Lucida Intervalla: Containing divers Miscellaneous Poems, Written at Finsbury and Bethlem BY THE Doctor's Patient EXTRAORDINARY.  — semel Insanivimus omnes. 
LONDON, Printed Anno Dom. 1679.   

TO THE King's Majesty.  
Great Sir,  
BOth in Your Navy, and God's Church, the Ark,  
One Storm pursues the Parson and the Clerk:  
But now I see the Harbour; on a Rock  
Defy the Seas, and Fortunes further Shock:  
Kind Providence casts into Your Sacred Arms  
The Shipwrackt Man; bids fear no future Storms.  
To You, great Noah, me it doth entrust,  
That You secure my Bark from Wave and Gust;  
For Your Experience hath worse Billows broke,  
And dangers greater stemmed in Royal Oak:  
Show then, by giving me a quiet Station,  
Your Thanks to Heaven for Your Preservation;  
Your Preservation, which to Heaven's so dear,  
That it works Miracles throughout the Year:  
To sum them up, were to recount the Waves,  
Or the Trees Leaves, where You it kindly saves:  
The foot of the Account, is this late Plot,  
In cold Blood, Charles to Murder on the Spot;  
But the Defender of our Faith and Hope,  
Guarded by Providence, defies the Pope;  
The Pope, and all his jesuites, conspiring;  
Their own defeat, with Terror, now admiring.  
The Head of England's Church, Sat in the Chair  
Of Parliament, Rome's Conclave cannot fear;  
More safe, than Pope Infallible, I'm sure,  
Whom both the Houses Loves, not Walls, secure  
Th'Embrace when mutual, Interests when they twist  
Ignatius will fall by Loyalist.   

TO THE DUKE, GENERAL OF THE Artillery Ground, Overlookt by Finnes-burrough Mad-house, Where I was Confined.  
YOur glittering Arms propitiously shine,  
On me made Prisoner here by Hell's design;  
For Satan's Agents, my false Friends, combine  
A Minister to Silence and confine.  
I'm forced (though Sober) Bedlam to inherit,  
When they, who put me here, the Prison merit;  
For they're possessed, not I, by th' Evil Spirit:  
Then Soldiers send this Burrow, Sir, to Ferret.  
Summon me to Your Tent; I'm Sober, Sound;  
Call me from Finnes-burrough, to th' Artillery Ground;  
For though there's War Proclaimed 'twixt Arms▪ and Gown,  
Yet here It does receive the deeper Wound.  
Better be Killed, than Slavery endure;  
Thus the Sword's Weapon-Salve, and serves to Cure:  
To this Restraint myself I can't inure;  
Where you are General, in the Field I'm sure▪  
A Trick was played me, to requite the Cheat,  
A Madman I have Acted, as a Feat:  
Relieve me; hold! my Suit I won't Repeat  
TO a Prince so Generous: Muse, sound a Retreat   

To His Royal Highness.  
FRom Finnes-burrough, to Bedlam I am come,  
To be a Sober man, not Act mad Tom:  
My name is james, not Nokes, and yet an Actor;  
But now, Mad Devil, seek another Factor:  
I am a Minister of God's holy Word,  
Have taken up the Gown, laid down the Sword;  
That of the Holy Spirit I must wield,  
And Conquer Satan in the open Field:  
He's the Strong man, who must be bound, disarmed,  
And so cast out; by Preaching he is Charmed:  
Get thee behind me then, Dumb Devil, be gone;  
The Lord hath Epphatha said to my Tongue:  
Him I must Praise, who opened hath my Lips,  
Sent me from Navy, to the Ark, by Pepys;  
By Mr. Pepys, who hath my Rival been  
For the Duke's favour, more than years thirteen:  
But I excluded, he High and Fortunate;  
This Secretary I could never Mate:  
But, Clark of th' Acts, if I'm a Parson, than  
I shall prevail; the Voice outdoes the Pen:  
Though in a Gown, this Challenge I may make,  
And Wager win: save, if you can, your stake.  
To th' Admiral I all submit, and veil  
My Ambition's Topmast: Muse, now furl your Sail.   

TO THE DUKE After my Enlargement.  
I'M ready, Sir, t'obey your great Command,  
But find it dangerous to Kiss your Hand:  
No sooner I this Honour had assumed,  
But Folly me, and Envy Mad presumed:  
On me forthwith they laid, with ill intent,  
Their Poisoned Fangs, and unto Finnesbury sent;  
Where Dungeon, Chains, and Physic me did wait,  
My Mad-supposed Ambition to abate:  
But ne'er the less She yet survives, nay grown  
Much stronger, all Opposers has o'erthrown:  
And hoping from such Enemies you'll save her,  
She's bold to beg, you would repeat the favour:  
Yet Honour here all Danger so outvies,  
She Finnesbury, and Bedlam too defies.   

Presented to the DUKE ON NEW-YEARS-DAY.  
LEt all the Birds, pair by pair,  
As well the Crane, as the Stork,  
Sing and Chatter in the Air,  
God Bless the DUKE of YORK:  
The Duke and his Lady God bless,  
Let every Tongue and Pen,  
With Devotion much express;  
As well the Maids, as the Men.  
The Humorous Lieutenant, he  
So fond did Love the KING,  
He bought all his Pictures in the City,  
Was not that a pretty thing?  
Why, I am downright such a stark  
Staring Lover of Royal JAMES,  
'Cause he thinks of his Parson and Clark,  
Among the more Noble Names.  
The Passion's great I discover,  
My affection it such is,  
That you will forgive the Mad-Lover,  
If he Rival the very Duchess.  
May the Prince of Orange and Dame  
Command the White and the Tawny,  
And extend their Royal Name,  
O'er the Delicate and Brawny.  
May they be Hogan Mogan,  
When the Mighty States are pulled down;  
And the Boors, that drink in a Nogan,  
Assist to put on their Crown.  
Thus the Poet did Write and Talk,  
At Bedlam clad in Frieze;  
Where his Pen and Ink, it was Chalk;  
Board's, Paper; and Diet, Cheese.   

