THE SONGS OF MOSeS and DEBORAH paraphrased.  
WITH POEMS ON Several Occasions.  
Never before Published.  
To which is added, A PINDARIC ON Mr. L'ESTRANGE.  Veniam dabimus petimusque vicissim. 
LONDON, Printed for Luke Meredith, at the King's Head, at the West-End of St. Paul's Churchyard. MDCLXXXV.   

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE JOHN LORD CHURCHILL.  
MY LORD,  
THere are several things in the World that carry along with them no real use or profit; but serve only to fill up the vacuities of the Creation, and please purely upon the account of Variety: Among this class of Being's some Men have graciously vouchsafed to rank all Essayers in this kind: and our Authors further add, That if Nature ever made any thing in Vain, 'twas a Poet. Well, for once let Poets have the worshipful Name of Jesters to Mankind; let us grant for once, That they are but Risus plorantis Mundi, as was said of the Rainbow, the Sport and Caprice of Nature; Men worked off when she was in an excellent merry vein. Yet hard Fate it is, That while like Silkworms, they unravel their very Bowels for the Pleasure and Luxury of Mankind; they must lie Entombed in their own bottoms. We read, I confess, of few of the Tribe that have been Lord Mayor or Secretaries of State, Men of vast Business or Politics: Yet let me oppose to this bold Slander, by way of Apology, for the usefulness of Poetry, what stands Recorded of the Famous Alcaeus, that great Poet and Soldier, who used to make his Speeches in Verse at the head of his Army; and thought there was as much Martial Music in the Harmonious Cadence of Numbers, as in the louder noise of Drums and Hautboys. Nay we further read, Poets were the Civility Masters to Mankind, and the only Divines of the old World: and even the greatest Preachers of our days are not ashamed to make use of their Sermon-Notes, and bespangle their Discourse with the Golden Remains of their Compositions.  
I question not, but Your Lordship does presently foresee what Advantage I intent to make of this Preamble; For where now should persecuted Poetry fly, but to the Patronage of the Great? Whose very Title, at the Front of its Productions, is Charm enough against all the peevish Bolts of an ill-judging Age. And, I hope, Your Lordship will the more easily pardon the Presumption, in prefixing Your awful Name to these Trifles, when You shall consider, That the Greatest Men the World yet produced, have been Your Fellow-sufferers, have been pestered with Addresses of this kind: The great Scipio had Ennius always in his Camp: And a greater than he, the Macedonian Youth, carried a whole Knot of the Brothers of the Quill, into Asia, with him. And Your Lordship may, with Modesty enough, put in for a Share in this Privilege, of having Poeta a latere; whose Sword has already acted Wonders; and will in time, no question, cut out more Work for Heroic Poetry; than the ablest Pen can engrave.  
But still, My Lord, these Motives had been too weak, had not Your Natural Candour and Ingenuity opened a way for this bold Attempt: And here I have but too large a Field to expatiate in. I may safely say, You possess all the Virtues, separate from the Vices of a Courtier. All that have the Honour of Your Lordship's Acquaintance, proclaim You Master of a Soul, that is unruffled with Passion, undisturbed with the Freakishness of Humour; where Affability with State, Humility with Greatness, meet and centre.  
This is Great and Illustrious: But Your Lordship's steady and unbyass'd Loyalty, is the Brightest Star in this Constellation of Virtues: Far from the Humour of some Malcontents of our Age, who upon the least Pique, and Court-Disgust, fly off to the Faction; not unlike the Fellow, who had God on one side of his Shield, and the Devil on the other, with this Motto, If You won't have me, here's One will.  
Thus, when Nature had fitly framed Your Mind, she left not off here, but took order the fair Inhabitant should be lodged in as delicate a Body; a Structure of such admirable Contrivance and Regularity, that I must here apply what Plato has said of Philosophers, That the Souls of Vulgar Persons are lodged in their Bodies, but the Bodies of Philosophers in their Souls; their very Bodies being so pure, defecate and refined: Never was a happier Match made by Fate, except in that blessed Conjunction of Your other Half, Your Honoured Lady, and Yourself; a Couple so well paired by Heaven, that if all the Beauty and Proportion of both Sexes should be lost, here it might be retrieved: And such is the Harmony of Your Souls, so strong the Tie of Conjugal Affection, as it could scarce be greater, when the whole World had but Two in Family: An Example of such admirable Influence, that it were able throughly to Convert any Age, less lewd than That we live in.  
But in vain, My Lord, I seek to play the Panegyrist, when Heaven itself has long since designed You for a lasting Ornament to this Nation, by choosing Your Lordship to be a Part of those precious Remains of the Scoth Wreck: and his Royal Highness has taught the World how to value so much Worth and Excellency, when Your Lordship had the Honour to be the Second Man called into the Longboat.  
As for these ensuing Trifles Your Lordship may easily perceive by the Weakness of the Child, that the Parent is of no strong Masculine Constitution in Poetry: But if the World will be pleased to take 'em as they are, I promise, for their Comfort, never to trouble 'em more. But why do I appeal to the Many? No: With the Wise Heathen, Contemno minutos istos Deos modo Jovem propitium habeo: Let the World freely damn 'em for their Money, so they live but in the favourable Opinion of Your Lordship; which is the utmost Ambition of,  
My Lord, Your Lordship's Most Devoted Servant, C. Cleeve.   

To my Friend the AUTHOR.  
AS you and I have walked along by Paul's,  
And happened there to see the numerous shoals  
Of Authors scattered upon every Stall,  
Which hourly wait for an effectual call:  
How often have I cried, Look here my Friend,  
Of writing Verse you find there is no end;  
For see where Denham, Dryden, Oldham, lie:  
Few read the Title Page, and fewer buy.  
When to the Book-Retailing Coxcomb's price,  
Perhaps the cautious Buyer will not rise;  
Come, Sir, says he, to fetch him to his Gin,  
See I'll be kind, here take the Medal in.  
Audacious Sot! to use a Poet so,  
Thus Chandler's with their Penny Chapmen do;  
Into the Bargain Thread and Paper throw.  
To see 'em tied and strung on ev'ery Board,  
It does at once Pity and Mirth afford:  
For then methinks all the Harmonious Band,  
Just like so many Country Fiddlers stand;  
Please you a Lesson, Masters; here is good  
Store of Pindaric, Pastoral and Ode.  
Oh cursed kill shame! and yet in spite  
Of this ill Fate; spite of your Stars you'd write.  
If you had been so plaguy fond to know  
How we●● the world approved your vein or so,  
You might have clapped a Copy in the dark  
Before a Book; like a raw entering Spark,  
Have writ C. C. and only set your Mark.  
T. KING.   

THE CONTENTS.  

THE Song of Moses paraphrased. Pag. 1  
The Song of Deborah paraphrased. 13  
Miracles, Works above and contrary to Nature. Occasioned by the Publishing a Book, Entitled, Miracles no violation of the Laws of Nature. 55  
A Dialogue between the Two Rivers, Cham and Isis, on the King's Dissolving the Oxford Parliament. 62  
A Poem, written on the occasion of the Thanksgiving-Day for the Discovery of the Fanatical Plot, September 9 1683. 69  
An Epitaph on the late E. of S. 81  
The Tower of London. On the Commitment of some Great Persons. 83  
Religio vi & armis non est propaganda. 85  
A short satire against Keeping. 88  
The Penitent. 95  
The Wooing. 99  
The Fifth Ode of the Second Book of Horace imitated. 101  
On two Lads unfortunately expelled the University for a Riot. 103  
On Three Ladies who going abroad in Masquerade, met with some Bullies, Drew and Fought 'em; in the Fray, one of the Ladies was desperately Wounded, 1683. 106  
A Poem on the Prince's Marriage. 111  
To the Memory of the Learned Dr. J. N. who died of a Consumption, 1683. 118  
On the Famous Painter Mr. J. E. Pindaric Odes. 124  
A Poem on Mr. L'Estrange. 135    

THE SONG OF MOSES paraphrased.  

I.  
NOW had blessed Israel gained the distant Shore,  
They long had reached with greedy Eyes before,  
When their Great Guide waved his Mysterious Wand,  
beckoning the Sacred Host to make a Stand;  
They owned the mighty Sign, and straight obeyed;  
They turned, and all around the wondrous Wreck surveyed.  
The parted Seas ran to embrace afresh,  
And hide their Father Neptune's Nakedness;  
These Secrets, which now long unveiled had been,  
Since Nature's Birth before ne'er seen.  
For scattered o'er the Bottom of the Deep,  
(The Storehouse, where the Sea its Spoils is wont to keep)  
Lay Anchors, Helmets, shattered Bones,  
Lay Heaps of Jewels, and unvalued Stones;  
Some were lodged in dead Men's Skulls,  
And in the selfsame Holes,  
Where Eyes of old did dwell with their Enlivening Beams,  
There were hid reflecting Gems.  
With as swift Pace the Waves to their old Beds did move,  
As when at first the Almighty Fiat spoke,  
Bidding them straight, dry Land forsake;  
And to one great Abyss the scattered Waters drove▪  
The Waves in Triumph bore their Spoils along,  
And with fresh Prizes fraught,  
Which in their Watery Net they'd caught,  
In numerous Bands to th' wondering Shore did throng.  
Close by the Hebrews side, upon the spacious Sand,  
Lay all the Pride of Aegypt's Land;  
One Wave the mighty Cenchres bore,  
Another brought his faithful Page to Shore.  
Cursed Pharaoh! now as much with Water swelled,  
As he before with haughty Pride was filled.  
Here lay a Prince, and there a Swain,  
Both clad in th' Native Scarlet of the Main;  
In equal Death both the same State maintain.  
Each Hebrew at his Feet his Master now does view,  
Each Man his cursed Oppressor knew:  
Their Pleasure tho' a secret Fear controlled;  
For yet they looked as cruel, fierce and bold;  
And yet they seemed to grin out their Commands,  
And still to threaten with up-lifted Hands.  
Now dead, the Hebrews fear 'em more,  
Than living they had done before.   

II.  
Thus, O ye Sons of Israel, be it done,  
Cries Amrams mighty Son;  
May thus a speedy Ruin seize on those,  
Who dare our God, or's Prophet's Voice oppose:  
For He it is, that great unutterable Name,  
Who now has done this Glorious Work of Fame.  
'Twas by his Hand the Chamian Army fell;  
Down like a Stone they went, and sunk as deep as Hell.  
The generous Horse, proud of his Master's Weight,  
At first pranced down the Gulf with stately Gate:  
As pleased and glad he stood,  
As when he used to water at some Neighbouring Flood:  
But when the rolling Seas came down amain,  
He started straight, and flounced, and slipped the useless Rein.  
No Aid the Faithful Beast can lend;  
But Horse and Rider too beneath this watery Fate must bend.  
He grew unruly with the Fright,  
Not used to this odd way of Fight.  
He saw no other Enemy throughout the Field,  
But Water, which beneath his pressing Hoof did yield.  
But still the slippery Foe came on him fresh again,  
And plunged him down, at last, into the faithless Main:  
There in watery Stalls to feed  
With Horses of another Breed.  
Pity, that Vengeance innocent Beasts should slay!  
Pity, that they for sinning Man should pay!  
Upon the floating Chariots head.  
Where once proud Aegypt's purpled Monarch sat,  
All the Scaly Herd were got;  
It pleased 'em far above their Watery Bed.  
Thus placed, as proud the Sea-Born Monsters moved,  
As their Brother Fish above;  
Who in that Sea of Air, which there does flow,  
With all the other Signs, an endless Journey go.  
See there sad Aegypt's Ruins scattered o'er the Main:  
This did the Lord himself, a Glorious Name to gain   

III.  
Our God, (sang on the Great Inspired Seer)  
The Alwise God, whom we adore and fear,  
No lazy Deity is, or idle Looker-on,  
Whilst his People suffer Wrong.  
A Jealous Being, ready to redress:  
Nor will He see his Votaries borne down by thriving Wickedness.  
His Power oft in Battles has been shown  
Against the Enemies of his Heavenly Crown.  
When He goes forth to War,  
He wears no Armour, wields no Spear;  
Nor's wont with Steed or Chariot to appear,  
The Officious Winds beneath Him bend;  
And in a well-formed Vehicle of Clouds He does descend.  
A dazzling Glory round his Head does stand,  
And forked Thunder fills his Hand.  
'Twas thus upon the Plains of endless Day,  
He through the Embattled Seraphims forced his way:  
'Twas thus He met the Rebel Sons of Light,  
And sent 'em howling down into Eternal Night.  
Thus He of Old did call  
The Waters o'er the Universal Ball;  
As soon as e'er He spoke,  
The troubled Sea from its dark Chambers broke;  
All the Cataracts of the Sky  
Precipitated from on high;  
Heaven's Floodgates burst asunder:  
To them joined Lightning, Hail and Thunder;  
And from Above they came with a disordered Course,  
To meet the Sea's Auxiliary Force:  
The Sea and Rain, as old Acquaintance, join;  
(For the Sun's Rays from hence these Showers did once refine.)  
The wondering World, as in an Ambush ta'en,  
Was covered over by the wild Deluge, and prevailing Main.  
Thus from the Walls of Heaven, the Eternal King looked down,  
And saw strange Fires burn Sodom's lustful Town.  
Each Angel shook his Starry Sphere, and down there came  
Whole Gushes straight of flaming Rain.  
The amazed Sodomites now wonder more:  
They oft had seen Stars fall by Night,  
That was a common Sight;  
But never thought they carried Fire, before.  
By the same Hand the Chamian Army fell;  
As swift as Light they went, and sunk as deep as Hell.   

IV.  
Tell this, ye Winds, bear on your Wings the same,  
To the far distant Coasts of Fame!  
The Lord of Hosts, that is his wondrous Name!  
Whisper it to each Country, where you come,  
As through your Stormy Empire you do roam:  
But to the Egyptian Court,  
Be sure ye straight resort,  
And There proclaim aloud the kill Sound,  
That Pharaoh, and his Host, are drowned!  
Ye Erythraean Waves, whenever ye join,  
The Seas that run beyond the Line,  
If they inquire from whence these Spoils you bear,  
What makes your Waves twice died in red appear?  
Tell 'em, Proud Aegypt's King, with all his Luxury,  
Within your watery Grave entombed does lie:  
And tell 'em, Tho' a Thousand Shores they wash,  
And as many Country's pass;  
There no Heathen Idols are,  
Who can with Israel's God compare.  
Ye Fields of Zoan, say; for you have been,  
Of Heavenly Wonders, the unhappy Scene;  
Can all your numerous Stock of Gods afford  
One, who dare stand before the Lord?  
When on your Cattle He a Murrain sent,  
Among the meaner Herd the adored Heifer went.  
When the ripe Corn and Fruits did blasted lie,  
With them your Garden Gods did hang their Heads, and die.  
When Nile was turned to Blood, and putrid Gore,  
Your Sacred Crocodile came forth, and died upon the Shore.  
But let not injured Nile complain;  
The same Almighty Rod again,  
Which did his Waters paint, has died the Neighbouring Main.   

