THE Canonical States-man's GRAND ARGUMENT DISCUSSED.  
In a Dialogue, etc.  
LONDON, Printed for the Assigns of General Ludlow, for the Edification of the Common-Wealths-Men at Dick's Coffeehouse in Fleetstreet, 1693.   

THE PREFACE.  
AS Ease and Idleness are the Fruitful Parents of more than Ordinary Offsprings, 'twas some such generating Principles that gave Birth to a late Pamphlet of most Famous Renown. The Author, a Canonical Boutefew, who has long since shaken Hands with his Original Vocation of Preaching and Praying, being indeed, though but a Pulpit Drone, yet an absolute Jehu of a State-Driver, touched belike with something more than an Altar-Coal; Prerogative and Crowned Heads the sublimer Subject of his soaring Dreams, betwixt a Zeal Biggotted, and a Crazed Perecranium has made hard Shift to steal some few Hours from his Daily and Nightly Darlings, Whiff and Tipple, to lend this Celebrated Product to the World, which has given it no little Titillation.  
I confess, 'tis not his First Birth of that Kind; many more Minerva's of much the same Stamp have formerly been hammered from his Fruitful Noddle, the good hard Head of our Jovial Teemer; and many a Black Vulcan, and Sooty Cyclops, called from their Forge and Fire, to lend their necessary aiding Midwifery. But this last, being the most hugged and dandled Brat, we think fit to make the Subject of our present remarks, a Piece, let me tell you, undoubtedly designed for the Basis of no little Monumental Glory; the Author most certainly aspiring to his Name-Sake's Immortality, viz. by Eternising his Fame by an [Oh Rare Sam!] like the others, [Oh Rare Ben!]  
The several united Forces that clubbed for this Conception, (for no Disparagement to the reputed Canonical Dad, an Offspring of this Strength requires more Sinew and Nerve, than one Man can supply, and therefore is generally Filius Populi;) have sufficiently blazoned themselves in so audaciously impeaching one of the Prime Ministers of State of no less than the Highest Treason and Infidelity, a Practice much used in the Ad-Republican Days, and therefore not unreasonably revived by the same Kidney and Spirit, after the laudable Custom of their Forefathers, the tickling the Prince on one side, and wounding the Ministry on the other, being a known Experienced Edge-Tool of the most Ingenious Anarchist's. However this Elaborate Pen-Work from so doughty a Crown Champion as our Levitical Loyaltist, and so seemingly fair a Pillar of the supported Monarchy, set up like Nebuchadnezzar's Image, with Psaltries and Timbrels playing, and the Popular Knees all bending before it; 'tis worth our while to inquire, both who are the Songsters, and what the Chorus; and therefore, I hope, my Reader will not disaccept of this small Supplement, by way of a necessary Illustration, to the profounder Depths of that prodigious Master-Stroke.   
GOOSILION. 

OF old e'er half Time's Glass was run,  
when Jove the Sire, and Mars the Son,  
With all their jolly Kin above  
The Heavenly Family of Love,  
As Records tell in Heathen Letter  
Were Gods of Rome for want of better;   

'Twas then when Vandal and grim Goth,  
With more than Hannibal's dire Oath,  
Rome's Foe, well nigh, by Thunder hurled  
Had tamed the Mistress of the World,  
Penned in her almost total Fall  
Within her narrow Capitol-Wall;  
Short Bounds for her no Bar late found,  
But elbowed justled Empires round.  
'Twas here, when her last All at Stake,  
Her Foes had but one push to make;  
And that so near the last dire stroke,  
As if by all her Gods forsook,  
Her own great Jove had took a Nap  
So sound in some new Danae's Lap,  
That all his Mortal Charge neglected,  
Left his own Capitol unprotected:  
When, lo, kind Chance, more tender-hearted  
Than all her Guardian Powers, departed,  
This Miracle of Safety started.  
An humble Gosling's Nest, in Story  
More famed than all her eagle's Glory;  
Those Capitol Sentinels shrill Cackle  
Retrieved lost Rome from foreign Shackle.  
