THE Trueborn Englishman. A satire.  
Statuimus Pacem, & Securitatem, & Concordiam judicium & justitiam inter Anglos & Normannos, Francos & Britoneses, Walliae, & Cornubiae, Pictos & Scotos, Albaniae, similiter inter Francos & Insulanos Provincias, & Patrias, quae pertinent ad Coronam nostram, & inter omnes nobis Subjectos, firmiter & inviolabiliter observari.  Charta Regis Willielmi Conquisitoris de Pacis Publica, Cap. 1. 
Printed in the Year M D CC.   

The Preface.  
THE End of satire is Reformation: And the Author, though he doubts the Work of Conversion is at a general Stop, has put his Hand to the Blow.  
I expect a Storm of Ill Language from the Fury of the Town, and especially from those whose English Talon it is to Rail: And without being taken for a Conjurer, I may venture to foretell, That I shall be Caviled at about my Mean Style, Rough Verse, and Incorrect Language; Things I might indeed have taken more Care in. But the Book is Printed; and though I see some Faults, 'tis too late to mend them. And this is all I think needful to say to them.  
Possibly somebody may take me for a Dutchman; in which they are mistaken: But I am one that would be glad to see Englishmen behave themselves better to Strangers, and to Governors also; that one might not be reproached in Foreign Countries, for belonging to a Nation that wants Manners.  
I assure you, gentlemans, Strangers use us better abroad; and we can give no reason but our Ill Nature for the contrary here.  
Methinks an Englishman, who is so proud of being called A Goodfellow, should be civil: And it cannot be denied but we are in many Cases, and particularly to Strangers, the Churlishest People alive.  
As to Vices, who can dispute our Intemperance, while an Honest Drunken Fellow is a Character in a man's Praise? All our Reformations are Banters, and will be so, till our Magistrates and Gentry Reform themselves by way of Example; then, and not till then, they may be expected to punish others without blushing.  
As to our Ingratitude, I desire to be understood of that particular People, who pretending to be Protestants, have all along endeavoured to reduce the Liberties and Religion of this Nation into the Hands of King James and his Popish Powers: Together with such who enjoy the Peace and Protection of the present Government, and yet abuse and affront the King who procured it, and openly profess their Uneasiness under him: These, by whatsoever Names or Titles they are dignified or distinguished, are the People aimed at: Nor do I disown, but that it is so much the Temper of an Englishman to abuse his Benefactor, that I could be glad to see it rectified.  
They who think I have been guilty of any Error, in exposing the Crimes of my own Countrymen to themselves, may among many honest Instances of the like nature, find the same thing in Mr. Cow, in his Imitation of the second Olympic Ode of Pindar: His Words are these; 
But in this Thankless World, the Givers  
Are envied even by th' Receivers:  
'Tis now the Cheap and Frugal Fashion,  
Rather to hid than pay an Obligation.  
Nay, 'tis much worse than so;  
It now an Artifice doth grow,  
Wrongs and Outrages to do,  
Lest men should think we Owe.    

The Introduction.  

SPeak, satire; for there's none can tell like thee,  
Whether 'tis Folly, Pride, or Knavery,  
That makes this discontented Land appear  
Less happy now in Times of Peace, than War:  
Why Civil Feuds disturb the Nation more  
Than all our Bloody Wars have done before.   

Fools out of Favour grudge at Knaves in Place,  
And men are always honest in Disgrace:  
The Court-Preferments make men Knaves in course:  
But they which would be in them would be worse.  
'Tis not at Foreigners that we repine,  
Would Foreigners their Perquisites resign:  
The Grand Contention's plainly to be seen,  
To get some men put out, and some put in.  
For this our S—rs make long Harangues,  
And florid M—rs whet their polished Tongues.  
Statesmen are always sick of one Disease;  
And a good Pension gives them present Ease.  
That's the Specific makes them all content  
With any King, and any Government.  
Good Patriots at Court-Abuses rail,  
And all the Nation's Grievances bewail:  
But when the sovereign Balsam's once applied,  
The Zealot never fails to change his Side.  
And when he must the Golden Key resign,  
The Railing Spirit comes about again.   

Who shall this Bubbled Nation disabuse,  
While they their own Felicities refuse?  
Who at the Wars have made such mighty Pother,  
And now are falling out with one another:  
With needless Fears the Jealous Nation fill,  
And always have been saved against their Will:  
Who Fifty Millions Sterling have disbursed,  
To be with Peace and too much Plenty cursed.  
Who their Old Monarch eagerly undo,  
And yet uneasily obey the New.  
Search, satire, search, a deep Incision make;  
The poison's strong, the Antidote's too weak.  
'Tis pointed Truth must manage this Dispute,  
And downright English Englishmen confute.   

Whet thy just Anger at the Nation's Pride;  
And with keen Phrase repel the Vicious Tide.  
To Englishmen their own beginnings show,  
And ask them why they slight their Neighbours so.  
Go back to Elder Times, and Ages past,  
And Nations into long Oblivion cast;  
To Old Britannia's Youthful Days retire,  
And there for Trueborn Englishmen inquire.  
Britannia freely will disown the Name,  
And hardly knows herself from whence they came:  
Wonders that They of all men should pretend  
To Birth and Blood, and for a Name contend.  
Go back to Causes where our Follies dwell,  
And fetch the dark Original from Hell:  
Speak, satire, for there's none like thee can tell.    

THE Trueborn Englishman. PART I.  


* An English Proverb, Where God has a Church, the Devil has a Chapel.  Wherever God erects a House of Prayer,  
The Devil always builds a Chapel there:  
And 'twill be found upon Examination,  
The latter has the largest Congregation:  
For ever since he first debauched the Mind,  
He made a perfect Conquest of Mankind.  
With Uniformity of Service, he  
Reigns with a general Aristocracy.  
No Nonconforming Sects disturb his Reign,  
For of his Yoke there's very few complain.  
He knows the Genius and the Inclination,  
And matches proper Sins for every Nation.  
He needs no Standing-Army Government;  
He always rules us by our own Consent:  
His Laws are easy, and his gentle Sway  
Makes it exceeding pleasant to obey.  
The List of his Vicegerents and Commanders,  
Outdoes your Caesars, or your Alexanders.  
They never fail of his Infernal Aid,  
And he's as certain ne'er to be betrayed.  
Through all the World they spread his vast Command,  
And Death's Eternal Empire's maintained.  
They rule so politicly and so well,  
As if they were L— I— of Hell.  
Duly divided to debauch Mankind,  
And plant Infernal Dictates in his Mind.   

Pride, the First Peer, and Precedent of Hell,  
To his share Spain, the largest Province, fell.  
The subtle Prince thought fittest to bestow  
On these the Golden Mines of Mexico;  
With all the Silver Mountains of Peru;  
Wealth which would in wise hands the World undo:  
Because he knew their Genius was such;  
Too Lazy and too Haughty to be Rich.  
So proud a People, so above their Fate,  
That if reduced to beg, they'll beg in State.  
Lavish of Money, to be counted Brave,  
And Proudly starve, because they scorn to save.  
Never was Nation in the World before,  
So very Rich, and yet so very Poor.   

