The Laureate.  
Jack Squabbs History in a little drawn,  
Down to his Evening, from his early dawn.  
APpear, thou mighty Bard, to open view;  
Which yet we must confess you need not do:  
The labour to expose thee we may save,  
Thou standest upon thy own Records, a Knave;  
Condemned to live in thy Apostate Rhimes,  
The Curse of Ours, and Scoff of Future Times.  
Still tacking round with every turn of State,  
Reverse to Shaf●sbury! thy Cursed Fate.  
Is always at a change to come to late:  
To keep his plots from Coxcombs was his Care;  
His Villainy was masked and thine is bare:  
Wise Men alone could guests at his Design,  
And could but guests, the Thread was spun so fine;  
But every purblind Fool may see through thine.  
Had Dick still kept the Regal Diadem,  
Thou hadst been Poet Laureate to him,  
And, long e'er now, in Lofty Verse proclaimed  
His high Extraction, among Princes Famed;  
Diffused his Glorious Deed from Pole to Pole,  
Where Winds can carry, and where Waves can roll▪  
Nay; had our Charles, by Heaven's severe Decree,  
Been found, and Murdered in the Royal Tree,  
Even thou hadst praised the Fact; his Father Slain,  
Thou call it but gently breathing of a Vein:  
Impious, and Villainous! to bless the blow  
That laid at once three Lofty Nations low,  
And gave the Royal Cause a Fatal Overthrow.  
What after this could we expect from thee?  
What could we hope for, but just what we see?  
Scandal to all Religions, New and Old;  
Scandal to thine, where Pardon's bought and sold,  
And Mortgaged Happiness Redeemed for Gold:  
Tell me, for 'tis a Truth you must allow,  
Whoever changed more in one Moon, than thou?  
Even thy o●●n● Zinni was more steadfast known;  
He had but one Religion, or had none:  
What Sect of Christians is't thou hast not known,  
And, at one time or other, made thy own?  
A Bristled Baptist bred; and then thy strain  
Immaculate, was free from sinful stain.  
No Songs in those blessed times thou didst produce  
To brand, and shame good manners out of use:  
The Ladies than had not one Bawdy Bob,  
Nor thou the Courtly Name of Poet Squab.  
Next, thy dull Muse, an Independent Jade,  
On Sacred Tyranny five Stanza's made  
Praised Noll, who even to both extremes did run,  
To kill the Father, and dethrone the Son.  
When Charles came in, thou didst a Convert grow,  
More by thy Interest, than thy Nature so.  
Under his Liv'ning Beams thy Laurels spread;  
He first did place that wreath about thy Head;  
Kindly relieved thy wants, and gave thee Bread.  
Here 'twas thou made'st the Bells of Fancy chime,  
And choked the Town with suffocating Rhyme.  
Till Heroes, formed by thy Creating Pen,  
Were grown as Cheap, and Dull, as other men.  
Flushed with Success, full Gallery, and Pit,  
Thou bravest all Mankind with want of Wit.  
Nay, in short time, were't grown so proud a Ninny,  
As scarce t' allow that Ben himself had any.  
But when the men of Sense thy Error saw,  
They Checked thy Muse, and kept the Termagant in awe.  
To satire next thy Talon was Address,  
Fell foul on all, thy Friends among the rest:  
Those who the oft'nest did thy wants supply,  
Abused, Traduced, without a Reason why.  
Nay, even thy Royal Patron was not spared,  
But an obscene, a Santring wretch declared.  
Thy Loyal Libel we can still produce,  
Beyond Example, and beyond Excuse.  
O strange return, to a forgiving King,  
But the warmed Viper wears the greatest Sting.  
Thy Pension lost, and justly without doubt,  
When Servants snarl, we ought to kick 'em out;  
They that disdain their Benefactors Bread,  
No longer ought by Bounty to be fed.  
That lost, the Visor changed, you turn about,  
And straight a True blue Protestant crept out;  
The Friar now was writ: and some will say  
They smell a Malcontent through all the Play.  
The Papist too was damned, unfit for Trust,  
Called Treacherous, Shameless, Profligate, Unjust,  
And Kingly Power thought Arbitrary ●uit.  
This lasted till thou didst thy Pension gain,  
And that changed both thy Moral●● and thy strain.  
If to write Contradictions, Nonsense be,  
Who has more Nonsense in their works than thee?  
We'll mention but thy Layman's Faith, and Hind,  
Who'd think both these (such Clashing do we find)  
Could be the product of one single mind:  
Here, thou wouldst Charitable fain appear,  
Findest fault that Athanasius was severe;  
Thy Pity straight to Cruelty is raised  
And even the Pious Inquisition praised,  
And recommended to the present Reign:  
" O happy Countries, Italy and Spain!  
Have we not cause, in thy own words, to say,  
Let none believe what varies every day,  
That never was, nor will be at a fray.  
Once, Heathens might be saved, you did allow;  
But not, it seems, we greater Heathens now:  
The Loyal Church, that buoys the Kingly Line,  
Damned with a breath, but 'tis such a breath as thine  
What Credit to thy party can it be,  
T'have gained so lewd a Profligate as thee?  
Strayed from our fold, makes us but laugh, not weep;  
We have but lost what was disgrace to keep:  
By them Mistrusted, and to us a scorn;  
For it is weakness, at the best to Turn.  
True, ●●d●t thou left us in the former Reign,  
T●ad proved, it was not wholly do●e for Gain;  
Now, t●e Meridian Sun is ●ot so plain.  
Gold is thy God, for a substantial sum,  
Thou to the Turk, wouldst run away from Roma,  
And Sing his Holy Expedition against Christendom.  
But to conclude, blush with a lasting Red,  
(If thou'rt not moved with what's already said)  
To see thy Boars, Bears, Buzzards, Wolves and Owls,  
And all thy other Beasts, and other Fowls,  
Routed by two poor Mice: (Unequal fight)  
But easy 'tis to Conquer in the Right.  
See there a Youth (a shame to thy grey hairs)  
Make a mere Dunce of all thy threescore years.  
What in that Tedious Poem hast thou done,  
But crammed all Aesop's Fables into one.  
But why do I the precious minutes spend  
On him, that wou●d much rather hang, than m●nd.  
No, Wretch, continue still just as thou art,  
Thou 〈◊〉 now in this last Sc●ne, that Crowns thy Part;  
To purchase Favour, veer with every Gale;  
And, against Interest, never cease to rail;  
Thomas thou'rt the only proof how Interest can prevail.  
FINIS.