Thus rescued State from Chains got lose;  
The Fame of Nation-saving Goose  
Sounded so high, and rung so shrill,  
That wondering Ages talk on't still.  
But 'mongst the still fresh Trumpets that sound  
These long-necked Champions so renowned,  
A certain Bard of British Nation  
Paid Goose profoundest Veneration:  
The Foes of Nations down to trample,  
Set vigilant Goose his great Example;  
Goose, Guardian, Patriot and Defender,  
Style none too great, nor name too tender;  
And when in England s equal danger,  
To St. Jago plots no stranger,  
He saw the Pilgrim-Troops advancing,  
To Babylonian Timbrels dancing;  
Foresaw the dark Cabals designing,  
With Rights and Liberties undermining,  
Assaulting Popery, Capitol shaking;  
Then like a popular Gosling waking,  
With more than Emulation fired,  
By transmigrating Goose inspired,  
To break the Enemy's toils and tackle,  
Set up his Julian-Larum Cackle,  
Renowned by this prodigious Piece,  
(Though, troth, it cost his Back a Fleece)  
Chuckled and tickled with Applause,  
At every little starting Cause,  
He cackles over and over again:  
So nimble is a running Pen.   

But this Canonical State-Faber,  
His greatest Work and noblest Labour,  
Was a late Pamphlet of Renown  
As has filled every Tongue in Town;  
The Author so admired, so courted,  
Till elevated and transported  
With more than strutting Peacock-pride,  
With homely Houshold-drudge by is side,  
A Thing called Spouse, to join i'th'Quire,  
One day by sooty sea-coal fire,  
He thus began himself t' admire.   Goosilion. 
Ah, Child, what secret Joys I find  
To see th' applauding World so kind.  
Kind and applauding! Yes, 'tis true;  
But what's that more than my just due.  
How can they pay me over-measure,  
In the return for such a Treasure!  Goosiliana. 
Nay, hold, my Dear, make no such haste  
In praising the kind World too fast.  
Kind! Pray, what Recompense hast made you,  
When airy Praise is alled has paid you?  
Are empty sounds of so much value,  
As can with all your Sufferings tally!  Goosilion. 
True, an ungrateful World we serve,  
Where naked virtue's doomed to starve.  
I must confess I once was proffered,  
Forsooth, in part of Payment offered,  
Only Four hundred pound a-year;  
A paltry Sum.  Goosiliana. 
And could my Dear  
Refuse Four hundred pound a Year?  Goosilion. 
Four hundred! Ay, at this good season,  
A trifling sum quite out of reason.  
Besides, think how refused, and what?  
A drudging Benefice, God wots,  
Encumbered with the Toil of Teaching;  
And, Child, thou knowst I ne'er loved preaching.  
Besides, my Sufferings, Dear Chick,  
Thou knowst deserve a Bishopric.  
And thinkest thou I have so poor a Spirit,  
As to descend beneath my Merit?  
What if th' ungrateful World forget  
How much they're in my Julian's Debt.  
Nor is't my fault: How have I threshed  
To keep their Memories refreshed:  
Have writ, and writ, double and triple  
Whole Volumes of Republic Scribble.  
And if this last home-Stroke don't win 'em,  
I must conclude the Devil's in 'em.  
Had I writ half so much, and tried  
My dint of Pen on th'other side;  
My Labours and my Pains rewarded,  
I had been respected and regarded:  
The good old Gentleman, I wis,  
Had sent me a Cardinal's Cap e'er this.  
But thus to serve Ungrates! Alas,  
Fool that I was;— but let that pass.  Goosiliana. 
If thou hast no Reward; for shame  
Why wouldst thou play a losing Game?  
Nay, Time was, when, to thy undoing,  
Thou run'steven desperate into Ruin:  
Remember Julian, when no stranger  
To all thy too apparent danger,  
The certain Mischiefs would befall thee,  
And Molock hands prepared to maul thee,  
Inspired with move than Courage doughty,  
How dared thou raise such storms about thee?  
