The Malcontent; A satire: Being the Sequel of the Progress of Honesty, OR A VIEW Of Court and City.  
LONDON, Printed for joseph Hindmarsh, Bookseller to his Royal Highness, at the Black Bull in Cornhill, 1684.   

EPISTLE. TO His Royal Highness THE DUKE.  
WHen Rome had awed the World with her Alarms,  
And peaceful Arts succeeded dreadful Arms;  
Virgil and Horace did the Empire treat,  
And laid inspiring Verse at Caesar's feet:  
Imperial justice Crowned their heads with Bays,  
As they his Conquests with Immortal praise.  
With their Ambition, though not equal Art,  
Obliged by Duty, and a Loyal heart,  
Your grateful Poet, (Sacred Sir) presumes  
To Court great Britain's Genius, as they Rome's;  
Beloved of Heaven, great Author of our bliss,  
Rebellion's scourge, defender of our Peace;  
That the Rude Nation Godlike didst inspire,  
Kindle the Clod with influencing fire;  
Till Reason, like th' eternal Soul did move  
O'er confused Chaos, and like awful Jove,  
Formed the dull Lump to Order and to Love:  
You, like the Monarch of this Factious Isle,  
Did on your Foes enervate Malice smile;  
Grasping the Brand, even than you could forgive,  
Stop the revenging Bolt, and let 'em live:  
But judgement still is sure; what you neglect,  
Their own despair will Brutishly effect.  
Witness He late who by Racked Conscience swayed;  
murdering himself, his horrid Cause displayed.  
So when mysterious God and Man was led  
To death, by Judas Impiously betrayed;  
He, knowing that the Plot by him designed  
Had doomed the mighty saviour of Mankind,  
Returned the Bribe, and with Hell's rage possessed,  
Discharged a Soul, that knew no place of rest.  
Degrees of Crimes will have degrees of Woe,  
But Rebels are all doubly damned below.  
Had the poor Felon, that was Crucify'd,  
Been found a Rebel, or a Regicide,  
The great Redeemer trembling at his vice,  
Had soon revoked his Grant of Paradise.  
Mercy is Heaven's chiefest Attribute;  
And greatest Crimes make it most absolute;  
But stubborn Reprobates will never mend,  
The more you pardon, they the more offend.  
For Pharaoh's Court obeyed divine Command  
No longer than the Locusts plagued his Land;  
The Curse removed, they the Wise Prophet scorn,  
And beastlike to their Excrement return.  
Your virtue (Sir) unshockt by fear, or harm,  
Knows the weak malice of the Suakes you warm;  
Blest with your Beams, they wriggle till they're hot;  
Then seeded venom spreads into a Plot.  
The Nation's Ague, every Plot has been,  
Or Hell's dire Engine late with terror seen;  
When Brutish Rabble turned the vast Machine.  
But you to heal the Kingdom's frenzy come,  
And now again the Olive branches bloom:  
The peaceful Dove may o'er the Deluge fly,  
Perch on high Trees, and murmur Songs of joy;  
You are in Caesar safe, and he in you;  
The best of Subjects, and of Brothers too:  
Fixed to his Interest with Religious Care,  
Patron of Peace, and Father of the War:  
To whose known judgement, Arts and Arms belong,  
Bellona's Buckler, and Apollo's song.  
Whoever sued with Tears or bended knee▪  
That was not succoured by your Clemency?  
The Warrior has for noble Scars reward,  
The Widows and the Orphans Cries are heard;  
Afflicted Merit is no more distressed;  
So much of Pity fills your sacred Breast:  
Yet chattering Momus will your Fame assail,  
The foolish Momus is allowed to rail,  
Cant without wit, and without satire write;  
He only Snarls and Grins, but dares no bite.  
Envy, like Trophies, decks a General:  
The cackling Geese once saved Rome's Capitol.  
Under the Crowds reproach the more you lie,  
The more discerning judgement mounts you high.  
So into bliss those best deserve to come,  
That for the Truth dare suffer Martyrdom.  
Great Sir, Your Highness' most devoted and most obedient Servant, T. D'vrfey.   

PREFACE TO THE READER.  
I am in some sort obliged to declare, that no particular resentment of my own, farther than the sense I had of the general vices of the times, and for the Information of the public, induced me to write this satire, or give it this Title; but I confess I now do, and always did think it both my duty, and every ones else that is Capacitated, to lash and expose Enormities of so damnable a quality as the characters in the following Stanza's stand tainted with: And therefore if some severe observers, that may perhaps in this Mirror see the shadow of an intimate Friend or Acquaintance, should think the Reflections too gross, and open, let such be pleased to consider on the subject matter, the substances, and horrid Theme that inspires the satiric Pen, and then doubtless (if they are not well-willers to the Mathematics themselves) they will generously allow, that Crimes of this dreadful Nature ought not to be Complemented, nor Guilded over with Rhetoric in such a manner, as if the Author rather designed to show the virtue of his own Poetry, than the vice he was writing on. 'Tis true there may be offences which no Poet is so much a Cynic always to treat at this blunt Rate; the surly Muse may be stroked into good nature when the sin comes within the list of Venial, as for example, Pride may be glossed over and called Presence of mind, or Courtly breeding; Fornication may be poetically styled the Error of Licentious blood, the Imperfection of irregular Youth, not guided by reason or religious judgement; The railing Whig, or what's worse, the Trimmer (provided he speak no Treason) by the obliging Satirist may be tenderly used, because he has a way with him, and expresses nothing but according to his Conscience; The sordid Miser may be rendered a wise and provident Person, nay, even the crying sin Adultery, by the varnish and illustration of Poetry may be guilded over with Moral justice, provided the Wife be Old and Bedrid, and the young Husband wants an heir for his Estate: But Parricide, privy Conspiracy, Rebellion, Incest, Murder, and such like, must never expect such favour; the satire there should lash to the blood, and make each stroke so terrible, and the shame so obvious, that the weakest judgement may comprehend, and feel the meaning: Neither am I of an opinion with them that affirm, that satire should tickle till it Smarts; I rather, like a good Surgeon, would have it smart sound at first, the wound will tickle enough when it is healing: and I am very apt to believe the undaunted Juvenal was in this mind, for I never read in any of his Satyrs, where he was daubing any vice, with intent to lessen it, but, encouraged by his perfect honesty, and manlike bravery of soul, always painted it in its natural Sables; a Fool was by him drawn like a Fool, inspite of his guilt Coach, gaudy Trappings, and numberless Acres of dirt, and a Traitor, like a Traitor, though his fortune made him a Senator; this I hold as a good example for every just Author, and which I am resolved to follow, let the Consequence happen as it pleases. Those that have not read the first Part of this Poem, viz. (The Progress of honesty, written in the beginning of Oates' Plot) will be the less satisfied with these Sheets, not that I doubt but the Reflections will be easily understood, for I have always observed that Rhubarb is more pleasing to our Nation than Honey, which, though I am sorry to know, yet I cannot remedy; and, had I less Zeal for my Country, I should be less diligent in exposing its faults; but, living under the Government of so good and gracious a Sovereign, I should think myself unworthy of a smile from him, or the least blessing of his Royal favour, if I should not, with my utmost vigour and severest Genius, expose and render odious to futurity, the unnatural Agents and Associatours in so horrible a Conspiracy.   