V.  
'Twas then (continued he his tuneful Song)  
When our Army marched along,  
The Travelling Flame before us did appear,  
The never-failing Cloud fell in the Rear.  
The Queen of Heaven wondered, still by Night,  
To see a Fire below, so Glorious, Fierce and Bright.  
The Sun himself surprised as much by Day,  
That with his Rays he ne'er could chase this Cloud away.  
At the first Sight of the Mysterious Rod,  
As if they'd spied the Finger of a God,  
The Waters loosed their close Embrace,  
Crowding back with furious Haste.  
Into the secret Paths our Host did move,  
Paths so full of Mystery,  
That the Heavenly Host above,  
Were surprised as much as We.  
For the Stars could never guests,  
Why in the Ocean's polished Glass,  
They could no longer see their Face.  
After our Troops the Pharian Tyrant bend,  
With violent Haste, blaspheming as he went.  
In vain you try, ye Slaves, to shun your Fate,  
Or fly my just provoked Hate.  
I fear no longer now your God,  
Nor the damned Sorcerer's Conjuring Rod.  
More the bold Monster would have said, and worse,  
But a fierce bidden Wave came on, and stopped th● foolish Curse.   

VI  
In Aegypt's Sky now let sad Clouds appear,  
Tho' they were ne'er before seen there.  
Now howl, ye beastly Pharian Deities,  
And echo through Heaven's Vault your hideous Cries.  
Now hang again, ye Garden Gods, your Head;  
For He, the mighty He, that made you so, is dead.  
O'er trembling Edom too, and Moab, let the Sound,  
And even to Canaan's Land, rebound:  
Let Jordan now back to his Fountain run.  
For what was here begun,  
Said the great Inspired Seer,  
Shall again be acted there.  
His Waves at God's Command shall make a stand,  
And open too a Path for Israel's Sacred Band.    

THE SONG OF DEBORAH paraphrased.  

I.  
NOW breath We, warlike Mates, good Fortune bids us pause:  
See the hoarse Trumpets threatening Voice be drowned;  
See it no more the Neighbouring Valleys wound;  
In softer peaceful Strains we'll Anthems sound  
To the Great Name, that did espouse our Righteous Cause.  
Israel a Captive now no longer shall be said:  
Ah! Blessed Israel, raise thy ransomed Head!  
Sisera's no more; his Soul is with his Army fled.  
Proud Midian now has cleared the mighty Score,  
That has been running up this Twenty Suns, and more.  
The vast Arrears of Rapine, Death and Spoil,  
One Day has paid, this black Day's memorable Foil.  
There Hecatombs to Shades below are gone,  
And there for injured Hebrew Ghosts atone.  
Ye Midian Slaves, go, and this Victory tell;  
Our Fathers died, and said, Revenge us, as they fell.  
The Cries of Brothers, Husbands, Children slain,  
For this Avenging Light did long complain.  
I saw their Blessed Spirits hover o'er  
These Plains, which once had drunk their Sacre Gore.  
They smiled to see Proud Jabin fall,  
To see us deal round Death to All:  
They leaned their subtle Organs down to catch th● Steam,  
Which in great Mists from Midianitish Blood di● Stream.   

II.  
God, and your Arms be praised! Ah! foolish I,  
Thus to Purloin from Heaven a Victory!  
For, Oh! Ye Powers above, what Mortal may  
Share in the Glory of this Day?  
Our little, meager, trembling Host  
Looked like a wild disordered Rout of Ghosts:  
No, Thou Great God, alone, thy Power didst exert;  
It was thy Arm; Thou both the Sword and Buckler wert.  
Baruck, and I, can lay no Claim  
To this mighty Work of Fame.  
May I thy humble Prophetess still counted be;  
The Deity's great Lieutenant, Herald  
Hear this, ye Kings, ye Earthly Gods,  
Who of your Numbers boast,  
Your Armed Towns, and well-appointed Hosts:  
'Twixt Heaven, and You, see here the mighty Odds.  
The Almighty from Above does see,  
How wondrous careful, and solicitous you be:  
He sees your Men, like busy Emmets, crawl  
Over the Molehill of this Earthly Ball;  
He sits, and with a scornful Smile surveys it all.  
Your very Chariots fail in a Retreat:  
Jabin's proud General had  
Numbers of Scores in sturdy Iron clad;  
And yet was forced to owe his Safety to his Feet.   

III.  
With it this frightful Day such dire Confusion bore,  
As when through Idumea's Hilly Coast,  
Amrams great Son led the Beloved Host;  
Our Army came behind, and Terror marched before.  
Fame hasted straight, and all around,  
Threw the astonishing Sound;  
Into their Towns she flew, and scattered there,  
Blind Terror, deaf Disorder, helpless Fear.  
Edom could now itself no more command,  
But wished surrounded with more Hills, to stand.  
Thus 'twas of old on smoking Sinah's Head,  
With such Amazement was it overspread,  
When the Great Law first took its Birth,  
And Heaven conversed with Earth,  
God and his Creature in Conjunction sat, Familiarly did debate:  
Man's ravished Optics feasted on the Sight Divine,  
Which way, we know no more, than how the Soul and Body join.  
When first upon the Mountain's Top,  
The Eternal King came down;  
The shuffling Clouds, to make Him room,  
Together rushed, and hence loud Storms did come.  
By Smoak, and vaporous Heat, the Lightning fed,  
Stood like a short-lived Glory ro●nd his Head:  
At every Word the listening Thunder roared aloud,  
And, in dire Accents, told it to the trembling Crowd.  
Such Sights, upon its Plains, the Heavens ne'er did know.  
Since the bold Sons of Light here met their Overthrow.  
Such was the dismal Scene of this Black Day:  
As Zion shook, as Edom trembled then, so now did they.   

IV.  
Moses, at first, our Captive-Neck did free  
From cursed Egyptian Slavery:  
But He, and his Commission, died;  
And Joshua's Sword the Active Rod supplied:  
And what He did we have been taught,  
And how he Wonders wrought:  
From East to West his Conquering Arms he threw,  
And did even Humane Thought outgo.  
An Age or more his Fame secured our Peace;  
To That we owed our very Bread and Ease.  
In after Days  
God did some well-framed Spirits raise;  
Othniel, Ehud, and great Shamgar's Arm  
Defended Israel's Flock from Harm:  
The bordering Tyrant's Force they did rebate;  
And, for a while, kept off the Bolts of angry Fate.  
For ever live, for ever let recorded stand  
The Illustrious Acts of Shamgar's Hand:  
Quitting his Blow, unarmed he took his Course,  
Where lay Encamped all the Philistian Force.  
His Hand a peaceful Goad did bear,  
(A Tool unpractised in the Art of War:)  
With this he ruled his Beasts, with the same Goad he scared,  
And drove before him the whole Pagan Herd.  
And when he had the Heavenly Call obeyed,  
He hastened to his plain unfinished Trade.  
But still our fettered Land her Griefs bemoaned;  
And still beneath inglorious Bondage groaned.  
This struggling showed she had some Courage left;  
Of Life and Spirits not yet quite bereft:  
And that, Alas! was all,  
That we these few and vain Attempts could call.  
As when Diseases do our Body take,  
Nature some Help would fain afford;  
Some weak Essays she's wont to make,  
To throw her Rider off, and cast the painful Load.  
Such was the Temper of our baffled Power;  
It served to show our Weakness more:  
And this was all we gained hereby,  
To change our Masters, not our Misery.  
Like some poor Bark, which just has 'scaped a Wreck,  
And after finds a Pirate seizing on her Deck.   

V.  
Oh, can we! can we! without Blushes, name,  
Our memorable Shame?  
When Palestine, the wretched Palestine, was grown  
Like one besieged Town,  
Tho' business called, we ne'er durst look abroad:  
The straggling Canaanite beset the common Road.  
The Merchant's Camel, and the Peasant's Team,  
Through unknown Paths, and Hills were wont to climb:  
Through Woods, by Wild Beast's Dens, they took their painful way,  
To escape Men, less Merciful than they.  
The Villager his Herds to lonesome Caves did drive;  
And there, on equal Terms, was forced to live.  
Every thing wore the face of War;  
And we at Home close Prisoners were.  
Like a young Infant, of his Friends bereft,  
And to accursed Guardians left,  
It's poor defenceless Innocence is torn;  
To every one a Prey, to every one a Scorn.  
Thus Israel mourned her Fate; till I arose,  
Whom Alwise Heaven for this high Task did choose:  
Leaving my Palmtree Shade, an humble Seat;  
From Misery and Noise a blessed Retreat.  
I fixed her giddy State, so long abused,  
And by proud Jabin's Iron Sceptre bruised;  
I through her dying Parts new Life and Soul infused.   

VI  
But yet, 'twas strange, Religion stood,  
And 'scap't the Universal Flood:  
'Twas passing strange, maugre this noisy Rout,  
War should make Men more Devout.  
They who alone did worship but one God before,  
Now only they all Gods adore.  
Before their Conquerors they fall;  
And next, upon their Conqueror's Gods they call.  
Cursed Fate! That made 'em at one Struck forego  
Their Soul and Body too.  
To the grim Baal, and horned Ashtaroth,  
And all the foppish Pageantry  
Of black Idolatry,  
They pour their faithless Souls and Prayers forth.  
Plain must the Object of their Worship be:  
They scorn to kneel to any Deity,  
But what they may both feel and see.  
No more to that Unutterable Name they pray,  
That led 'em with a Mighty Hand,  
Through the wild Deserts parched Sands,  
And scattered slaughtered Nations in their way.  
Their Father's Courage, and their Father's God,  
Joshua's fell Sword, and Moses' sacred Rod,  
Are now forgot, can now no more Impression make:  
They want new Miracles to buoy their sinking Faith.  
To Hazor, the proud Jabin's Seat, they bend,  
As to the Mother-Church, and there their Offerings send.  
They fetched the old cast Gods of all the Country round:  
They worshipped all that could be made or found;  
And Deities were bought and sold,  
Like other Ware, like Spices, Balm, and Gold.   

VII.  
Thus the offended Monarch of the Skies,  
From Pagan Altars saw their Incense rise;  
Their Worship tendered at a Foreign Shrine;  
In cursed Moloch's Fane their Offerings shine:  
And could no longer hold; but with a Parent's Care,  
Took up the Rod, and did for War prepare,  
To bring the Truant Israel to an humble Sense  
Of Duty and Allegiance.  
Commissions straight were issued out,  
To all the willing Nations round about.  
We in our Walls, by leaguering Troops, were barred;  
They at our very Gates kept Guard.  
We treated were just like a common Foe,  
(For he that fights 'gainst Heaven, must be so.)  
Marked out by Heaven for Ruin, thus we lay;  
And learned (too late, Alas!) the right Way how to Pray.  
The frighted Pleader left the Bar,  
At the grim Approach of War.  
The awful Judge, who Justice doth dispense  
Within our Gates, was often forced thence.  
He often stopped a Cause,  
To hear the Trumpet's threatening Noise.  
In our saint Breasts a chilling Fear there reigned;  
Of Blood our Veins, of Arms our Magazines were drained.  
We could not boast a Sword, or serviceable Pike;  
Bondage had cankered o'er our Souls and Arms alike.  
Accoutered so, our Troops for Fight prepare;  
As when a ravenous Wolf is near,  
And with his well-known Sound alarms  
The Villagers, and calls to Arms.  
The affrighted Swains came out, and on the Hills appear;  
Some Goads, some Flails, and Ploughshares bear;  
Some Axes, knotted Clubs, and Darts,  
With all those rude and innocent Arts,  
With which our plain Forefathers armed went,  
'Fore Death, ingenious grown, worse Engines did invent.   

VIII.  
For ever blessed, and sure they blessed are,  
(For Heaven will ratify my prayer)  
Those glorious Chiefs who bore the heat  
Of this days toil, and sweat,  
When God and injured Israel's wrongs obterged;  
In Honour's Bed they rather chose to lie,  
Than tamely and ingloriously die;  
Than wait the Stone, the Gout, or Fevers lingering siege.  
In that great Roll of Warriors which is hurled,  
By babbling Fame, around the World.  
What place so e'er,  
Of Moses shall or Joshua hear;  
In the same rank these Worthies shall appear.  
In each black wound their glutted swords did give,  
As in well written Lines, their Deathless Names  
shall live.  
Fame will to after times show 'em without a blot:  
Nor shall unworthy Deborah and Baruc be forgot.  
Now we from Blood and War have got a full Release;  
Say, who reaps not the fruits of Peace?  
The universal good  
By all is owned, is understood.  
Speak, you, who Head our Tribes, and bear a Prince's Train;  
Your Scarlet Honours cannot now complain  
Of a double dye and slain.  
No more your Sons as Guards are forced to wait  
Upon the Tyrants State.  
Your beauteous Daughters now no more are fain to be  
Slaves to his Pride and Luxury.  
What ever Earth, or Air, or Seas afford,  
Now your well spread Tables load.  
Before, your very Water in great charges stood;  
We once were forced to buy it with our Blood.  
In vain through secret Sands the Chemist Nature strained,  
And for our use the Ocean drained.  
Our Wells and Springs were at the Conquerors will,  
And at a distance thus they strove to kill.   

IX.  
All things are changed, and wear a different face,  
The frighted Judge resumes his wont place;  
And War no more does Property deface.  
The labouring Peasant on his Team does wait,  
Nor fears being Pressed for Service of the State.  
Upon the pleasant Hills the Flocks again do stray;  
The Shepherd tunes his Pipe, and sees 'em play.  
Now War, that hungry Wolf, is dead,  
All other fears are with it fled.  
To his thatched Cell the Villager repairs,  
And there with rural pastime drowns his cares.  
No more his midnight sleep is broke by loud alarms  
Of Trumpets, clashing Swords, and rattling Arms.  
Traffic, and all the train of peaceful arts do thrive:  
Now Wars obnoxious weed  
Is gone and withered;  
Which would before let nothing by it thrive.  
Such strange tumultuous joys we hear.  
Such noisy Triumphs through our Tribes are shown,  
As in a Fort or walled Town;  
After a tedious Ten months' Siege appear:  
Out run the Rabble at the widened Ports,  
And fall to Songs, and discontinued sports.  
Secure they tread those paths, which not a Moon ago,  
Lay covered with a threatening Foe:  
With pleasure, point, and say, along this Coast  
Lay all the mighty Jabin's Host:  
Here stood his Guards, and there the General's Tent;  
And here his Armed Chariots went.  
The Air shall undisturbed with groans remain;  
The blooded Rivers shall no more complain:  
No more shall streaming Gore the Verdant Meadows slain;  
But Air, and Floods, and Earth its head shall rear,  
And joyful as our looks appear.   

X.  
Deborah, arise, and let thy numbers flow  
Briskly, as thy enlivened spirits do:  
Begin thy hallowed strains,  
to Hazor bear the sound:  
Let nothing there but grief abound.  
Strike all the Hills, echo it o'er the Plains;  
Then Israel too will join, as in a well tuned Choir,  
And all with general joy inspire.  
Thus the shrill Harbinger of day,  
Upon himself does first essay.  
Clapping his wings, he wakes himself, and then  
Rouses the World and sleeping Man.  
The Sun in all his Rounds could never boast,  
A gladder day; not when the Pharian Host  
'Fore the Mysterious Rod of Moses fell.  
Not when bold Joshua sent five Kings uncrowned to Hell.  
Ill fortune, like the Clouds above,  
From clime to clime does shift and rove.  
Long has it stood o'er Palestine,  
Engendered with loud Storms and Rain.  
Now the big-bellied Fate to Midians sky is flown,  
And there has broke, and there amazing terror thrown.  
Oh, how my labouring breast does team  
With the transporting Theme!  
So where Abinoam's Godlike Son does wait;  
Here, mighty Baruc, take me for thy Warlike mate.  
Thus hand in hand we'll bravely move;  
Crowned with Victory from above.  
Now, now our Triumphs are begun:  
War, like a tamed Lion, by our side does run.  
Thus when two silver Currents do combine,  
And in their journey to the Ocean join:  
The thirsty Meadows feel the welcome Flood and are  
With drinking, fresh and fair.  
The joyful Hind stands on the River side,  
And blesses still the rolling beauteous Tide.   

