TOWSER THE SECOND A BULL-DOG.  
Or a short Reply to ABSALON and ACHITOPHEL.  
IN pious times when Poets were well banged  
For saucy satire and for Sham-Plots hanged,  
A Learned Bard, that long commanded had  
The trembling Stage in Chief, at last run mad,  
And Swore and tore and ranted at no rate.  
Apollo and his Muses in debate  
What to do with him, one cried, let him Blood,  
That says, another will do little good;  
His Brains infected sure, under his Nose  
We'll burn some Feathers of Peru, who knows  
But that may bring him to himself again?  
Ay, for some time says Clyo; she was more  
For Opiates, others for Hellebore.  
Apollo having heard all they could say,  
Rose up and thanked them said, he'd try a way  
He hoped would do, than called a Noble Friend  
Well versed in Men, and begged of him to spend  
Some time and pains upon this wretch, which he,  
Agreeing to, went presently to work,  
Opened his head, saw where the Maggots lurk;  
Took many of them out, put them in Sut,  
Then Added Mercury and Nitre to't,  
Mixed and infused them well, and after all,  
Distilled them in a Limbeck Comical,  
And drew a Spirit very Sovereign,  
For those are troubled with the fits o'th' Brain,  
And gave our Poet some, all he could make  
The peevish, Squeamish, self-willed Coxcomb take.  
It did him good and cured him of those fits:  
But 'twas too little to restore his Wits:  
For since he has gin' ore to Plague the Stage  
With the effects of his Poetic rage,  
Like a mad Dog he runs about the Streets,  
Snarling and Biting every one he meets.  
The other day he met our Royal CHARLES,  
And his two Mistresses, and at them Snarls.  
Then falls upon the Ministers of State  
Treats them all A-la mode de Billingsgate:  
But most of all, the glory of our gown,  
He must be barked at, Driviled, pissed upon.  
He whose soft tongue had charms enough t'assuage  
The Tiger's fierceness, could not scape the rage  
Of this same whifling Cur; poor Cerberous,  
That taught the Rogue to bark, was served just thus.  
This Viper's brood, contrary to all Laws,  
The torn out Entrails of his Parent knaws.  
He gives no quarter, spairs no friend, nor foe,  
And where he once gets hold, never lets go  
Until he breaks a tooth, which he hath done  
So oft of late, that he hath few or none  
Left in his mouth. Nay which is worst of all  
On his Physician he does always fall,  
And find him out where e'er he is and bawl  
Eternally, taking in Evil part  
What he good man did by the rules of art,  
And for his good, assisted by a Set  
Of the most able Leeches he could get;  
Apollo vexed to see there was no more  
Effect of Medicine, bid his friend give o'er,  
And sent some Surgeons to him to anoint  
The Carcase of the whelp in every Joint  
With Oil of Crabtree, than which nothing fetches  
The itching Venom out of Scribbling Wretches  
Better or sooner, but I know not how  
It came to pass, with him it would not do.  
For since his being anointed, he is run  
Yelping with Towser up and down the Town,  
And crying out against an Absalon  
And an Achitophel. The Curs had got  
Between them in their Mouths a new Sham-Plot,  
The Twentieth of the Kings, some say indeed  
It is the same that Mother Celier hid,  
Deep in the Meal-tub, only new licked o'er  
And brought to better shape by half a score  
Of Irish Mongrels, newly fetched from thence,  
The best in England at an Evidence.  
A little bribe will make them swore devoutly,  
They're much more famous for their swearing stoutly,  
Then for their fight so, this kind of cattle  
Are better far at Roguery than Battle.  
An Irish man's Antiwood-cock, cares  
To venture nothing, but his head Ears.  
This Copper coin will never with us pass,  
It looks so scurvily, nay it smells of Brass;  
How could you think this would be currant here,  
That is not so at home? 'Tis cried down there:  
What then shall we do now; faith you had best  
Try Scotland next, now it hath passed the Test  
Come hither my Dog Towser, come, for I  
A new Experiment intent to try,  
I'll have thee wormed, hold out thy Venomed Tongue,  
What a huge Worm is here? 'Tis an inch Long,  
And of the Jebusite smells very strong  
If this won't do thou shalt be fairly hung.  
FINIS.   

LONDON, Printed for T. I. 1681.