Lust chose the Torrid Zone of Italy,  
Where Blood ferments in Rapes and Sodomy:  
Where swelling Veins o'erflow with living Streams,  
With Heat impregnate from Vesuvian Flames:  
Whose flowing Sulphur forms Infernal Lakes,  
And human Body of the Soil partakes.  
There Nature ever burns with hot Desires,  
Fanned with Luxuriant Air from Subterranean Fires:  
Here undisturbed in Floods of scalding Lust,  
Th' Infernal King reigns with Infernal Gust.   

Drunk'ness, the Darling Favourite of Hell,  
Chose Germany to rule; and rules so well,  
No Subjects more obsequiously obey,  
None please so well, or are so pleased as they.  
The cunning Artist manages so well,  
He lets them Bow to Heaven, and Drink to Hell.  
If but to Wine and him they Homage pay,  
He cares not to what Deity they Pray,  
What God they worship most, or in what way.  
Whether by Luther, Calvin, or by Rome,  
They sail for Heaven, by Wine he steers them home.   

Ungovern'd Passion settled first in France,  
Where Mankind lives in haste, and thrives by Chance  
A Dancing Nation, Fickle and Untrue:  
Have oft undone themselves, and others too:  
Prompt the Infernal Dictates to obey,  
And in Hell's Favour none more great than they.   

The Pagan World he blindly leads away,  
And Personally rules with Arbitrary Sway:  
The Mask thrown off, Plain Devil his Title stands;  
And what elsewhere he Tempts, he there Commands.  
There with full Gust th' Ambition of his Mind  
Governs, as he of old in Heaven designed.  
Worshipped as God, his Painim Altars smoke,  
Embrued with Blood of those that him Invoke.   

The rest by Deputies he rules as well,  
And plants the distant Colonies of Hell.  
By them his secret Power he maintains,  
And binds the World in his Infernal Chains.   

By Zeal the Irish; and the Rush by Folly:  
Fury the Dane: The Swede by Melancholy:  
By stupid Ignorance, the Muscovite:  
The Chinese by a Child of Hell, called Wit:  
Wealth makes the Persian too Effeminate:  
And Poverty the Tartars Desperate:  
The Turks and Moors by Mah'met he subdues:  
And God has given him leave to rule the Jews:  
Rage rules the Portuguese; and Fraud the Scotch:  
Revenge the Pole; and Avarice the Dutch.   

satire be kind, and draw a silent Veil,  
Thy Native England's Vices to conceal:  
Or if that Task's impossible to do,  
At least be just, and show her Virtues too;  
Too Great the first, Alas! the last too Few.   

England unknown as yet, unpeopled lay;  
Happy, had she remained so to this day,  
And not to every Nation been a Prey.  
Her Open Harbours, and her Fertile Plains,  
The Merchant's Glory these, and those the Swains,  
To every Barbarous Nation have betrayed her,  
Who conquer her as oft as they Invade her.  
So Beauty guarded but by Innocence,  
That ruins her which should be her Defence.   

Ingratitude, a Devil of Black Renown,  
Possessed her very early for his own.  
An Ugly, Surly, Sullen, Selfish Spirit,  
Who Satan's worst Perfections does inherit:  
Second to him in Malice and in Force,  
All Devil without, and all within him Worse.   

He made her Firstborn Race to be so rude,  
And suffered her to be so oft subdued:  
By several Crowds of Wand'ring Thiefs o'errun,  
Often unpeopled, and as oft undone.  
While every Nation that her Powers reduced,  
Their Languages and Manners introduced.  
From whose mixed Relics our compounded Breed,  
By Spurious Generation does succeed;  
Making a Race uncertain and unev'n,  
Derived from all the Nations under Heaven.   

The Romans first with julius Caesar came,  
Including all the Nations of that Name,  
gaul's, Greeks, and Lombard's; and by Computation,  
Auxiliaries or Slaves of every Nation.  
With Hengist, Saxons; Danes with Sueno came,  
In search of Plunder, not in search of Fame.  
Scots, Picts, and Irish from th' Hibernian Shore.  
And Conquering William brought the Normans o'er.   

All these their Barbarous Offspring left behind,  
The Dregs of Armies, they of all Mankind;  
Blended with Britain's who before were here,  
Of whom the Welsh ha' blest the Character.   

From this Amphibious Ill-born Mob began  
That vain ill-natured thing, an Englishman.  
The Customs, Surnames, Languages, and Manners,  
Of all these Nations are their own Explainers:  
Whose Relics are so lasting and so strong,  
They ha' left a Shiboleth upon our Tongue;  
By which with easy search you may distinguish  
Your Roman-Saxon-Danish-Norman English.   

The great Invading 
* Wm the Conq.  Norman let us know  
What Conquerors in Aftertimes might do.  
To every 
* Or Archer.  Musqueteer he brought to Town,  
He gave the Lands which never were his own.  
When first the English Crown he did obtain,  
He did not send his Dutchmen home again.  
No Reassumptions in his Reign were known,  
D'avenant might there ha' let his Book alone.  
No Parliament his Army could disband;  
He raised no Money, for he paid in Land.  
He gave his Legions their Eternal Station,  
And made them all Freeholders of the Nation.  
He cantoned out the Country to his Men.  
And every Soldier was a Denizen.  
The Rascals thus enriched, he called them Lords,  
To please their Upstart Pride with new-made Words;  
And Doomsday-Book his Tyranny records.   

And here gins the Ancient Pedigree  
That so exalts our Poor Nobility:  
'Tis that from some French Trooper they derive,  
Who with the Norman Bastard did arrive:  
The Trophies of the Families appear;  
Some show the Sword, the Bow, and some the Spear,  
Which their Great Ancestor, forsooth, did wear.  
These in the Herald's Register remain,  
Their Noble Mean Extraction to explain.  
Yet who the Hero was, no man can tell,  
Whether a Drummer or a Colonel:  
The silent Record blushes to reveal  
Their Undeseended Dark Original.   

But grant the best, How came the Change to pass;  
A Trueborn Englishman of Norman Race?  
A Turkish Horse can show more History,  
To prove his Well-descended Family.  
Conquest, as by the 
* Dr. Sherl. De Facto.  Moderns 'tis expressed,  
May give a Title to the Lands possessed▪  
But that the Longest Sword should be so Civil,  
To make a Frenchman English, that's the Devil.   

These are the Heroes that despise the Dutch,  
And rail at new-come Foreigners so much;  
Forgetting that themselves are all derived  
From the most Scoundrel Race that ever lived.  
A horrid Medley of Thiefs and Drones,  
Who ransacked Kingdoms, and dispeopled Towns.  
The Pict and Painted Britain, Treacherous Scot,  
By Hunger, Theft, and Rapine, hither brought.  
Norwegian Pirates, Buccaneering Danes,  
Whose Redhaired Offspring every where remains.  
Who joined with Norman-French, compound the Breed  
From whence your Trueborn Englishmen proceed.   