Expose thyself to all the Rage  
Of such an Iron-Tory-Age!  
The hardest heart of Stone must melt,  
Even but to think what Pains thou ' saint felt.  Goosilion. 
Fie, Chicken, how canst talk so oddly,  
To put this Question to the Godly!  
Pains, didst thou say! No, Lady mine,  
Raptures and Ecstasy divine.  
What Tongue, what Eloquence can paint  
The Pleasures of a suffering Saint!  
Through every Vein, ane every Arter '  
The Titillations of a Martyr.  
Thinkest thou the Militants of old  
At Fires, and Stakes, and Wracks so bold;  
Could the hard Gauntlet run so often,  
Were there not inward Sweets to soften?  
When pain buys pleasure, who can traffic  
Too high for Joys so much Seraphic,  
To hazard Fortune, Life, and all,  
Too poor the venture, price too small.  
I tell thee, could this mortal Mould  
Outlive the Patriarches of old,  
Outnumber Hundreds with the Crow,  
And even Methus'lem's Beard out-grow;  
The dear remembrance, pleasing thought  
Of all lmy Sufferings cheaply bought,  
With their great Cause together joined;  
Are Contemplations so refined,  
As even my aged Snow should warm;  
Not Mahomet's Heaven my equal Charm:  
His thousand Years tumultuous Bliss,  
In the Embrace of large-eyed Miss,  
Nor half, not half my Paradise.  
Thou canst not think what heartening Cordial  
Supports us Saints o'er fiery Ordeal;  
Nor canst thou guests what Charms invite us.  
What sayest t' our elder Brother Titus,  
That Proto-Martyr, Heart of Oak,  
The toughest Oracle e'er spoke,  
That great Original of Glory,  
The famousest that e'er swelled Story!  
That bold, no flincher, constant still  
To bloody Pilgrim and Black-bill.  
Thinkest thou his Flogging. Gaol, or Pillory,  
Or all the battering Artillery  
From Observator's backside Favour  
Could damp that hardy Nation-saviour!  
Fines, Prisons, Dungeons, or Strappado  
 cow that valiant Rhod'montado.  
Think'ft thou sore shoulders, or Eggs rotten  
Answer the Sweets o'th'Fame h▪ has gotten.  Goosiliana. 
No more, no more, I stand convinced:  
No wonder now thou'st never winced.  
Oh, Child, thou plead'st thy suffering Case  
With so much Charm and such a Grace;  
With that bewitching Face and Air,  
Hast painted Martyrdom so fair;  
Thy Fame so great, thy Glory such,  
My Dear, I envy thee so much,  
Thy Nine-tail Cat and trolling Cart,  
I vow I could even act thy Part;  
But that thou knowst I have one Leg shorter,  
A little failing in lower Quarter:  
And t'hop and limp behind the Tumbler,  
Would but perform it like a Fumbler;  
Else, were it not for that Mischance,  
I swear I could even lead thy Dance.  
But (hang't) let's leave these sadder Stories,  
Quit cloudy Scenes for smiling Glories:  
Thanks Heaven those scorching Dog-days done,  
Thou livest beneath a gentler Sun.  
Come, man, bear up, Rewards will come  
And pay thee in a lumping Sum.  
The Royal Cause so great Supporter,  
Ne'er fear thou'rt cut out for a Courtier.  Goosillion. 
The Royal Cause! Poor Innocence;  
Thinkest thou we write for Crown's Defence?  
Dimocks and Champions for Kings?  
No, Chicken, we know better things.  
'Tis true, that Piece so gaudy dressed  
Looks high that way; but there's the Jest.  
As fair a Glance does that way roll,  
Look through't, thou'lt find a deeper soul.  
Though Royal Title only stated,  
For 'Cause Republic calculated;  
For in the same defensive stress  
The strength and hold of Crowns we press;  
Don't we without distinction strike  
A full home blow, and plead alike  
All Power whate'er, o'th'up'most hand,  
By Right and Heaven supported stand.  
And so poor honest Massanello  
Was three days Sovereign Hail-fellow.  