The Malcontent. A POEM.  

I.  
AURORA now had blushed upon the Day,  
And driven Night's shades away,  
Giving the glorious Monarch of the Morn  
A Summons to return,  
And bless the World with his propitious Rays,  
The early Lark sung Anthems in the Skies,  
The watchful Cock with shrill and Echoing voice  
Had told the Husbandman 'twas time to rise,  
The welcome Fruit of his past Toil to reap,  
Nor longer give his precious hours to sleep;  
The chattering Rooks, waked by disturbing light,  
From lofty Trees where they had slept that Night,  
Flew to each others Nests, to kiss and play,  
Telling their sable Loves the business of the day,  
And on what Farmer's Stubble they should pray:  
The Air was cool, the weather was serene,  
No envious Cloud did the Sun's Luster screen,  
But gentle Calms overspread the Seas;  
The Heavens and Earth seemed full of Joy, and gay and green the Trees   

TWO  
When 
* Vide The Progress of Honesty, the third Page.  Error, our late wild ungoverned Youth,  
Newly converted to the Truth,  
And by his Father's sage advice brought in  
From the wide, pleasant, but destructive, paths of Sin,  
Rose from the humble Couch whereon he lay,  
And where with watery Eyes he passed the Night's fatigue away:  
For fatal visions had disturbed his breast,  
And Robbed him of his darling Rest;  
Visions of Beauty's snares, and Love in vain  
Of souls despairing, and Eternal Pain,  
Of hellish Traitors that were damned for gain,  
Of Wealth and honours promised, but forgot,  
And of a horrid Plot,  
That Devils in the shape of Saints devise  
To murder Kings and root up Monarchies.  
His constitution and complexion were  
True Omens of his future care;  
A Sable melancholy clogged his blood,  
Which seldom e'er presages good,  
And deadly Paleness filled his cheeks, which showed  
As if he thought his life did vainly Waste,  
Or had reflected on the Ills his Youth had past.  
Oft would he Start, and heavens bright Mansionsview,  
Oft Sigh and Cry, vain foolish World Adieu;  
Thou Trifle which the fond and wanton prize,  
But Inconvenience to the Good and Wise;  
How with thy Pride, thy Pomp and State,  
Performance nothing, though thy promise great,  
Have I too often been betrayed,  
And caught in the strong Snares, thy Arts have laid?  
Why was I born to be deceived?  
And why, alas, wert thou believed?  
Thus vexed by Love, and some preferments loss,  
Which he from Court, and Great ones promised was,  
The wretched Youth from his A partment went,  
Which weeping and destructive Cares have Spent,  
And on his brow was painted large the scene of discontent.   

III  
Through verdant Meads, and flowery Vales he goes,  
Where many a Beauteous Rose  
Delightful Odours did dispense  
To his too Stupid and Neglectful Sense,  
Blushing as if they thought it were a Crime,  
Not to be Ravished in the prime:  
Each Gentle Rivulet and Purling Brook  
Mourns his dejected look,  
Seeming to Murmur Pity, and relate  
The story of his Melancholy fate;  
And every pretty Warbler of the Wood,  
As if his Woes they understood,  
Kept time with his Complaints, and wept, and sung  
Sad Notes of Woe, taught by his mournful tongue.  
Thus Plunged and hurried by his restless thought  
At last to a high mount he got,  
Barren as Nature, e'er she God obeyed,  
Or Chaos e'er the great creating Word was said.  
The sleecy sheep that said thereon were lean,  
As a long seven Years famine there had been,  
Their wretched Bones peeped through their Skin,  
Like Fairy land showed the forgotten place.  
Blessed with no wholesome Plant nor verdant blade of Grass.  
A Lofty Cliff there stood that did Survey  
Some forty fathom down the Sea,  
Whose Billows envying such Aspiring height,  
Seemed with Impetuous might  
To undermine its Root, and make it bow  
Its Towering front to the salt Deeps below;  
There looking down upon the foaming Beach,  
Sat a forlorn uncomfortable Wretch,  
Grizzled with hair, by Sorrow, and by Years,  
His Sullen face bedewed with Tears,  
Looked like the Figure of Mortality,  
Or Man in his first State of misery;  
Savage his Mein, and wretched his Attire,  
Yet lofty thoughts did in his breast Conspire,  
Which gave this utterance to his Tongue,  
How long, base World, he cried, how long  
Like a poor shackled Prisoner must I be  
Passive Spectator of thy Villainy?  
Why, more than crawling Infects of the Earth,  
Must I have Cause to Curse my Birth?  
The Birds, and Beasts, and Fish in Seas  
Are with the Order of their living pleased,  
Nay Fools, and the unthinking live in peace;  
But I, a wretch that heaven designed to Cross,  
For Virtue am despised, am honest to my loss.  
Thus spoke the Satirist, A man that had,  
Through all the Sciences Inspection made;  
Profound in Knowledge, and in Judgement bold,  
Wise as the famed Philosophers of Old,  
Austere in Life, and one that could  
In highest Schools dispute with each degree  
From sacred Reason down to pedant Sophistry.   