XI.  
Now are our conquering brows with Lawre bound,  
With Monumental Arms our Walls are crowned  
And Oh! may they hang still, for ever there b● kept  
Useless, as when within the Mine they slept.  
At slavery and wounds the heated Soldier laughs  
And unbought Wines in his full Helmet quaffs.  
The Aged Parent creeps to meet his darling Boy  
Come reeking from the Chase,  
But dies in the embrace:  
His feeble spirits sink beneath the weighty joy.  
With holy Songs our Virgins to the Altars press;  
And there aloud proclaim  
The Hallowed Name,  
By whom our Wars are hushed, or soon in Victory cease.  
With bended Heads the Midian Nobles wait  
Upon the solemn Pomp and State.  
The cursed Pagan spoils are doomed to fire,  
In the same flames their Vassaled Gods expire.  
Tabor a glad spectator was of this days fight:  
Tabor beheld the Tragic sight.  
With numerous Deaths see how the Mountain swells;  
See how the slaughtered Troops enlarge his Hills.  
At his extended Foot the Echoes play and ring:  
The Valleys, stuck with Corn, rejoice and sing.  
Midian's unbounded spoil  
No longer mocks the Plowman's toil:  
Till the ripe Harvest now uncroped they stand;  
Nor fear being torn by the rude Soldier's Hand.   

XII.  
Go on my blessed Inspired Strains, and say,  
Who shared the Glory of this Day.  
In mighty numbers sing each Tribe, and Name:  
This Task does challenge all the Lungs of Fame.  
The willing Ephraim led this Sacred Band;  
The Benjamite must next in Honour stand:  
In the same Rank place Issachar;  
His Tribe alone a War:  
Out-steped his Princes at the Trumpet's Call;  
Baruc, the Noble Baruc, was their General.  
The Odds, which Fate did give, he scorned to take;  
But did the Hills forsake.  
Hills so vastly steep and high,  
Tho' the spiked Chariots of great Sisera,  
With Wings, instead of Wheels, had cut the way,  
They scarce could thither fly.  
Next in the Warlike Dance,  
Does Napthali advance.  
Not far behind, see Zebulon  
Comes marching bravely on.  
Bold Zebulon laid aside the Thirst of sordid Pelf:  
Bold Zebulon loved his Country as himself:  
He scorned the paltry Ties of Gain or Blood;  
So well he understood  
The louder Voice of Public Good.   

XIII.  
In our triumphant Army's Rear  
The Scholar, and the Scribe appear.  
With eager Steps, and a disordered Pace they come,  
Quitting their living Tomb;  
Where they for many Winters buried lay,  
And only had been taught to Read and Pray.  
They oft had heard of Fights,  
And such unusual Sights;  
Oft in the compass of a Page,  
Seen Armies furiously engage:  
At Speculation's duller Trade they'd been;  
But never yet the Practic seen.  
They throw away their Pens: Hence, hence, then foolish Quill;  
Of Blood and Death give us our Fill:  
A scaly Gauntlet now, with Joints of Steel,  
Must glove our Hand; and thus we'll Slaughter deal.  
With this we'll Blows, as thick as Hail, dispense,  
And Soldiers in a Day commence:  
As glorious Things we'll act; as much we'll dare,  
As those have served a ' Prenticeship in War.  
And more than this; We can record the bloody Scene;  
And what our Swords have fought, can blazor with our Pen.   

XIV.  
But, Ah! what binds the Hands, or does control  
Dispirited Reuben's niggard Soul?  
To thee, with Sighs and Tears, our Widowed Lan● repairs:  
These idly blow,  
These idly fall:  
The Sea and Winds as soon would listen to our Prayers.  
Does servile Bondage Charms and Magic wear?  
Are you so fond of Slavery and Pain?  
Or is there Music in your Chain,  
That now 'tis offered cheap, yet Liberty you fear▪  
Where are the Men, that saw the Pharian Tyrant die;  
And, with their Conquering Arms, through Sandy Wastes did fly;  
Tho' fiery Serpents strowed their way,  
And Anak's Offspring, Monsters worse than they?  
In vain, fond Men, we count our Victories;  
Posterity will take 'em all for Forgeries and Lies.  
Our lank and sickly Veins  
None of their generous Blood contains.  
Our Cowardice has taught our Neighbours not to fear:  
What We of old to them, now They to us appear.   

XV.  
Full Twenty times the labouring Sun  
His yearly Round has gone;  
And still, ignoble Souls, we're found  
With Midian's undeserved Fetters bound.  
Gilead, Manasses! Oh, accursed Theme!  
Whose happy Lots are fallen by Beauteous Jordan's Stream.  
Look on that heap of Stones, which in the Flood,  
For many Ages now, a Miracle has stood;  
And learn once more to trust the selfsame God.  
Asher and Dan, like Slaves of Business, toil;  
Follow their Trade, and sordid Gain,  
(Oh deathless Shame, immortal Stain!)  
Whilst all around, the Foe their Country tears and spoils.  
So a mad Pilot, when the Waves run high,  
And threatening, dare the very Sky;  
When every Billow shows a gaping Grave,  
Runs from the Helm, a Chest or Trunk to save:  
A mighty Sea comes on, and swallows all;  
Miser and Pelf go down together at one Fall.   

XVI.  
But these perhaps may 'scape the Rod  
Of an avenging God:  
These are innocent and free,  
Meroz, if compared with thee.  
On thee our Stock of Curses we must shower.  
Curse Meroz, (said some Heavenly Power.)  
The Hills around that stood,  
Took the glad Sound, and struck it on the Neighbouring Flood.  
Oh base Neutrality!  
From thy cursed Battlements, with careless Eye,  
Contending Armies thou couldst spy;  
As in a Theatre, gaze and point at us beneath,  
And laugh at our amazing Scenes of Death.  
A narrow compass sure thy Soul does own;  
Man for himself was ne'er designed alone.  
Heaven does by us, as here by Lamps is done;  
They shine for themselves, but still dispense  
Their welcome Influence,  
And do the Business of the absent Sun.  
Nature for every Grain  
Of Beauty, Worth or Excellence,  
That She bestows upon her Favourite, Man;  
Still, like a thrifty Goddess, does design;  
And cries, the Glory shall be mine.   

XVII.  
Every thing here below is prized, and understood,  
As it comes near an Universal Good.  
When the Sea, that Watery Foe,  
Its Cup does overflow,  
We take the Hills, and there securely lie,  
And all its fruitless Rage desire.  
So when our beggared Land denies  
Its usual Supplies,  
Of Corn, and Fruits, and Plenty's store;  
The kind Waves take our Ships, and bring us more.  
Thus Man to Man is linked by pure necessity;  
And he that mutual Succours does deny,  
To all the World 'tis plain,  
The half-souled niggard Fool would break the Chain.  
May all the Ills that Israel ever knew,  
Or has deserved; may these, and thousand more,  
That Heaven, for sinning Man, reserves in store,  
Be thy accursed Due.  
Rotsie may thy very Name, that late Posterity,  
Shall doubting say, Where did this cursed City lie?  
I see, I see, 'tis done; no more repeat;  
They're heard, like Prayers, and Heaven has made 'em Fate.   

XVIII.  
Down came the Midian Host, with all their Travelling Gods,  
And like a Torrent did our Land bestride:  
Confederate Kings, like mingling Floods,  
Swelled up the mighty Tide.  
In the first Rank did stand,  
Of Volunteers a fiery Band,  
And all the unsettled Humours of the Land.  
They took no Money, had no Pay;  
Their Fortunes in their Scabbards lay:  
So that, who e'er for Fight did first prepare,  
We were to pay the Charges of the War.  
Megiddo's Waters saw the frightful sight  
Of a rude Host, so terrible and bright;  
And to their Mother-Streams they hasted in a Fright.  
Five hundred rolling Cars, with Spikes and Iron bound,  
Came on, and as they passed, they furrowed all the Ground.  
The base retailing way of Death they did disown,  
And now they came to mow whole Armies down.   

XIX.  
The Warlike Sisera in the Van appeared,  
By Hebrew Mothers so long cursed and feared:  
He smiled to see our wild disordered Rout;  
For sure 'twas never for a Fight cut out.  
Look here, ye Midian Chiefs, (he cries)  
Cast round your willing Eyes;  
Do but behold you poor and starved Band,  
How like the Husks and Shales of Men they stand.  
This meager Host will scarce afford  
Work enough for all our Swords:  
Scarce Blood enough their sickly Veins contain,  
To give each naked Spear a Stain:  
See, their Executors, the knavish Daws, appear,  
And still, with watchful Eye, keep in their Army's Rear.  
Ye Slaves, attend the Terms that mighty Jabin gives;  
And from our Hands receive your forfeit Lives.  
No Moses now, nor Joshua is here,  
To save you from our all-avenging Spear.  
Go Home, fond Men, beneath the Palm-tree's Shade,  
There attend your Warlike Maid:  
There sit, and listen to those Laws,  
That We, your gracious Conquerors, will impose.   

XX.  
In such vile Threats the railing Tyrant spoke.  
But Baruc did high Heaven invoke:  
God's Arm strike with Us; 'tis a fearful Odds:  
Yet the Eternal Power,  
Whom we adore,  
Alone surpasses all their numerous Rout of Gods.  
Think not to Day, Great God, O not to Day,  
We humbly pray,  
On our Fore-Father's guilty Times;  
Or the additional numbers of our Crimes;  
Wherein We, their forward Sons,  
Our sinning Fathers have outdone.  
He spoke, the Armies joined; but, Oh, surprising Sight!  
It never could be styled on th' Midian's Part, a Fight:  
But as if a fearful Damp  
Had by some Angel's Hand been scattered through their Camp.  
On such cheap Terms they sold the Victory,  
As if they came but to be slain, and die:  
With furious haste their Chariots backward pressed,  
Mowing whole Squadrons as they passed.  
How many Images,  
Which had by God, and Midian Fathers been  
Twenty Years and more a fashioning,  
Were in a moment torn, defaced and spoiled?  
The Roads and Fields were strown with Limbs of Man and Horse;  
These Arts of Death the Inventors' selves now Curse.  
Fond Men, so witty grown  
To their own Destruction!   

XXI.  
All the Fraternity  
Of Elements, Fire, Water, Earth and Sky,  
In a joint Conspiracy,  
Hasted to divide the Prey,  
And share the Glory of this Tragic Day.  
Kishon, that ancient Flood,  
With pouring Cataracts, swelled of Rain and Blood,  
Finding his peaceful Journey home  
Disturbed, began to rave and foam;  
In a wild Rage, he let his Sluices out,  
And swept the Field, and harassed all the Plains about:  
Down the glad Tide went Baggage, Horses, and Infantry,  
And helped t' increase the Riches of the adjoining Sea.  
Heaven kept its Word, and all its Forces brought;  
Beneath our Banners, warring Angels fought:  
Each took his Charge; some threw whole Sheets of Flame;  
Armed with Thunder, others came.  
Some at as sad a Task had been,  
All to enhance the dismal Scene.  
Levies of howling Winds, they there conveyed,  
Which round their Head fearfully roared and played.  
The rolling Fires above their baleful Influence shed,  
And hung, like bearded Comets, o'er their Head:  
And all the Help they from these Tapers have,  
Was but to light 'em to their Grave.  
In vain we spent our Strokes, the Work was done,  
And Heaven finished what we had begun.   

XXII.  
Now, my bold Song, thy highest Strains command;  
And thus enshrined, let Jael stand.  
Jael, great Glory of our Sex,  
If to thy Name we would be just,  
Thy deathless Worth should never mix  
With common Numbers, or with common Dust.  
Whole Jael shall not die; my well-tuned Song shall save  
The greatest Portion of her from the Grave.  
When Israel's ransomed Land  
Shall cease to understand,  
What's meant by Plenty, Peace and Liberty;  
Then, not till then, thy Fame shall die.  
Our Hebrew Virgins shall Embalm,  
In Annual Songs, the mighty Kenite's Name:  
With Joy and Wonder read thy Story o'er;  
And thence inspired, greater shall act, and more.  
The Midian Dames, at mention of thy Name, shall fly,  
And with it still their Children, when they cry.  
Oh, blessed be that Hand, that made the Whole!  
Oh, blessed be the Heart, that did the Hand control!   

XXIII.  
Gloriously smeared with sordid Dust and Sweat,  
As to a kind Retreat,  
Into her Tent the wretched Sisera pressed;  
The new-drawn Blood lay reeking on his Helmets Crest.  
Her Board with choicest Country-Viands spread;  
With pleasant Looks her Face, she begged him feed:  
And all to cloak the Pious Cheat,  
And from suspicion screen his black impending Fate.  
But now to Rest inclined;  
Sleep to its Temples did its Leaden Plummets bind.  
Through his distracted Brain strange Images did rove,  
A thousand gliding Phantoms move:  
He saw the Field, with Armed Troops, o'erspred;  
His Men, like Leaves in Autumn, fallen, and scattered:  
The Battle was again fought over in his Head.  
Thus whirled in Fancy's Airy Coach,  
He passed by various Things, and various Fates;  
Downfall of Men and States.  
Something, at last, there did approach,  
In an imperfect Vision's gloomy Scene;  
It looked as if his own ill Fate 't had been,  
With this ill-boding Sight, unruly grown.  
Away his drowsy Chain he would have thrown  
But Sleep lay heavy on him, as afore:  
For Fate had said, Sisera shall wake no more.   

XXIV.  
Into her willing Hands  
Straight she commands  
The little Instrument of Fate:  
But Fear, our Sex's Curse, her Courage did rebate.  
How shall I such a bold Act essay  
Against the World's great Captain, Sisera?  
What if my trembling Hand should miss the Stroke,  
And his unruly Soul the Fetters loose,  
In which dull Sleep the Hero does enclose;  
What Plagues and Furies must I needs provoke?  
His Troops perhaps do this way fly,  
May reach my Tent before the Tragedy:  
Then tho' the wild Attempt be solely mine,  
Revenge will light on every Branch of Heber's Line.  
By this one Struck  
All Hospitable Laws are broke:  
Came he not hither as a Friend?  
Cannot that Thought some Pity lend?  
Begun Relent, which as Mists arise,  
And fain would cloud this Glorious Enterprise.  
Shall I a League with that cursed Man commence,  
Who to Heaven's King owes no Allegiance?  
Jael, be great in Act, as thou hast been in Thought;  
That Heart will aid, which first the Motion brought.  
Our Sex to Pity is inclined:  
'Twas Heaven the Project first designed;  
From thence, from thence it came:  
Such a bold Thought would shake and stagger Woman's Fame.  
The groaning Widows Cries, methinks, I hear;  
The Shrieks of ravished Virgins strike my Ear:  
Our Sex the Tyrant ne'er would spare.  
't's but one Man (a mighty Man) that's lost;  
What's that to all our Blood and Cost;  
To all the Lives this Monster's Sword can boast?   