THE Poetical History OF Finnesbury Mad-house.  
THe Dr— of Finnesbury-House  
Knows, how to dissect an Oyster;  
Whether Man, no more than a Mouse,  
Be fit for Bedlam, or Cloister.  
I'll tell you his way of Proceeding,  
All you, that here shall enter;  
Purges, Vomits, and Bleeding,  
Are his method of Cure, at a Venture.  
By the way you must know, this Elf  
Both Bedlams does haunt, like the Louse;  
And sways, as Chairman himself,  
Both upper and lower House.  
Let him therefore be trusted by none,  
But Fools, that are Fortunes Minions;  
For, to Rule both these Houses alone,  
Is to halt between two Opinions.  
Mrs. Bish— then shut up your Shop,  
And another Diocese get;  
Bid adieu to the Mad and the Fop,  
No Fish are for Finnesbury Net.  
To this College was brought by force,  
A Parson, that shall be nameless;  
The Doctor, he takes the same Course,  
Though the Man be sober and blameless:  
For he, both Fool and Physician,  
At all no difference made,  
Betwixt a Senseless condition,  
And Madness in Mascarade.  
He Reports to the KING and the Court,  
That Learning had made the Man Mad:  
To observe, was the Patient's sport,  
How little the Doctor had.  
This Parson, he tore his Garment,  
Then Mad he was concluded;  
Hold, Good Sir, there's no harm in't,  
Your Senses are deluded:  
You for your Mad Meetinghouse stickle,  
And public Bedlam cry down;  
But I pray, in a Conventicle,  
Who Sober would wear a Gown?  
Oh but, Parson, you break the Wall,  
And Burglary you commit;  
If I must not this Madness call,  
I am sure, 'tis want of Wit.  
Religio Medici's left in the lurch;  
He knows not Good from Evil:  
For surely, the way to Build up the Church,  
Is to pull down the Chapel o'th' Devil.  
Then throw the House out at Window,  
And lay it flat with the Ground;  
For undoubtedly they Sin do,  
That keep it another Year round.  
The Doctor his Argument urges;  
This Parson must needs be Mad,  
For on him, neither Vomits nor Purges,  
Any Influence have had.  
Fond Doctor, you beg the Question,  
And you might have spared your pains;  
For my Blood's from a good digestion,  
And your Physic is lost in my Veins.  
Nay, I prescribed Chains of Iron,  
To take him off of his Mettle;  
But Brass did him environ,  
He had rubbed his Face with a Kettle.  
My Fetters they were but Straw,  
To the Sinews of his Arms;  
And he burst Bars and Doors, as I saw,  
By I know not what mighty Charms.  
Moreover I him in the Hole,  
As under a Bushel, confined;  
Lest God's Word, the Light of the Soul,  
In my Mad-house should have Shined:  
Never the less into the Dungeon,  
He let in the Rays of the Sun,  
And i'th' Pit, where him I did plunge in,  
Made Night and Day meet in one.  
In a place I did him stow,  
Where Rats and Mice do swarm;  
These by Instinct the Madmen know,  
And therefore do them no harm.  
Now as Weasel, Squirrel, and Ermine  
Are, than Rats of a higher strain▪  
Rats and Mice, the nobler Vermin,  
Might awe the Worm in his Brain.  
Yet he feared, lest the Rats and Mice,  
Of his Senses should bereave him;  
Therefore I taking good advice,  
Sent Catmore in to Relieve him.  
I laid him in Straw for a Bed,  
Lest Feathers should make him lightheaded;  
That there his wild Oats he might shed,  
And again to his Wits be wedded.  
Without either Shirt, or clothes,  
I lodged my merry Mad Youth;  
For of Kin we may well suppose,  
The Sober to Naked-Truth.  
His Diet was most of it Milk,  
To reduce him again to a Child;  
And Butter as soft as Silk,  
To smooth the Fierce and the Wild.  
My Potions he turned into Drenches,  
For he freely would take ne'er a jot;  
But by Thomas and the Wenches,  
They were forced down his Throat.  
To feel his Pulse, I never thought;  
I a Month I see him but once:  
And how my Mad Physic has wrought,  
If I know in the least I'm a Dunce.  
For, in Truth and sober sadness,  
This Parson I found so smart,  
That I feared his Wit, more than his madness,  
The March-Hare I never dare start.  
My Chirurgeon he fiercely withstood,  
And he led him such a Dance;  
That to let this same Gown-man Blood,  
A Sword was more fit than a Lance.  
I ordered his Keeper, at Large,  
On occasion to ply him with Blows,  
That what jugular did not discharge,  
The mad Blood might come out at his Nose.  
Enough: Doc has done his Endeavour,  
It must be confessed, though a weak one;  
His Wits gather Wool for a Beaver,  
But he's no Fool to speak on.  
However, I'll Sue out his Pardon,  
The man's not so much to be blamed;  
For to make a Swan white is unheard on,  
And Sobriety never was tamed.  
Then pray all, the mad-Devil ne'er touch you,  
Nor yet the Colic or Phthisic;  
Pray, MUFTI and MAMAMOUCHI,  
Mr. Parson and Doctor of Physic.   

His Apology.  

Doctor, you must, where I severely Gibe,  
To my Poetic Fury, Gall ascribe;  
And Pardon, that I make in this New Trance,  
Among your Rats and Mice, my Satire Dance.   

Quod medicum mordace tuum mea Carmina vellant  
Dente, tuus Vati donet, Apollo, furor:  
Nec Mures inter, poterit culpare Machaon,  
Si Satyram jubeat jungere Musa Choros.    

On his being Seized on for a Madman, only for having endeavoured to reduce Dissenters unto the CHURCH.  

WHen Zeal for God inspires the Breast,  
Says the Blind world, the Man's possessed;  
And flattering their own cold desire,  
Call Lunacy, the Heavenly Fire:  
But though their Eyes are by the Flame  
So dazzled, they mistake the Name;  
Know, that 'twas born with Christ at first  
In Bethlehem, and at Bedlam Nursed.   

To God the Father, and the Son,  
And Holy Spirit, three in one,  
By Men and Angels, be there given  
All Glory, both in Earth and Heaven.    