IV  
His name was Malcontent, whom with a graceful bow  
Error accosted, and Saluting low  
His Ruthful discontents desired to know,  
And why upon the Sterile uncouth plains he wandered so:  
A secret Joy his visage did express  
To find a Sociate in that lonely place,  
And therefore begged to know the tenor of his Case;  
To whom the Satirist replied,  
In what obscure place dost thou reside?  
What secret Den, or Cave, that dost not know  
The Curse of humane kind and General Cause of Woe?  
My private Sorrows in particular,  
Alas, not worth description are:  
Condemned to my ill Stars, 'twas my fixed lot,  
To be a prey to a rich Potent Sot;  
That Nature made an Ass, and so preferment got:  
For be it known to all the men of Wit,  
'Tis still the Fool that has the best Estate;  
Wisdom is mild and modest, free from pride,  
And with an humble portion satisfied;  
And though he nothing gets, he has the sense,  
To practise patience, and not wrong his Prince;  
But the bold Fool will to preferment rise,  
For none e'er knew her Court the Good and Wise:  
Kings, like the World's great Influencing light,  
Spread round their glories to the People's sight;  
But still some Tall Oak gets between,  
And humble Shrubs are never seen.  
The flattering, pushing, cringing Knave  
The foremost Post will have,  
Whilst bashful Worth is waiting like a Slave;  
Who though he Covets little, much deserves,  
The Sordid World neglects him, and he Starves.  
Who therefore would a Tenant be,  
To this vast ill built Frame of Villainy,  
That has a generous Soul,  
And can by one bold stroke ill fate control?  
Who would be bit by ill bred Dogs?  
See his fair Love condemned to senseless Rogues;  
Cause th' one has greater stock to buy,  
an't other best can fawn and lie?  
Who would the Nauseous Rabbles flouts receive,  
Though brave be slighted, and yet live?  
Did not an awful and Religious fear  
Of something after Death we know not where,  
Control the noble Lust of dissolution,  
And hinder our resolved Confusion;  
Showing we better had with painful ills dispense,  
Than forfeit heaven by Stubborn disobedience:  
This well I know, and though my own  
Distracting Cares do give me Cause to moan,  
And spend my wretched days in discontent alone;  
Though I have been too much abused,  
Of Place and wealth by hounds in office choosed,  
Lost the Rewards for which in fields I bled,  
And seen tame Villains cherished o'er my head:  
Yet deeper griefs oppress me now,  
My Prince's danger, and my Country's woe;  
By black Conspiracies that plainly snew,  
The Lust of English Rebels, that still strike  
At a Crowned head, and would be kings alike:  
This rends my throbbing heart, for this I howl,  
'Tis this disturbs the peaceful Order of my Soul,  
And makes me rather wish for death  
Than live in the Envenomed Air, where loathsome Villains breath.   

V  
Once was the fair Britania Crowned with power,  
The Garden of the World, the pleasant bower  
Of favourite Princes, that were happy made  
To veil their Crowns, and Sleep in her refreshing Shade.  
The bounteous hand of Plenty opened here,  
Whose Cornucopia blest each coming year,  
And on her fragrant bosom Nature lay,  
And Crowned each silent night and every happy day;  
Then bright Augusta flourished, whose fame ran  
To both the Poles through the wide Ocean,  
Chief Metropolitan.  
Imperial Caesar loved her, but too fond,  
Gave her such bounties from his Royal hand  
She was at last Aspiring to Command;  
Shockt her great Master, and for War prepared,  
Choosing the monster Hydra for her Guard;  
And as the Adder, which a harmless Swain,  
Gasping for life found on the frozen plain,  
By him through pity nourished near a fire,  
Feeling new warmth his veins inspire,  
Flew at his Courteous Host, and with black venom grieved,  
The man that him from death retrieved:  
So she with hissing Rage attaqu'd her King;  
But heaven decreed the Drone should have no Sting,  
Unedged her Mischiefs, and the Creature left;  
Like a poor Lunatic, of friends bereft,  
To shame Elections with Fanatic Votes,  
Bribe perjured Rogues, and Nurse up Titus O.  
Till like a Jilt that trades for half a Crown,  
Debauched by sneaking Presbyterian john,  
She is degraded, and no more th' Imperial Town;  
But losing th' Charter and each Royal Grant,  
Bedlam shall now be called instead of Troynovant▪   

VI  
Within the Channels of whose putrid Womb,  
Plagued with Infectious stench, and Noisome fume,  
Which from the fattening dregs of Plenty springs;  
Plenty that gives her Pampered vipers wings,  
And hissing tongues, and dreadful teeth and stings;  
In a dark Cave of horror, choked with weeds,  
Of poisonous vice, and horrid deeds,  
A Dreadful and Gigantic Monster breeds,  
More bloody than the one-eyed Cyclops brood,  
Or th' Savage Sons of Earth before the Flood:  
Not the Olympic Race, that against heaven made War,  
Hurling vast Mountains through the Air,  
With this can equal or compare;  
A thousand Teeth it has, as many Claws,  
To tear in pieces Monarchy, and Laws;  
The Loyal, and the brave, ne'er Escape its paws,  
All Kings it hates, and Regal power  
It never could endure,  
But Anarchy inspires, whose Brutish Pugs,  
In slimy genders breed a Tribe of Rogues;  
With these it herds, for these will fight,  
These still supports, with cursed Tyrannic might;  
For strength it has, beyond Imagination,  
And easily could make Invasion,  
Rove every where unconquered, though withstood,  
Bathing its Native Land in blood,  
Rapes, Murders, Roberies, Treasons, Blasphemies,  
That seem to dare the Skies,  
And even God himself, with insolent Impieties.  
No Crime, with which Mankind was ever Cursed,  
Since Adam's Sin at first,  
But it had done, or else resolved to do,  
And still most pleased with Mischiefs strange and new;  
Thus like a horrid Dragon, frightful to behold,  
It over England rolled,  
Bringing destruction wheresoever it came,  
With poisonous breath, sharp fangs and Eyes of flame;  
It plagued th' unhappy Land, REBELLION was its Name.   

VII  
And now methinks my Spleenful Genius tends,  
To give a Character of all its Agent fiends;  
Traitors on whom heaven's Curse ne'er lights in vain,  
Whilst each is branded with the Mark of Cain:  
See Marcian first, the Prince of all the rest,  
Tossing his Empty Head bestride the horrid beast;  
Degenerate Marcian, Shame to his great Race,  
His wounded Country's worst disgrace;  
Eternal is his hated Infamy,  
And his Escutcheon now Erected high,  
Shall never Raze the natural Obloquy;  
But have Engrailed a more Prodigious Blot,  
Treason and Parricide, Crimes of Dreadful Note,  
Shall dash the Or, and Gules, and Cloud the Herald's Coat.  
None e'er like him, with honours was endowed,  
Nor none like him, had such Ingratitude;  
In Childhood trained to a Monastic life,  
Free from Ambitious strife;  
When peaceful Arts all striven to Influence,  
And if 'twere possible, to teach him Sense;  
From Ross's discipline, who took great pains  
To fill the vacuum of his Brains:  
His gracious Uncle that from loud report,  
Had heard how far his Wit came short;  
To mend the matter, sent for him to Court,  
Thinking amongst the wisdom of that Place,  
(Assisted by a Taking face)  
That his might tolerably pass;  
And knowing he had Courage, nobly Scanned  
His growing worth, and got him high Command;  
Gave him applause in our great Monarch's ear,  
Who after sent him to the War,  
Where to say truth he got renown,  
And Rashly venturing, took a famous Town,  
But there th' Ambitious Pill first swallowed down;  
And factious Fiends inspired th' ill fated Elf  
To set up for himself;  
Nor longer a respect, and duty bear  
To the illustrious, and lawful Heir;  
But his successive right oppose, and quell,  
Though from his Favour, all his Honours fell,  
Who could have crushed the Serpent in the Shell.  
From thence to greater Crimes he passes on▪  
And now resolves to mount the Throne,  
Calls it his due, though by the equal Law,  
From whence our rights Legitimate we draw,  
The meanest wretch, of most obscure degree,  
Had more pretensions to 't than he.  
The Double duty, which he knows,  
He to his Father, and his Monarch owes,  
By double disobedience is undone,  
And he 's no more a Subject nor a Son.  
Yet with the Ladies, still his fame abides,  
A Graceful Mein, how gallantly he rides!  
That he should e'er commit such ill,  
Usurp the Throne, and his great Father kill!  
I'll not believe it, 'tis Impossible!  
Thus let a man commit the worst of Sin,  
Be but his outside fine, let that but Win,  
And your true Woman never looks within.  
Here stands the Imperfection of the Age,  
But that which most my fancy does Engage  
To write, and fills me with Poetic Rage,  
Is that he should be overruled,  
And by such Beasts betrayed, and fooled;  
That he should take Instructions from  
Such a strange Brute, as Bully Tom;  
Ye Powers! to be drawn in by him,  
Is such a vile unpardonable Crime,  
That were he free from any other fault,  
He merits to be damned for that.   