XXV.  
Bare and exposed he lay; a tempting Sight,  
That a less daring Hand might e'en invite.  
She looked around her, lest some straggling Page should come,  
And change the Fatal Doom.  
Forbear, said she, hardhearted Jael; do;  
These bloody Acts befit not you:  
With that the Instrument of Death away she threw.  
But noble, manly Anger soon  
Bid her pursue what she had once begun.  
The Blood, by Midian spilt, her staggering Courage fired;  
And the Black Scene of all her Country's Woes appeared.  
Shamgar and Ehud to her Thoughts repair:  
The Instance pleased; with that she smoothed aside his Hair.  
Thus having quelled the doubtful Strife,  
The fatal Hammer hover o'er his Head,  
The Imperial Seat of Life;  
Great God of Israel, guide my Hand, (she said.)  
Betwixt his Temples pierced the willing Tool;  
And at the little Vent came out his mighty Soul.   

XXVI.  
There lie, thou bloodless Remnant of great Sisera;  
To ravenous Beasts and Fowls a Prey;  
As greedy once of Blood, as they.  
Cheated by Fate, trepanned, deceived;  
Of Life's last Stake by a Woman's Hand bereaved.  
Unhappy too in this; Thou ne'er must know  
The feeble Hand, that gave the Blow.  
How small a thing, well managed by our Fate,  
Can open through Life's Golden Gate,  
And all our vast Designs defeat?  
Where be the fawning Peers, that cringed and bowed?  
Where be the thronging Troops, that hemmed thee round?  
Where be the Chariots, which so many Death once bore,  
That a destroying Angel scarce has more?  
Ill-natured Fate, that can't afford  
So much as one poor Page t' attend his dying Lord!  
To the cold Ground he leaned his bending Head,  
As if his listening Body would  
Full fain have understood,  
Which way the Soul, his dearest Mate, was fled.   

XXVII.  
Surrounded with her beauteous Maiden Train,  
Which thither did resort,  
To see and make the Glories of the Midian Court▪  
Sat his proud Mother, racked with pressing Pain  
A Civil War her labouring Breast maintained;  
And Joy and Fear, by turns, the Empire gained.  
As when two adverse Winds, upon the Sea,  
Dispute for Victory;  
The Wat'ry Plains are harassed with their Shocks:  
All curse these Stormy Foes, Ships, Seas and Rocks.  
Oft, from her Palace Top, she cast an eager Look  
Over the Plains, till the arched Heaven took  
Her bounded Sight; but yet her Fancy strayed;  
Her anxious Thoughts a farther Journey made.  
Why stays my Son? where is his loitering Host?  
This Victory perhaps much Blood and Sweat has cost.  
Despair has armed these rebel Hebrews, sure,  
That they durst more than just his Army's sight endure.  
No: His clogged Chariots the vast Prey does load;  
'Tis that retards him on the Road.  
They slowly move with a Triumphant Grace;  
And come but just a Conqueror's pace.  
Hazor, throw open thy enlarged Gates; prepare  
To meet the God of War.  
Hung round with Spoils, hither his Troops does bend:  
Those old Egyptian Tenants, to vile Slavery born,  
In Crowds the Solemn Pomp adorn,  
Hazor, prepare to share the mighty Dividend.  
Now Jewish Virgins sentenced are  
To sigh whole Years away in Foreign Air.  
And the rich Births of all their Hebrew Looms,  
To Us unbought, unpurchased come.  
For Us, like painful Bees, they work and toil:  
We have the Crop, whoever manured the stubborn Soil.   

XXVIII.  
Thus, thus let all  
Unpitied fall;  
And such be still the Doom, and worse,  
Of those, whose impious Threats are driven  
Against the invulnerable Clouds of Heaven;  
Who dare pull down the Eternal Vengeance of its Curse.  
Who fights with Heaven, and would Associate  
His Fellow-Creatures, 'gainst the Eternal Mind of Fate,  
Shoots up an Arrow in the Air, and strives  
Upon their Fountain's Streams to drive;  
The Dart descends, the Stream slows back again,  
And mocks the vain Projector's fruitless Toil and ●ain.  
And thus it needs must be,  
When weak Mortality;  
When wretched Dust and Ashes, poor contending Man,  
Would the great Mover's Counsels contradict and scan.  
The lowest Class of Infects, in some Sense, may vie  
With the Celestial Hierarchy:  
The vilest Worm may call the Angel, Brother;  
Their Pedigree derived does stand  
From the same great Artist's Hand:  
He that made One of Earth, with Light dressed up the Other.  
Thus these Extremes of the Creation  
Meet in a single Point, and join;  
And thus admit of some Comparison.  
Thus, thus let all  
Unpitied fall;  
And such be still the Doom, and worse,  
Of those, whose impious Threats are driven  
Against the Invulnerable Clouds of Heaven;  
Who dare pull down the Eternal Vengeance of its Curse.   

But the Great God has Blessings scarce enough in store,  
For those who, with an humble Sense,  
With a well-tempered Confidence,  
Fear where they love, and love where they adore.  
May such an equal Race of Glory run  
With yond Meridian Sun,  
Who never leaves aspiring, till he has reached his Noon.  
And, Oh! Ye pious Souls, a farther Journey go;  
And, like him, ne'er Declension know.    

MIRACLES, Works Above and Contrary to NATURE. Occasioned by the Publishing of a Book, Entitled, Miracles no Violation of the Laws of Nature. 1682.  
— Fiunt non haec sine numine Divum.  Virg. 

I.  
WHen that bold Hand of old did Fire convey  
From out Jove's Arsenal, where still does lie  
All his Materials for Mortality.  
Daring Attempt! to animate his well-wrought Man of Clay!  
This Vital Fire, which Aftertimes called Soul,  
Within its Earthly Dungeon penned,  
Grew quickly weary of Imprisonment:  
The Body scarce could its new Guests control.  
Tho' this Corporeal Seat was beautified  
With all things, both for Use and Pride;  
Several fair Rooms the gentle Artist made,  
In which he wondrous Skill displayed;  
The Heart, the Liver, and the Brain,  
Which might the Heavenborn Soul contain;  
Which with their Beauty might her wandering  
Thoughts restrain.  
Five Porthole Senses too he made,  
By which all Objects were conveyed:  
So that what still abroad was done,  
Was within as quickly known.  
Whate'er was tasted, smelled, seen, felt or heard,  
As swift as Thought it runs  
Through winding Paths, and secret Turns;  
And to the Soul's remote Apartment strait repaired.  
But yet for all this seeming Pomp and State,  
Which on the fair Inhabitant did wait,  
In scanty Bounds her Empire was restrained;  
Measure the Man,  
Six Foot of Body, and a Span,  
Her vast Dominions did contain.   

II.  
No: She would often break her solitary Cage,  
And in a curious search engage.  
Through all the Regions of endless Day,  
She took her painful way:  
Through the wide Courts of all the Starry Sky;  
Through Nature's darkest Cells she'd fly;  
Where Causes and Effects do brooding lie.  
Still homewards would her piercing Fancy rove,  
And commune with her kindred, Souls above:  
Through all the World's Mysterious Maze she'd strole;  
But still was out a Prisoner on Parole.  
Hence 'tis, we find in Man such Thirst, and strong Desire,  
Into the hidden Depths of Nature to inquire.  
What Rarities soe'er the Ocean breeds,  
Whatever Earth within its Womb contains;  
On these with careful and unwearied Pains,  
His vast unbounded Appetite he feeds:  
Whether the World were made by Fate or Chance?  
What makes the Spheres keep their well-measured Dance?  
What makes the fixed Stars look so bright?  
Whence 'tis they borrow their large Draughts of Light;  
Which, with a bounteous Hand, they throw  
On all benighted Being's here below?  
What Torments 'tis the Clouds do undergo,  
When with their Cracks they scare us Mortals so?  
What makes 'em bellow out, and roar?  
These, and a thousand more;  
All the choice Work of chequered Nature's Art,  
The Soul pursues through every Nook, and secret Part.   

III.  
But when through all the windings, turns, and folds,  
Through Plants, Beasts, Stars, and all her strongest Holds,  
Nature is traced, and now run down:  
Her doubling Arts and Tricks must quite disown:  
Here 'tis the scanty Soul of Man is at a fault;  
Various things arise,  
Of which the reason she can ne'er devise:  
So must the rest by Nature's God be taught;  
For the Eternal Mover has thought fit,  
Nature, his Viceroy, bounds to set,  
Which she can ne'er transgress of skip:  
Her Tedder she can never slip.  
(And as he said once to the raging Sea.)  
This be thy Goal, let this thy utmost journey be:  
These various Arts play o'er, these shapes put on.  
Be it thy Task alone  
Thunder to form, and Winter's howling Storm;  
Which all the nether world alarms.  
With Subterranean Fires the Sea distil;  
Then into Fountains let it trill.  
Pick though the fleecy Snow, and scatter Rain;  
And 'twixt all ranks of things the well-knit League maintain.  
Of thy great sway this is utmost Verge;  
Further thy Limits see thou ne'er enlarge:  
For God has thrown a dusky Veil o'er all  
The things we Miracles call:  
That Ark of Mysteries he covered keeps:  
The saucy Mortal dyes, who into't peeps.   

IV.  
For tell me, Nature's Sage, who looks so wondrous Wise,  
Whence sprung that glorious Star,  
Which did our SAVIOVR's way prepare:  
That with such streaming Rays was lighted in the Skies?  
This served to fill with Learned cares  
The Eastern Sages, and Astronomers;  
They were confounded at the new born Light;  
The Stars themselves came wondering to the sight,  
Now in the Sea they saw a Star unknown, so bright.  
Say, What was that that fettered up the Flood,  
When the great Hebrew Guide those secret journeys trod?  
What was the cause, I fain would know,  
(You that to Nature's Idol so do bow)  
What made the Shade run back  
Upon the Dial's Plate, and its old road forsake?  
Time, to all other Men, is Bald behind;  
That Pious Soul alone sure hold could find.  
The glorious Charioteer of Day,  
At the bold Hebrew Chief's Command,  
On Gibea's Mount once made a stand;  
Here he quite turned his Coach, and drove another way.  
Pale Nature startled at the bold design,  
And her approaching Fate could easily divine.  
The Western Sea wrapped in confusion stood,  
No more could hope to see him plunge into its flood.  
The frighted Persian trembled for his nonplussed God.  
The second causes of things here below,  
And Handmaid Nature's Arts, is all that Man can know;  
But he that further strives to penetrate  
Into the winding Chambers of Eternal Fate,  
And would peruse that Brazen Book,  
In which dark Register no Mortal ere shall look;  
Th' Almighty pitying this his search so vain,  
Or angry at the pride of frail unbiased Man,  
With various wiles his prying thoughts does fool,  
And through a maze of terrors leads his wand'ring Soul.    

A DIALOGUE Between the Two RIVERS, CHAM and ISIS, ON THE KING's Dissolving the Oxford PARLIAMENT.  
Written, May, 1681.  CHAM. 
HAIL Sacred Nymph! the best beloved of all  
The Goddesses that crowd great Neptune's Hall.  
Why, gentle Isis, tell me, does thy Flood,  
Impetuous grown, begin to rage so loud?  
I see its frowns in surly Billows rise,  
And grumbling Waves complain in doleful wise.  
No Verdant Green thy Temples now can boast:  
Thy Rushes all are scattered, torn and lost.  
With grief and rage thy glowing Eyes do burn,  
And on the Bank lies thy negelcted Urn.  
Say what's the cause, quickly declare thy harms.  
Does some proud River-God resist thy Charms?  
Or did some Sylvan naked thee espy,  
Whilst in a flaggy covert thou didst lie.  ISIS. 
〈◊〉 the Sun leaves our Clime, and hastens down  
To 〈◊〉 the Indian World, and there to crown  
His ●●●●ct Adorers hopes, we see him reel  
Into the other Earth; and soon we feel  
(Through want) the Blessings which he once did bring.  
The Tenants of the Air refuse to sing,  
And after him to the other World take wing.  
Old Nature's self, does faint and drooping lie;  
Half the Creation's just about to die.  
My Caesar gone, I strait did overturn  
My Pitcher, and cashiered the empty Urn:  
I bid my Waters drive without their guide;  
Which swelling, strait run roughly by my side,  
With furious hast the headstrong Waters moved,  
Lashing the sounding Shores as they did rove.  
I tore my Chaplets off, and said aloud,  
(My flaming Eyes hid in a watery Cloud)  
How soon the Heaven of my joy's overcast?  
How soon my short-lived Glory's gone and passed?  
This world no lasting solid good contains,  
But like a gloomy Winter's day remains;  
Beset with Cloudy Suns, and falling Rains.  
How strange a damp my thriving hopes has crossed?  
Is this the only thing that we can boast,  
That once Great Charles was ours? Had we no charms,  
But he must strait be ravished from our Arms  
By that proud City? Thus of old great Jove,  
With all the Cavalcade of Gods above,  
To the Black Aethiop did a visit pay;  
Where, like fond Mothers who their Babes o're-lay,  
The Sun displays too powerful a Ray.  
For twelve days space they regaled him with Fumes  
Of Southern Spices and divenest Gums,  
And then with all his Court he left their shore,  
And made that Hell which was an Heaven before.  
Oh cursed Faction's black ungrateful Mind,  
Thus with their very Maker to contend!  
His Gracious Reign all their Enjoyments gives;  
To his forgiving Hand they owe their forfeit Lives.  
Look but on me, and there your duty read,  
You Rebel Dathanites, who every day  
My Tax of Waters to the Ocean pay,  
To the kind source from whence my Stream is fed.  
Curse on my Stars, that mocked my ripening Joys,  
They said Be blest. My currents murmuring noise  
Stood still, and all my Silver-winged Fry  
(As if they'd heard it too) swum gladly by:  
When now, as if my Fates were lavish grown,  
They snatch my Charles, and with him all is flown.  CHAM. 
Hold, foolish Nymph, forbear thy groundless moan,  
What though this Pomp and painted Cloud be gone?  
A quiet solitude, and calms of Rest,  
With their blessed Train do now enrich thy Breast.  
Content in Camps or Courts was never found,  
Where all with noise and tumult does resound.  
In humble Grots and Cells she loves to lie;  
From thronged Palaces the bashful Nymph does fly.  
I saw those shoals of Boats thy flood bestride,  
Whilst Men, as thick, stood wondering by the side.  
They on thy Captive Neck did proudly lie,  
I saw and grieved thy Glorious Misery.  
None of those things my case does vex and rack:  
No Royal Vessel ploughs my Aged Back.  
Free from these stately ills, I gently glide,  
Close by the Melancholy Student's side:  
Who oft me Tagus, oft Pactolus' names,  
And to my Streams courts the Aonian Dames.  
He sees my purer Flood, and well does know,  
Set by my Banks his Laurels needs must grow.  
Our Schools and Colleges, the Muse's Seat,  
No Courtier ranges with his Gouty Feet;  
His Oaths and noise the Fop ne'er belches here,  
Nor in our empty Desks does strut and stare;  
Driving those little Infects from our Hive,  
We in the Muse's shade securely thrive.  ISIS. 
I call the Gods to witness all, how proud  
And glad I was to bear the Pompous load  
Of Ships and Boats, that did my Water's grace:  
I kissed the Keel that furrowed on my face.  
I scarce with half the joy  
The Mandates of dread Neptune did obey,  
When all of us were summoned to convey  
The Mother of the Gods to th' Latin shore.  
(For I was there, and no small part I bore  
In that great Entry, with those famous three,  
Cymothoe, Arethuse, Callirrhoe.)  
But now like some forsaken Nymph I lie,  
Whom all her Lovers scornfully do fly.  
No Ship lies rocking on my swelling Flood  
With Canvas wings expanded o'er my head:  
All's clear and unfrequented, as the Sea,  
After a sweeping Storm is wont to be.  
No Waves of crowding people pass our Street,  
But an eternal silence every where you meet.  
The Nine their great Apollo's loss bemoan;  
For him the Hills, for him the Woods do groan.  
The stately Buskin now no more the Muse will wear:  
In humble Elegy her pains she does declare.  
Like Men in Greenland, now our Sun's once set,  
A tedious live long Night usurps its seat:  
Upon its flaggy Wings old Winter comes,  
And every where through this black Empire roams:  
Binds up the Brooks, and does the Floods benumb.  
The pretty purling Streams for ever must be dumb.  
Our Orator and Grave Philosopher,  
No sense now in their Books can find, they swear;  
The Poet's Lyre touched with one single Ray  
Of our Great Charles, before would sweetly play;  
Divinely Sing of Hero's and of Kings;  
The useless thing now on the Willows hangs.  
Thus Godlike Kings with Heaven seem to share  
In that its great Prerogative; when e'er  
In wrath they speak, upon their Lips destruction hangs,  
And winged ruin waits their dread commands.  
Well: I could ne'er Great Charles' loss sustain,  
But that I in my Flood each Night behold his Wain.   