On the late Horrid Plot.  
OF this late Hellish, Damnable, and (to join  
Both in one word) Papistical Design,  
What Purgatory can wash out the Spot?  
It shames, and even blows up the Powder-Plot▪  
We therefore hope, it is the last effort  
Of Popery, dying in City and in Court;  
And in this juncture that She times her end  
The Martyr Godfrey's Funeral to attend:  
Fanaticism too (which kept her Ground,  
By Popish Policy) dies o'th' selfsame Wound:  
Thus Martyrs Blood, of old the Church's Seed,  
In Corn grown up, kills every noisome Weed  
May then the Church of England, spite of Rom▪  
Receive new Life and Vigour from his Tomb  
And Conquering the joint force of Her and He  
To Catholic Christian World with Triumph tell  
Infallibility is herself mistaken,  
And treacherous Peter now by Christ forsake   

The Cross Match.  
When Abigail, by mistake, had Layman Married,  
In State Affairs, 'twas seen, he oft miscarried;  
Yet a long time Nub's Spouse put on no Gown,  
But Hectored it, with Sword and Muff, in Town:  
Convinced at last, though Poets him made a Farce on,  
He'd turn his Coat, that Nab might have her Parson:  
This done, her Mar-text she supposed she had,  
And, when he talked of Preaching, thought him Mad:  
Down to the Conventicle brisk he goes,  
Resolved to Rout the Church of England's Foes:  
But words were th' only Weapons of his War;  
Love and Zeal led the Van; no Wound or Scar  
From such a Skirmish fear; none Blood can lose,  
Where Church is named for common Rendezvous;  
Where Peace alone is aimed at, not a Fight,  
Both sides to Yield, and Forces Reunite:  
That England may for Caesar's Triumphs hope  
A late Revenge on Rome, by Conquered Pope.  
But th' Enemy, to frustrate this Design,  
Contrive Nab's Spouse to silence and confine:  
This Trumpeter's Horn-mad they straight give out,  
And making Nab o'th' Plot, her Martext rout:  
To Madquack, all agreed, they him commit,  
By Hellebore to restore his ne'er lost Wit.  
Quack hugs himself with the conceit, secure,  
He should great credit get, by Parson's Cure:  
To work he goes; Proclaims him Mad at Court,  
And spreads the Noise, to make the City sport:  
Then half a year the Patient keeps in hand  
(A Surgeon's Son he is, pray, understand)  
But now observe how basely Doc's defeated,  
And for Mad-Parson with a Poet cheated;  
By whom Lampooned, madquack is forced to say,  
Madness and Wit act one part in the Play:  
And thus these three, Fanatic, Wife, and Doctor,  
In Bedlam me to keep, make up the Proctor.   

Jackstraws Progress.  
When Publican, in Pharisees old house,  
Shut doors on me, and Finnesbury Mad Louse;  
With Arms in sleeve of Gown redoubled stroke,  
To open Bedlam-gates, I windows broke:  
Then in my Chariot Triumphant Rode away,  
As well assured that I had got the day;  
That this had stormed the Castle called jackstraws,  
Arch-traitor unto Reason and her Laws.  
'Tis named from Bethlehem, now possessed by Turk;  
‛ Therefore in's way the Priest of England's Kirk  
‛ Takes Coffeehouse; where drinks a sober dish,  
Goes thence to Precedent, then to Porter Pish:  
But to avoid suspicion of all force,  
This, moving towards my Palace, was my course.  
Their violent hands I quitted, who approached me,  
With their officious rudeness to have Coached me.  
Alone a Volunteere I Road along,  
Prince like, attended with a Lackey throng:  
The Metaphor to pursue, as I did pass,  
I armed my hands in Coach with broken Glass;  
Threatening the Slaves, which waited on my wheel,  
That if they touched me, they should find 'twas steel,  
Th' affrighted multitude observe their distance,  
Without their help I enter, or my resistance:  
But the great Tumult, and such solemn state,  
Amused the Officers of Bedlam-Gate:  
So well I Acted, that they did not stick,  
Me to receive as their Arch-Lunatick:  
Madder than Prince o'th' East, that jack a dandy▪  
Out-huffing both Nolls Porter, King, & Landy▪  
Their Emperor they conduct to his Bedchamber▪  
And lodge his Majesty in Straw, like Amber.  
Next day, though Mad concluded, yet jackstraw  
By which to Rule, published this sober Law:  
Porter and Keepers, look to't, be you Civil,  
The Parson then will Conjure down Mad-Devil;  
But as a Madman if you him entreat,  
All Bedlam he'll outdo by many a feat:  
Maugre this charge, the self-willed Slave's Rebel,  
And Bedlam make with chains and darkness, Hell:  
Here Hellish Physic Quack down my Throat does pour,  
The foam of Styx, and Acheron's black shore;  
Administered by second Cerberus,  
Matthews and Keepers here which govern us:  
Only in this the just resemblance fails,  
Hell's Porter has three heads, but ours three tails;  
Of which are fierce, the two from York & Wales;  
On third, 'cause it has no sting, the Monster rails:  
All the three tails have head, and tongue their own,  
But two wag only, and on their Master fawn.  
Hold! Verse grows Monstrous too, and they the nail  
Must hit, that say, it has neither Head nor Tail.   

Nullum Magnum Ingenium (absit verbo invidia) sine mixturâ dementiae.  
It goes for current truth, that ever some madness  
Attends much Wit, 'tis strange in sober sadness:  
But now this Riddle I'll explain, Sir Quack;  
And pray suppose I do it for your sake.  
Within the Banks Wit flows with Moderation,  
But Pride a deluge makes and Inundation:  
This with the world, know, is your common case;  
And that with Pride, Envy keeps equal pace:  
Hence they are called, by Plot of poor and rich,  
Madmen, whose wit's above the standard pitch:  
This makes a Carcase with an eagle's Eye,  
Be thought a Fit-for- Bedlam Prodigy.  
But sure, when Friends & you me Mad concluded,  
'Twas you your senses lost, by th'Moon deluded:  
Then take advice; with Physic, of Apollo  
Pray ask more Wit, and 'twill in reason follow;  
You'll think me fit, cure but yourself o'th' Fool,  
Not only you to Lash, but Boys at School.   

THE Duke of Grafton, Looking into his Cloister, And kindly ask him; How he did.  
WHen Graftons' Duke to Bedlam came,  
The Sober Walls resound his Name;  
The Echo charms the Evil Spirits,  
And the Mad Devil disinherits:  
Thus (as from the Poets you know)  
To Pluto's Court descending juno,  
To every Fiend new pleasure yields,  
And Hell turns to Elysian Fields:  
When to my Cell his Grace drew near,  
And kindly me saluted there;  
An Angel seemed to bring Advice,  
And moorfield's straight were Paradise:  
He once withdrawn, that very Even  
Vanished the New-created Heaven;  
Bedlam came to itself, and I  
Fell from my pleasing Ecstasy.  
My loss fit to Repair, what is it?  
If Deputy Angels hear me Visit:  
My Soul, on such Wings if you mount her,  
Will save my Carcase from the Counter:  
But I my Prison must change i'th' end,  
Unless such Guardians you me send.   