VIII.  
The Bravo, next himself, infects my Rhimes,  
Whose unexampled Crimes,  
My pen sets down to fright the future times;  
A decoy Traitor, whom th' Infernal chose,  
To draw the Rebel-tribe into the Noose,  
And made him use his interest in the Town,  
First to damn others Souls, and last his own.  
In all the villainies we find  
Entailed on wretched Humane-kind,  
He is most skilful, and should take degree  
Before the Fiends themselves in each Impiety;  
Rapes, Murders, Blasphemies which other men  
Account the greatest, worst of Sin,  
Are done by him, in such a sort,  
As if they only were his Sport;  
All free, and easy, without pains,  
Nor did he e'er molest his busy brains  
With learning, or what moral Authors tell,  
But only studied to Rebel.  
Thus stands his Chronicle in every blotted Page,  
From wicked Childhood up to Grizzled Age;  
And now we be speaking of his Infamy,  
A word were not a miss of his high Progeny:  
His Father, the great author of his Race,  
From whose strong Loins first sprang this Imp of Grace,  
As modest fame reports, A footman was,  
(With reverence to Tom's Knighthood) And a man  
That through life's cross Fatigues contented Ran,  
Peaceful his thoughts, and Loyal his design;  
No factious Calenture disturbed his mind,  
But Calmly to his Patron's Will inclined;  
Till being by him preferred, the gracious hand  
Of our dread Monarch gave him a Command:  
This was the Top of the great Family,  
And now to see,  
How Natures by Instinct do oft agree,  
Tom's of the Running Camp, as well as he.  
The Sire by duty bound speeds on, the Son,  
As fate Commands, does from his Country Run:  
This great distinction there is only known,  
The Sire ran on others Errands, Tom on's own.  
Some speak him famed, for mighty deeds in War,  
But those deny it that were there,  
And undertake to make't appear,  
At Mastricht through the, Ravellins he crept out,  
When all the rest o'th' Party fought:  
Yet often has he bragged of broken bones,  
And three Contusions he received at Mons,  
And yet no other damage got,  
A sign he was not very near the Shot:  
Had he not been by distance kindly used,  
The Bullets would have entered, not contused.  
But for a Midnight brawl, for Dice, or Drab,  
A Tavern Tilt, or Playhouse Stab;  
For such Heroic deeds, none can applauded be,  
Or gain more Just renown than he:  
When the late Massacre was undertaken  
He begged the Christian Charge, to stab the Duke:  
Told 'em his reasons, did not blush to say,  
How he had plotted down the way,  
And hoped, that glorious Act might be his own;  
Was ever such a blessed Reformer known?  
He shall be stabbing-Master General,  
And Captain of the Guards in Hell.  
But, as amongst the Moors in Africk's Clime,  
Whoever there has done a weighty Crime,  
To a Lion's thrown, armed only with a Sword,  
Whom if he kills he's presently restored,  
And crowned with Garlands, to high place preferred:  
So he to whom such horrid wreathes belonged,  
First to deserve it throughly must be hanged;  
Then shall he have his Patent freely pass,  
And from the lofty Gallows swing into his place.   

IX.  
Sedition, like the Plague, does spread and grow,  
Let one be tainted, straight the Nation's so.  
A fatal witchcraft that inspires the Brain  
To covet things unnatural and vain.  
Some, not contented with their proper Station,  
Curse the Dull times, and plot a Reformation:  
This man is for th' Established Church and State,  
Another a free Conscience does debate;  
And a third fool would have he knows not what.  
From one Lust to another thus they range,  
And pine, and languish for a change.  
Others there are with wealth and honour blest,  
Gifts, one would think, essential to Rest:  
Yet these degenerate ambition Blinds,  
Ambition, the Cursed frenzy of ill minds:  
And when a mighty Prince they view,  
Ungrateful Stars, they cry, why were not we so too?  
Thus, though it mounts to heaven's Azure Roof,  
Ambition never thinks 'tis high enough.  
In the First▪ Rank of these with Clouded Brow,  
Tall Catiline himself does show;  
A man so happy once, as if kind Fate  
Th' extreme of Blessings did create,  
To crown his life with more than fortunate:  
Even Death the Scourge of Nature was his friend,  
And just as if it did intend  
To show how much the Youth was loved;  
The Grandsire, Father, Brother, all removed  
To their long homes;  
Their silent Tombs:  
Only to raise his fortune, and make way,  
For his Hereditary Sway;  
Else he a lowly fortune had Obeyed,  
And been the humble vassal to some Trade;  
Venting his Wit, most Politic and Wise,  
O'er Bags of Pepper, Cloves and Spice;  
But never been so popular to bribe  
The Nasty Ignoramus Tribe;  
Nor factious Knights of Counties bring,  
Triumphantly set up against his King.  
But see the Vice of wretched Humane kind,  
When once the heart to mischief is inclined,  
It never can return but plunges on,  
Ne'er pleased till th' utmost villainy be done:  
This Catiline confirms, who having roved  
Through the Salt Bagnio's of Incestuous Love,  
Betrayed the Beautiful, and Ignorant,  
Whose misery I now want Skill to paint;  
Defiled the Marriagebed, unmoved could see  
The Aged Father's tears for the Indignity,  
And scandal done his Noble family:  
Yet still these were not Crimes enough,  
His Conscience was so clearly mischief-proof  
That it no pleasure to his Sense could bring,  
Till he was in a Plot to kill the King:  
The Devil soon took hold of the occasion,  
And straight propounds Association:  
The motion takes, and in the foremost band;  
The Noble Peer, as nobly sets his hand,  
With voluntary free consent,  
Is bound by dreadful Sacrament,  
To root out Monarchies, and procure his fall  
Whose Sacred life does Influence us all.  
So in a gloomy Cave, where Toads and Serpents breed,  
Overgrown with Thistles, Thorns, and loathsome Weeds,  
A place designed for horrid Deeds,  
Old Faustus with a Devilish hand,  
Once signed to Lucifer a Bond;  
Gave up his Soul upon Condition,  
His Lust was fed of mischief, and Ambition.  
Oh what a Cursed fiend is Man,  
When he forgets his nature! Whence began  
Our Primitive misery, but by th' offence  
Of stubborn disobedience?  
Neglect of Duty first begins,  
And ushers in all other Sins;  
Till the account at last, does boundless swell,  
And quite exceed the Register of Hell.   