A POEM, Written on the occasion of the THANKSGIVING-DAY FOR THE DISCOVERY OF THE Fanatical Plot, September 9 1683.  
Hic genus antiquum terrae, Titania pubes,  
Fulmine dejecti, fundo volvuntur in imo.  Virg. 

I.  
OUR State-Convulsions had of late so changed  
The Muse's Empire; through her Countries ranged;  
Had drowned her sweet and tuneful voice  
In Pamphleteering Scribblers croaking noise.  
I in a rage threw by my Quill, and vowed  
A sullen silence with th' unthinking crowd;  
ne'er more in Sacred Verse to traffic or delight,  
When lo! the fair Britannia appeared in sight.   

II.  
No weeping showers had stained her Heavenly Face,  
Nor her torn Hair impaired her Native Grace:  
No Tempest had overcast her sight;  
Her eyes were rather drunk with light.  
Nor was She mantled in Grief's Sable dress,  
As when she mourned o'er the Great Martyr's Hearse;  
But Majesty with charming sweets allayed,  
Was in her looks, which did at once persuade  
And force; scarce so divine the Queen of Love,  
When to the Phrygian Boy in Ida's Grove,  
Naked she stood: My sense with wondrous A●  
Run o'er the whole, yet seemed to dwell on every part.  
A thin light Vest her beauties strove to hide  
In vain: through th' silken Cloud, with glorious pride,  
Her brightness broke; she stood and smiled a while,  
Then in these pleasing accents did revile.   

III.  
And does my Loyal Slave supinely lie?  
So some poor Sinner sleeps away a Jubilee.  
Does he no joy nor sense betray,  
While vaulting Flames around him play?  
While the whole circuit of our Isle is crowned  
With flames as great, as in the Skies are shown  
When the Sun, blood red, goes down;  
And with huge tracks of light the Horizon fringes round.  
But now  
I saw two Comets tilting in the Air,  
Their grifly Mains woven with flaming Hair:  
A thousand ways with restless pains they went;  
Th' embowelled Fire, in their close Entrails penned,  
Made 'em to rage: sometimes they run and missed,  
Then turning stopped, and at each other hissed.  
At last they shot through th' Air, and did retire,  
Leaving behind 'em a long path of glowing Fire.  
The gazing crowd pleased at these harmless Wars,  
Lodged with their louder cries the falling Stars.  
So to th' Hesperian Shore each Night the Natives crowd,  
To hear Sol's hissing Wheels plunge in the Western Flood.  
So sets the Sun, and so fell they.   

IV.  
Our flaming Isle does Scaldis Banks amuse,  
Who asks from every mingling Wave what news.  
Some say, a burning Mount they fear;  
And others strait set down the Year.  
The trembling Dutchman never wondered more  
Since Drake his Fire-ship through the Channel bore.  
The scattering light gilds all the watery way:  
The Fishes think they in the Sunshine play.  
Yet unconcerned, like Snow on Aetna's top,  
Amidst these flames canst thou so thoughtless sleep?  
Assume thy Lyre; to Albion's fires, this day,  
A blameless, pious Nero, thou mayst play.  
With that she took her Wand, that all commanding thing,  
And gently touched my Lips, and thus she bid me sing.   

V.  
It was that Halcyon Age  
When Loyalty and Fortune did engage  
In a blessed Conspiracy,  
To make our Land forget her former misery.  
The Martyred Sire was dead,  
And Charles the Second Reigned in his stead.  
Great Charles! whose Noble Veins  
As Princely Blood contains:  
In whom as many Royal Houses met,  
As in the Heavens ere Astronomers could fancy yet.  
A Prince, whose Youth in Courts abroad was bred,  
And there with Arts and Manners fashioned.  
(Like his Incarnate Lord)  
His own dear Land did not afford  
A place to lay his Exiled weary Head;  
And there he this Oraculous Truth was taught,  
Friends best when tried, Experience best when bought.   

VI  
At his Illustrious Return,  
Our Widowed Land left off to mourn:  
And as the cheerful Morning's Light,  
After a tedious stormy Night,  
Looks brisk and gay, and with fresh Joy does ru●  
To meet and welcome back the Rising Sun.  
Peace, Plenty, and the Arts, with all their Beauteous Train,  
Did peep abroad, and everywhere abound;  
Which now entombed had lain  
A tedious Night of twenty Winters under ground  
Fortune to Pity now inclined,  
Forgot to be unkind,  
Left off to vex our Earth,  
With civil Discords monstrous Births.  
Mars did no longer slain fair Albion's Face,  
But fled to his Beloved Thrace.  
No noise was heard of broken Leagues or Wars▪  
And Love usurped upon our Homebred Jars.  
Neptune's self was now content,  
Since, Charles left thundering in his Element;  
Since he enjoyed the Sovereignty  
Of the Asserted Sea.  
The British Oak rid Admiral  
Among the floating Forest; every Sail  
Paid Homage to this God o'th' Watery Main;  
And Foreign Fleets, like Pleasure-Boats, made up his Train.   

VII.  
Our Mother-Isle, blest with her Young Ones, lay,  
And seemed to put the other Earth away:  
So lay Peru, with all the Western World,  
Before the greedy Spaniard dreamt of Gold,  
In rich Potozi's Mines.  
Rome and Geneva off we flung;  
And all that Romish was, except the Tongue.  
When all the World beside blind Monkish Error led,  
And Pure Religion, frighted, from it fled;  
Our Land leapt up, and, like another Deal,  
The wandering Goddess took, and used her well.  
Their subtle Pedlars of Divinity  
Had all packed up their Wares; no Bigot Knee  
Bowed yearly at St. Peter's sacred Gate;  
Nor at Loretta's thronged Shrine did wait.  
Their Agnus Dei's no rich Fleeces gave;  
They ne'er of late could in our English Pastures thrive.   

VIII.  
Thus against all the open, fore-seen Bolts of Fate,  
Firmly we had secured our State;  
'Gainst France and Holland's Pride, and restless Tiber's Hate.  
But as the Fruit, which long has stood,  
Maugre the nipping Frosts, and Winter Blasts,  
By some homebred Worm, at last,  
Is cankered, and is withered;  
Pale Faction saw, and cursed our blessed Estate;  
They saw themselves dethroned, their Power abate.  
Thus from Ambition's Root sprung all their Discontent;  
They now repent  
Of that Blessed Prince, whom Heaven, and their own Choice, had sent.  
Discarded Lords, Priests, Atheists, all were met,  
And in private Juncto sat:  
The dexterous Achitophel,  
(That word alone contains an Hell)  
Among the Boldest did appear,  
And briskly took the Chair:  
The bloody Senate sat, the Crippled Thing  
Raised himself, and thus began.   

IX.  
Contemned, scorned, trampled on, and nothing made!  
Thus by a weak and Puny King outbraved!  
From Honour's Pitch, to vilest Drudgery thrown,  
By a poor Thing, a Creature of our Own!  
Too far obliged, our Worth he can't repay;  
And so like dangerous Tools we're thrown away:  
Fore long, perhaps, must share a Turkish Fate,  
And Life and Honours lose  
By Axe, or Hempen Noose,  
Lest we reveal the Secrets of the State.  
What Mortal Men, that Souls, like ours, do own,  
Could see the Care of Government and Laws,  
The Honours both of Sword and Gown,  
On those vile Wretches heaped and thrown,  
Who are Deserters of our Holy Cause?  
Yet so it is; Upon his Bed and Throne  
These Villains wait, and hang, these damned State-Burrs,  
And entertain the Monarch's leisure Hours;  
To such an height the Turncoat Slaves are grown.  
Unlike to me, I thank my Stars, who ne'er  
Would court that Childish Toy, a Monarch's Ear;  
Unlike to me, who this great Tenent boast,  
I always hated what was uppermost.   

X.  
Can we so tamely all our Right forgo?  
Or is the Lechery of Ambition,  
And all the luscious Sweets of Power to us unknown?  
With full Command we reigned here once, w● know;  
Can we so soon forget our Prosperous Fate,  
When we, with Pious Cheats, Vnkinged the State  
Cullied the Monarch of his Sting and Power,  
And sent the uselss Drone to beg from Door t● Door?  
But now we're come to murmuring Israel's Pitch▪  
Because our Hands once got Rebellion's Itch,  
Like outlawed Felons we must stand,  
And ne'er enjoy Preferment's Promised Land.  
No, no: 'Tis but another Charles that's lost;  
And if He live, our brave Designs are crossed.  
By the old tedious Road of Justice we  
Scorn to procure his Destiny;  
The Second Charles must fall a bolder way;  
A Gun shall do the Work; nor give him time to Pray.  
He spoke, and threw his baleful Eyes around:  
Bravely Resolved! through all the willing Court resounds.  
The Hellish Voice down to the Centre struck;  
Infernal Jove's black Palace shook:  
The Furies for this joyful Hour prepare,  
And strait threw Hisses round the Air:  
They leaned their hungry Jaws, and stood  
Longing to gorge and wanton once again in British Blood.   

XI.  
But their blind Rage begot so vast a Birth,  
At last, they wanted Strength to bring it forth.  
Like the famed Man, who did of old to Heaven aspire  
In flaming Coach, and 'scap't Mortality,  
(That Ditch, which in the middle way did lie);  
Our Godlike Monarch was preserved by Fire;  
And Heaven revered his Doom; the Gun recoiled,  
And its proud Planter with loud Ruin foiled.  
Thus when Earth's cursed Race with Heaven made War,  
And strove to fool the Thunderer;  
Daring Typheous clasped the Mountain's Waste,  
And furiously he tore it from its Base:  
The bleating Sheep upon the Top did feed,  
The harmless Cattle lowed in every Mead.  
At first he staggered with the Mountain's Load:  
To see Hills upward move, scared every God.  
But, in a trice, it crushed him, and his Grave di● prove;  
He heaving lay, and cursed the Gods above.    

AN EPITAPH On the late E. of S.  
BEneath this Turf of Grass does lie  
The Good Old Cause and Antony:  
Tony, a Judgement sent by Heaven's Command;  
Tony, the Prince Elect of Fairy-Land;  
The Golden Calf of the unthinking Crowd,  
Before whom each blue-aproned Statesman bowed.  
Finding his Pious Cheats won't do  
In this our World, he's gone to Hell below;  
And there he vends his Politics in Fashion,  
To Corah's Tribe reads his Association;  
Flying the Rod of injured Majesty,  
He crossed the Seas for Gospel Liberty,  
Of hatching Treasons, and embroiling States.  
But lo! the Justice of the Eternal Fates:  
The Dutch, whom he to ruin once had doomed,  
Saw him and all his little arts entombed;  
There's nought to fear but this now, come the worst,  
Lest from his busy factious dust,  
Penned within his Country's Womb,  
An after-Earthquake thence should come.   

THE TOWER of LONDON.  
On the Commitment of some Great Persons.  
FOR Stones to speak, is not a flight so high,  
Is no great miracle in Poetry;  
ere since Amphion once did call  
The willing Stones into the Theban Wall,  
All our whole Offspring have been Musical.  
I am the great Physician of the State,  
And the Commands of my dread Master wait;  
whoever of this great Family I see  
Oppressed with some usurping Malady,  
My Sovereign Doses straight I do prepare,  
For them good Diet and a better Air,  
Who standing on the giddy heights of State,  
Are grown lightheaded, and so tempt their fate;  
With some mild Medicines work, some desperate be,  
And them I cure by a Phlebotomy.  
I am the Haven of Security  
To those that long been driving on the Sea  
Of factious Courts; 'twas here our Raleigh found  
Experience, Learning, Health, in short, firm ground▪  
When all abroad nothing but wrecks appeared  
Of floating Statesmen; he securely steered.  
Entombed in me he full twelve Winters past,  
And here his mighty Pen he drew at last;  
Here he could safely at Guiana touch,  
Nor be afraid of Spaniard or of Dutch.  
A greater Man my Walls did ne'er enrich,  
Since my own Julius here his Camp did pitch.  
Here restless Spirits at last centred be,  
Their motion spent and tired, they fix in me.  
Thus 'tis; these are the Airy Castles all  
Build to themselves, who Plot their Country's fall▪  
Now harmless as my uncharged Cannon are,  
So tame these Sons of great Intrigue appear.   

Religio vi & armis non est propaganda.  

I.  
NO, no, I'm sure it cannot be,  
What e'er the bloody Jesuit cries,  
That such a gentle Deity  
Should take delight in humane Sacrifice;  
Let Scythian Diana's Priests such notions teach,  
Such savage Doctrine the wild Brachman preach;  
Whose craving God must every day be fed,  
With humane steam and gore must every day be pampered;  
Whose Altars with these poor recruits they ply,  
To lengthen out his Immortality.   

II.  
Religion takes a different course,  
She wants no Arms or outward force,  
With secret Charms she does unlock  
The inmost Rooms and Chambers of the Soul,  
With Swords and Racks in vain she tries to shock,  
Or reasons nobler power control,  
By parley and capitulation  
The Mind's Imperial Fort is won;  
Like lightning she unto the heart can pierce,  
The outward case yet ne'er the worse.   

III.  
Religion is a lambent Flame,  
Gentle and calm its influence;  
Within her Family ne'er Zealot came;  
With him she never could dispense,  
Whose blind Enthusiasms hot desire,  
Would make a man believe,  
That, Persian like,  
All his Religion he had placed in Fire;  
The effects of ignorant and misty zeal  
(Drawn into errors Bogs and Fens we feel)  
Where it is wont our reason to benight,  
So shows it carries heat without a spark of light.   

IV.  
When Heathen Rome with Heathen Britain warred,  
Honour and not Religion was the stake;  
This was the Game their Eagle did regard,  
For this its humble stoops did make;  
The painted Britain then might fall  
Before his Father's Gods, and on 'em call:  
Our Sacred Things they let alone,  
Nor forced us change our Gods of wood for theirs of stone.  
This Rome's Arch-flamen never did desire,  
This cruel task ne'er at our hands require,  
That as our Coin a Caesar's Head did bear,  
So our Religion too the Roman stamp should wear.   

V.  
If the Sword can Converts make,  
And then the Faggot and the Stake,  
There's no more powerful argument;  
I now shall think there's something in't,  
When next I see th' Apostles pictured stand,  
Some Swords, some Saws, some Axes in their hand.    

