THE Progress of Honesty: Or, a VIEW OF A COURT AND CITY.  
A PINDARIC POEM.  
By T. D.  Altera jam teritur bellis Civilibus aetas: Suis & ipsa Roma viribus ruit. Horace. 
LONDON: Printed for joseph Hindmarsh at the Black Bull in Cornhill. 1681.   

The Progress of HONESTY: Or, a VIEW of COURT and CITY.  

I.  
ONE Summer's Evening when the wearied Sun  
Was hastening to go down,  
And dewy Thetis th' Ocean did inspire  
With gentle Calms to court his amorous fire,  
I left the busy Town  
To entertain my thoughts one hour alone,  
The winds to their deep Caverns did retreat,  
And only a cool Breeze  
Did softly kiss the Trees,  
To temper the past days unruly heat,  
A time it was when Nature seemed t' employ,  
Herself in general joy,  
And every thing was pleased in th' Water, Earth and Sky,  
The wanton Fishes danced within their Streams,  
The Beasts unyoked from Teams,  
Ran lowing to the distant Mead,  
To greet their much loved Mates to sport and feed,  
And on each lofty Tree or covert Bush,  
The Lark, the Linnet, Nightingale and Thrush,  
Did in their chirping language sing,  
Long lays of Love and of the smiling Spring,  
Of scattered grain near some rich Farmer's house  
And of their Misses vows,  
Of Snares and dangerous Limetwigs than began  
That oft their Friend's trapan,  
Here joint invectively they long divisions ran,  
And cursed th' unnatural Craft of silly, yet conceited Man.   

II.  
In the dark Centre of a lonely Grove,  
For Melancholy framed and Love,  
A Rock there stands that props th' adjacent hill  
Craggy and mossy made by unknown skill,  
Of wondrous height and magnitude,  
Impenetrable Stone and rude;  
From whose aspiring top a stream did pour  
Swift Cataracts, whose fall and dreadful roar  
Wonder and Terror bore.  
Here Nature th' Pageant Mansion to adorn,  
It's hollow Sides, had into Conduits worn;  
Whose depth and bottom none did ever see  
But only God and she.  
'Twas here her private Storehouse she did keep,  
Here mighty Treasures heap,  
Safe as in Neptune's Closet of the deep.  
I much delighted with the cool Recess  
Of this miraculous place,  
Laid myself down to rest and meditate  
Upon the Worlds and my uncertain state,  
And all the Prodigies of Fate.  
When a kind Echo near me drew,  
A Voice me thought I knew,  
And so it was, for when again it spoke,  
Looking toward the farthest side o'th' Rock,  
I saw two persons, th' one was sad and mute,  
Whilst t'other awfully held grave dispute;  
Whom when to view he did himself extend,  
I knew to be my good old Friend.   

III.  
A wondrous man born of Celestial Race,  
The Beams of Honour, Virtue, Grace,  
Shone in his comely reverend face,  
On which you might perceive  
Many a smarting Wound and Scar  
He for his King and Country had received  
In bloody Field and Loyal War:  
Reward for which he ne'er ignobly sought,  
But the Oblivion of his Merits thought  
His own misfortune, not his Prince's fault.  
About his Neck a Golden Medal hung,  
Which he achieved when young:  
A Caesar's figure there was coined, which he  
With his own hand had given, the badge of Loyalty:  
Yet ne'er could Fame his Constancy divide  
With an ungenerous Pride;  
His heart was humble, full of Modesty  
As Virgin Infancy;  
Plain were his thoughts, ne'er taught the tedious Rules  
By Pedant Fools  
Of humming Colleges or buzzing Schools:  
And yet by th' vigour of his Wit could reach  
The depth of Nature's Mysteries, and preach  
All the Morals wise Philosophy could teach.  
None sure was ere renowned as he,  
Religious, good, of heavenly pedigree,  
Adored by all the virtuous world, his name was Honesty.   