X  
Happy the times were then, when Kings  
Were known distinguishable things,  
When they could prove that they were able  
To govern, and suppress the Rabble;  
When in the Senate's all the Sages  
Wore comely Liverie-Coats and Badges,  
And came two hundred miles with Loyal soul,  
To counsel Caesar, not control:  
When all their business was to Aid,  
And give encouragement to Trade,  
And not the King's Prerogative t' invade,  
Nor any Mad Chimaeras to set down,  
Relating to succession, or the Crown,  
Unless the King himself consenting was,  
And asked their Counsel in the Case.  
But now, as if the Dragon's teeth were Sown,  
And thence Innumerable Monsters grown,  
In th' house strange Animosities arise,  
About the People's Liberties,  
And who shall Reign when Caesar dies:  
Religion fires their Conscience there,  
Though not a motion on't elsewhere;  
Yet than all Zealous, Politic and Wise:  
A Godly Cheat best dazzles vulgar Eyes.  
A Bigot of this sort rash Cinna was,  
Sprung from a staunch, Rebellious Race,  
Under whose Roof, was horribly contrived,  
The death of the best Monarch ever lived;  
The thought of which charms my Satiric vein,  
Who can of such a loss enough Complain,  
And not wish Blood might pay for blood again,  
And see the great Avengers' justice shown?  
Cinna, that late, with calm, and subtle Tone,  
Encouraged the mad Senate to go on;  
He that with grave, and Conscientious look,  
In fewest words, most Treason spoke,  
And gave his Pious vote, t' exclude the D—  
Would now exclude the King: The Pillar fell,  
That props three mighty Kingdoms; burn and kill,  
Till Monarchy were turned t' a Common-weal:  
But such a Hellish, barbarous intent,  
Meets commonly a Hellish punishment:  
Cinna's accused, and Legally Condemned,  
By every honest Tongue, with horror named;  
To Execution brought, resolved to show,  
An enthusiastic Bravery, did bow  
His Neck with willingness to meet the blow:  
But as if Heaven, at the very time,  
Decreed severest justice, for his Crime;  
Three strokes sell on him, e'er he lost his head;  
A blow for every Kingdom he betrayed.   

XI.  
Attending on this Pious work  
Stood a Soul-broker, of the Scottish-Kirk;  
A Whining, Sneaking, Canting Saint,  
As ever took the Covenant:  
And as it ever was his Trick,  
To disturb people that were Sick;  
He now his skill does most employ,  
To Tease and Plague 'em when they die:  
Thus, as the Serpent did to Eve,  
Just as they're going to take leave,  
He works their Panic sear, to speak his Lie,  
And hedges in damnation by the buy.  
The worst of Malcontents he is,  
E'er since he lost a Benefice;  
Nor is it possible to reconcile  
Him to us, since he lost St. Marry Hill.  
His spleenful Nature still against us bend,  
Assisted by a daring Parliament;  
Would fain have taught us to agree  
To his Scotch way of Loyalty,  
The very same was used in forty three  
With Massacres his Sermons frighted us,  
For which he had the thanks o'th' Commons house,  
Who were within an Ace of mutinous:  
But a Learned 
* Dr. Sprat●●  Preacher, who had boldly shown,  
The People's fears were vain, had none;  
Thus 'tis not he, that truest matter gives,  
A just applause receives,  
But who best Claws the Representatives;  
A blessed Age, when Bigoted Divines  
Shall wrest the Scripture to their ill designs:  
Oh what a Misery it is, that he  
That has the luck of being learned, should be  
The first to Countenance Disloyalty!  
That one whose Reason to the highest reaches,  
Should corrupt dying men, and write shame Speeches;  
And bribed by treacherous Gold,  
All their false Notions and Opinions hold;  
As in the Speech of Cinna, where  
The Reverend Doctor did appear  
In every line, each Paragraph,  
That made the men of Judgement laugh,  
Was worded by the Doctor, we could view  
In every clouded Line, the Scotch Wit darting through;  
The Logic was the Doctors ', all the fallacies,  
And Contradictions, there were his;  
Nay, the shame Law in't was the Doctour's too,  
But his misprisions would not do;  
The Judges, that it was high Treason, knew.  
Sure never any Nation, could confess,  
With Doctors they were plagued like this.  
The Salamanca Dragon, late held forth,  
And now we have another from the North;  
Hugh Peter formerly came from the West,  
Let us but have a fourth from out the East;  
And never kingdom was so blest.  
I'll fares the Land, if once the Clergy err,  
For who are known so popular?  
The sheep must then needs go a-stray,  
When Shepherds can, and will not lead the way.  
And as Religion should no interest have,  
O'er souls, or bodies, but to save;  
As the Creatour's Will first formed, and made,  
Who never did design it for a trade;  
So he, that is ordained to teach should be  
A man of Pious Loyalty,  
Of steady mind, unapt to please each Sot,  
For he that winks at th' Ages general fault,  
Like B—tt, is a scandal to his Coat.   