The Doctor's Advice.  
PArson, leave off the Poet and Lampoon,  
You'd Sober be, and may defy the Moon:  
This seems at first mysterious Paradox,  
But I will prove't, as round as jugglers' Box.  
Phoebus and Luna, Sister are and Brother,  
And understand for certain one another:  
I, of their Privy-Council, as a Doctor,  
Tell you your Case without a Fee or Proctor:  
Unless the Moon assist him, I well know it,  
Apollo never singly made a Poet.  
Then Wit forswear, and like me prove but Dunce;  
The Sun and Moon will quit you both at once.   

The Patient Replies.  
Faith, Doctor, what you say, is very pretty;  
Ine're before (nor now) thought you so witty:  
But if't be thus, your Phys: I'll spill o'th' ground,  
Vomit up Helicon, and then I'm sound.   

The New Distinction.  
TWo sorts of Patient's Quack in Bedlam has▪  
The one, that witty is; t'other, that was▪  
Mad both: in frost and snow hence Pot does come▪  
To cool hot Lunatics, and Wits benumb.  
By contraries to Cure, thus Doc takes pains,  
Our much, with different heat, distempered brains▪  
But howsoever the Moon he may control,  
By Muses he's defied, and by their Droll.  
'Tis true for want of Fire, as if grown old,  
My joints are stiff, and I'm oppressed with cold▪  
But influence of Apollo still is strong,  
My satire brisk, lively my Muse and Song.  
You that should Fury cure, and Poet save,  
Are sending Post your Patient to the Grave:  
For he (not frighted out of's Wits by Physic▪  
To your new Madness, Palsy adds and Phthisic▪   

An Inscription To Madam Frazer, When he sent her some of his Verses.  
YOur Father is Alexander,  
And You his World-Conquering Daughter  
(See the difference 'twixt Him and Her)  
By Beauty, and not by Slaughter.  
Among the rest, on your Chariot,  
Your Captive Poet does wait;  
And in ask if he don't Mar it,  
Expects from you a kind Fate.  
I have sent you the Copies of Verses,  
Presented by me to the Duke;  
They are fit for the micklest of Hearses,  
I'll swear it upon a Book.  
If then you will make him but Witty,  
By encouraging the Poet;  
Your Praises he'll Sing in the City,  
And the Conquered World shall know it.   

Pronounced at the taking of a VOMIT.  
SUre the Stars reign not now, but some dire Comet  
Sends Madquack to me with this Poisoned Vomit;  
But thanks to Apollo, who is on my side,  
And hath with Antidote me fortified:  
He hath not yet forgot, since Python fell  
By his sure hand, all Poison to expel.  
Then Mithridates like, if not secured,  
By being to its mischief long inur'd:  
T'elude the needless Physics ill effect,  
Purges and Vomits, Helicon shall correct.   

A Dose for the Doctor.— facit indignatio versum.  
SO little Wit, so much of Phlegm and Rheum  
Our Madquack has, that I may well presume  
Hither as Patient he'll ne'er be preferred,  
To fill the number of the Madamens' Herd:  
Who e'er is Mad, he first had Wit to lose;  
Betwixt Fool and Physician wink and choose.  
Was ever Man of Sense so great a Sot,  
In half a year, not to smell out the Plot?  
(By's leave I here shall call a spade a spade)  
You Sot, I say, don't you know Mascarade  
From downright Madness? I, the scorn & sport  
Will make you, ere I've done of Cit and Court.  
Blush for your folly, Fop, or timely say,  
Revenge for my Lampoons has made the Play:  
Not? then pray judge, if he, whom want of wit  
Excludes from Patient here, be Doctor fit.  
But don't I Dream, and all this while am slave,  
Not to a Fool, but a designing Knave?  
Who either thinks the Sober too to tame,  
And Cure of Madness to advance his Fame;  
Or, snips with Pot, does Bedlam make for chink,  
The Ditch o'er which'tis Built with Phys t' out-stink.  
And thus, for aught I know, my Doctor A-  
May, without Poetry, prove Doctor K-   

The Riddle.  
DOctor, this Pusling Riddle pray explain;  
Others your Physic cures, but I complain  
It works with me the clean contrary way,  
And makes me Poet, who are Mad they say.  
The truth on't is, my Brains well fixed condition  
Apollo better knows, than his Physician:  
'Tis Quacks disease, not mine, my Poetry  
By the blind Mooncalf, took for Lunacy.   

PRESENTED TO HER GRACE, THE DUCHESS of PORTS MOUTH.  
THe Gauls first Conquered, to make up the sum  
Of Beauty's Triumphs, you to Britain come;  
Where all admiring Your Triumphant Face,  
Do with amazed Eyes your Victory grace.  
You them survey unmoved, as is the Centre;  
But none, to make attaque on you, dare venture:  
Till Charles, like Caesar, you o'ercome at sigh  
And all Your charming forces put to flight.  
Monsieur will now in vain to England dance;  
This Conquest does renew our claim to France.   

HIS Rule of Behaviour: If you are Civil, I am Sober.  
POrter and Keepers, when they're Civil  
They charm in me the Madman's Devil;  
The Roaring Lion turns to Lamb,  
Lies down and couches wondrous Tame:  
For though at Bedlam Wits ebb and flow,  
As wand'ring Stars move swift or slow;  
My Brains not ruled by the Pale Moon,  
Nor keep the Spheres my Soul in Tune;  
But she observes, and changes notes  
With th' Azure of Sky-couloured Coats.   

Ad Apollinem Poeseos & Medicinae Praesidem.  
J Am Furor Humanos nostro de Pectore sensus  
Expulit, & numen sentio, Phoebe, tuum:  
Cede, Soror, Fratri; cum vellit Cynthius Aurem,  
Quid mihi cum vestris, Pallida Luna, Rotis?  
Carmina de Coelo possunt deducere Lunam;  
Parce, Pater, Medicas frustrà adhibere manus.   