IV.  
The other was his Son, 'twas strange to see  
Such bitter fruit spring from so good a Tree▪  
Vicious and vain he was, a wanton Youth  
That wandered from the Truth,  
Treading in slippery paths, rash Error was his Name,  
Never the heir to his great Father's fame,  
But of his Mother frailties shame.  
His Eyes the flaming Tapers of reproach  
Kindled at some late deboach,  
Looked glowing red, and on his flesh were seen  
Some marks of wounds, but not such as had been  
The scars of honour, but of infamy,  
The Effects of Wine, Night Brawls, Temerity▪  
When for suburban Jilt he fought, and she  
Most impudently swore,  
He solely enjoyed the Indies that she bore,  
Yet the salacious Whore  
Was at that hour engaged to fifty more.  
His Pockets swelled with Challenges and News,  
Lascivious Pamplets, Billet Deuxes,  
And Tickets from the Beldame of the Stews.  
Deaf to reproof he was, and hugged his Crimes,  
A modish Fop, a Creature of the times;  
One that could flatter every Golden Clod,  
And call my Spindle Lord, that made him drunk, his God,  
Adore the reverend wrinkled Lady Acquaint,  
And swear she's more celestial than a Saint;  
Protest not Venus Doves had been  
White as her Faces skin,  
Though he could see no part of it for Paint:  
Stubborn as Eli's Sons, or Iacob's envious brood,  
Stranger to wise men, and a foe to good,  
And most ungrateful loved his Father less  
Because he did his Crimes express,  
And held the Mirror up to show his wickedness.  
But as the Eternal does his mercies show,  
And grant Remission below  
To Mortals that rebellious grow.  
Thus proving divine Mystery,  
And that to live from passions free  
Is only th' Province of the Deity.  
So the reverend Sire; after a stream had run  
From his Eyes aged fountains, thus begun  
To pity and instruct his just precipitating Son.   

V.  
Where wilt thou fall, ah, why thyself destroy?  
Rash heedless Boy,  
Why dost thou snatch at a deluding bait  
That hooks thee to thy fate?  
O thou unfortunate!  
Look here and borrow thy old Father's eye,  
Look well, and through this Perspect shalt thou spy  
The World dressed in her vanity.  
See here Ambition plotting how to climb  
Up to a seat sublime,  
And now aloud resounds his fame,  
Now like a Meteor does he flame,  
Whilst all the air is filled with echoes of his name:  
But see, the wheel of chance is turned,  
And what was so admired is scorned,  
The Blazing Comet shines not, that before  
Enlightened the Horizon o'er,  
The Exhalation's spent and seen no more.  
See there where Faction with his hundred hands,  
And Treasons numerous as sands,  
Impious though Old stands preaching in a Tree,  
Stirring the long Eared rout to mutiny;  
From infancy a Traitor known,  
One that would fight for Conscience, but had none;  
Hark how the Mobile shout, that echoing peal  
Portends the downfall of some Common-Weal:  
Some Monarch now  
To th' force must bow,  
Of brutish Ignorance, pretended Zeal.  
Next turn thy eye, and view Religion's state,  
And there perhaps thou'lt find too late,  
The canting Parasite gilded Fortune serves,  
Whilst the truly Pious starves:  
'Tis the sly, fleer, and supple knee unties  
The Purse of gouty Avarice;  
And we may boldly now declare,  
The Clergy thrive by Flattery more than Prayer:  
See how that reverend Doctor vails his Cap  
To you profane Court Ape;  
Sure he has some suit to beg,  
That thus he sneaks and scrapes a Leg,  
Whilst t'other proudly keeps him bare: Thus we may see  
Learning's the footstool of Court-vanity.   

VI  
See next where Beauty comes, Parent of darling Sin,  
That charming Daemon of the skin,  
That Victor that great Monarches rules,  
That Paradise of loving fools,  
That gets more Souls  
Than Heaven and all the Miracles within;  
That Soul of Joy, that Tyrant o'er the blood,  
That blessing, yet a curse; though heavenly, yet not good;  
That potent power that with resistless Art,  
Reigns all in all and all in every part.  
O how she shines and does her Nets prepare,  
Look how they crowd into her snare,  
And think eternal Bliss is there;  
Till Sickness shades the glaring light,  
Than what they once thought bright  
Appears a horrid Spectre hideous to the sight.  
But these remarks, fond Boy, are few,  
Search Nature through,  
And thou shalt find a thousand new:  
A strange vicissitude of things,  
From Peasants even to Kings.  
Then patient Merit shalt thou find ill used,  
Virtue and Wit by Ignorance abused,  
Knowledge low as the Grave dejected lies,  
Whilst in all places Vice doth only rise.  
In th' Country, City, Court, new Crimes we see,  
A most unnatural change in each degree,  
And nothing scorned or slighted more than Honesty.   