XII.  
When the Eternal did Mankind Create,  
As an addition to his happy State;  
He gave him Reason, that he so might be  
Nearer his own Divinity.  
Since when Religion's Sacred power  
Refined the drossy Ore,  
And taught the stupid Mortal to Adore;  
Then Priestly Orders first began▪  
And the sincerest Man;  
Born on the wings of fame, did soon disperse  
The Mystic tenets through the Universe:  
The learned Prophet did all hearts inspire  
With Morals sprung from his Celestial fire,  
And all were willing to admire:  
No Bigot of the Rebel Synagogue,  
No fleering, Canting Rogue,  
No bribed Scotch Quack, nor perjured Salamank—  
The heavenly dew of knowledge drank;  
None Graced the Priesthood, were not free from vice,  
Like Aaron Pious, and like Moses Wise.  
But now ungrateful Schism the kingdom grieves;  
The Sacred Church becomes a Den of Thiefs:  
Drones, Dunces, Drunken slaves,  
Exotic Fools and pampered Knaves  
Have yet the Confidence  
To wear the spotless Robe of Innocence:  
And though the Lash, or hanging they deserve,  
Approach the Holy place, and at the Altar serve:  
Pardon, ye Reverend of the Sect divine,  
That ever will Serenely shine,  
The satire dares not against you conspire,  
Whose virtues bind him, and untwist his Wire:  
But were it not for happy you,  
For an unbyass'd, blessed few;  
Faith and Religion would as useless be,  
As Preaching true Obedience to the Mobile:  
'Tis this that shocks the Judgement of the Wise,  
And adds to general Vice;  
This makes the Libertine go on,  
And leave no horrid Crime undone,  
Till his Inglorious Race is run so far,  
His Guardian Angel leaves him to despair;  
Despair, the Wages of Impiety,  
That makes the wretched Mortal hourly dye,  
And feel new pangs of endless Misery.  
Who without horror can relate,  
Or think on wretched Cambel's fate!  
Cambel, who not long since  
Had such exalted favours from his Prince;  
They gained the Emulation,  
Of the third part o'th' Nation:  
Imperial Caesar trusted him with power,  
And on his head did shower  
Honours, would even make Ambition dumb,  
And own for more it wanted Room.  
His loyal Father's merits fresh did spring  
Within the memory of the grateful King;  
His father, that proud Rebels long withstood,  
And sealed his dear Allegiance with his Blood,  
Losing his head for that great Monarch's sake,  
Whose life his barbarous Son conspires to take:  
Error of Nature, blind Effect of fate,  
Oh what Philosophy can e'er relate,  
Or show the natural Reason why,  
In Loyal blood should brood such Villainy?  
If we choose Horses, we the Breed prefer;  
If Dogs, we cannot err,  
The true bred Beagle ne'er can get a Cur:  
In Cocks, the generous virtue is the same,  
Who e'er could say a Craven came  
From one that was a Cock o'th' Game?  
But spurious Man the great Instinct denies,  
Turns Rebel, and his blood does Bastardise;  
This Cambel proves, whose Crimes of deepest dye,  
Now stretching to a point too high,  
His bashful Genius takes no farther care,  
But leaves him to despair;  
Nor does he dare  
To think that Prince should be for Mercy sought,  
Whose Clemency is known his only fault:  
But blinded with his dire Offence,  
Will add self-murder to his other sins;  
With his own hand life's Image does deface,  
And with Mechanic Razor Ends his wretched days.   

XIII.  
Reflect, Oh thou that stir'st up Civil strife,  
Reflect upon our gracious Monarch's life;  
And if Sedition have not made thee blind,  
Thou than art sure to find,  
The finger of the Deity appear,  
Marking the fate of each Miraculous Year;  
His infelicity, pains, wrongs, constraints,  
Sufferings, beyond the trial of the Saints;  
And sure large Blessings are for him in store,  
Who by rebellious Subjects suffered more  
Than ever patient Monarch did before.  
Plots by damned Villains, thirsting for his blood,  
Strangely discovered, and withstood;  
By Rebel Crowds, proudly defying heaven▪  
He from his Throne was driven,  
And forced to shroud unhappy Majesty  
Within the Sacred hollow of a Tree;  
Till the Almighty, who had often heard  
His Prayers, alarmed Heaven, and prepared  
The Hierarchy of Angels for his Guard;  
And lately, when the dark and Clouded brow,  
Of black Conspiracy did show,  
What the cursed Regicides had sworn to do;  
God from his high and awful Throne looked down,  
And to prevent the mischief burned a Town,  
And by a small destruction there,  
Hindered a general Massacre;  
So Pharaoh's host, from Israel did retire,  
Whose Guardian Angel hemmed 'em round with fire:  
Methinks I see, as I did then,  
The King, that greatest, best of Men;  
Linked with his dearest Brother, Royal james,  
Looking with generous grief upon the flames,  
Pitying the wretched People's Cries,  
As if they felt their Miseries▪  
And bore an equal share in their Calamities:  
A dreadful lustre, from the flaming Town,  
On their illustrious faces shone;  
But proved a Lambent Glory round each head,  
Presaging that from Treason they were freed:  
But, oh, what faith can e'er believe;  
That after this great Caesar can forgive;  
That he can even pardon those,  
That were his greatest, worst of Foes,  
And in this horrid Plot, against him rose?  
Yet see 'tis so, false Tears, and bended Knee  
O'ercomes, and melts him into Clemency.  
Oh Godlike Nature, too too often used,  
And to our lasting shame, too much abused;  
Whose virtue fixes an eternal Brand  
On this ingrateful Land,  
And makes me that had Charity before,  
Hate all Mankind, and wish that Nature were no more.  
See how lean Cassius yonder nods his head,  
On the poor Supplicant, that stands in need  
In whom the mischief of a Statesman's Nature,  
May be discerned in every ugly feature:  
Hark how he talks, and gravely lies,  
Hoping to hide his well-known vice,  
And makes us think him Loyal, Good and Wise:  
But though the Adder shifts his speckled Skin,  
He cannot purge his venom that's within;  
Tho' Cassius seemed to purge his late offence,  
By a feigned duty to his Prince;  
Though he through all the Paths of ceremony Ran,  
At Levey, and at Couch, punctual Man:  
My searching Genius tells me he's unjust,  
Knows well the heigh of his ambitious Lust,  
He would be still a Rebel if he durst.  
See treacherous Macro too, ranked with the worst of Men▪  
A Whig, than Tory, than a Whig again;  
Whose scandalous life becomes a Playhouse Jest,  
Turncoat in every Age for interest.  
Newark be ever famous for thy Crime,  
And may thy story charm Satiric Rhyme;  
Thou that couldst leave thy Master in distress,  
Unpitied see the Tears Rowl down his sacred face:  
Such precious Tears, from such a Prince,  
Nature herself would Influence,  
And give to Flowers, and Plants a kindly Birth;  
As when from Clouds, the gentle showers come forth  
After immoderate heat, to cool the gaping Earth.   

XIV.  
Why does rich Gallus, whose full Pocket Chinks,  
Though under his Embroidery he stinks,  
Snuff up the Nose at Sophus that is poor,  
And Rate the humble Scholar from his door;  
Call him base Rhimer, roll his scornful Eyes,  
As if to be a Poet were a vice;  
Or that it were a scandal to be wise?  
Or why should chattering Balbus frown,  
And bluntly cry that merit down,  
That with the wisest Ancients gained renown?  
Value himself, for his dull Pedigree,  
Though they were all as senseless Brutes as he?  
And if Judicious censure runs him down,  
He straight begins a quarrel, to make known  
That though he cannot Spell, nor read, nor write,  
Yet he has Brains enough to fight;  
And by his brutish manners clear the doubt▪  
That Reason can no Argument make out  
With your rash, choleric Blockhead, that is stout.  
The Wise, and learned calmly can debate,  
But your true fool is always obstinate;  
Fond of false Notions, always in the wrong,  
Loud, and profusely lavish of his tongue;  
Proud of Criticism, which he calls Wit,  
Although the piece he scans be justly writ,  
And the illiterate Dunce with reading Murders it.  
Pride, and cursed Ignorance still coupled are,  
So have I seen an Ass tread down and tear  
A Laurel he could ne'er deserve to wear.  
Lewdness, and Flattery thrives; and who can both  
Echo a Lord, and lick away a Moth,  
Perhaps may get Meat, Drink, and Cloth:  
If noisy nothing he for reason grants,  
Swears the dull lump has virtues, that he knows he wants;  
Can Rail, Drink, Lie, Pimp, Flatter, Fawn, and Cheat;  
This from the Patron may preferment get,  
And he some ill placed bounty may receive,  
But, ah, what wretch on such base terms could live?  
Give me, kind Heaven, a peaceful humble seat,  
Without dependence on the great,  
Or knowledge of the Luxury of State;  
Placed in a little Cottage of my own,  
Far from the noisy, factious, busy Town,  
In happy Innocent security;  
Stranger to Crowded Courts, or dignity:  
Blest with my Books, some Friends, and one kind constant Fair,  
My life's fatigue let me with patience bear,  
And in the Bosom of Contentment lie,  
Too low for Envy, and for Scorn too high.   