Poet no Lunatic.  
WHat's mortal Phoebus chase, does inspire  
My breast with breath of a diviner fire:  
Yield Luna to your Brothers more powerful rays;  
My Muse her Father first, not Aunt, obeys.  
Apollo may spare his other Art; no fear,  
His Poetry alone can rule thy Sphere.  
When Priests of Delphi, and Parnassus Hill,  
With Oracle or Verse, the God doth fill;  
Prophets and Poets Mad are (in a sense)  
And Sober grow, as they their gift dispense  
One vents his Rage by words in open Air,  
By Ink on Paper He drops his with care.  
Physician, heal thyself, we say; but know it,  
In earnest said to the Self-curing Poet.   

To a Tinmans Wife, Visiting him when he lay in Chains.  
Mistress, the Chains on me which you put on▪  
When first I saw you, are outdone by none:  
They are the strongest, but they need no foil▪  
They're all pure Gold, and Bracelets them I call▪  
Another obligation of Tin,  
Your Husband me designs to Shackle in;  
Iron locks my Leg fast: thus a triple chain  
Me different pleasure gives, and different pain  
Relieve in part; for me too close environ,  
And heavy are, your Gold, his Tin, my Iron.   

Ad Medicum de praescripto Vomitu.  
RVctantis Vomitum quicunque relambit Homeri,  
Castalias frustrà, jam Satur, haurit aquas:  
Ind Poetarum nata est numerosa Propago,  
Ingenio quorum vivit, & ore Pater.  
Si mihi contingat similis Fortuna Vomenti,  
Nonnè manet Medicum, Funis, Apollo, tuum?   

To Mr. Doctor, on his giving him A VOMIT.  
What Homer our Great Grandfather did Vomit,  
We licking up, turn sucking Poets from it:  
Doctor, if this be my Fate, when I Spew,  
That Lapping Curs rise, all Lampooning you;  
Your Physic you must save, and past all hope,  
With Crocus Metallorum buy a Rope▪   

To the Worshipful Sir William Turner, Precedent of the Hospital of Bethlem.  
I Two new Purgatories have of late discovered;  
And from 'em both, thank God, I am recovered:  
One Finnesbury, the other Bedlam named;  
Whether successively me to be Tamed,  
My Shrewish Wife and her Relations send:  
But I grown fiercer, cheat 'em of their End.  
Each with this difference shows a Middle State;  
To Hell that's nearer, this to Heaven's Gate:  
Would we the reason of this difference know?  
Sure from our Precedent it needs must flow:  
judges all three in him their Virtues join;  
There singly governs Bishop Proserpina.   

THE Patient's Advice TO THE DOCTOR.  
SAys He, who more Wit than the Doctor had,  
Oppression will make a wise man Mad;  
One in his senses, fierce, untame, and vexed,  
Means Solomon the Preacher in the Text:  
Therefore, Religio Medici (do you mind?)  
This is not Lunacy in any kind:  
But naturally flow hence (as I do think)  
Poetic Rage, sharp Pen, and Gall in Ink.  
A sober Man, pray, what can more oppress,  
Then force by Madman's usage to confess  
Himself for Mad? Reduced to this condition,  
He may defy the Rack and Inquisition.  
Beyond all darkness, chains, and keepers blows,  
Sir Madquack, is the Physic you impose;  
Threatening, because my Satyrs frisk & dance,  
With Purge and Vomit them to tame and Lance.  
Quack, you're deceived; thus lies the argument;  
One God (the Ancients say) is Precedent  
Of Poetry and Medicine too; one Father  
Of Esculapius, and the Nine together:  
If Verses than can't Doctor's Bills defy,  
And Helicon all Potions else outvie;  
If Poets are not Physic proof, Apollo  
At War is with himself, 'twill plainly follow:  
But Phoebus holds the Scale with equal hand,  
And does, to keep his own bounds, each command.  
Hence Poets, when Quack dares Physic in their rage,  
They vent more sharply choler on the Stage:  
Poison, the Body only does torment;  
This strangely makes the very Soul ferment.  
Let me prescribe then; Phys withdraw, & soon  
You'll my new Madness cure, you call Lampoon.   

Presented to His Grace the Duke of Monmouth.  
THough Pegasus does willingly obey  
My Fancy's rains, and ruled is in the way  
To Muse's Hill; yet cannot I persuade him,  
To draw a Chariot; that's a Task will jade him:  
Horses there are, Sir, in your Royal Stable,  
More than Poetically for it able:  
A pair give to your Poet, and he'll pray,  
That Fortune's Wheel may ever you obey;  
That on your Chariot Captive Slaves may wait,  
And French King Chained, expect from you his Fate.   

On Report of the Duke of Monmouth coming to see the Place.  
To Bedlam when the General came from Flanders,  
Fools-Cap & Madcap were Cashiered Commanders:  
Each a considering Monmouth-Cap did put on;  
Turned Grave and Wise, as Hospital of Sutton.   

Ad Medicum, se ab oculis omnium removeri, jubentem.  
Clauserat obscuro cùm me Medicaster in Antro,  
Luce nouâ Tenebras ecce Puella fugat!  
Formoso Angustas extendit lumine Rimas:  
I nunc, & Solem, Doctor inepte, nega.   

On the Ladies looking into his Cell.  
When Doctor Madquack me i'th' Dark had put,  
And a close Prisoner in my Cloister shut;  
A Lady chanced peep in, whose Beauty bright  
Enlarged the crannies, and let in new light:  
Quack, I'm now pleased, without the Sun, confined  
See how he Blushes, by my Star, outshined.   

To a Lady, who was very kind to him in the place.  
MAdam, when first your Beauty shined  
Into my Cell, on me confined,  
I grew in Love with my dark Cloister;  
Slighted (poor and hungry) Pearl and Oyster:  
The Apricotts which you me threw,  
The thoughts of Paradise renew;  
In Eden's Garden sure they grew,  
Transplanted to moorfield's by you.  
You gave me Silver; whence I hold,  
I ought not to Envy Danae's Gold;  
For though on her jove reigned a Shower,  
Twant real, but Poetic Oar.  
You me with Paper, Pen, and Ink,  
Madam, supplied, as well as Chink;  
This my Muse studies to requite  
In part, to you when she does Write.  
Your Charity sent me a Shirt, each thread  
Whereof, to you me fast does Wed;  
And thus from your extended hand,  
The Shirt in mine, turns to a Band.  
At Night in Straw, Lying a long,  
To th' Oaten Pipes this was my Song.   