And lest by Length of Time it be pretended,  
The Climate may this Modern Breed ha' mended,  
Wise Providence, to keep us where we are,  
Mixes us daily with exceeding Care:  
We have been Europe's Sink, the jakes where she  
Voids all her Offal Out-cast Progeny.  
From our Fifth Henry's time, the Strolling Bands  
Of banished Fugitives from Neighbouring Lands,  
Have here a certain Sanctuary found:  
The Eternal Refuge of the Vagabond.  
Where in but half a common Age of Time,  
Borr'wing new Blood and Manners from the Clime,  
Proudly they learn all Mankind to contemn,  
And all their Race are Trueborn Englishmen.   

Dutch, Walloons, Flemings, Irishmen, and Scots,  
Vaudois and Valtolins, and Hugonots,  
In good Queen Bess' Charitable Reign,  
Supplied us with Three hundred thousand Men.  
Religion, God we thank thee, sent them hither,  
Priests, Protestants, the Devil and all together:  
Of all Professions, and of every Trade,  
All that were persecuted or afraid;  
Whether for Debt or other Crimes they fled,  
David at Hackelah was still their Head.   

The Offspring of this Miscellaneous Crowd,  
Had not their new Plantations long enjoyed,  
But they grew Englishmen, and raised their Votes  
At Foreign Shoals of Interloping Scots.  
The 
* K. I. I.  Royal Branch from Pict-land did succeed,  
With Troops of Scots and Scabs from North-by-Tweed.  
The Seven first Years of his Pacifick Reign,  
Made him and half his Nation Englishmen.  
Scots from the Northern Frozen Banks of Tay,  
With Packs and Plods came Whigging all away:  
Thick as the Locusts which in Egypt swarmed,  
With Pride and hungry Hopes completely armed:  
With Native Truth, Diseases, and No Money,  
Plundered our Canaan of the Milk and Honey.  
Here they grew quickly Lords and Gentlemen,  
And all their Race are Trueborn Englishmen.   

The Civil Wars, the common Purgative,  
Which always use to make the Nation thrive,  
Made way for all that strolling Congregation,  
Which thronged in Pious Ch Ch—s's Restoration. 
K. c. II.   
The Royal Refugeé our Breed restores,  
With Foreign Courtiers, and with Foreign Whores:  
And carefully repeopled us again,  
Throughout his Lazy, Long, Lascivious Reign,  
With such a blessed and Trueborn English Fry,  
As much Illustrates our Nobility.  
A Gratitude which will so black appear,  
As future Ages must abhor to hear:  
When they look back on all that Crimson Flood,  
Which streamed in Lindsey's, and Caernarvon's Blood:  
Bold Strafford, Cambridge, Capel, Lucas, Lisle,  
Who crowned in Death his Father's Funeral Pile.  
The Loss of whom, in order to supply  
With Trueborn English Nobility,  
Six Bastard Dukes survive his Luscious Reign,  
The Labours of Italian C— n,  
French P—h, Tabby S— t, and Cambrian.  
Besides the numerous Bright and Virgin Throng,  
Whose Female Glories shade them from my Song.   

This Offspring, if one Age they multiply,  
May half the House with English Peers supply:  
There with true English Pride they may contemn  
S— g and P— d, new-made Nobleman.   

French Cooks, Scotch Pedlars, and Italian Whores,  
Were all made Lords, or Lords Progenitors.  
Beggars and Bastards by his new Creation,  
Much multiplied the Peerage of the Nation;  
Who will be all, ere one short Age runs o'er,  
As Trueborn Lords as those we had before.   

Then to recruit the Commons he prepares,  
And heal the latent Breaches of the Wars:  
The Pious Purpose better to advance,  
HE invites the banished Protestants of France:  
Hither for God's sake and their own they fled,  
Some for Religion came, and some for Bread:  
Two hundred thousand Pair of Wooden Shoes,  
Who, God be thanked, had nothing left to lose;  
To heavens great Praise did for Religion fly,  
To make us starve our Poor in Charity.  
In every Port they plant their fruitful Train,  
To get a Race of Trueborn Englishmen:  
Whose Children will, when riper Years they see,  
Be as Ill-natured and as Proud as we:  
Call themselves English, Foreigners despise,  
Be surly like us all, and just as wise.   

Thus from a Mixture of all Kind's begins,  
That Het'rogeneous Thing, An Englishman:  
In eager Rapes, and furious Lust begot,  
Betwixt a Painted Britton and a Scot:  
Whose gend'ring Offspring quickly learned to bow,  
And yoke their Heifers to the Roman Plough:  
From whence a Mongrel half-bred Race there came,  
With neither Name nor Nation, Speech or Fame.  
In whose hot Veins new Mixtures quickly ran,  
Infused betwixt a Saxon and a Dane.  
While their Rank Daughters, to their Parents just,  
Received all Nations with Promiscuous Lust.  
This Nauseous Brood directly did contain  
The well-extracted Blood of Englishmen.   

Which Medly cantoned in a Heptarchy,  
A Rhapsody of Nations to supply,  
Among themselves maintained eternal Wars,  
And still the Ladies loved the Conquerors.   

The Western Angles all the rest subdued;  
A bloody Nation, barbarous and rude:  
Who by the Tenure of the Sword possessed  
One part of Britain, and subdued the rest.  
And as great things denominate the small,  
The Conquering Part gave Title to the Whole.  
The Scot, Pict, Britain, Roman, Dane submit,  
And with the English-Saxon all unite:  
And these the Mixture have so close pursued,  
The very Name and Memory's subdued:  
No Roman now, no Britain does remain;  
Wales strove to separate, but strove in vain:  
The silent Nations undistinguished fall,  
And Englishman's the common Name for all.  
Fate jumbled them together, God knows how;  
whate'er they were, they're Trueborn English now.   

The Wonder which remains is at our Pride,  
To value that which all wise men deride.  
For Englishmen to boast of Generation,  
Cancels their Knowledge, and lampoons the Nation.  
A Trueborn Englishman's a Contradiction,  
In Speech an Irony, in Fact a Fiction.  
A Banter made to be a Test of Fools,  
Which those that use it justly ridicules.  
A Metaphor invented to express  
A man akin to all the Universe.   

For as the Scots, as Learned Men ha' said,  
Throughout the World their Wand'ring Seed ha' spread;  
So openhanded England, 'tis believed,  
Has all the Glean of the World received.   

Some think of England 'twas our Saviour meant,  
The Gospel should to all the World be sent:  
Since when the blessed Sound did hither reach,  
They to all Nations might be said to Preach.   

'Tis well that Virtue gives Nobility,  
Else God knows where we had our Gentry;  
Since scarce one Family is left alive,  
Which does not from some Foreigner derive.  
Of Sixty thousand English Gentlemen,  
Whose Names and Arms in Registers remain,  
We challenge all our Heralds to declare  
Ten Families which English-Saxons are.   

France justly boasts the Ancient Noble Line  
Of Bourbon, Mommorency, and Lorraine.  
The Germans too their House of Austria show,  
And Holland their Invincible Nassau.  
Lines which in Heraldry were Ancient grown,  
Before the Name of Englishman was known.  
Even Scotland too her Elder Glory shows,  
Her Gourdons, hamilton's, and her Monroes;  
Dowglas, Mackays, and graham's, Names well known,  
Long before Ancient England knew her own.   