XV.  
Here stopped the Satirist with sullen Pride,  
Vexed that there were some tears he could not hide;  
A deep reflection of his wretched State,  
And the ungrateful turns of wavering fate,  
Had made his Eyes with sorrow overflow,  
And groans, and sighs expressed his inward Woe.  
To whom impatient Error thus replies:  
Oh sacred Moralist, learned, good, and Wise;  
Thou, to whose story my long ravished Ear  
Delighted stands, as if 'twere Charmed to hear,  
And wonder at that Tongue,  
That breathed such moving Rhetoric so long.  
O Pardon me, thou that dost all things know,  
If I divert thy Satyr's angry blow;  
Presuming to declare, that though the Age  
Deserves in General thy sharpest Rage,  
Yet some particular virtues may  
Atone for the black Crimes, that o'er the Nation sway:  
I own true worth on barren praises lives,  
That modest Virtue very rarely thrives:  
I know th' unhappy wise, if poor are scorned,  
Whilst fools with gaudy Trappings are adorned;  
And in the places of high office seen,  
Though they could ne'er get sense enough to mean,  
Or take from twenty two, and leave eighteen.  
Worth unregarded lies, fop'ry advanced▪  
And being Impudent is countenanced;  
Wit is, Chameleon like, fed by the Air,  
Heaven's gift so only is rewarded there.  
And when the Muses, the unhappy Nine,  
In charming, tuneful numbers join,  
To frame some wondrous Tale,  
To lash the Age, and o'er dull Ignorance prevail;  
The Sot, to whom the laboured piece is sent,  
Repays the Author with a Compliment;  
Proud of himself, he sordidly believes,  
That 'tis reward enough if he receives.  
Virtue is often slighted with a frown,  
And sawning Vice usurps her dazzling Crown,  
Snatches the Glory, and by fortune raised,  
Is by th' unthinking Crowd, allowed, and praised:  
Too deep a sense, alas! I have of this,  
And of the World's Impieties:  
Yet though th' unweeded Garden does appear  
Overgrown, as if not worth the heavenly Care,  
Amongst the Thistles there some Roses are.  
Spite of State-Theives that would have all their own,  
Caesar has yet some Jewels in his Crown,  
That shall, in spite of all the Rebel kind,  
Glitter, and strike the Eyes of Envy blind:  
The Guardian Angel that protects his Throne,  
Has sealed a few blessed Heroes for his own.  
Caesario at his feet himself does throw,  
The best of Brothers, and of Subjects too;  
Royal as Monarchy, that heaven first gave,  
And yet obedient as a Slave.  
Ambition that so Giantlike does seem,  
Does like a Pigmy grow in him;  
No State beyond his right he ever sought,  
Nor ever did aspiring thought  
Offend his breast, or check his duteous Love  
To England's sacred jove:  
But in his Loyal Sphere, both good and great  
He calmly moved, and kept his Seat;  
Without the subtle Statesman's Art,  
He has of Government a part:  
Caesar in England reigns, and he in Caesar's heart.  
Publius' next him in duteous Zeal does burn,  
A Phoenix rising from a sacred Urn,  
That does contain a Hero, did restore  
A Monarch, and three Nations once before,  
And England's Conquering Cross in glorious Triumph bore:  
None ever did his Prince more justly serve,  
Nor ever from him more deserve:  
The Grand fatigues of State are easy made,  
And Caesar's Crown sits light upon his head,  
Through his unwearied diligence and Care;  
Watchful he is in peace, skilful in war,  
And does so throughly his great father's Virtues share,  
That only from so flourishing a Stem,  
Could ever spring a Plant like him;  
True noble Nature shines through every part,  
And Centres in his heart:  
His Soul was never fond of Dignity,  
Or being Popularly high,  
But humble as Supine Philosophers,  
Although in Place exalted as the Stars;  
And in that glorious Sphere, has nobly moved,  
By all the Worthies honoured, and beloved:  
Great, Good and Just, what praise can equal thee,  
That hast no fault but too much Generosity!   

XVII.  
Cleon, beloved of heaven, next appears,  
A Hero full of honours as of years;  
Whose Loyal Zeal untainted and sublime  
Stands in the lasting Chronicles of time,  
And gives the grateful King, occasion to commend  
His faithful Subject, Counsellor and Friend:  
Age, that in others does distasteful seem,  
Looks gay, and beautiful in him,  
Smiling as if it could past, vernal heats redeem;  
And Nature, pitying one she had  
Framed with the choicest wonders of her Trade,  
Should moulder into dust, and be with common Rubbish laid,  
Medea like, renews his prime,  
Stops every posting year, and curbs destroying time;  
And by a strange Inspiring skill  
Makes even Death itself, obedient to her will;  
Checks him with fury in his dreadful Chase:  
But ah, though strongly she defend the Race;  
All Humane-kind must stoop at last,  
Nature herself must her gay Topsails lour,  
Humble as Earth, to Death's resistless power;  
And Cleon though great, valiant, wise, must die  
As certainly as I;  
Only in this his fate exceeds,  
That he's so good he scarce translation needs,  
But were original Sin less great might be,  
Clad in frail flesh, fit for Eternity.  
More, (Oh thou great Observer of the Age)  
Yet a few more there are, might escape thy Rage;  
Solon is just, lamented 'cause he's old,  
Studious in business, and in Office bold;  
A second Machiavelli for Policy,  
But stranger to the Statesman's villainy;  
He still was Loyal in the worst of times,  
And nicely viewed the people's Crimes;  
That with Judicious Care, and clearest sense,  
He so might Act the business of his Prince,  
And calm his doubts and fears with true Intelligence.  
Lycurgus' next the Land from Traitors frees,  
Fixed to the Royal Cause through all degrees,  
His heart undaunted without fear or slaw,  
Guarded by reason, Loyalty and Law,  
Inspires him to defend the King's Prerogative,  
As well as if learned jenkin's were alive;  
Whose bold positions thundering from the Tower,  
Shook the hot Senate's Legislative power:  
The same Renown Lycurgus does possess,  
Whilst Plenteous blessings Crown his services;  
Caesar showered honours knowing he deserved:  
Highly rewarding him that highly served.  
Strange Revolution, whom the Crowed disgraced,  
To dignity is by their Monarch Raised;  
And now he sits Exalted high,  
Of awful Justice chief, to judge the Villainy  
Of Slaves that would have hanged or starved him and his Family.   