To a Friend that sent him a Box.  
THus as I lie, I Fancy I'm jack-straw,  
And to Rebellious Bedlam give the Law;  
Yet though a Prince, so low my FortunesFortunes sunk,  
That I do want, which you supply, the Trunk:  
And for my Verses writ on Apricocks,  
You kindly make jack-straw, jack-in-a-box.   

To another sending him a Chair.  
We Greet you well, and as well 'tis resented,  
That you jackstraw with Chair of State presented:  
But we shall yet be more considerable,  
If your Companion Carpet send or Table.   

A Bethlehemite in Bedlam, one of the small Prophets, and a minor Poet to the Lady Sheriffesse Beckford, Mrs Catherine Heywood, and Mrs Johnson, requesting them to make his Cloister fit for their Reception, and then to allow him the Honour to kiss their hands, in the too close embraces of his Prison.  

YOu three Graces, and Nine Muses are a jury;  
Do these agree, mine's fit for Bedlam fury?  
No; nor am I Mad, but with design for certain:  
Acting the Part, my Name-sake's not Sir Martin.  
The Bedlam Quack, dissector of an Oyster,  
Me as his Patient, Physics in this Cloister:  
I sleep in Stubble, where I'm bid to Sow  
My wilder Oats (may Ceres speed the Plough)  
There as I lie, I second am jack-straw,  
And all the Bedlamites do over-awe:  
Fair Ladies, you the Posse Comitatus,  
With Beauty's force, can quell the Slaves that hate us.  
But pray hence forward see, I lie in Feather;  
With Quills picked out, I'll praise all three together:  
To this the Poet better you'll enable,  
If his dark Cell you hang with brighter Sable;  
And when your goodness hath prepared the place,  
Come challenge here the Glory of your Grace.    

To the same.  
By Vertue's Temple, Honour's you approach,  
And from this Cloister go I to a Coach:  
In lieu of hanging It, since I am well,  
A Chariot give, to take me from my Cell.  
In windy Nights my House both rocks and reels;  
Then Scythian-like, you'll Build me one on wheels:  
Each of the Ladies may, by your connivance,  
Bestow a Horse; for this is the contrivance,  
That People, seeing me ride, may call these forces,  
The Posse Comitatus Coach and Horses▪   

ON Madam Gwyn's Saying of Herself, She was the only Protestant Mistress.  
I Sing a Lady's Praise, whose true Religion,  
Rome's Eagle does defy, & Mahomet's Pigeon:  
Pens, that can't here exceed an Enchiridion,  
Come not from Pegasus, but a senseless Widgeon.  
She's true to Church of England, and its King,  
A subject fit for dying Swans to Sing;  
To be writ with Quills plucked from an Angel's wing,  
Her BeautiesBeauties so Celestial a thing.  
When for the Curtain, she the Stage did change,  
Cum Privilegio 'twas, Roger l'Estrange:  
The Mysteries not easily revealed;  
Contents must guest at be, when Letter's Sealed:  
This is in part the Case; Unto St. Helen  
A Church there's Consecrate, and ruled by Pelling  
She sure must be that Saint: who can disprove it  
To her Greek Namesake sure you won't remove it  
If then the true Church Catholic she own,  
And Christians to her Shrine vow That of Stone,  
A double Claim she to the Title hath  
Of Mistress, to Defender of the Faith.   

TO Mr. Stackhouse, Presenting me with a PERIWIG.  
OUr Souls, into a Mansion-House of Clay,  
Are thrust by Heaven, there, while we live, to stay:  
Therefore I must, from what you me present,  
You Thatch-house call of jackstraws Tenement:  
I did it want, e'er since my coming hither,  
My upper Room to Screen from wind & weather:  
For though I'm thought hotheaded, I find no harm,  
In keeping with your gift my Noddle warm:  
I thank you then, to dance my Bedlam Gigg,  
For furnishing Hair-brain with Huffing-Wigg;  
And pay you for't the current Coin, he uses,  
These curled locks and tresses of the Muses.   

Poets are Mad.  
IN Bedlam, best of Universities,  
The Poet, not the Parson, takes degrees:  
Among the common Herd at first he's entered,  
After into a Room, with windows ventured:  
That Sermons may not want a Psalm, the Droll  
Lives fitly with Nolls Porter, Cheek by jowl:  
One end Musician Thamar, thought the milder  
Tother extreme Poet takes up, that's wilder;  
For his Wits rampant, and 'tis Mad-quacks pleasure  
To say, his Madness hath no other measure:  
Nay, to the Governors this Fool declares,  
Him fit for Bedlam, till he Wit forswears.  
Poets and Players, now pack up your Awls,  
To Bedlam you aloud, Fop Madquack calls;  
And till he cures you of Poetic Rage,  
Our Galleries you must fill, quit Pit and Stage   

On the Doctors telling him, that till he left off making Verses, he was not fit to be discharged.  
DEsiring his Imprisoned Muse t'enlarge,  
The Poet, Madquack moved, for his discharge.  
He angry answered, Parson, 'tis too soon,  
As yet I have not Cured you of Lampoon;  
For know, New Bedlam, chief for th' infected  
With this new sort of Madness, was erected:  
Bucks both and Rochester, unless they mend,  
Hither the King designs forthwith to send:  
Shepherd and Dreyden too, must on 'em wait;  
For he's resolved at once to rid the State,  
Of this Poetic, Wanton, Mad-like Tribe,  
Whose Rampant Muse does Court and City Gibe.  
Thus Bedlam may be cured perchance, if't hits,  
After despair of Physic, by the Wits.  
The answer pleased; yet I have cause to fear,  
The Doctor flattered, as 'tis usual here:  
But if my Brethren come, I've learned this Lesson,  
In such good Company, Bedlam is no Prison.   

On the Doctors letting him Blood.  
Doctor, my Rhythmes on you which do reflect,  
Know, of Poetic fury are th'effect;  
To let me Blood then, you're but Fool in grain,  
Unless your Lance prick my Poetic Vein:  
No longer now, for shame, pretend the Moon,  
For Phoebus rules my Madness and Lampoon.   