VII.  
Thus spoke the good Old Man with modest grace,  
And here a second shower apace,  
Fell on his Beard like Gems, and decked his reverend Face.  
But Error who had with much impatience sat,  
And heard his Father moral Truths relate,  
Like Libertines within a Temple shut,  
Who having no way to get out,  
Are forced a while to be devout;  
With an unwilling mind obeyed:  
Till stung with rage to hear the Court reproved,  
The Court he so much loved;  
Raising his drowsy head this answer made,  
To th' aged, Sir, that pleasures reap in vain,  
All pleasure seems a pain;  
The choicest Banquet is but made a waste,  
To one that has no taste.  
And therefore you whose insipid Palat's down,  
Past help of all th' Physicians in the Town,  
Failing to relish, rail at th' Courtly treat,  
On which with joy and greediness we eat;  
Because your Stomach cannot be preserved,  
You wish all others starved:  
So th' withered Beldame youthful once and gay,  
That in December now reflects on her past May,  
Missing with grief th' effects of Love,  
She formerly could prove,  
Grows mad, and with true Woman's malice stung,  
Hates all her Sex, and wishes damned the Beautiful and Young.  
Wretched is he, replied the Sire, that tries  
To make a senseless Idiot good or wise,  
He cultivates with endless toil,  
A barren, rocky, and unfruitful Soil,  
Where Thistles only grow, and not one valued Grain can rise.  
Think not, rash Fool, that I the Court deprave,  
'Cause I no favour have:  
Honesty in itself's rewarded more,  
And is like Charity to the Poor,  
Repaid from the eternal Store.  
I only for thy sake  
Did some Reflections make,  
To teach thee how the Virtuous to prefer,  
Before the Rich, the Lewd, or Popular.  
The Court's a spacious Garden and it breeds  
Both fragrant Flowers and noisome Weeds,  
Hemlock and Jessamine flourish and sprout forth,  
As if of equal worth;  
Which to distinguish is well worth thy care:  
And that my fame thou mayst no more abuse,  
By pleading ignorance for excuse;  
In silence give attentive ear,  
And I'll describe both good and bad in each true character.   

VIII.  
Titus the Second reigns, he whose celestial mind  
Styles him the joy of human kind,  
So good, that if 'twere possible there could be  
Another Heavenborn God and Man  
Since our great Saviour's Reign,  
By the bright Host above, I'd swear 'tis he:  
In every Kingly Grace he does abound,  
For Wisdom loved, for Clemency renowned,  
And in each Art the Learned ere desired,  
Most skilful and admired:  
What mystic Knowledge human Nature blest,  
That dwells not in his Breast?  
What Virtue ere did Heaven to man impart,  
That centres not within his Royal Heart?  
Or what inspiring Rhetoric did belong  
To th' wise old Poet's Song,  
That flows not now from his Oraculous Tongue:  
Look in his face, and Heaven has portrayed there  
The Grandeur that true Majesty should wear;  
Awful his brow, and terrible his frown,  
On such as dim the Lustre of his Crown;  
Yet may the Loyal in each Feature see  
Such marks of Godlike Clemency,  
That whilst they tremble they're delighted too,  
And with a silent veneration view:  
He loves his People, and their Faith defends,  
The best of Masters, and the best of Friends,  
Patient though wronged, never to passion driven,  
Just as his Laws, and merciful as Heaven,  
His Heart is humble though his Throne is high,  
So constant that Hell's worst Plots he dares defy,  
And smile at trembling Traitors that stand by:  
Who ere but he a just Revenge could quell,  
When his great Father fell?  
Who could forgive the impious Mobile,  
But only he  
That has more heavenly Pity than Mortality:  
Yet still the barbarous Rebels him infest,  
Still they his loved and dear-bought Peace molest,  
And murmur at his Reign though in it blest,  
Like Brutes they feed upon the fat o'th' Land,  
In Peace they live, and Nature Stores command,  
Yet use his Bounty to no other end  
But to have power to offend;  
Whilst Mercy sways, these Saints a War maintain,  
They're never quiet, but when Tyrants reign▪  
And as a stubborn Child that oft has proved,  
His Mother's fond Indulgency and Love,  
Vexed at some trifle, stamps, lies down and cries,  
Blubbers and swells, and her command denies,  
Until at last she out of patience grows,  
And quells the little Rebel with pathetic blows:  
So th' Factious never true Allegiance wore,  
Till conquered and kept poor.  
For as a famous Bard did sing of Yore▪  
Nothing Rebellion plants in English Blood,  
But too much Plenty and a Prince too good.  
But ah! no more, fond Muse, no more▪  
He needs not thy poor Praise, therefore give o'er:  
He like the Sun shines every where so bright,  
There can be no additional light,  
No more than thou canst see  
With Mortal Eyes Celestial Mystery;  
Or with a Plummet sound endless Eternity.   

