, Fellow their Leader: to the Choir they go, There view the Object of their Rage, and Woe; There on the Common Enemy they lay United hands; and at the first essay Pluck down the Provocation of their Spleen; So in the Woods of Ardenne have I seen, Sacred to Jove, an Ancient spreading Oak Fall at the Axes oft redoubled stroke! The Board's they rend in Pieces; and the Quarry In Triumph to the Chanters Kitchen carry! So Arduous was the work! of such Renown! To set a Pulpit up, to pluck a Pulpit down! FINIS.