A SHORT satire AGAINST KEEPING▪  

I.  
TELL me not what the rage of Poets is,  
Who of their promised Pence and Glories miss;  
When venturing out their stock of Rhyme and Wit  
To Fame's wild Coast, they're balked the third Days hit:  
Or what the cursed ambitious Statesman feels,  
Who thunder-stricken downwards headlong reels;  
Or what the Pleader feels thats turned or ' th' Bar,  
Or the black Hell that cashiered Favourites bear.  
This is too poor, with greater I'd engage,  
And with steel Whips of furies lash the Age:  
Come then, lead on, do thou inspire my Pen,  
Juno! poor injured Queen of Gods and Men;  
For Jove could not restrain his lustful Soul;  
He (Poets say) was the first Keeping Fool;  
He first of all the Stallion Gods above,  
Rambling from home in Masquerade, made Love;  
At Athens, Sparta, Deal he used to kiss,  
At every stage he passed, he kept a Miss;  
Wives, Virgins, every Female he assayed,  
And the whole World one great Seraglio made.  
Great Princess! with such keen Revenge inspire,  
Fill all my veins with such a restless fire,  
As when from fair Alemena's Breast you tore,  
The Bastard which to Jupiter she bore;  
As when at last you made the spurious Fop  
Pay for his Father's sport on Aeta's top.  
With this, and more, arm thou my stabbing Quill;  
Envenomed thus, the Arrow needs must kill.   

II.  
How strange a Slave? how fond and dull a Fool  
Is he that deals and parcels out his Soul  
'twixt Wife and Miss? so shuns a chaste embrace  
To court the gaudy Pageant of a Face;  
Say not 'tis Love, 'tis Lust divides the Man  
'Twixt what he would, what lawfully he can;  
Pure Love does in one constant current swim,  
Lust cuts a Channel, and le's out the stream;  
In Lust and Love we see the difference,  
Betwixt a Tyrant and a Lawful Prince;  
The Sympathy of Love cements the Soul,  
Wanting this stay from Plagues to Plagues we roll.   

III.  
But in this freakish Age, of all the worst,  
(Since our whole race was for a Woman cursed)  
An honourable Love we flout and spurn,  
This Fire can't in our colder Regions burn;  
Led by a wand'ring and fantastic flame,  
We act o'er Lusts, which we want words to name.  
Marriage! I that's the word; 'tis never spoke  
But we straight fall to crossing, or invoke  
Some Angel, or the Deity to defend  
From that infernal out-of-fashion Friend.  
If in the Gordian Matrimonial Knot,  
Against his will, perhaps, the Man be got,  
Hopes of great Friends, or Pence have drawn him in,  
Within three days to cool he doth begin;  
Love's raging Calenture is passed and o'er,  
And his pulse beats as even as before;  
His Love ebbs out, and Lust flows in as fast;  
Whater'e is violent can seldom last:  
He breaks the Dam in which he was enclosed,  
And to the common rout of Waters flows;  
He strait begins to damn the palled delight,  
New Kickshaws now must raise his appetite;  
Any Salacious Bitch that is at hand,  
That Oaths, or Prayers, or Money can command;  
An old cast Mistress now will serve the turn,  
To quench those flames in which he frys and burn.  
The Jilts their little arts, like sauces, use,  
The tired and nauseate taste to disabuse;  
And garnished Poison does more grateful come,  
Than a course cleanly dish prepared at home.  
These are the modish Sparks, who still complain  
That stepdame Nature does all men restrain;  
That none enjoy a bliss so defaecate and good,  
As those that savage run about the wood.   

IV.  
Our Grandam at one clap the World did shame,  
And these her Daughters do by piece-meal dam.  
Below the Navel no Religion,  
This for a standing truth they know and own;  
Thus armed, from every age they gather spoils,  
From twelve to fifty fall into their toils;  
The old decrepit Lecher, one would think,  
Should now at last leave off to Whore and Drink,  
Beneath the weight of Claps and Years should sink;  
But Lust, like generous Wine, does stronger grow,  
And still with age its sprightly force renew;  
The Snow upon his candid Locks appears,  
Within, he flames, as great as Aetna bears;  
The harassed Bawd has her quietus pass,  
And the old jaded Horse is turned to grass;  
Tired, not yet conquered, he must work and slave  
To feed his Lust, as hungry as the Grave;  
His worn out joys he fain would still repeat,  
A brace of Whores his aged side must heat,  
As in a Fever we lay Pigeons to the Feet.  
These rampant Minxes have enslaved the Town,  
From Westminster to Cornhill all's their own.  
These not tied up to honours nicer rules,  
Please far beyond those squeamish Virtuous Fools,  
Who are so corded to a Marriage Bed,  
Nor have the trick to sell a Maidenhead,  
Twenty times o'er: in these light Vessels all  
The Sparks of Court, and Town are wont to sail,  
Whilst Virtuous Wives, like sluggish Ships of Trade,  
Move slow, for Profit, not for Pleasure made.  
The Paradise of every forward Fop,  
From Bully down to Foreman of the Shop.  
The Merchant's Man upon his Madam waits,  
Not two Years served, he needs must pass these Straits.  
These Coolers (rot 'em) are exposed and shown  
When my young Master's Worship comes to Town.  
The Country Squire does straight to nibbling run,  
Once entered, soon grows lewd, and is undone.   

V.  
What e'er the great Reformers of the Age,  
Dryden and Lee can say, those Preachers of the Stage,  
Or mighty Oldham's keen Satiric rage;  
Spite of all these, the grand Debauch does live,  
As some Men do for railing, better thrive.  
Dryden, good Man, thought Keepers to reclaim,  
Writ a kind satire, called it Limberham.  
This all the herd of Lechers straight alarms,  
From Charing-Cross to Bow was up in Arms;  
They damned the Play all at one fatal blow,  
And broke the Glass that did their Picture show.    

THE PENITENT.  
BOötes just had lodged his drowsy Carr,  
And all the scattered seeds of light from far  
Began to move, and crowd their ranks to fill,  
When first they spied Sol on the Eastern Hill,  
Who driving briskly o'er the Azure way,  
Whipped on the sluggish morn; in plain, 'twas Day:  
I waked, and wondered how I had slept in pain,  
My labouring Breast did furious Wars maintain;  
The outworks of my heart beleaguered stood  
With sighs and throbbing pains, my circling Blood  
Beat quick, and trembled at the unequal strife  
Betwixt the proud Disease and struggling life▪  
Whilst the dull Cent'nels of my Senses slept  
(Surcharged with Wine, and from their duty kept)  
Through the unguarded Ports the Foe did start  
To the Pavilion Royal of my Heart;  
I thought at first to let the sluices out,  
And so to drown the Country round about;  
In vain alas! so strange a Pleurisy  
Was never cured by Phlebotomy:  
At last I found it to be Love, and that  
My froward Heart cried, nor yet did know for what;  
Love's Magic vanished thus from 'fore my Face,  
I saw a thousand Cupids in the place;  
Each bore a little shield, on which appeared  
Whole showers of Tears, and Hearts with Blood▪ besmeared;  
This Army led by Venus and her Boy  
(She had forgot the Wound she felt at Troy)  
I searched my Heart, it was all o'er one Wound,  
Quivers of bearded Shafts I sticking found;  
Smiling, I shall not now I see, said I,  
Love's Martyr, but a Malefactor die;  
I laughed at Cupid as the Poet's Creature,  
And swore his Mother had not one good Feature,  
Blasphemed his Power, his God-ship I defied,  
Bid the Boy do his worst; and thus I cried;  
I called his Votaries all whining Fools,  
Who stood to that blind Archer's Laws and Rules▪  
The Slave some pleasure at the Oar may find,  
His Body chained, yet free as Air his Mind:  
But who Love's Galley towes, through Seas of Tears  
And Hurricanes of Sighs his Passage steers;  
I played the Traitor with this King of hearts,  
Exposed his ways, and all his little Arts,  
I vowed I'd toss the Phaeton from his Chair,  
Who wrapped in Flames sets all the World on Fire.  
I yield, Ye mighty Powers of Love, I yield,  
No longer able to maintain the Field,  
My stubborn Soul gives way, the day's your own,  
My frozen Heart dissolves before your Sun;  
A dreadful Victim to Love's God I'm made,  
With Lightning scorched, with which before I played;  
Forbear your eager Darts, I beg, lest so  
My heart you scarce from your own Quiver know.  
A sad ungracious Rebel I have been,  
And long bore Arms against Love's Sovereign Queen.  
Now, like some Sinner, my past life I mourn,  
And like him strait grow wise, repent and turn,  
My heart within its Urn shall hourly strive  
To keep Love's gentle Fire still alive.  
Clorinda's Name shall be the charming Air,  
She in my Songs the only part shall bear,  
On her fair Body I'll my Altar raise,  
And there each Morn and Evening sacrifice.   

THE WOOING.  

I  
MAdam, for God's sake what d' ye mean to do?  
This (like the Persian) is to buy, not woe;  
I'm frozen to a Statue, while in vain  
Under your Window I declare my pain,  
And yet my inward flame the brisker burns,  
The all surrounding cold to fuel turns;  
So that an Ant'peristasis I see  
In Love as well as in Philosophy.   

II.  
Heaven's twinkling Host are masked in Clouds,  
Darkness and Night each lovely Object shrouds,  
Loud Boreas hears me call you cruel-fair,  
And to his Brother Wind the sound does bear;  
Yet led by Love's false dancing light I rove,  
Through thickest Cold and Night I blindly move,  
Th' officious Winds themselves conspire the same,  
And with their Wings serve but to fan my Flame.   

III.  
Madam, I swear, if you but once will break,  
From Bed the reveling Winds no more shall speak,  
But to their broken Prisons sneak.  
Terror and Night shall march away,  
Like Spirits at the approach of Day,  
Through th' Casement of my Breast your Eye Beams hurled,  
Shall make it Day too in my lesser World.    

The Fifth Ode of the Second Book of Horace imitated.  
Prithee, for shame thy passion hide,  
The thing's too young to make a Bride,  
I can't devise what this wild fancy means,  
The Girl's but just now got into her Teens;  
Dost think you tender, untried Neck can e'er  
Endure Love's ponderous Yoke to wear?  
Not ripe for sport, nor yet for action fit,  
How should her humour with a Husband hit?  
Should you your eager Flames but try,  
And all Love's mighty Dose apply,  
The o'rcharged Girl would in the Combat die.  
With it the puling Maid could ne'er dispense,  
The luscious Sweets would overcome her Infant sense.  
Keep her at Hackney or at Islington  
A Year or two before she comes to Town.  
There by the Mother of the Maids she'll be  
Soon tutoured in the hidden Mystery,  
There she'll be taught new studied Arts and Charms,  
And come a full-blown Bride into your Arms.  
Take her abroad, and walk her in the Fields,  
And let her see what teeming Nature yields;  
Show her the lovely Cow how 't' milked, that can▪  
Perhaps her fancy raise, and make her think on Man.  
For every thing its time and tide does know,  
When did you see ripe Grapes at Easter, trow?  
It is a sight with us exceeding rare,  
But they are plenty at the Fair:  
Stay till the Vine has had the Summer-Sun,  
And Autumn's brought it to perfection;  
The bladdered Grapes shall then in Clusters bend,  
And to your taste its racy Liquor send.  
She'll soon write Woman; for Time's partial hand▪  
Takes from your Glass, and adds unto her Sand.  
Now make your court, my life for yours,  
She'll briskly answer your amours;  
Now draw down all Love's grand Artillery,  
And Night and Day your Leaguer ply,  
Now Sigh for Sigh she'll give, and Vow for Vow▪  
And learn to toy and wanton well as you.   

On two Lads unfortunately expelled the University for a Riot  

I  
COme, dearest Timon, prithee let's be gone,  
And quit this loved, ungrateful Town;  
If the mad Tempest will not cease  
Till we th'angry Gods appease,  
'Tis better thou and I should die  
Than the whole Ship's Company;  
If nought but humane Sacrifice  
Will satisfy these hungry Deities,  
With the famed Curtius boldly plunge into the Cave,  
And Death and all our peevish Fates outbrave;  
'Twas He the mighty He alone,  
Who did the sins of a whole Host atone:  
Death unmasked to him did come,  
He living rode into his Tomb,  
The mighty Debt alone He paid,  
It took him in its hungry Jaws, and so the Plague was stayed.   

II.  
Over the Universal Ball  
Undauntedly we'll move,  
Where'r the fleeting Goddess Fortune calls,  
Until at last she constant prove;  
Like Birds of Paradise we'll daily live  
(For sure none like these happy Creatures thrive)  
With mutual enjoyments blest,  
Ever loving,  
Ever moving,  
Till we find a place of rest.   

III.  
See where our better Genius goes,  
A happy Guide and Partner in our woes,  
See how the loving Phantom glides along,  
Leaving behind a gloeing tract of light,  
To be our Convoy through this gloomy Night,  
Through want, disgrace, and all th'ignoble throng▪  
But lo! the dismal Scene appears;  
What's this that strikes my eyes, alarms my ears?  
I see drawn Swords and Drums; a Camp no doubt;  
Away, I hate this cursed bloody Rout;  
As Pallas over Arts presideth there,  
So here the Goddess wields a Spear,  
That even in a Camp, I'm sure,  
The Muse's Sons might be secure,  
But nothing here appears but blood and wounds,  
And I abhor what looks like Scarlet Gowns.   

IV.  
See where the cheating Citts, and supple Courtiers stand,  
Those Locusts of our pleasant Land,  
Go forward, pass 'em all, and never stop  
Until you reach Parnassus flourishing top,  
Cambridge one side o' th' forked Hill commands,  
Upon the Other Oxford stands;  
Here, here, we'll lay our wearied heads,  
By gentle Isis' Banks and verdant Meads  
We'll sit and tune our tender Reeds.  
What surly Cam would ne'er allow,  
We to this beauteous Nymph must owe;  
Our longing Souls we'll in her Waters drench,  
And at her Flood our thirst of Learning quench.    

On three Ladies, who going abroad in Masquerade met with some Bullies, drew and fought 'em; in the Fray one of the Ladies was desperately wounded, 1683.  

I.  
Romantic Dames! who dare disown,  
For Sword and Perruque, Petticoat and Gown;  
In ancient times thus a bold Son of Fame  
Would imitate Jove's Thunder, and his forked Flame,  
The God with scornful smile the Wretch surveys,  
And posts a Counter-bolt to end his days.  
Patroclus thus Achilles' Arms would wear,  
Tickled and proud the ponderous Shield to bear,  
The Trojan Captains soon espi'ed the Cheat,  
So the Fool died only for seeming great.   

II.  
'Tis much, Old Boy, to thy brave hand we owe,  
A Secret rare and choice it did on us bestow,  
A Woman's flinty Breast with Streams of Blood does flow.  
Before we thought 'em all Divinities,  
And as we do to other Deities,  
Besotted Fools! were Altans wont to raise.  
But now the thing is better understood,  
We find they're nothing else but Flesh and Blood.   

III.  
Wounded! nay then I'saith I find  
We're all deceived in Womankind.  
The Poets in their usual Tone  
Cry women's hearts are made of Stone;  
But we need never now despair,  
Though whole Quarries should be there,  
To pass these Alps a way is showed us here,  
Without the help of Fire and Vinegar.   