IX.  
Next Resolution comes, the Great, the Good,  
Allied to him in Virtues as in Blood,  
A Hero for his Constancy renowned,  
And in Mysterious Politics profound;  
Positive fixed and settled to his Will,  
And dares do any thing but Ill,  
Revenge his wrongs though they like Hydra's grow,  
A faithful Friend but a most dreadful Foe,  
Bravest in danger, valiant but not rash:  
For when the Belgian Streamers braved the British Cross,  
Then on the bloody Deck he seemed to grow,  
Whilst Fate affrighted aimed the Shot too low,  
Awed with the Terror of his dauntless Brow▪  
A Loyal Prince and Wise, secure of Fate,  
Of Honour nice, in every Action great,  
Not fond of Sway, but if by right his own;  
In his Life's Scale he weighs a Throne.  
His haughty Soul ne'er understood  
To humour the Mechanic Brood.  
The People like rough Waters are to him,  
On which he swims against the Stream,  
Nor fears the danger of the wildest storm;  
His courage and his Fate contemns all harm.  
In his Religion firm, but not precise,  
Admires the Counsel of the Wise,  
But cares not to be Catechised,  
Or new untrodden paths be shown,  
As if the way to Heaven he had not known,  
Or that his Soul were not his own;  
His Conscience will be guided by his sense,  
Not by the vulgar's impudence.  
So th' Roman Heroes rather chose to die  
By their own noble hands than by an Enemy.   

X.  
Deep in a hollow, dark and dreadful Cave,  
Black and gloomy as the Grave,  
That never saw a lucid Ray  
Of the Sun's face, nor cheerful day,  
But shaded o'er with baleful Ivy seemed  
The Cottage of some melancholy Fiend;  
On whose top ever sat the ghastly Owl,  
Shrieking her baleful note and horrid howl,  
Far from the pleasing chirp of other fowl;  
Old Discord did with palefaced Treason dwell,  
Near neighbours and much nearer friends to hell;  
There in a Grott where never leaf was seen,  
Nor any thing that's green,  
But stumps of rotten Trees and Thorns that long had blasted been;  
Treason in darkness lay, his Lodging furnished was,  
With Poniards, Pistols, Daggers, many a Glass  
With mortal liquid substance filled,  
That Loyalty had often killed,  
When ne'er a Sword could do't in Honour's field.  
Discords Apartment different was seen,  
He had a Lawyer been;  
One that if Fee were large could loudly bawl;  
But had a Cough o'th' Lungs if small;  
And never cared who lost so he might win:  
His Shelves were crammed with Processes and Writs,  
That dulled poor Clients wits;  
Long Rolls of Parchment, Bonds, Citations, Wills,  
Fines, Executions, Errors, and eternal Chancery Bills:  
This blessed Pair thought this obscure retreat  
A place most for their purpose fit  
To forge their villainies, and exclaim  
On Resolution's Name,  
And blast his spreading Fame  
Which to perform, and safe to stem this Stream,  
They make Religion the Theme,  
The Rabbles bugbear and the Courtier's dream,  
And only th' Wise Man's shining beam:  
Religion, ever made the grave disguise  
Of horrid Villainies.  
And now the News does various thoughts inspire,  
Now, now the Train has taken fire,  
And strait 'tis buzzed about the Town,  
Religion's raced, the Charter, King and Crown  
In danger: This the Vulgar swallow down,  
Then rail at Resolution, and find flaws  
Even in his Title, swear the Good Old Cause  
Is lost, and broke are all the Canon Laws.   

XI.  
In this impetuous Torrent of the State,  
Young Marcian rises, famed of late  
For Conduct, Courage, and Advantages of Fate,  
Mighty in Office, Public in Report,  
Powerful in th' Army, and Beloved at Court,  
Born on the People's Shoulders with such Pride,  
As Indian Kings on conquered Princes ride;  
Heaven marked him for uncommon Dignity,  
None Favoured more, nor none more Great than he,  
Till Hell's cursed Agents caused his Sense to stray,  
Out of his onceloved Path, his Loyal Way,  
And counselled him to disobey;  
Friendly to his Destructien him advise,  
That on his Ruin they might rise;  
And more the weakness of his Youth to try,  
And swell his Illegitimate Ambition high,  
With hopes to gain a Crown,  
Which they (by right) knew ne'er could be his own.  
Two wretched Sons of Belial rose  
Unhappy Resolution to oppose,  
And swore for Marcian much, but more for clothes;  
Their deep mouthed Oaths to th' lofty Skies were sent  
That there would be a Change in Government,  
A Massacre, and Princes were to die,  
The Lord knows when, or how, or why,  
Yet some affirm it truth, and some a lie;  
Strong Proofs were made, and the Law was satisfied,  
And being justly tried,  
Fate turned his mortal point, and the shorn Elders died;  
But all so constant, and with such humility,  
That even I impartial Honesty  
Offered some pitying Tears, the effects of human Charity.  
A Crown which with magnetic influence draws  
The Souls of great ones to its charming Laws,  
Tempts fathomed Marcian to espouse the Cause  
In show at least, then for his sake  
The shouting Rabble mighty Bonfires make,  
The blazing Faggots did each Street adorn,  
As if he did from Victory return;  
Unhappy Flames which since he finds to true,  
Singed both his Grandeur and Discretion too:  
But when their Prince the rightful heir of Fame,  
To prove his Innocence from Exile came,  
No Arches were adorned, no Triumphs made,  
He Gorgon like made the wild herd afraid,  
No joyful Shouts, or welcome Bells,  
Nor Lights set out, but all like Snails  
Shrunk their Fanatic Horns into their Shells.   