The Mistake.  
TH' Occasion of this Error, who can tell?  
I Bedlam Heaven thought, but find it Hell:  
Darkness and Chains are here, and Porter too  
Of Pluto's Court; for without more ado,  
Mathews the Body; three Keepers, three Heads mate,  
And Cerberus make up at Bedlam-Gate:  
Here I must treated be like, Mad and Fop,  
Till to the Monster I can give a Sop.   

Made the 13. of November, Being a Fastday On Account of the Plot.  
WHen Heavens Frown, and Clouds now big with Thunder,  
Direct the fatal Bolt; I can't but wonder  
We charge the Storm on jesuite and Pope,  
And fond threaten Tyburn and the Rope:  
Just as when Tempest in the Seas did rise,  
And Neptune tossed both Ships and them to Skies;  
The huffing Xerxes lashed the Winds in vain,  
And ordered Waves to fetter with a Chain.  
The God of Heaven knows, our sins, our sins  
Hatch all the mischief; there the Plot gins:  
As they increase, the blackness from a hand,  
Darkens the Sphere by the Almighty spanned:  
Wash them away but with Repentant Tears,  
Such flowing Streams an Ebb make in our fears.  
What e'er we think, weare in a safe condition,  
By nothing more, than a strict Inquisition:  
Examine well your hearts, and search your mind,  
Sins with Granades chequered, there you'll find.  
weare Traitors to ourselves; our Lusts conspire,  
The City new Rebuilt to set on fire:  
Zeal for God's Glory, let it burn but high,  
Destroying Flames will dwindle out and die:  
Whatever ills we suffer, be we sure,  
Sin's the Disease, Repentance is the Cure.  
That we may then, Pope's Bulls and Plots defy;  
That England's Church may haughty Rome's outvie:  
Let this our Ark in such a Deluge Swim,  
As may from Weeping Eyes o'erflow the Brim:  
The strongest Guardians, to assure our fears  
Of Peter's Successor, are Peter's Tears.   

ON A Fanatic Ropemaker.  
REligion you put on, as Knaves their Cloak;  
To hid your base designs, you it bespoke:  
Thus we remember, how Old Noll did Pray,  
That unsuspected, Charles he might betray.  
In the Lords Name, 'tis known, gins all Evil;  
His Livery you wear, and serve the Devil:  
Witness your heart and mouths flat contradiction,  
By Hellbred lies, Truth turning into Fiction:  
Witness poor Orphans, hooked into your Net,  
And then devoured with greedy Appetite:  
But, my good friend, be sure such Meat will choke you,  
And justice both from God & Man will smoak you.  
Witness the cheating Practice in your Trade,  
And selling Ocum when for Ropes you're paid.  
He that vents rotten Cables against all Law,  
Iniquity with Cart-Ropes needs must draw.  
The Pilot now may justly fear the Port,  
And Rocks and Storms in open Ocean court:  
But could I dip my Pen in Gall and Rancour,  
I'd scratch this Knave, makes Ships unsafe at Anchor:  
The Knave that's Fool too, one of fortunes minions,  
A Hypocrite, halting betwixt two Opinions:  
Unheard of Villain, forsaken and left i'th' lurch,  
Both by the Devils-Chappel, and God's Church.  
New-England too (that last and known retreat  
Of all the Brethren of the Holy Cheat)  
You have abused, they'll banish you, and Swear,  
Th' Artificer's as rotten as his Ware.  
If then no Place nor Party him receive,  
He's ripe for Tyburn, that's not fit to live;  
Where when he's Hanged, he may have some small hope,  
To swing in one of's Own, and crack the Rope.   

TO THE LADY JANE LEVISON GOWER, AND Mrs. CATHERINE NEWPORT, each giving him Six pence.  
TWo Ladies here me Sixpence gave a piece;  
I valued each above the Golden Fleece:  
In One I made a hole, about my Neck  
Designing it to wear, to give a check  
To Bedlam Spirits, and to charm Mad-Devil,  
As Angel Gold is used, to heal Kings-Evil:  
T' other I bowed, to take the faster hold;  
Yet Both slipped through my fingers, as doth Gold:  
My Riches fled away on eagle's Wing,  
And for the Honey in Carcase left their Sting:  
But courage take, jackstraw; the hands (I'm sure)  
That for thy Wound made way, can give thee Cure.   

To a Friend, upon his sending him Venison to BEDLAM.  
IF like be fed by like, what better meat  
Can Horn Mad, wild as Buck, than Venison eat  
Sir, this Philosophy you understood,  
And sent a Haunch to be our Bedlam food:  
Accordingly we it, for such like reason,  
Did, 'cause hotheaded, well with Pepper season  
Madness and Wit then, being all one (o'th' place  
Sir Quack) much Salt made proper in the Case  
And the truth is, Deer must be Diet fit  
For Horn-Mad equally, and nimble Wit:  
The Virtue I feel, and this experience gain,  
Venison i'th' Blood swells the Poetic Vein.  
Now Doc and Pot, those whiffling Curs, in couple  
That always Hunt, I'll keep at bay and bubble;  
For Goat and Venison differ so small a matter,  
That Buck will lusty make my Bedlam Satire▪  
And (when with Rope Sir Quack has cured the sma●…  
My Brisk Lampoon, survive the long-lived Ha●…   

Presented to the Right Honourable EDWARD SEYMOUR, Esq His ever Honoured Master.  
WHen unfledged Orator, & Tongue but weaker,  
For Secretary chose by Mr. Speaker,  
I straightway got the knack of better talking,  
And from Clarks desk, to Pulpit must be walking:  
For not per saltum taken is Degree,  
When of a Scribe, you're made a Pharisee.  
Would you then know, how Clark became a Teacher,  
And how the Speaker's man starts up a Preacher;  
My Master's Spring, some drops on me distils,  
And in his Ink I dipped my Infant Quills.   

His Petition to Mr. Speaker.  
A Man of Sense in Bedlam, I recount  
Among our Grievances, or Tant-amount:  
To Rescue me, than Sergeant send at Arms;  
The Circle in the Crown, Mad-Devil charms:  
And Man in Moon, so sure his Bush at Back,  
Must fall by Mace, as fire by Malaga Sack.   