IV.  
Thou hadst, Old Soul, a lucky hand,  
For now we plainly see the Newfoundland  
Of Woman's heart, which in past Ages lay  
Like O Brazile or Terra incognita.  
A Woman's heart is Love's▪ Acropolis,  
Where like some Mountain-King he lies,  
Secured by Frost and Snow from Enemies;  
Pride, scorn and cold disdain, 〈◊〉 Menial Servants, waits,  
And foolish bugbear Honour keeps the Gates;  
Thy piercing Sword without delay  
To Love's proud Bulwark forced its way,  
And though thou hast not ta'en the Town,  
Yet all the Outworks are thine own,  
So very near the Walls you came,  
That the unguarded places you can name,  
That you could now securely see  
Where she might best assaulted be,  
A blessed Discovery no doubt,  
For Women after this can never long hold out.   

V.  
Unhappy Lady, to expose  
A Life, which rather than you e'er should lose,  
I myself to die would choose!  
But why should foolish I such pity show  
To that cursed Sex, who none for man does know?  
Man daily falls a Sacrifice,  
And wounded by their Witchcraft lies,  
Yet not one sigh or falling tear,  
Not one kind Beam does e'er appear  
Their dying Worshipper to cheer.  
But still with scorn and taunts they do abound,  
And so throw Salt into the rankling Wound.   

VI  
In Women still this fight freak does reign  
From Troy's famed Wars, down to the French Campagn;  
For Mother Venus (as the Story goes)  
Once ventured out against her Grecian Foes:  
That she was breeched and booted, 'tis not said;  
But this is sure, She went in Masquerade.  
The Grecian and the Trojan Huffs  
Were helter skelter fallen to Cuffs,  
Like lightning on the foremost Ranks she flew,  
But in a Camp alas what should Women do?  
She soon was spied by Bully Diomedes;  
Who at first touch e'en set her on her head:  
He drew and cut her through her Gauntlet-Glove,  
And sent her whining to her Father Jove:  
Yet still we see her Daughters love the sport,  
Though once their Mother paid so dearly for't;  
But somewhat strange it seems to be,  
And even a Riddle is to me,  
That Venus' naked all men does overcome,  
And now well armed should meet so sad a Doom.   

VII.  
My little Female Bully, what design  
Hadst thou in this odd Garb and warlike Mein?  
Armed with dite Steel, why wouldst thou e'er appear?  
Thy hands were made to wield another Spear:  
In Love's soft Battles you may Glory win;  
But here to think to do so is a sin:  
Nay, if we will believe some Writers Pen,  
One Woman there's too hard for twenty Men.  
Now I'm not so much a Sot,  
But can with ease find out your Plot;  
By sin you lost your Empire and your sway,  
And now would fain retrieve the day,  
Well then! pray thus let me decide the Fray:  
Trust me, 'twill be a far more glorious Prize,  
Lay by these Arms, and conquer with your Eyes;  
Only let Man be Master in the Streets,  
And you shall always beat between the Sheets.    

A POEM ON THE Prince's Marriage.  
Vt gaudent Pater Aeneas, & Auunculus Hector.  Virgil. 

I.  
ALmighty Love! who can thy ways define?  
Thou small intrieguing God, thou 'rt all design;  
Thy Quiver and thy Darts are farther known  
Than the gay wand'ring Bow which in the Clouds is shown;  
Thou keep'st the Gods themselves in awe  
By thy Universal Law;  
Jove, though amidst his stores of Rain and Hail,  
Against thy secret Flames can nought prevail,  
Thou breakest through his Guards, and with thy Dart  
Dost pierce the groaning Monarch to the heart.  
Neptune, though all around with Waves oppressed,  
Yet by the Ocean finds his Love increased,  
Like water that on fire's cast.  
Nay, thou beyond the Tropics canst approach,  
Where Sol in all his Journey dare not touch;  
Let it be Torrid, or the Frigid Zone,  
There an Empire thou dost own,  
Which would both temperate be,  
Were it not, bold God, for thee.  
Denmark, which lies remoter from the Sun,  
With as brisk Flames, we find, as Britain burn.  
O Love, thou weakest part in Souls the most Divine!  
Against the Prince's warlike Breast  
First against His ease and rest,  
By practised Arts and tricks thou didst design;  
He owned thy power, and never stayed,  
But thy Godship soon obeyed;  
Led by thy light through rolling Seas He moved  
To meet his Royal Love.  
He feared no Rocks that lay between,  
So that within her Breast none could be seen;  
He feared not all the ills from Seas and Winds could come,  
So that her breath did not pronounce his fatal Doom.  
Thus Vesta's Flame itself did once maintain  
Through the black Deep, till it the Port did gain,  
Till it at Rome had reached the Sacred Fane.  
Nor did he long expect his Doom,  
He did but come, and see, and overcome;  
By Parley, and Capitulation,  
In ten days space her Virgin Fort was won.  
An easier Conquest Jove could never boast,  
No Mistress ever stood him in less cost;  
When cloistered Danae he would gain,  
To bribe her Keepers he was fain;  
With Gold his Godship then was forced to buy  
New Morsels and Supplies for his unbounded Luxury.   

II.  
Pardon, blessed Pair, these rude unpolished Lines,  
With which a Loyal Muse would now adorn your Shrines;  
Like some young Virgin, who when half undressed,  
(Around her loosely casts her Vest)  
Into the Crowd with eager steps does go,  
To gaze and wonder at the pompous show:  
Welcome, Great Prince, to our once happy shore,  
(For this once one time, dear Land, thy pardon I implore)  
For many years the Pride of all the Flood,  
The envy of the Western World it stood;  
In this our Isle, as once of Rhodes was said,  
The Sun was never thought to hide his head;  
Antiquity with all its searching eyes,  
Could never fancy or devise,  
That once in Egypt, or in Albion, Clouds could rise.  
Let Fortunate or Happy now no longer be its Name,  
But style it henceforth Europe's shame:  
As in Greek Story, we of Countries read,  
That for their sins have often changed their Breed,  
Of Men, or Manners; so, no more appears,  
But all are here transformed to Lions, Dogs and Bears.   

III.  
But the mistaken World may fancy yet,  
That happiness here keeps her peaceful Seat,  
Who see our thronged Streets still ebb and flow  
With Waves of people crowding to and fro;  
Who with such artful Beauty and surprise  
See all our Palaces and Temples rise,  
Who see our Navies daily plough the Main,  
With a full Harvest blest of dear-bought gain;  
Some freighted with the Golden Spoils o'th' West,  
Some with the shining Entrails of the East:  
So a poor Swain viewing a Tyrant's State,  
With secret Envy does applaud his Fate;  
But yet ne'er learns to prise his own dear peaceful rest,  
Nor sees those inward flames that rack the gaudy Pageant's Breast.  
Thus Aetna to the distant Sailor's sight  
Shows with a top that's verdant, flourishing and bright;  
But yet within its burning Womb contains  
Nothing but Brimstone, Lime, and scorching sulphurous Veins.   

IV.  
Yet from these Mists, Great Sir, that darken all the Air,  
A sudden joy does dart, and scatter our despair,  
When thus by you a way we opened find  
How the Fates may still be kind,  
How by your Royal Progeny  
We and our Sons may ever happy be.  
So have I seen a kind auspicious Star  
Shine forth and guide the wand'ring Traveller,  
While all else stood with thickest Night beset,  
This sparkled like a Diamond set in Jet.  
So from two warring Clouds black teeming Womb  
Oft have I seen the nimble Lightning come,  
And trembling run o'er all the Azure way,  
And with its light create a short-lived Day.  
The unruly Many now shall cease to rage,  
Or ever more disturb the Age:  
No more shall Schism, and bold Anarchy  
Among our English Manufactures numbered be;  
Pale Faction now shall hang its drooping head,  
It shall be through the World proclaimed,  
That Oracles are once more ceased,  
That the Old Cause, the mighty Pan is dead.  
These cursed heart-burnings, and ill-boding Flames  
Shall hence be exorcised by your illustrious Names, As Culinary Fire  
In the Sun's Beams does lose its force, and straight expire.  
The giddy Rabble and the Beasts of Prey  
Shall by your Nuptial Fires be scared away;  
As men in Africa do Bonfires rear,  
To keep 'em from the Lion and the savage Bear.  
Then let our British Annals talk no more  
Of one St George, his Deeds and wondrous Power;  
This is the Man; Him the Great ORDER shall  
In future times their Saint and Patron call,  
And what before was Legend, Fable, Lie,  
Shall pass for Current and Authentic History.    

To the Memory of the Learned Dr. J. N. who died of a Consumption, 1683.  

I.  
PITY it is all our Poetic rage  
Must waste in Libel against Death, each blubbered Page  
Must weep in Verse, each faint and piteous strain  
Of Saints departed must complain;  
Death has of late with utmost rage and cruelty  
Harassed the Muse's Family,  
And made her freeborn Subjects wear the Chain  
With which Plebeian Souls he awes;  
I wondered at the spiteful Cause,  
And thus 'twixt grief and rage did straight complain   

II.  
Sure the pale Monarch of Eternal Night  
Mistakes his Crect, whilst here with Tyrant's spite  
He sports and laughs to see so many Victims fall;  
Crect! where stood his hallowed Stall,  
Crect, where the Caitiff still had store,  
Glutting himself with humane Gore,  
When yearly with the reeking blood  
Of seven young Boys  
He gorged his Jaws,  
Till highborn Theseus stopped the sacred Flood.   

III.  
I know the secret cause, it must be it,  
Why Death does wage immortal War with Wit;  
Learning and Wit a Lease of Life can give  
And make our Names in after-ages bud and thrive,  
These to the Tyrant are no Friends,  
But balk his cursed ignoble Ends;  
So these Lights must go out, that he again  
In Night and darkness uncontrolled may reign;  
Like some bold Villain, who the Archives burns,  
And all the blessed Remains to Ashes turns,  
That there no Proof in future times may be  
Of his low Birth, and Dunghill Pedigree.   

IV.  
Death's cold embrace what Mortal e'er can fly?  
Since Phoebus' dearest Son does breathless lie;  
Loved by the God upon a double score,  
He Physic added to Arts general store;  
If a Disease had struck a wounded Soul,  
He would the saucy Malady control,  
With choicest Simples, and Herbs Sovereign Juice,  
(Which seldom did his just Commands refuse)  
But if weak Nature in her part did fail,  
And the Destroyer o'er his Drugs prevail,  
He strait could with his Pen  
Fetch him to life again.  
Embalm the Memory of the Just,  
And make it flourish in the Dust;  
Death here with witty malice doth repay  
All favours and civilities past,  
And let those Devils he once cast  
Out of our Bodies, on himself now prey;  
That Death, which for a punishment was meant,  
Should fly on those that are most innocent!   

V.  
Nature had cast him in her largest Mould,  
This well-built Frame a Mind as large controlled;  
I saw it, happy Saint, and said go on,  
Thou surely will't complete the wretched Span.  
(Life's longest Stage) thy threescore years and ten.  
Fond man! deceived and gulled by outward show,  
What could his Soul with such a Partner do!  
His Mind and Body were ill-paired by Fate,  
To act things vastly good, Divinely great;  
His eager Soul with Learning's thirst was fired,  
His Body lagged, and in the Journey tired,  
Like generous Wine, his Soul for ease complained,  
Broke the frail Cask, that its vast Spirits contained;  
Whatever Virtue Drugs and Herbs can boast,  
Unhappy Friend, were on thee lost:  
So that the Artist's skill we must adore,  
And rather say the Art itself was poor;  
But one faint Spark of Life was left, I doubt,  
With pious care he blew, and chanced to put it out.   

VI  
To our Forefather's Death, and kinder Fate  
Gave longer Truce, in Life's sweet Bower they sat  
Five times as long, when to the hundredth Year  
They'd climbed, the pleasing Task did still appear  
Renewed, and still with haste the rolling Year Came back again.  
Their hopes did with their lengthened Ages thrive,  
And now by Custom they might plead to live.  
Death in his winged Chariot might have flown  
To the wide Ocean, or the swarthy Zone,  
And there have trifled many a Year, and fed  
His pampered Steeds with steam of Indian blood,  
Then have returned.  
While we alas! who ' have more to do than they,  
A World of Art, as well as Nature, to survey,  
Just know what 'tis to live, then strait are snatched away.   

VII.  
His winged Shaft with wondrous Art  
A thousand ways the Tyrant does impart;  
Burns in a Fever, in a Dropsy drowns,  
And Man, the lesser World, with slimy Rheum confounds,  
Plucking up all the Sluices in its Rounds.  
With more than Syren's Art he flatters still  
In a Consumption, when he means to kill;  
Here like the sleep of Infants, Death  
Lays by his Leaden hand, and gently takes our breath,  
With all the Graces the stern Monarch wears,  
Allays our fears, and sweetly stills our cares;  
Thus He to thee appeared, dear Saint, the kindest Dart  
In all Death's Quiver struck thee to the heart.  
So the famed Seneca expired,  
Feeling his trickling Blood retired;  
His heart unmanned, defenceless quite,  
In a soft Dream his Soul took flight,  
And hasted to the Shades of Night.  
Death long had laid her Siege to thee,  
That, like Ostend, thou needs must be  
Nothing but Ruins at Delivery.    

On the Famous PAINTER Mr. J. E. Pindaric Odes.  

I.  
THE blustering Hero struts in slow-paced lines▪  
In humble Elegy the Lover whines,  
In keen iambics others scold and rail,  
The Lyric Verse has many a pretty Tale,  
These old starched ways and I can ne'er agree,  
For Poets well as Painters too  
(If the observing World says true)  
Are still for bold Pindaric Liberty.  
Dull measure will my fancy sink, not raise,  
When I design intemperately to praise;  
I sing a wondrous man and wondrous things,  
What need of gouty Feet; my Muse has got her wings.   

II.  
But stay, my Muse, wilt thou no God invoke,  
Is no kind Deity bespoke,  
To guide thee through the vast mysterious maze  
Of his unbounded praise?  
Great Phoebus! deign for once to lend an ear  
To an humble Poet's Prayer;  
With open Arms so may thy Thetis run  
To meet thy Teem and setting Sun;  
So may thy glorious Head for ever be  
From sooty Earthly Vapours free,  
With undisturbed Rays may shine,  
Till the last Flames shall the whole World refine,  
When thou must too expire,  
As in thy Beams now Culinary Fire.   

III.  
But why should I with so much passion ask  
That which thou countest thy daily Task?  
Poets and Painters too  
To thee their fair designments owe;  
In vain the feeble Poets write  
Unless the God of Wit indite;  
In vain they paint, and show their Art,  
Unless thou play thy Part;  
Shouldst thou but once deny their Pieces light,  
Their best-wrought Draughts must lie in endless Night.  
For at the Call of thy approaching Sun,  
The hidden Colours all do run,  
The green, the blue, the yellow, and the red,  
And all the Regiment make Head,  
When in a Morn thou risest first from sleep,  
Each colour to its well-known feature creep.  
What is that thing, I fain would know,  
With which thou'rt wont to gild the watery Bow,  
What are those all-enlivening Beams  
With which thou paint'st the murmuring Streams,  
With which thou trickest up the Air and Skies,  
Which on the Plants in gaudy colours lies!  
With that same Pencil let me stand,  
And all the Lines and Strokes command  
With measure and due Art to march along  
Into my well-proportioned Song.  
That while I sing this matchless Morn,  
(Who through various Climes has run,  
And with the greatest skill has gathered thence  
Paintings Elixir and true Quintessence)  
Here a soft gentle Stroke may rise,  
And there a bolder may surprise.  
Thus, Dearest Friend, you see  
How we are outdone by thee  
In our own Calling, Poetry,  
Even Words and Metaphors you must impart  
They all are borrowed from the Storehouse of thy Art.   