XII.  
T' encourage all a Nobleman appears,  
For Wit and Valour famous many years,  
And choosing Knights o'th' Shires;  
A Poet, Soldier, Lover, all that can  
Make up an extraordinary man;  
In whom his Enemies most own  
Perfection in excess, external shown,  
But in his Intellect unknown;  
Sometimes for th' King, then for the Mobile:  
But what is Wit if it want Loyalty?  
A witty Rebel is no more  
Than like a handsome public Whore,  
Infamous and contemned by th' wise and good,  
And only useful to the lewd:  
Yet if we ere could judge of hearts  
By knowledge or by parts,  
We our Parmenio should prefer,  
Equally brave with his great Ancestor;  
For if Rebellion buds, where grows such sense?  
The Devil converted preaches Abstinence.  
In his right hand a Peer he led,  
Of whose worth more hereafter shall be said;  
With a young Baron filled, just fledged i'th' Laws,  
And newly then corrupted to the Cause,  
Ushered by bold Sir Tophas: and in tother,  
A lean warped canting Linsey-Woolsey Brother.  
Next a fat Author wadled into view,  
For satire famous and Sedition too,  
A Gog and Magog in each outward part,  
But th' least of Pigmies in his sense and art;  
Distracted Nature swore there was no kin  
'Twixt his external gifts and those within,  
His Soul just dwindled to a voice,  
Rails at her thoughtless choice,  
And th' Body sweeting out its wrongs,  
Coughs answers from distempered Lungs,  
Tells th' invisible Fantome that  
'Twas her lean quality made him so fat;  
Useless in all, unfit to think  
Or do, but only sleep and drink,  
And forced in this great dearth of sense,  
T'have refuge only from his impudence,  
To side with the Factions that would Monarches rule,  
And grow a positive busy prating fool.  
There are a sort of men a mongrel race,  
That Loyalty like Coin deface,  
And think that kind of Honesty is best,  
That suits most with their carnal interest,  
That loves their Prince only by fits,  
Just as the humour or their business hits,  
And ne'er will his Prerogative maintain,  
But when they're charmed with hopes of gain,  
Or from his power expect  
Something they could not else effect,  
A suit against himself their votes pursue,  
For that they'll wheedle, fawn and woe,  
Yet swear they're loyal all and true:  
So th' Citizen that his Soul has pliant made,  
And bound his Conscience Apprentice to his Trade;  
The person ever does most kindly treat  
That he designs to cheat.   

XIII.  
The honest Wretch that Virtue does adore  
Is certain to be poor:  
The garment cannot this nice age adorn,  
'Tis out of mode, not decent to be worn;  
A rugged Maxim which we treat,  
As a Theme useless grown, and obsolete,  
Whilst other Tenets th' erring Court does guide,  
Flattery, Folly, Pride,  
Lust and a thousand crimes beside:  
Who'd think man had a share of heavenly Grace,  
That saw grave Mosca flatter for a Place?  
Or know a reverend Judge in th' Law profound,  
Sell an Offender's life for fifty pound?  
Or see a modest Scholar cringe t' a Lord,  
That swelled with Land and Nonsense scorns t' afford  
The humble Prostitute a word?  
Why should stiff Balbus that through th' gazing rout  
In triumph rides, scorn his wise friend on foot?  
Who though he lowly bows with humble grace,  
The purblind Puppet never turns his face,  
Nor answers the salute again,  
His Crevat string both sides has wedged his Chin:  
But 'tis not State, nor Gold, nor gay Attire,  
Can the learned Soul with vanity inspire;  
The Book and Sense he understands,  
Makes him more rich than ' tother's Lands;  
He knows though white and soft appears the skin,  
A rotten carcase may be hid within:  
Though clogged with Laqueys the gilt Coach does roll▪  
The wallowing Spark within may be an Owl:  
Though Vesta scour with Coach and Six abroad;  
She's in her warm Apartment known a Bawd;  
Who thriving on the sins o'th' Nation,  
Each minutes damns herself in her Vocation.  
Then if this knowledge we repeat,  
And view the chances of unconstant fate,  
Who would be fond of being great?  
Who would on favour ere depend,  
When there is no such thing as friend,  
No constant love, no grateful action due,  
No man that's profit proof, nor woman true:  
Your friend if wanted shall soon weary prove▪  
Your Mistress haunted shall desert your love:  
Nay, yourself against your better self shall hold,  
And th' vices of your Body damn your Soul▪  
Yet hold, Satiric Muse, pull in thy rain,  
And thy wild reasons sentiments restrain.  
Though Vice around the Court like lightning rove,  
It cannot sure blast all the Grove.  
Old loyal Clitus is in fame sublime,  
He threescore years has faced the storms of time,  
Untainted of the least ungenerous crime;  
And though his fortune some moist heads decry,  
None touch his Courage or his Loyalty:  
His part was Valour, Valour the Soldier's bliss,  
Success was heaven's Prerogative, not his.  
With him brave Cleon joins, the good▪ the sage,  
Wise even in youth, and beautiful in age;  
A man graced with his prudent Monarch's trust,  
The truest sign of being just:  
The Irish Confines loudly can proclaim  
His Virtue and his Fame:  
He's brave as Honour's self, does Merit nobly prize,  
Valiant like Hector, like Ulysses wise.  
There's honest Memnon too, and Battus learned by fits,  
And good Maecenas Patron of the Wits,  
With some few more which I omit.  
For now my Muse grows weary of her Theme,  
This Courtly gay fantastic Dream;  
And to the City steers,  
The famed Metropolis of factious doubts and fears;  
There she a while lies down,  
As tired Armies rest ere they attack a Town.   