But England, Modern to the last degree,  
Borrows or makes her own Nobility,  
And yet she boldly boasts of Pedigree:  
Repines that Foreigners are put upon her,  
And talks of her Antiquity and Honour:  
Her S—lls, S—ls, C—ls, De— M—rs,  
M—ns and M— ves, D—s and V—rs,  
Not one have English Names, yet all are English Peers.  
Your H—ns, P— llons, and L— liars,  
Pass now for Trueborn English Knights and Squires,  
And make good Senate-Members, or Lord-Mayors.  
Wealth, howsoever got, in England makes  
Lords of Mechanics, Gentlemen of Rakes.  
Antiquity and Birth are needless here;  
'Tis Impudence and Money makes a P— r.   

Innumerable City-Knights we know,  
From Blewcoat Hospitals and Bridewell flow.  
Draymen and Porters fill the City Chair,  
And Footboys Magisterial Purple wear.  
Fate has but very small Distinction set  
Betwixt the Counter and the Coronet.  
Tarpaulin Lords, Pages of high Renown,  
Rise up by Poor men's Valour, not their own.  
Great Families of yesterday we show,  
And Lords, whose Parents were the Lord knows who.    

PART II.  

THE Breeds described: Now, satire, if you can,  
Their Temper show, for Manners make the Man.  
Fierce as the Britain, as the Roman Brave;  
And less inclined to Conquer than to Save:  
Eager to fight, and lavish of their Blood;  
And equally of Fear and Forecast void.  
The Pict has made 'em Sour, the Dane Morose;  
False from the Scot, and from the Norman worse.  
What Honesty they have, the Saxon gave them,  
And That, now they grow old, gins to leave them.  
The Climate makes them Terrible and Bold;  
And English Beef their Courage does uphold:  
No Danger can their Daring Spirit pall,  
Always provided that their Belly's full.   

In close Intrigues their Faculty's but weak,  
For generally whate'er they know, they speak:  
And often their own Councils undermine  
By their Infirmity, and not design.  
From whence the Learned say it does proceed,  
That English Treasons never can succeed:  
For they're so openhearted, you may know  
Their own most secret Thoughts, and others too.   

The Labouring Poor, in spite of Double Pay,  
Are Saucy, Mutinous, and Beggarly:  
So lavish of their Money and their Time,  
That want of Forecast is the Nation's Crime.  
Good Drunken Company is their Delight;  
And what they get by Day, they spend by Night.  
Dull Thinking seldom does their Heads engage,  
But Drink their Youth away, and hurry on Old Age.  
Empty of all good Husbandry and Sense;  
And void of Manners most, when void of Pence.  
Their strong Aversion to Behaviour's such,  
They always talk too little, or too much.  
So dull, they never take the pains to think;  
And seldom are good-natured, but in Drink.   

In English Ale their dear Enjoyment lies,  
For which they'll starve themselves and Families.  
An Englishman will fairly drink as much  
As will maintain Two Families of Dutch:  
Subjecting all their Labours to the Pots;  
The greatest Artists are the greatest Sots.   

The Country Poor do by Example live;  
The Gentry Led them, and the Clergy drive:  
What may we not from such Examples hope?  
The Landlord is their God, the Priest their Pope.  
A Drunken Clergy, and a Swearing Bench,  
Has given the Reformation such a Drench,  
As wise men think there is some cause to doubt,  
Will purge Good Manners and Religion out.   

Nor do the Poor alone their Liquor prize,  
The Sages join in this great Sacrifice.  
The Learned Men who study Aristotle,  
Correct him with an Explanation-Bottle;  
Praise Epicurus rather than Lysander,  
And 
* The Drunkards Name for Canary.  Aristippus more than Alexander.  
The Doctors too their Galen here resign,  
And generally prescribe Specific Wine.  
The Graduate's Study's grown an easier Task,  
While for the Urinal they toss the Flask.  
The Surgeon's Art grows plainer every Hour,  
And Wine's the Balm which into Wounds they pour.   

Poets long since Parnassus have forsaken,  
And say the Ancient Bards were all mistaken.  
Apollo's lately abdicate and fled,  
And good King Bacchus reigneth in his stead:  
He does the Chaos of the Head refine,  
And Atom-Thoughts jump into Words by Wine:  
The Inspiration's of a finer Nature;  
As Wine must needs excel Parnassus' Water.   

Statesmen their weighty Politics refine,  
And Soldiers raise their Courages by Wine.  
Caecilia gives her Choristers their Choice,  
And lets them all drink Wine to clear the Voice.   

Some think the Clergy first found out the way,  
And Wine's the only Spirit by which they Pray.  
But others less profane than so, agree,  
It clears the Lungs, and helps the Memory:  
And therefore all of them Divinely think,  
Instead of Study, 'tis as well to drink.   

And here I would be very glad to know,  
Whether our Asgilites may drink or no.  
Th' Enlight'ning Fumes of Wine would certainly  
Assist them much when they begin to fly:  
Or if a Fiery Chariot should appear,  
Inflamed by Wine, they'd ha' the less to fear.   

Even the gods themselves, as Mortals say,  
Were they on Earth, would be as drunk as they:  
Nectar would be no more Celestial Drink,  
They'd all take Wine, to teach them how to Think.  
But English Drunkards, gods and men outdo,  
Drink their Estates away, and Senses too.  
Colon's in Debt, and if his Friends should fail  
To help him out, must die at last in Gaol:  
His Wealthy Uncle sent a Hundred Nobles,  
To pay his Trifles off, and rid him of his Troubles:  
But Colon, like a Trueborn Englishman,  
Drank all the Money out in bright Champaign;  
And Colon does in Custody remain.  
Drunk'ness has been the Darling of the Realm,  
ere since a Drunken Pilot had the Helm.   

In their Religion they are so unev'n,  
That each man goes his own By-way to Heaven.  
Tenacious of Mistakes to that degree,  
That every man pursues it sep'rately,  
And fancies none can find the Way but he:  
So shy of one another they are grown,  
As if they strove to get to Heaven alone.  
Rigid and Zealous, Positive and Grave,  
And every Grace, but Charity, they have:  
This makes them so Ill-natured and Uncivil,  
That all men think an Englishman the Devil.   

Surly to Strangers, Froward to their Friend;  
Submit to Love with a reluctant Mind;  
Resolved to be ungrateful and unkind.  
If by Necessity reduced to ask,  
The Giver has the difficultest Task:  
For what's bestowed they awkwardly receive,  
And always Take less freely than they Give.  
The Obligation is their highest Grief;  
And never love, where they accept Relief.  
So sullen in their Sorrows, that 'tis known,  
They'll rather die than their Afflictions own:  
And if relieved, it is too often true,  
That they'll abuse their Benefactors too:  
For in Distress their Haughty Stomach's such,  
They hate to see themselves obliged too much.  
Seldom contented, often in the wrong;  
Hard to be pleased at all, and never long.   

If your Mistakes their Ill Opinion gain,  
No Merit can their Favour reobtain:  
And if they're not Vindictive in their Fury,  
'Tis their unconstant Temper does secure ye:  
Their Brain's so cool, their Passion seldom burns;  
For all's condensed before the Flame returns:  
The Fermentations of so weak a Matter,  
The Humid damps the Fume, and runs it all to Water.  
So though the Inclination may be strong,  
They're pleased by Fits, and never angry long.   