IV.  
Zeuxes, Apelles, and those mighty Names,  
That swell so big the mouth of Fame,  
For many Ages did retain  
The Universal Painting Reign.  
Courted and loved by all, with wonder viewed,  
By dull Antiquities admiring Crowd;  
But their poor Images were wont to wear  
Their Pointers, this a Dog and that Bear;  
They ne'er could higher than a Landscape rise,  
Which at first sight might pleasingly surprise.  
The foolish Birds, I think we read, were caught,  
And to their painted Berries brought;  
Alas! my Friend, hadst thou but lived,  
The Painter's Mighty Self had been deceived:  
But these to Titian and Angelo  
Their Sovereign Empire did forego,  
And Painting still was in its stripling Age,  
Till Lely and Vandike did mount the Stage;  
And when these Prophets went at Death's great Call,  
They let their Mantle on thee fall,  
And with the same they did impart  
A double Portion of their Spirit and Art.   

V.  
But stay, here Friendship's Sacred Name  
In my bold Song an equal share does claim.  
What! Can my overweening Muse  
The Mighty Ryley's Praise refuse?  
Ryley, the second Glory of our Age,  
The Darling of the Court, the Town and Stage;  
Ryley by Heaven sent  
By way of an experiment,  
To show the World how feeble Nature's part  
May be outdone by her great Scholar, Art.  
Upon the weight of these two Columns lie  
Paintings Universal Monarchy.  
The Giant's War described upon a Shield,  
Was all Antiquity could yield;  
Or Gods that on their painted Poops did pass,  
Viewing themselves within the liquid Glass:  
A timorous Age! that crept along the Sand,  
But never durst lose sight of Land.  
But thou, my Friend, didst boldly out to Sea,  
And thy own Pilot too wilt be;  
And scornest to sneak to servile Arts and Rules,  
Made to fetter Dastard Souls.   

VI  
With such a glowing Warmth, as I pass by,  
Thy Pictures strike my cheated Eye;  
They seem to move, and nod, and speak▪  
And into violent passions break;  
That for the time to come  
Painting no more shall be an Art that's dumb.  
Whatever skill or cost  
The famous Raphael's Pieces boast;  
Now to oblivion and contempt they're damned,  
And into Corners and dark Entries crammed;  
But thy Great Fame (as some good Pictures do,  
Which best appear when far removed from view)  
With Aftertimes shall still maintain its light,  
And at an Age's distance shine more bright.   

VII.  
Methinks, I in thy wondrous Art adore  
Something that looks like a Creating Power;  
For when this World's great Draught, and well▪ wrought Piece  
Of Air, and Earth, and Seas,  
Was fashioned by the Thunderer's hand,  
All things at first did mixed and huddled stand,  
All things together lay in Nature's tiring Room,  
The Water and the Fire both struggled in on● Womb,  
Gold things with hot, and moist with dry  
Did undistinguished lie;  
When by a touch of their Great Maker's Art,  
The jarring Seeds of things did freely part,  
They humbly did retire without complaint,  
And out there leapt this World's most beauteo● Piece of Paint.  
So o'er the Chaos of a gloomy Ground  
Oft have I seen thy nimble Pencil move;  
And here a Hill the sight would bond,  
And here would peep a Flood, and there a Grove  
And strait a glorious Heaven would arise,  
Spangled and stuck with starry Eyes;  
And here a beauteous Nymph her head would rear▪  
With Eyes so killing, Mien so wondrous rare,  
That though some foolish Men may call  
This lovely Creature Shadow all;  
Yet here I vow with famed Pygmalion.  
If I must go a wooing,  
For Shadows of thy doing,  
I'd some of Nature's Substances disown.   

VIII.  
Philosophy this Notion clears,  
That the pale Moon two Faces wears,  
With one she looks at us, they say,  
Which radiant is and bright;  
The other's always turned away,  
And hid in thickest Night:  
But if the Picture of thy well-fraught Mind  
I regularly draw, my Friend,  
There must no Shade be there at all,  
Nothing that we may darkness call;  
Thou, like the Sun, art a full Globe of Light,  
Shining in every part, throughout the whole most bright,  
Adorned with every Artful Grace that can  
Make up an Illustrious Man.  
Painting the Jewel is, I own,  
Which in thy Ring of Arts is set and shown;  
But though in this thou dost excel,  
Yet other things beside thy Praises tell,  
A Sword, as well as Pencil, thou canst wield,  
And dare to tread, as well as paint a Field.  
His Hand, which with such gentle Strokes you saw  
But now that beauteous Woman shape and draw,  
Can, rougher grown, with as unerring Art  
Its Passage force to a bold Rival's heart;  
His Courage equal to his Fancy's shown,  
Both with as vigorous heat do burn,  
If once provokeed, his Pencils Rod thrown down,  
Into a Serpent he can turn.   

IX.  
And since all Strokes and Lines we find  
Humbly to wait at thy Command,  
As readily obey thy hand  
As that the motions of thy Mind,  
Prithee go on  
My best beloved Song,  
And tell thy humble Masters just desire,  
The God of Wit will still thy Strains inspire;  
Ah gentle Artist, when thou tak'st in hand  
The cruel Mistress of my heart,  
Which like my Soul within me stands,  
Is all in all, and all in every Part,  
Dress her in charms of choicest white and red,  
And show the World what ne'er has been  
In all past Ages heard or seen,  
That thou canst draw a perfect Maidenhead.  
The Face with interfering Circles filled,  
Like Nature's Alphabet does stand,  
In every Letter thou art skilled,  
Though darkly writ by Nature's hand;  
By each small Track and winding Line  
The temper of the Soul thou canst Divine,  
As if Dame Nature thou hadst stood and viewed  
Whilst She complexions did divide and brew;  
So by my Sylvia's features thou canst guests  
My eternal woe or bliss,  
By these perhaps thou'lt find  
Whether she ever will prove kind;  
As your rich Mines have oft been found  
By the bare surface of the Ground.  
But, gentle Artist, in her eyes  
Let none of that fierce Lightning rise;  
All sweet and charming let her be,  
That without fear I her loved face may see;  
Let no frowns on the Copy fall,  
Whatever may be seen in the Original.  
And then to thy great Name, and greater Art I'll bow,  
And She shall by thy hand immortal grow;  
Her Image Time nor Fate shall e'er devour;  
So small is Death's, so great the Painter's power.    

A POEM ON Mr L'Estrange.  — In magnis voluisse sat est. 

I.  
A Task too vast for any living Mortal Wight  
Oh could we call back from the shades again  
Great Oldham, Cowley, or Immortal Ben,  
Those happy Bards might something worthy thee indite;  
And though these three to our assistance came,  
With all their rich and shining Eloquence,  
With all the gaudy Trappings of their sense,  
The Dress would prove too poor and scanty for thy Fame;  
Their startling Metaphors and Similes,  
Their soaring Flights and bold Hyperboles  
Would vastly fall beneath their hopes,  
If spoke on thee, would never pass for Flourishes or Tropes.  
And yet amidst this plenteous store  
Of Theme and Subject, miser-like, I'm poor;  
Who e'er at too much Sea-room grieved before?  
Long have I trembling stood upon the Sand,  
And dreaded to put off from Land,  
When strait, I know not how, I'm tossed  
Into the boundless Main, in Heaps of Waters lost,  
Whilst from my weak unaided sight,  
The Shore, the Fields and Turrets take their hasty flight.   

II.  
I come with equal veneration stored,  
As big with shame, with as much wonder fraught,  
As what the World of old their Children taught;  
When the Diluvian Patriarch they adored;  
With such swelled hopes, with such concern they ran  
To see and hear that Great Surviving Man,  
Who of two Worlds a Citizen had been.  
The Janus-Noah wore a double face,  
Present and past together here took place.  
Like that famed Sire, You lived before the Flood,  
And well do know how 'twas our old World stood,  
That cursed prevailing Deluge, which o'rflowed  
(A heavier Judgement!) with polluted Streams of Blood,  
And You were saved, like him, the World to bless,  
To stock it with a more obedient Race,  
To be a Preacher of sound Loyalty and righteousness.  
Giants did then infest the Land,  
Clubbs and Committees with their hundred hands;  
But some of these are gone unto their Place,  
By a dissenting Levite's special Grace  
(Maugre their crimes) they sweetly are possessed  
Among the Saints of EVERLASTING REST.  
But if Rebellion can such blessed rewards assign,  
Cheer up, Beelzebub, the next turn is thine;  
We must not say the Learned Father raved,  
The Devil himself may at long run be saved:  
If Blood and Treason lead to happiness,  
If these insure Eternal bliss,  
In the wise Indian's Prayer,  
Oh may I, may I ne'er come there;  
In such a Crew let me be never seen,  
But, like the Rotterdammer, rather hang between.   

III.  
Can He whom Truth and Loyalty their Patron chose, Want a befiting Muse?  
Go on, my Song, and give but one Poetic loose;  
He that the Python and the Hydra slew,  
He that the savage Herds with Music drew,  
Had Paeans framed, and Altars raised,  
Were sung in Verse, adored and praised;  
Yet these were all but misty Types of You.  
Much greater Conquests crown thy mighty Pen:  
Beasts were their Prize, but thou hast tamed Men,  
Men with their Reasons blind, their Senses foully gross,  
Less docible than the Rhinoceros,  
To kneel for CHARLES that may in time be taught,  
To pray or drink for Him the Rabble's hardly brought;  
The Rabble, which if one by one you singly place,  
For reasonable Being's they may pass;  
But if together they associate be,  
Call 'em a shapeless Lump of blind Monstrosity.  
Methinks, like fabulous Scylla, thou dost lie,  
Beset with barking Curs incessant Cry:  
This is thy Task; severer far than theirs,  
Condemned to fight with Beasts in Amphitheatres;  
And harder much thy Fate (a Fate too harsh and sour,)  
(Thou Loyalty's undaunted Confessor)  
For Scars as thick thy injured Fame does know,  
As Scaeva on his Buckler Darts could show;  
He shook the Pointed Harvest off his Shield,  
And with fresh courage ranged the Field;  
And so do you,  
With vigorous heat the Fight renew,  
With interest return 'em all on the admiring Foe.   

IV.  
When You, by Ostracism damned,  
Were forced to quit your Native Land;  
It did at once pity and wonder move,  
To see the frantic mirth that every where  
Among the Many did appear,  
(So short and quick the Turns of popular hate and love.)  
At thy Eclipse much louder Shouts were found,  
Than e'er are heard on the Arcadian Ground,  
When all the silly Swains  
Come with their Brass, to ease the labouring Cynthia's Pains.  
The Rout, who live a bare Mechanic life,  
Admit of no Dispute, or reasoning strife;  
They with their moving Leaders must comply,  
Who act, true Brutes, by pure necessity.  
For if we would the Mystery behold,  
The Wolves were now turned Keepers of the Fold;  
And thou shouldst been like Banished Tully mourned,  
And shouldst have, like him too, with Songs returned.  
Great Engineer of State,  
Whose well-purged Ears, and watchful Eye  
Could all our Catiline's defeat,  
Could all their subterraneous Works and Mines descry.  
For in thy Lines, as in a Necromantic Glass,  
At three Years distance was distinctly shown  
(Though thy Prophetic Gift we ne'er would own)  
The Figure of their Plot, its features, Limbs and Face.   

V.  
Sidney 
* College in Camhridge. , the Muse's humble Seat,  
(But by L'Estrange's Name made great)  
Sidney no longer mourns; but joys to bring Thee forth,  
No longer blushes at her 
* Oliver Cromw.  other guilty Birth:  
For in this fair Rebecca's Womb  
You struggled both, from hence you both did come;  
Supplanter is thy Name, designed by Fate  
The great Usurper to defeat:  
For thy blessed Pen by this does half atone  
For all the mighty Ills his Sword has done;  
You Loyal nourishment and Virtue bore  
From the same Breast, whence that black Fiend before  
Sucked nought but Blood and unconcocted Gore.  
Thus Nature's Sages wisely prove and show  
From the same Cause different Effects may slow;  
The Sun's kind Rays can choicest Being's form,  
If pure and fine the Subject which they warm;  
But if on Mud received, how can they choose,  
But Frogs and Toads, and such vile Births produce.  
Go on, Brave man, boldly ride out the Storm,  
With which this peevish Age Thy Sacred Head would harm;  
In aftertimes the Mighty Good  
Shall be better understood,  
And if the Muse Futurities can read,  
Fame, like thy Body, shall weigh more when dead;  
Thy Friends, like Annulets, thy Lines shall bear,  
As once the World Great Castriot's Bones did wear;  
Like the Bohemian's famous Drum  
Thy blessed Remains shall Glory win,  
As surely scare thy Foes, as surely strike 'em dumb,  
Though that was covered with his Skin.    

ERRATA.  
PAge 24. Line 13. read come. p. 25. l. 5. r. obliged. p. 27. l. 17. r. live. p. 29. l. 20. for So r. See. p. 33. l. 18. r. thou foolish Quill. p▪ 34. l. 11. r. Those. p. 37. l. 11. r. shine not for. p. 43. l. 7. r. Horse. p. 45. l. 3. r. Hole. ib. l. 14. r. sleep to his. p. 46. l. 18. r. Oh how shall I. p. 47. l. 18. r. hand. p. 48. l. 2. r. frame. p. 88 l. 9 r. Pleader turned o'er the. p. 90. l. 15. for the r. she. l. 16. r. Fiend. p. 92. l. 9 r. Thou. ib. r. candied. l. 11. r. past. p. 96. l. ult. who stooped. p. 100 l. 3, 4. r. break From Bed, the. p. 113. l. ult. deal once. p. 126. l. 17. r. Man.  
FINIS.   

Books Printed and Sold by Luke Meredith, at the King's Head in St. Paul's Churchyard.  
AN Introduction to the Old English History. Comprehended in three several Tracts. The First, An Answer to Mr. Petyt's Rights of the Commons Asserted; and to a Book Entitled, Jani Anglorum Facies Nova; The Second Edition very much enlarged. The Second, An Answer to a Book Entitled, Argumentum Antinormanicum, much upon the same Subject; Never before Published. The Third, The Exact History of the Succession of the Crown of England; The Second Edition, also very much enlarged. Together with an Appendix, Containing several Records, and a Series of Great Councils and Parliaments Before and After the Conquest, unto the End of the Reign of Henry the Third. And a Glossary expounding many Words, used frequently in our ancient Records, Laws and Historians. Published for the Vindication of Truth, and the Assistance of such as desire with satisfaction to read, and truly understand the Ancient English Historians, and other Pieces of Antiquity. By Robert Brady, Doctor in Physic.  
Two Treatises. The First, Concerning Reproaching and Censure: The Second, An Answer to Mr. Serjeant's Surefooting. To which are annexed Three Sermons Preached upon several Occasions, and very useful for these Times. By the late Learned and Reverend William Falkner, D. D.  
A Dialogue between a Pastor and his Parishiner touching the Lord's Supper.  
Rhetoricae Libri Duo: Quorum Prior de Tropis & Figuris, Posterior de Voce & Gestu praecipit. In usum Scholarum postremò recogniti, infinitisque paenè mendis expurgati. Autore Carolo Butlero, Madg. Artium Magistro.