XIV.  
Amongst the Grandees gifted to rebel,  
That this vast buzzing Hive with Faction swell,  
There's one whose Character is hard to tell;  
An old Quack Statesman that had rather die  
Than lose a grain of Popularity,  
Or be accounted Loyal on condition  
To be thought less a Politician:  
Some call him Hophni, some Achitophel,  
Others chief Advocate for Hell,  
Some cry he sure a second janus is,  
And all things past and future sees,  
Another rapt with satire swears his eyes  
Upon himself are spies,  
And slily do their Optics inward roll,  
To watch the subtle motions of his Soul,  
That they with sharp perspective sight,  
And help of Intellectual light,  
May guide the Helm o'th' State aright,  
Nay view what will hereafter be  
By their allseeing quality.  
The erring Ancients much did Argus' prize,  
That Royal Centinel for's hundred eyes:  
If him they so admired, what would they do,  
If they our passive Hero knew,  
That sees a hundred ways with two;  
His Body once so active known,  
Is with Diseases cramped and useless grown;  
His Conscience long imprisoned with his Gout,  
Now cares not to get out,  
Lest losing the Retreat which here she gained,  
She no where should be entertained:  
His Bone's his Weatherglass, and his Back  
Is his perpetual Almanac,  
By which he knows ere 'tis too late  
Both Change of Wether and the State;  
His subtlety so nice his Brethren find,  
He jealous grows of all Mankind,  
Much doubts himself, but more those men  
That he but newly has drawn in,  
And therefore strange conclusions tries,  
And to be thought extremely wise,  
Leaves them to act, himself t'advise.  
Thus as some Trumpeter to Battle drawn,  
Fights not himself, but still sets others on;  
He ne'er himself would th' danger meet,  
But employed those that had least Wit;  
And as some Grandees of late times have done,  
Made their Rebellion hide his own.  
There nothing can so great a Bugbear be  
To's speculative sense as Monarchy;  
He hates to hear the name of King,  
And wishes there were no such thing:  
And as a skilful Rider oft is forced,  
(That sees his Enemy much better horsed)  
To thrust him from his seat, and so  
Get ground of his well mounted Foe;  
So he true Jockey of the State;  
That at his Post ne'er came too late,  
Dismounts all his Antagonists beside,  
That he himself might only ride.  
Ambition in his Face does plain appear  
Through its thin Veil, a sly Fanatic fleer,  
And you without a Perspective may see  
Pride, in each Feature of Humility:  
State-Gamester like he th' Nation nicks,  
And Meekness is his best of Politics;  
So the unfathomed Flood does smile and sooth,  
No danger threatens, all is calm and smooth,  
Tempting th' unwary Traveller to wade in,  
Who then too late finds no way out again;  
'Tis deep as Hell, and no redress is found,  
But the unhappy Wretch must sink and drown.   