Wat Tyler and Jack Straw, poor Vermine,  
Had Fate but dressed in Roval Ermine,  
Had born the Royal Stamp as fair  
As dull Descent to th' hundredth Heir.  
If such poor Tools had nought to fear;  
Oh, what a brave occasions here!  
Oh, what dear Harbour! what safe sleeping  
For Plato Redivive to creep in?  
For a new bold Titanian Race  
To brave the tiresome Jove t'his Face;  
His Throne to seize, and Thunder grapple,  
And hold by Tenure stout and staple;  
Sceptre's to break, and Crowns to bow,  
To set th' old dear State-hands to plough.  
The very Thought a Charm so soft,  
As bears my ravished Soul aloft,  
Till it throws off the sullen Cloud  
Of forty years Monarchick Load,  
And in our once, all bright display,  
Looks back to England's Glorious Day.  Goosiliana. 
Nay, than it has a Soul indeed,  
If for that mighty Work decreed.  Goosilion. 
Yes, Child, this Birth for vast Design  
Was helped by greater Heads than mine,  
State-mongers, Whisperers, Writers, Talkers,  
From Cough- Dicks to Lobby-walkers.  
All Politics and Cabals resulted,  
And every Oracle consulted.  
All Hands to spur the work a-gallop  
From poor T. D. to Counsellor—  
And if it fail the work Divine,  
Heaven knows it is no Fault of mine.  Goosiliana. 
Oh, Child, I can't but wondering sit  
To think o' th'reach of Humane Wit,  
How high thy soaring Soul can climb,  
A Grasp and Fathom so sublime!  Goosilion. 
Ay, my sweet Spouse, this Maxim learn,  
Great Machine's still great Weights must turn.  
This studied Piece has yet more in it;  
Consider, Child, the critic minute,  
The hour when hatched, the day when printed,  
Then guess for what high Service minted;  
A politic State Shooing-horn  
To gain a Point and serve a Turn:  
Just in the nick, by manage nice,  
Presented round no less than twice,  
About to Senate-Members bandied.  
When Abjuration-Oath was bandied.  
Dear Abjuration, if turned Trump,  
The best Republick-Card, since Rump;  
A cutting Tool of edge more keen  
Than even by'ts Founders e'er foreseen.  
An Embryo, which to Life but hatched,  
Had all our glorious Work dispatched:  
For when one kind enclosing Fold  
Could Sheep and Goat united hold;  
Both lulled and hushed together kept,  
And under Royal Cedar slept;  
This Scourge for Jacobite-shoulders plotted  
With all its Thongs of Steel, so knotted,  
The covered Embers had unraked,  
And all the sleeping Dudgeon waked;  
Fated for troubled State turmoiling,  
And setting hot mad Blood a boiling;  
In short, a Masterpiece of Art  
To Job's old Tempter Second Part.  
Touch 'em to th'quick in that soft place,  
Thou'lt find theyll curse thee to thy face.  
Had that great Birth but got the day,  
Then, then was our great Game to play.  Goosiliana. 
T'enlighten my poor Intellectual  
Thou'st read a Lecture so effectual,  
That give me leave to own my Pride  
To sit by my Gamaliel's side.  
And to reward thy burning Zeal,  
And pushing▪ hand, for Common-weal:  
What though no fair Prelatic Dawn  
From Mitre, and a slieve of Lawn,  
Thy radiant Lorded Brow entwine;  
Yet still some Beams of Comfort shine.  
The Brethren, Child, I understand  
Are lending thee their helping Hand:  
A Purse, my Dearest, a kind Lift,  
Like trusty Roger's New-year's Gift.  Goosilion. 
Yes, my dear Child, I hear a humming  
Of Comfortable Guineas coming:  
A kind Collection, Girl— but mum!  
In better Time it ne'er could come:  
For let me whisper in thy Ear,  
Claret, divine, blest Claret's dear;  
Claret, that I may justly call  
My Saint, my Mistress, Idol, All,  
My Study, Learning, Aristotle;  
And more than Bible, Pipe and Bottle.   
FINIS.