On his mistaking the Name OF Sir Gabriel Silvius, Presented to his Lady.  
SIr Gabriel I mistaking, call Sir George;  
And of an Angel, thus a Saint do forge:  
Sure Jealous, lest you (at our Saviour's Birth  
Being of the Choir of those that Sang on Earth)  
Do from us Mortals, when you Mount and Sing,  
Your Lady steal away upon your Wing.  
Such Flight me robs of Soul, and what I am,  
More plainly must discover then my Name  
Our Life and Bliss secure then; lest we die,  
Stay long on Earth, and late to Heaven fly.  
But let me still you England's Champion call,  
As Omen of the Beast's and Dragon's fall.   

The Poet's modest and reasonable Expostulation, with the non-Infallible Pope of the Lunatics, on behalf of the sober Parson, hitherto mistaken, and misjudged by Religio Medici.  
Humbly Presented to the Worshipful, the Treasurer, and other the Governors of the Hospital of Bethlem.  
A polo, God and Father, you and I  
Own, both in Physic and in Poetry:  
Brother, because Lampooned, what do you mean  
A Son of Phoebus' Lunatic to feign?  
Guilty, the Verdict of a City Jury  
Can bring him in, but of Poetic Fury;  
Whereof necessity must guilt abate,  
For he, all madness, pleads, is kin to Fate▪  
Since then, right Reason says, he can't forego it,  
Condemn his Fury, but discharge the Poet.  
Doctor, I am (no way, as worth Remark is,  
Your Patient, but) Your humble Servant, Carcase.   

Mr. Dr. Mr. D▪  
While I'gainst Keeper's Tyranny Rebel,  
And with the thought of Mad-quacks Poison swell;  
He gives it out, that he my head can Cure,  
But my proud heart from Physic is secure:  
Pray then take heed, Sir Tinker Chirurgeon Quack,  
Lest mending one, you may another Crack;  
For I, whilst you prescribe so like a Fool,  
My own Wit more admire, and you at School  
Expect among my Boys, by Rod and smart,  
To learn, though late, the Rudiments of Art.  
I find that my old Schoolboy cannot spell,  
Nor Satire from familiar Satan smell:  
This makes the Child, for Poet, read Possessed  
(A Boy well taught, might better sure have guest)  
This Owl no difference makes 'twixt Sun & Moon,  
And calls at Random, Lunacy, my Lampoon.   

THE Founder's Intention.  
HEnry the Eighth this Hospital Erected,  
Madmen to Cure, with Lunacy Infected:  
But Anger, a short Madness called, and Passion  
Here to arraign was ne'er th'intent nor fashion:  
This kind in Porter and in Keepers reigns,  
And they should wear, who fasten on our chains:  
This to be cured at Bedlam, were it meant,  
It's Doctor should be his own Patient;  
Who, if in truth he be both Fool and Knave,  
For saying so, shall I be kept a Slave?  
Is't Lunacy to call a spade, a spade?  
And, Ladies, tell me, in your Mascarade,  
Are wit and senses lost? or doth this follow,  
When Poetry is given by Apollo?  
unbiased Friends, and Madquack too, beware,  
For your Mad Poet can with safety Swear,  
Design procured him in this Bay a birth,  
To puzzle, and make you all his Muse's 〈◊〉.  
I must confess, what e'er's absurd, and wide  
Of truth, by Bedlam may be justified;  
But that its Doctor these Conclusions makes;  
For Lunacy, Lampoon and Satire takes:  
To say no more, his case is very sad;  
Such a great A— can ne'er hope to be Mad.   

THE Porter, a Prince.  
AN Hogan Mogan State we justly call,  
The Governors of Bedlam Hospital;  
For Orange they elect Prince Porter Blue  
(Trueman and Knave in grain, are of one hue)  
The Gentlemen their Servant him suppose;  
But he's their Head, and leads them by the Nose.  
This Loyal Holland's common prayer must be:  
May our Nassau be absolute, as Herald   

ON Mrs. Monuments Giving him a Visit at Bedlam.  
HEaring, that There was one, at sight,  
Her Praise or Epitaph, could Write,  
Carcase to Visit with intent,  
From Charing-Cross came Monument:  
In such a Tomb I choose to lie,  
And yield up Ghost before I Die:  
She's Kind, not Proud; as Both are fair,  
To Niobe I her compare;  
To Niobe, while Flesh and Bone,  
Not her own Monument of Stone;  
For 'twould be her true Lover's loss,  
Were either Marble she, or Cross.   

To his Friends, that gave in Security, according to the Custom of the Hospital.  
A Publican and Stocking-Factor join,  
In Bethlem Hospital me to confine.  
'Tis pleasant to observe, how both these tend,  
By differing circumstances, to one end:  
Clark of the Rates, Error in casting makes,  
And for a Fraction, my cracked Brain mistakes;  
The Hosier (fancying a Warehouse full)  
Conceits, my scattered Wits do gather Wool:  
But Poet, Lunatic, is ill reckoned;  
And Man's a Man, but with a Hose on's Head.  
Then his mistake each to correct had best,  
One in Account, t'other in's Interest;  
And Paper-Fetters to withdraw, take pains;  
For Bridewell Bonds give strength to Bedlam Chains.   

On the late PLOT.  
PEter thou art, and on this Rock, my Church  
I'll Build, says Christ: Interpreters i'th' lurch  
This Text has left, and puzzled in every Age,  
ere since our Saviour went off the Stage:  
Thousands of Souls on it, alas! have split,  
By their own Folly, or others too much Wit:  
On these words, racked by jesuite and Pope,  
Their followers falsely ground their faith & hope:  
On this foundation their late Plot did stand;  
But thanks to heaven, that turned the Rock to Sand:  
That all their high-built hopes has thrown to th'ground,  
And Babel-Builders fit Mansions found:  
Peter himself (spite of their Wit and Power)  
Hugs Cloud, for juno; for this Rock, the Tower.   

Dr. Titus Oates, Anagramma, Testis Ovat.  
Dicite, Jo Paean! & Jo, bis dicite, Paean!  
Incidit in casses Itala Turba suos.  
Per Titum Solymaea jacent, heu! Templa; ruinam  
A Tito expectes Vindice, Roma, tuam.  
Testis Ovat, laeto canit omine Musa; Britannis  
Vberior (spes est) indè Triumphus eat.  
England, Rejoice; see fallen into the Pit  
Digged by himself, the subtle jesuite.  
Titus' destroyed jerusalem; and Rome  
Herself, from Titus, may expect her doom.  
Grow, Titus Oates, and thriving in this Land,  
A Promise of our future Triumph, stand.  
FINIS.