XV.  
To match this Rabbi there is one,  
Not equalled but by him in all the Town,  
The City's Mouth by which she tells  
Her Fears, her Prophecies, and Oracles;  
A man whom zealous Numbers join  
T' enrich with their own darling Coin,  
And as Venetians deal with jews,  
Commit it carefully to use,  
Not that they do impose this trust,  
Encouraged by his fame of being just;  
For he this thriving Maxim has professed,  
That th' Conscience of the Wise is interest;  
But that in proper time a Bank might swell,  
To bribe dissenting Brethren to rebel:  
He's one that still with Beauty keeps a League,  
And his past Life was famous for Intrigue,  
He haunted Brothels and grew lewd,  
The better to distinguish good,  
With hoary Bawds kept formal Interest,  
To sift into the Nature of the Beast;  
And as some Parents fond use  
To send their Children to the Stews,  
Urge 'em to Wenches, Wine and Dice,  
That they the sooner may grow wise,  
And see the vanity of Vice;  
So he for many years did bend his will  
To know the Quintessence of ill;  
In wild Night Frolicks spent a fair Estate,  
And with each Suburb Jilt grew intimate,  
For Moral Virtues sake, as some agree,  
But others bluntly swear 'twas Lechery,  
An itching Daemon which long since did dwell  
In his hot Veins, but now transformed to Zeal,  
Zeal that inspires him to debate  
The People's Doubts, and Errors of the State,  
And makes him in the Public Hall  
Echoing with Noise and Nonsense loudly bawl.  
There is a time by custom counted fit,  
When numerous crowds in consultation meet,  
To pry into the State's condition,  
And severally play the Politician;  
By force then proud Green Apron Tyrant's sway,  
And Legislative Orders bluntly disobey;  
Not force of Arms, for few need fear  
They so courageous will appear,  
But powerful vote, ear deafening voice,  
And indefatigable noise:  
Two Tribunes for the People then are chose,  
Bulwarks against foreign and domestic foes;  
And those in the Election soon thrive  
That dare entrench upon Prerogative,  
And raise rebellious Tenets high,  
Upon the neck of Loyalty:  
But that such Villainy should dwell  
In purblind Zeal,  
To place in Office of such weighty trust  
A Rebel amongst all his Tribe the worst,  
Is the severest Instance that we lie  
Slaves to the Yoke of impudent Presbytery.   

XVI.  
Ungrateful Vulgar, had you none to choose,  
But one that all Obedience did refuse?  
Could you with no less Fiend begin,  
But Lucifer himself must be drawn in?  
Of zealous Rabbis still you had enough,  
Prophets for Oath, Bravoes for Proof,  
Could not this serve, but you must fall  
More low, and into Office call  
A factious Fury worse than all?  
Like th' stubborn Israelites of old you move,  
And their Enthusiastic Whimsies prove,  
Ashteroth and Moloch, Idols famous known,  
Goggle Eyed Baal, Gawdy Accaron  
They left, nor longer in their errors trod,  
The Calf of B— was the darling God;  
That only was designed  
To be adored by Calves of worse kind.  
The bellowing many headed Beast,  
That groaned as if by Tyranny oppressed,  
Yet were themselves the cause of their unrest:  
But now we talk of causes and of fears  
Observe who next appears,  
And see to the great Mart Villanios come,  
That Plots abroad, and Pimps at home;  
That to be Tribune racked his haggard Wit,  
But wiser Judgements voted him more fit  
To be a Scavenger and cleanse the Street,  
Swore he was better skilled by approbation  
To purge a Nuisance than a Nation;  
Which injury so near to his heart did grow,  
That he resentment of the wrong to show,  
Immured himself three days in Bales of calico;  
There resolutely took the sullen pains  
To shroud his popular projecting brains:  
A mighty loss this to the Tribe did seem,  
For now no more advice was given by him,  
Let th' tottering Nation sink or swim.  
Until as peevish Lovers woe,  
That rail, and swear each others hatred true,  
At last forget their Oaths and think't no sin  
To kiss the Perjury off and love again.  
So he, though when enraged an Oath had made,  
And solemnly forsworn the Canting Trade;  
Yet such a natural Itch he to Rebellion had,  
That willingly all wrongs he could forget,  
To Club again and plague the State.   