Then if Good Nature shows some slender proof,  
They never think they have Reward enough:  
But like our Modern Quakers of the Town,  
Expect your Manners, and return you none.   

Friendship, th' abstracted Union of the Mind,  
Which all men seek, but very few can find:  
Of all the Nations in the Universe,  
None talk on't more, or understand it less:  
For if it does their Property annoy,  
Their Property their Friendship will destroy.   

As you discourse them, you shall hear them tell  
All things in which they think they do excel:  
No Panegyric needs their Praise record;  
An Englishman ne'er wants his own good word.  
His first Discourses generally appear  
Prologued with his own wondrous Character:  
When, to illustrate his own good Name,  
He never fails his Neighbour to defame:  
And yet he really designs no wrong;  
His Malice goes no further than his Tongue.  
But pleased to Tattle, he delights to Rail,  
To satisfy the Lech'ry of a Tale.  
His own dear Praises close the ample Speech,  
Tells you how Wise he is; that is, how Rich:  
For Wealth is Wisdom; he that's Rich is wise;  
And all men Learned Poverty despise.  
His Generosity comes next, and then  
Concludes that he's a Trueborn Englishman;  
And they, 'tis known, are Generous and Free,  
Forgetting, and Forgiving Injury:  
Which may be true, thus rightly understood,  
Forgiving Ill Turns, and Forgetting Good.   

Cheerful in Labour when they've undertaken it;  
But out of Humour, when they're out of Pocket.  
But if their Belly and their Pocket's full,  
They may be Phlegmatic, but never Dull:  
And if a Bottle does their Brains refine,  
It makes their Wit as sparkling as their Wine.   

As for the general Vices which we find  
They're guilty of in common with Mankind,  
satire, forbear, and silently endure;  
We must conceal the Crimes we cannot cure.  
Nor shall my Verse the brighter Sex defame;  
For English Beauty will preserve her Name.  
Beyond dispute, Agreeable and Fair;  
And Modester than other Nations are:  
For where the Vice prevails, the great Temptation  
Is want of Money, more than Inclination.  
In general, this only is allowed,  
They're something Noisy, and a little Proud.   

An Englishman is gentlest in Command;  
Obedience is a Stranger in the Land:  
Hardly subjected to the Magistrate;  
For Englishmen do all Subjection hate.  
Humblest when Rich, but peevish when they're Poor;  
And think whate'er they have, they merit more.   

Shamwhig pretends t' ha' served the Government,  
But baulked of due Reward, turns Malcontent.  
For English Christians always have regard  
To future Recompenses of Reward.  
His forfeit Liberty they did restore,  
And gave him Bread, which he had not before.  
But Trueborn English Shamwhig lets them know,  
His Merit must not lie neglected so.  
As Proud as Poor, his Masters he'll defy;  
And writes a Piteous 
* satire in Praise of Folly and Knavery.  satire upon Honesty.  
Some think the Poem had been pretty good,  
If he the Subject had but understood.  
He got Five hundred Pence by this, and more,  
As sure as he had ne'er a Groat before.   

In Business next some Friends of his employed him;  
And there he proved that Fame had not belied him:  
His Benefactors quickly he abused,  
And falsely to the Government accused:  
But they, defended by their Innocence,  
Ruined the Traitor in their own Defence.   

Thus kicked about from Pillars unto Posts,  
He whets his Pen against the Lord of Hosts:  
Burlesques his God and King in Paltry Rhimes:  
Against the Dutch turns Champion for the Times;  
And Huffs the King, upon that very score,  
On which he Panegyricked him before.   

Unhappy England, hast thou none but such,  
To plead thy Scoundrel Cause against the Dutch?  
This moves their Scorn, and not their Indignation;  
He that Lampoons the Dutch, Burlesques the Nation.   

The meanest English Ploughman studies Law,  
And keeps thereby the Magistrates in Awe:  
Will boldly tell them what they ought to do,  
And sometimes punish their Omissions too.   

Their Liberty and Property's so dear,  
They scorn their Laws or Governors to fear:  
So bugbeared with the Name of Slavery,  
They can't submit to their own Liberty.  
Restraint from Ill is Freedom to the Wise;  
But Englishmen do all Restraint despise.  
Slaves to the Liquor, Drudges to the Pots,  
The Mob are Statesmen, and their Statesmen Sots.   

Their Governors they count such dangerous things,  
That 'tis their custom to affront their Kings:  
So jealous of the Power their Kings possessed,  
They suffer neither Power nor Kings to rest.  
The Bad with Force they eagerly subdue;  
The Good with constant Clamours they pursue:  
And did King jesus reign, they'd murmur too.  
A discontented Nation, and by far  
Harder to rule in Times of Peace than War:  
Easily set together by the Ears,  
And full of causeless Jealousies and Fears:  
Apt to revolt, and willing to rebel,  
And never are contented when they're well.  
No Government could ever please them long,  
Could tie their Hands, or rectify their Tongue.  
In this to Ancient Israel well compared,  
Eternal Murmurs are among them heard.   

It was but lately that they were oppressed,  
Their Rights invaded, and their Laws suppressed:  
When nicely tender of their Liberty,  
Lord! what a Noise they made of Slavery.  
In daily Tumults showed their Discontent;  
Lampooned their King, and mocked his Government.  
And if in Arms they did not first appear,  
'Twas want of Force, and not for want of Fear.  
In humbler Tone than English used to do,  
At Foreign Hands for Foreign Aid they sue.   

William the Great Successor of Nassau,  
Their Prayers heard, and their Oppressions saw:  
He saw and saved them: God and Him they praised;  
To This their Thanks, to That their Trophies raised.  
But glutted with their own Felicities,  
They soon their New Deliverer despise;  
Say all their Prayers back, their Joy disown,  
Unsing their Thanks, and pull their Trophies down:  
Their Harps of Praise are on the Willows hung;  
For Englishmen are ne'er contented long.   

The Reverend Clergy too! and who'd ha' thought  
That they who had such Nonresistance taught,  
Should e'er to Arms against their Prince be brought?  
Who up to Heaven did Regal Power advance;  
Subjecting English Laws to Modes of France.  
Twisting Religion so with Loyalty,  
As one could never live, and t'other die.  
And yet no sooner did their Prince design  
Their Glebes and Perquisites to undermine,  
But all their Passive Doctrines laid aside;  
The Clergy their own Principles denied:  
Unpreached their Non-Resisting Cant, and prayed  
To Heaven for Help, and to the Dutch for Aid.  
The Church chimed all her Doctrines back again,  
And Pulpit-Champions did the Cause maintain;  
Flew in the face of all their former Zeal,  
And Nonresistance did at once repeal.   

The Rabbis say it would be too prolix,  
To tie Religion up to Politics:  
The Church's Safety is Suprema Lex.  
And so by a new Figure of their own,  
Do all their former Doctrines disown.  
As Laws Post Facto in the Parliament,  
In urgent Cases have obtained Assent;  
But are as dangerous Precedents laid by;  
Made lawful only by Necessity.   