XVIII.  
At this the Satirist with sullen pride,  
Smiling as if he mocked himself, replied,  
Fond Youth, that think'st with thy weak fallacies,  
Thus to Delude my Eyes,  
And with thin Mists shade o'er the Age's vice:  
Think not, but I believe some few there are  
That Virtue do prefer  
Before the luscious Bait of Crimes irregular.  
Hell would be instant here on Earth,  
Were they all Fiends that are of Humane Birth:  
We do not in a direct Sodom live,  
Sure we may Cull out four or five,  
That for eternal Empire strive.  
Remember when the deluge overflowed  
At the Command of God,  
When Giants, Monsters, Satyrs, roamed abroad,  
And Lunatic as the crazed addle Brain  
Of our shame Conscientious Aldermen;  
When all the tribe, revelling in villainy  
Were drowned in the vast deeps Immensity,  
The Almighty found one virtuous Family:  
All were not kin to the Infernal brood,  
And in our Impious Age some few are good;  
But on the World's great Lottery cast thy Eyes,  
A thousand Blanks shall meet thee for one Prize;  
The general face of Nature is Impure,  
With an Infection spotted beyond Cure:  
Avarice, Rebellion, Lust, Ingratitude,  
Degenerate Monsters, thirsting after blood;  
Pride the vain Idol of the Court is made,  
And Love our darling Joy is grown a Trade;  
Beauty is sold as Merchandizing ware,  
At who gives most like horses in a Fair;  
Settlements, Jointures, Bargains are your task,  
Your merit is the last dull thing they ask.  
Parents of old Conscientiously did prove,  
In th' days of unsophisticated love,  
That Marriage was designed, and hearts were paired above:  
But modern Misers tear the trembling Strings,  
And from the heart, force out the lifeblood Springs;  
Their only question is, whether you know  
The Fool is rich, if he be so  
No matter whether hearts are paired or no:  
Thus not considering that a moderate State,  
When souls are joined the life makes fortunate▪  
Beyond large heaps of wealth with one not loved,  
Their stubborn wills are rashly moved  
To venture, and are cause of all the strife,  
Torments and plagues of such a marriage life:  
I grant a tender Virgin, Young, unskilled,  
Harmless as Infants, and as Turtles mild,  
By an immoderate passion, and ill fate,  
May be deceived by some abhorred Ingrate;  
She ought to think e'er she bestows her heart,  
And not with such a Gem, unless to merit part,  
For generous Love has no deluding Art;  
With honour, safety, peace, 'tis ever blest,  
Entrancing Pleasures and Eternal rest;  
And if she first her Servant's value proves,  
She's safe, for who could injure what he loves?  
Destruction lies in matches where the heart,  
Instead of being in all, is in no part:  
Examine the fair Bevy one by one,  
You'll find there four in six, that are undone;  
Their wretched State, and every plague besides,  
Springs from their sordid Parent's Avarice or Pride.   

XIX.  
Under this Curse the poor Selina fell;  
Selina loved by Phillemon so well,  
Each smile she gave, he did to heaven prefer,  
As if he had no other soul but her.  
And if the faithless tribe we might believe,  
When they their vows, tears, sighs and dearest favours give;  
If when they make a Solemn vow,  
Deep as damnation, we may think it true;  
She once indulged his flames, and loved him too,  
And with an equal Zeal her pangs expressed,  
But women's passions are too fierce to last;  
Each little blast of fortune turns and winds  
The roving fane of their Inconstant minds;  
Whilst from the Tables of their hearts is Rast  
A Passion they had sworn should ever last.  
Swift were the happy hours, and winged with Joy;  
No Cross of fortune did annoy  
The dear content, and bliss of Phillemon,  
Whilst his Selina's heart was all his own:  
When she his merit with discerning Eyes,  
Could cherish, and could prise;  
And if, (as none could ever perfect prove)  
He had some faults, could gild 'em over with Love:  
Her errors, though he clearly understood,  
He through the wrong end of the perspect viewed,  
Nourished her Wit, Applauded every Line,  
Her blotted Billets kissed, and called 'em fine;  
Nearest his heart, the speckled Snake he hung,  
Not thinking he should ever have been stung:  
But time the Tutor both to good and bad,  
In her frail soul quick Alteration made,  
And now weak senseless Scruples do molest  
Her trembling breast,  
And Idle scrutinies her peace molest:  
She loves, now hates, now blames herself and cries,  
Now binds her love by Oath, and straight that Oath denies,  
And is so stupid grown or so unwise,  
That she can kek at Love's least vanity,  
And yet can swallow down with ease a dreadful perjury.   

XX.  
Here had the Satirist scarce made an end,  
Deeply reflecting on his injured Friend,  
Who well deserved a better fate,  
If faithful Love could e'er be fortunate;  
When Error listing his dejected head,  
Blind with his gushing tears, thus said,  
Here let us swear by the Sun's dazzling Rays,  
The bright Celestial powers, that guide the nights and days,  
By the Omniscient Father, dreadful jove,  
And all th' eternal Parliament above,  
Never again t'incline our hearts to Love.  
Let the fair smiling mischiefs still plot on,  
Let sighing fools believe, and be undone.  
Far from the town in some sweet Covert, we  
Will live in peace, and bless our Liberty,  
Despise the vulgar, and the Apes of State,  
The sordid, Rich and Souless fortunate,  
And all that are not good as well as great.  
This said, the tother rising from his place,  
Sealed the dear motion with a close Embrace,  
And instantly proposed they might be gone,  
For now the scorching of the Southern Sun,  
Had driven the flocks to shades and Cooler Air;  
Thither our new created Friends repair,  
Amongst the bleating Herds on grassy beds they lay,  
Shunning all humane-kind, as worse beasts than they.   
The End of the satire.   

Books Printed for and Sold by joseph Hindmarsh, Bookseller to his Royal Highness.  
BVtler's Ghost, or, Hudibras; The fourth Part; With reflections upon these Times: 8o.  
Poems, and Translations; By the Author of the Satyrs upon the jesuits: 8o.  
Scandalum Magnatum, or, Potapski's Case; A satire, against Polish Oppression: 4o.