XVII.  
Happy the Man, my Son, whose honest heart  
Disloyalty could ne'er subvert,  
That like a Diamond keeps its constant trust,  
As that its beauty free from rust,  
Which nothing can destroy but its own dust;  
Cherishing noble Loyalty,  
Till Fate unclews Mortality,  
And sends him crowned with Virtue to find room  
Amongst famed Heroes in some honoured Tomb;  
There th' Body sleeps, but th' royal Mind  
Within Fame's brightest Altars is enshrined,  
Sublime as heaven, and shall be  
Eternised in posterity,  
And as a Phoenix in th' Arabian Groves,  
Whose pangs of age kind death removes,  
Breeds from the ashes of her spicy Urn,  
(The Cedar's top where she did burn)  
Another offspring that will be  
Far more admired than she.  
So he that Loyalty does prize,  
Loyalty the noblest Virtue of the Wise,  
With honoured praise is ever stored,  
Alive renowned, when dead adored,  
Loved by the pious and the brave,  
And shall, like sacred Virgil, have  
Eternal Laurels grow around his Grave.  
Whilst Faction that lean withered hag,  
That can of nothing but her Treason brag,  
With Infamy is spotted like the Plague.  
Do but that Nation's misery survey  
That glories in her will to disobey;  
Observe the fate of that most wretched thing  
That for his interest abjures his King;  
And with an unrelenting eye,  
Thou'lt see the one with fears distracted lie,  
The other infamously die.  
Wouldst thou live well, my Son, and free from ill,  
Still let thy Conscience sway thy Will.  
Let that and Reason still control,  
And guide th' inconstant Orders of thy Soul;  
Wild Passion, let Religion rule,  
And look upon an Atheist as a Fool:  
He that a Deity denies,  
As some sly Devil in disguise,  
That with his hellish Tenets would deceive  
Weak credulous fools that can believe.  
Look on thy Country's grievance like a friend,  
And pity faults thou canst not mend;  
But seek not by unlawful course  
To launce its wounds and make 'em worse:  
Remember when Rebellion bloody grew,  
The Rebels with the State were ruined too.  
To generous ends bestow thy wealth,  
Be temperate for th' sake of health;  
And if amongst life's chances thou dost prove  
Ever so mad to fall in love,  
To thy charmed Senses aid thy Reason call,  
Or Beauty will confound 'em all:  
For as a Poet, whose free Fancy roves  
In sacred Rapture to Elysian Groves,  
Imagines flowery beds and hills of joy,  
Where naked Angels sleeping lie,  
Builds golden Palaces with Crystal Pillars graced,  
And Diamond Doors on golden Hinges placed,  
Creates embroidered Grotts where Cupid's dwell,  
Adorned with luscious Fruit and Flowers of Sense-delighting smell:  
And though he knows himself did this create,  
He's fond as if 'twere true, and loves the dear conceit:  
Such beauteous Woman is, such fancied still,  
Her Smiles can save, her frowns can kill,  
Her person such Divinity does wear,  
That taste and smell and all perfection's there.  
Extatick Rapture transport all  
That we Elysium can call:  
If then in this soft snare,  
Her blooming Cheek, her Eye, or Hair,  
Thy heart her prisoner she retains,  
And thou want'st power to break the chains;  
To the great God o'th' Grape thyself assign,  
And there's a sovereign power in Wine,  
Shall give thee instant liberty,  
From all her Charms and she,  
And in a moment make thee free,  
As frozen Age, or as unfeeling Infancy.   

Here stopped the reverend Moralist, whose look  
Sufficiently confirmed the Truths he spoke:  
Joyful he was to see his words had won  
Resentment in his Son,  
Whose cloudy Aspect did declare  
Within his breast what passions were at war;  
He now on bended knee low as the earth,  
Begs pardon of the Author of his birth,  
For errors past, and vows to be  
Henceforth the Child of his Morality.  
With joyful look the Sire his Convert graced,  
Thrice blest the kneeling Youth, and thrice embraced,  
And as the Kingly Prophet once did Absalon,  
Forgave his sins of youth, caressed and brought him home.  
And now the glittering God of day  
Had through opposing Elements made way,  
In Neptune's deep Recess withdrew  
His Rays from mortal view;  
With borrowed Beams th' inconstant Moon  
Possessed his place, and counterfeits a Noon.  
Laborious Nature seemed at rest,  
And soft repose crowned Man and Beast,  
When to my peaceful Lodging I retired,  
Well pleased at what I heard, and Honesty admired.   
FINIS.   

Books printed for and sold by joseph Hindmarsh at the Black Bull in Cornhill.  
REliquiae Raleighanae, being Discourses and Sermons on several Subjects. By the Reverend Dr. Walter Raleigh, Dean of Wells, and Chaplain in Ordinary to his late Majesty King Charles the First.  
Sermons upon Faith and Providence, and other Subjects. By the late Reverend William Outram, D. D. Prebend of Westminster, and Chaplain in Ordinary to his Majesty.  
An impartial Account of the Arraignment; Trial and Condemnation of Thomas late Earl of Strafford, and Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, before the Parliament at Westminster, Anno Dom. 1641.  
The Loyal Citizen revived, a Speech made by Alderman Garroway, at a Common-Hall on Tuesday the 17▪ of january 1642. upon occasion of a Speeech delivered there the Friday before by Mr. Pym, at the Reading of his Majesty's Answer to the late Petition.  
The Good Old Way, or a Discourse offered to all true hearted Protestants concerning the Ancient Way of the Church, and the Conformity of the Church of England thereunto, as to its Government, Manner of Worship, Rites and Customs. By Edward Pelling, Rector of St. Martin Ludgate, and Chaplain to his Grace the Duke of Summerset.