The Reverend Fathers then in Arms appear,  
And Men of God became the Men of War.  
The Nation, fired by them, to Arms apply;  
Assault their Antichristian Monarchy;  
To their due Channel all our Laws restore,  
And made things what they should ha' been before.  
But when they came to Fill the Vacant Throne,  
And the Pale Priests looked back on what they had done;  
How English Liberty began to thrive,  
And Church-of- England Loyalty outlive:  
How all their Persecuting Days were done,  
And their deliverer placed upon the Throne:  
The Priests, as Priests are wont to do, turned Tail;  
They're Englishmen, and Nature will prevail.  
Now they deplore the Ruins they ha' made,  
And Murmur for the Master they Betrayed.  
Excuse those Crimes they could not make him mend;  
And suffer for the Cause they can't defend.  
Pretend they'd not ha' carried things so high;  
And Protomartyrs make for Popery.   

Had the Prince done as they designed the thing,  
Ha' set the Clergy up to rule the King;  
Taken a Donative for coming hither,  
And so ha' left their King and them together,  
We had say they been now a happy Nation.  
No doubt we had seen a Blessed Reformation:  
For Wise Men say 'ts as dangerous a thing,  
A Ruling Priesthood, as a Priest-rid King.  
And of all Plagues with which Mankind are cursed,  
Ecclesiastic Tyranny's the worst.   

If all our former Grievances were feigned,  
King james has been abused, and we trepanned;  
Bugbeared with Popery and Power Despotic,  
Tyrannic Government, and Leagues Exotic:  
The Revolution's a Fanatic Plot,  
W— a Tyrant, S— a Sot:  
A Factious Army and a Poisoned Nation,  
Unjustly forced King James' Abdication.   

But if he did the Subjects Rights invade,  
Then he was punished only, not betrayed:  
And punishing of Kings is no such Crime,  
But Englishmen ha' done it many a time.   

When Kings the Sword of Justice first lay down,  
They are no Kings, though they possess the Crown.  
Titles are Shadows, Crowns are empty things,  
The Good of Subjects is the End of Kings;  
To guide in War, and to protect in Peace:  
Where Tyrants once commence, the Kings do cease:  
For Arbitrary Power's so strange a thing,  
It makes the Tyrant, and unmakes the King.  
If Kings by Foreign Priests and Armies reign,  
And Lawless Power against their Oaths maintain,  
Then Subjects must ha' reason to complain.  
If Oaths must bind us when our Kings do ill;  
To call in Foreign Aid is to rebel.  
By Force to circumscribe our Lawful Prince,  
Is wilful Treason in the largest sense:  
And they who once rebel, most certainly  
Their God, and King, and former Oaths defy.  
If we allow no Maladministration  
Can cancel the Allegiance of the Nation;  
Let all our Learned Sons of Levi try,  
This Eccles'astick Riddle to untie:  
How they could make a Step to Call the Prince,  
And yet pretend to Oaths and Innocence.   

By th' first Address they made beyond the Seas,  
They're perjured in the most intense Degrees;  
And without Scruple for the time to come,  
May swear to all the Kings in Christendom.  
And truly did our Kings consider all,  
They'd never let the Clergy swear at all:  
Their Politic Allegiance they'd refuse;  
For Whores and Priests do never want excuse.   

But if the Mutual Contract was dissolved,  
The Doubts explained, the Difficulty solved:  
That Kings, when they descend to Tyranny,  
Dissolve the Bond, and leave the Subject free.  
The Government's ungirt when Justice dies,  
And Constitutions are Nonentities.  
The Nation's all a Mob, there's no such thing  
As Lords or Commons, Parliament or King.  
A great promiscuous Crowd the Hydra lies,  
Till Laws revive, and mutual Contract ties:  
A Chaos free to choose for their own share,  
What Case of Government they please to wear:  
If to a King they do the Reins commit,  
All men are bound in Conscience to submit:  
But then that King must by his Oath assent  
To Postulatas of the Government;  
Which if he breaks, he cuts off the Entail,  
And Power retreats to its Original.   

This Doctrine has the Sanction of Assent,  
From Nature's Universal Parliament.  
The Voice of Nations, and the Course of Things,  
Allow that Laws superior are to Kings.  
None but Delinquents would have Justice cease,  
Knaves rail at Laws, as Soldiers rail at Peace:  
For Justice is the End of Government,  
As Reason is the Test of Argument.   

No man was ever yet so void of Sense,  
As to debate the Right of Self-Defence;  
A Principle so grafted in the Mind,  
With Nature born, and does like Nature bind:  
Twisted with Reason, and with Nature too;  
As neither one nor tother can undo.   

Nor can this Right be less when National,  
Reason which governs one, should govern all.  
whate'er the Dialect of Courts may tell,  
He that his Right demands, can ne'er rebel.  
Which Right, if 'tis by Governors denied,  
May be procured by Force, or Foreign Aid.  
For Tyranny's a Nation's Term for Grief;  
As Folks cry Fire, to hasten in Relief.  
And when the hated word is heard about,  
All men should come to help the People out.   

Thus England groaned, Britannia's Voice was heard;  
And Great Nassau to rescue her, appeared:  
Called by the Universal Voice of Fate;  
God and the People's Legal Magistrate.  
Ye heavens regard! Almighty jove look down,  
And view thy Injured Monarch on the Throne.  
On their Ungrateful Heads due Vengeance take,  
Who sought his Aid, and then his part forsake.  
Witness, ye Powers! it was Our Call alone,  
Which now our Pride makes us ashamed to own.  
Britannia's Troubles fetched him from afar,  
To court the dreadful Casualties of War:  
But where Requital never can be made,  
Acknowlegment's a Tribute seldom paid.   

He dwelled in Bright Maria's Circling Arms,  
Defended by the Magic of her Charms,  
From Foreign Fears, and from Domestic Harms.  
Ambition found no Fuel for her Fire,  
He had what God could give, or Man desire.  
Till Pity roused him from his soft Repose,  
His Life to unseen Hazards to expose:  
Till Pity moved him in our Cause t' appear;  
Pity! that Word which now we hate to hear.  
But English Gratitude is always such,  
To hate the Hand which does oblige too much.   

Britannia's Cries gave Birth to his Intent,  
And hardly gained his unforeseen Assent:  
His boding Thoughts foretold him he should find  
The People Fickle, Selfish, and Unkind.  
Which Thought did to his Royal Heart appear  
More dreadful than the Dangers of the War:  
For nothing grates a Generous Mind so soon,  
As base Returns for hearty Service done.   

satire be silent, awfully prepare  
Britannia's Song, and William's Praise to hear.  
Stand by, and let her cheerfully rehearse  
Her Grateful Vows in her Immortal Verse.  
Loud Fame's Eternal Trumpet let her sound;  
Listen ye distant Poles, and endless Round.  
May the strong Blast the welcome News convey  
As far as Sound can reach, or Spirit fly.  
To Neighbouring Worlds, if such there be, relate  
Our Hero's Fame, for theirs to imitate.  
To distant Worlds of Spirits let her rehearse:  
For Spirits without the helps of Voice converse.  
May Angels hear the gladsome News on high,  
Mixed with their everlasting Symphony.  
And Hell itself stand in suspense to know  
Whether it be the Fatal Blast, or no.   

BRITANNIA.  

The Fame of Virtue 'tis for which I sound,  
And Heroes with Immortal Triumphs crowned.  
Fame built on solid Virtue swifter flies,  
Than Morning Light can spread my Eastern Skies.  
The gathering Air returns the doubling Sound,  
And loud repeating Thunders force it round:  
Echoes return from Caverns of the Deep:  
Old Chaos dreams on't in Eternal Sleep.  
Time hands it forward to its latest Urn,  
From whence it never, never shall return,  
Nothing is heard so far, or lasts so long;  
'Tis heard by every Ear, and spoke by every Tongue.   

My Hero, with the Sails of Honour furled,  
Rises like the Great Genius of the World.  
By Fate and Fame wisely prepared to be  
The Soul of War, and Life of Victory.  
He spreads the Wings of Virtue on the Throne,  
And every Wind of Glory fans them on.  
Immortal Trophies dwell upon his Brow,  
Fresh as the Garlands he has worn but now.   

By different Steps the high Ascent he gains,  
And differently that high Ascent maintains.  
Princes for Pride and Lust of Rule make War,  
And struggle for the Name of Conqueror.  
Some fight for Fame, and some for Victory.  
He Fights to Save, and Conquers to set Free.   

Then seek no Phrase his Titles to conceal,  
And hid with Words what Actions must reveal.  
No Parallel from Hebrew Stories take,  
Of Godlike Kings my Similes to make:  
No borrowed Names conceal my living Theme;  
But Names and Things directly I proclaim.  
'Tis honest Merit does his Glory raise;  
Whom that exalts, let no man fear to praise.  
Of such a Subject no man need be shy;  
Virtue's above the Reach of Flattery.  
He needs no Character but his own Fame,  
Nor any flattering Titles, but his Name.   

William's the Name that's spoke by every Tongue:  
William's the Darling Subject of my Song.  
Listen ye Virgins to the Charming Sound,  
And in Eternal Dances hand it round:  
Your early Offerings to this Altar bring;  
Make him at once a Lover and a King.  
May he submit to none but to your Arms;  
Nor ever be subdued, but by your Charms.  
May your soft Thoughts for him be all sublime;  
And every tender Vow be made for him.  
May he be first in every Morning-Thought,  
And Heaven ne'er hear a Prayer where he's left out.  
May every Omen, every boding Dream,  
Be Fortunate by mentioning his Name.  
May this one Charm Infernal Powers affright,  
And guard you from the Terrors of the Night.  
May every cheerful Glass as it goes down  
To William's Health, be Cordials to your own.  
Let every Song be Chorust with his Name.  
And Music pay her Tribute to his Fame.  
Let every Poet tune his Artful Verse,  
And in Immortal Strains his Deeds rehearse.  
And may Apollo never more inspire  
The Disobedient Bard with his Seraphic Fire.  
May all my Sons their grateful Homage pay;  
His Praises sing, and for his Safety pray.    

satire return to our Unthankful Isle,  
Secured by heavens Regard, and William's Toil.  
To both Ungrateful, and to both Untrue;  
Rebels to God, and to Good Nature too.   

If e'er this Nation be distressed again,  
To whomsoever they cry, they'll cry in vain.  
To Heaven they cannot have the face to look;  
Or if they should, it would but Heaven provoke.  
To hope for Help from Man would be too much;  
Mankind would always tell 'em of the Dutch:  
How they came here our Freedoms to maintain,  
Were Paid, and Cursed, and Hurried home again.  
How by their Aid we first dissolved our Fears,  
And then our Helpers damned for Foreigners.  
'Tis not our English Temper to do better;  
For Englishmen think every man their Debtor.   

'Tis worth observing, that we ne'er complained  
Of Foreigners, nor of the Wealth they gained,  
Till all their Services were at an End.  
Wise men affirm it is the English way,  
Never to Grumble till they come to Pay;  
And then they always think their Temper's such,  
The Work too little, and the Pay too much.   

As frighted Patients, when they want a Cure,  
Bid any Price, and any Pain endure:  
But when the Doctor's Remedies appear,  
The Cures too Easy, and the Price too Dear.   

Great Portland ne'er was bantered, when he strove  
For Us his Master's kindest Thoughts to move.  
We ne'er lampooned his Conduct, when employed  
King James' Secret Councils to divide:  
Then we caressed him as the only Man,  
Which could the Doubtful Oracle explain:  
The only Hushai able to repel  
The Dark Designs of our Achitophel.  
Compared his Master's Courage to his Sense;  
The Ablest Statesman, and the Bravest Prince.  
On his Wise Conduct we depended much,  
And liked him ne'er the worse for being Dutch.  
Nor was he valued more than he deserved;  
Freely he ventured, faithfully he served.  
In all King William's Dangers he has shared;  
In England's Quarrels always he appeared:  
The Revolution first, and then the Boyne;  
In Both his Counsels and his Conduct shine.  
His Martial Valour Flanders will confess;  
And France Regrets his Managing the Peace.  
Faithful to England's Interest and her King:  
The greatest Reason of our Murmuring.  
Ten Years in English Service he appeared,  
And gained his Master's and the World's Regard:  
But 'tis not England's Custom to Reward.  
The Wars are over, England needs him not;  
Now he's a Dutchman, and the Lord knows what.   

Schonbergh, the Ablest Soldier of his Age,  
With Great Nassau did in our Cause engage:  
Both joined for England's Rescue and Defence;  
The Greatest Captain, and the Greatest Prince.  
With what Applause his Stories did we tell?  
Stories which Europe's Volumes largely swell.  
We counted him an Army in our Aid:  
Where he commanded, no man was afraid.  
His Actions with a constant Conquest shine,  
From Villa-Vitiosa to the Rhine.  
France, Flanders, Germany, his Fame confess;  
And all the World was fond of him, but Us.  
Our Turn first served, we grudged him the Command.  
Witness the Grateful Temper of the Land.   

We blame the K— that he relies too much  
On Strangers, Germans, Hugonots, and Dutch;  
And seldom does his great Affairs of State,  
To English Counsellors communicate.  
The Fact might very well be answered thus;  
He has so often been betrayed by us,  
He must have been a Madman to rely  
On English G—ns Fidelity.  
For laying other Arguments aside;  
This Thought might mortify our English Pride,  
That Foreigners have faithfully obeyed him,  
And none but Englishmen have e'er betrayed him.  
They have our Ships and Merchants bought and sold,  
And bartered English Blood for Foreign Gold.  
First to the French they sold our Turky-Fleet,  
And Injured Talmarsh next at Camaret.  
The King himself is sheltered from their Snares,  
Not by his Merit, but the Crown he wears.  
Experience tells us 'tis the English way,  
Their Benefactors always to betray.   

And lest Examples should be too remote,  
A Modern Magistrate of Famous Note,  
Shall give you his own History by Rote.  
I'll make it out, deny it he that can,  
His Worship is a Trueborn Englishman,  
In all the Latitude that Empty Word  
By Modern Acceptations understood.  
The Parish-Books his Great Descent record,  
And now he hopes e'er long to be a Lord.  
And truly as things go, it would be pity  
But such as he bore Office in the City:  
While Robb'ry for Burnt-Offering he brings,  
And gives to God what he has stole from Kings:  
Great Monuments of Charity he raises,  
And good St. Magnus whistles out his Praises.  
To City-Gaols he grants a Jubilee,  
And hires Huzza's from his own Mobile.  
Lately he wore the Golden Chain and Gown,  
With which Equipt he thus harangued the Town.   

Sir C— s D— b's Fine Speech, etc.  

WIth Clouted Iron Shoes and Sheepskin Breeches,  
More Rags than Manners, and more Dirt than Riches:  
From driving Cows and Calves to Layton-Market,  
While of my Greatness there appeared no Spark yet,  
Behold I come, to let you see the Pride  
With which Exalted Beggars always ride.   

Born to the Needful Labours of the Blow,  
The Cartwhip graceed me as the Chain does now.  
Nature and Fate in doubt what course to take,  
Whether I should a Lord or Plough-Boy make▪  
Kindly at last resolved they would promote me,  
And first a Knave, and then a Knight they vote me.  
What Fate appointed, Nature did prepare,  
And furnished me with an exceeding Care.  
To fit me for what they designed to have me;  
And every Gift but Honesty they gave me.   

And thus Equipt, to this Proud Town I came,  
In quest of Bread, and not in quest of Fame.  
Blind to my future Fate, an humble Boy,  
Free from the Gild and Glory I enjoy.  
The Hopes which my Ambition entertained,  
Were in the Name of Footboy all contained.  
The Greatest Heights from Small Beginnings rise;  
The Gods were Great on Earth, before they reached the Skies.   

B— well, the Generous Temper of whose Mind,  
Was always to be bountiful inclined:  
Whether by his Ill Fate or Fancy led,  
First took me up, and furnished me with Bread.  
The little Services he put me to,  
Seemed Labours rather than were truly so.  
But always my Advancement he designed;  
For 'twas his very Nature to be kind.  
Large was his Soul, his Temper ever Free;  
The best of Masters and of Men to me.  
And I who was before decreed by Fate,  
To be made Infamous as well as Great,  
With an obsequious Diligence obeyed him,  
Till trusted with his All, and then betrayed him.   

All his past Kindnesses I trampled on,  
Ruined his Fortunes to erect my own.  
So Vipers in the Bosom bred, begin  
To hiss at that Hand first which took them in.  
With eager Treach'ry I his Fall pursued,  
And my first Trophies were Ingratitude.   

Ingratitude's the worst of Human Gild,  
The basest Action Mankind can commit;  
Which like the Sin against the Holy Ghost,  
Has least of Honour, and of Gild the most.  
Distinguished from all other Crimes by this,  
That 'tis a Crime which no man will confess.  
That Sin alone, which should not be forgiven  
On Earth, although perhaps it may in Heaven.   

Thus my first Benefactor I o'erthrew;  
And how should I be to a second true?  
The Public Trust came next into my Care,  
And I to use them scurvily prepare:  
My Needy sovereign Lord I played upon,  
And Lent him many a Thousand of his own;  
For which, great interests I took care to charge,  
And so my Ill-got Wealth became so large.   

My Predecessor judas was a Fool,  
Fit to ha' been whipped, and sent to School,  
Than Sell a Saviour: Had I been at hand,  
His Master had not been so cheap Trepanned;  
I would ha' made the eager jews ha' found,  
For Thirty Pieces, Thirty thousand Pound.   

My Cousin Ziba, of Immortal Fame,  
(Ziba and I shall never want a Name:)  
Firstborn of Treason, nobly did advance  
His Master's Fall, for his Inheritance.  
By whose keen Arts old David first began  
To break his Sacred Oath to jonathan:  
The Good Old King, 'tis thought, was very loath  
To break his Word, and therefore broke his Oath.  
Ziba's a Traitor of some Quality,  
Yet Ziba might ha' been informed by me:  
Had I been there, he ne'er had been content  
With half th' Estate, nor half the Government.   

In our late Revolution 'twas thought strange,  
That I of all mankind should like the Change:  
But they who wondered at it, never knew,  
That in it I did my Old Game pursue:  
Nor had they heard of Twenty thousand Pound,  
Which ne'er was lost, yet never could be found.   

Thus all things in their turn to Sale I bring,  
God and my Master first, and then the King:  
Till by successful Villainies made bold,  
I thought to turn the Nation into Gold;  
And so to Forge Forg —y my Hand I bend,  
Not doubting I could gull the Government;  
But there was ruffled by the Parliament.  
And if I 'scap'd th' Unhappy Tree to climb,  
'Twas want of Law, and not for want of Crime.   

But my 
* The Devil.  Old Friend, who printed in my Face  
A needful Competence of English Brass,  
Having more business yet for me to do,  
And loath to lose his Trusty Servant so,  
Managed the matter with such Art and Skill,  
As saved his Hero, and threw out the B— l.   

And now I'm graced with unexpected Honours,  
For which I'll certainly abuse the Donors:  
Knighted, and made a Tribune of the People,  
Whose Laws and Properties I'm like to keep well:  
The Custos Rotulorum of the City,  
And Captain of the Guards of their Banditti.  
Surrounded by my Catchpoles, I declare  
Against the Needy Debtor open War.  
I hang poor Thiefs for stealing of your Pelf,  
And suffer none to rob you, but myself.   

The King commanded me to help Reform ye,  
And how I'll do't, Miss— shall inform ye.  
I keep the best Seraglio in the Nation,  
And hope in time to bring it into Fashion.  
No Brimstone-Whore need fear the Lash from me,  
That part I'll leave to Brother jeffery.  
Our Gallants need not go abroad to Rome,  
I'll keep a Whoring Jubilee at home.  
Whoring's the Darling of my Inclination;  
A'ned I a Magistrate for Reformation?  
For this my Praise is sung by every Bard,  
For which Bridewell would be a just Reward.  
In Print my Panegyrics fill the Street,  
And hired Gaol-birds their Huzza's repeat.  
Some Charities contrived to make a show,  
Have taught the Needy Rabble to do so:  
Whose empty Noise is a Mechanic Fame,  
Since for Sir Belzebub they'd do the same.     

The Conclusion.  

THen let us boast of Ancestors no more,  
Or Deeds of Heroes done in days of Yore,  
In latent Records of the Ages past,  
Behind the Rear of Time, in long Oblivion placed.  
For if our Virtues must in Lines descend,  
The Merit with the Families would end:  
And Intermixtures would most fatal grow;  
For Vice would be Hereditary too;  
The Tainted Blood would of necessity,  
Involuntary Wickedness convey.   

Vice, like Ill Nature, for an Age or two,  
May seem a Generation to pursue;  
But Virtue seldom does regard the Breed;  
Fools do the Wise, and Wise Men Fools succeed.   

What is't to us, what Ancestors we had?  
If Good, what better? or what worse, if Bad?  
Examples are for Imitation set,  
Yet all men follow Virtue with Regret.   

Could but our Ancestors retrieve their Fate,  
And see their Offspring thus degenerate;  
How we contend for Birth and Names unknown,  
And build on their past Actions, not our own;  
They'd cancel Records, and their Tombs deface,  
And openly disown the vile degenerate Race:  
For Fame of Families is all a Cheat,  
'Tis Personal Virtue only makes us great.   
FINIS.