THE Justice of PEACE: Or a Vindication of PEACE FROM Several Late PAMPHLETS, Written by Mr. Congreve, Dennis, etc.  
In Doggrel Verse  
Written at the Request of a YOUNG LADY, and DEDICATED to her.  
By a POET.  
I'll own, that you writ better than I do,  
But I have as much need to write as you:  
What though the Excrements of my dull Brain  
Flow in a harsh and an insipid Strain;  
While your Rich Head eases itself of Wit?  
Must none but Civet-Cats have leave to Sht?  Rochest. 
LONDON, Printed in the Year, 1697.   

A POEM On the PEACE.  Dedicated to a Young LADY. 

ASSIST me Muse, who oft has been  
Kind Midwife to my Teeming Brain;  
Who to its Pangs no sooner didst  
Apply thy gentle Artful Fist,  
But out came Bantling, Scanned by Finger,  
And soon as Born turned Ballad-singer;  
And as 'twould crack its tender Weazon,  
In Rhyme began Squawling without Reason.  
Assist me Muse in this last Issue;  
For which may ever Gown of Tissue  
Grace thy fair Corpse, and double Nancy  
Fill Helicon to Inspire thy Fancy:  
And Thou, First-Cousin to the Nine,  
In whom both Wit and Beauty shine,  
Bright Nymph, my kind Inspiring Guide,  
Oh, sit down gently by my Side;  
Make tuneful Crambo thy Pastime,  
And help thy Slave to pump for Rhyme;  
That in lewd Doggrel I may fall at  
Making of Peace, so acquaint a Ballad,  
That may, as Simple as my Pen is,  
Congreve out-Rhyme, and outrage Dennis.   

Instead of saying what we want, 
Dennis.   
One Banters us with rumbling Cant;  
Talks of deep Pindar's sounding Lyre,  
Of Rapture, Fury, Flame and Fire:  
As if no Peace could e'er be had,  
But Hairbrained Poet must run Mad.  
Another writes such soothing Number, 
C●●gro●●.   
'Twould almost lull one to a Slumber;  
In Frontispiece stands Birth of Muse,  
A Porch too big for such a House:  
In gentle Strains he tells a Tale  
Of Heavenly Orb, and Earthly Ball;  
By dint of Rhyme he proves it clear,  
That the World hangs in Ambient Air;  
Sings of Creation, and rehearses  
Good Prose of Moses in bad Verses.  
But sure Transported Bard forgot,  
Peace was the thing he should be at;  
For what is Genesis pray to it,  
More than Religion to a Poet?  
But I shan't Moses filch, nor Pindar;  
Since nought my honest Heart can hinder,  
But in a plain unborrowed Dress,  
I'll treat of nothing but mere Peace.   

Great Nassau with his Red-coat Rabble  
Has put an end to Europe's Squabble;  
Bid Bloody Kings no more to Bristle,  
But making Peace, go home and Whistle;  
Bid 'em bright Armour no more perk in,  
Or else egad he'd Thresh their Jerkin.  
So have I seen two Punks call Names,  
Till Wars engage the bloody Dames;  
With their loud Tongues they beat Alarms,  
And wheat their Talons into Arms;  
Then by the Ears fall both a tugging,  
As if good Ears were made for Lugging:  
Till some Grave Bawd, with goodly Mein,  
A Peaceful Umpire goes between;  
Bids 'em leave off their shameful Pother,  
And shoves this one way, that another:  
Then both to Articles agree,  
And to the Matron Thanks decree;  
Who Shame prevented they ne'er witted on,  
And saved a Sea of Blood right Christian.   

Now Peace restores our former Treasure,  
Each Sex may drown themselves in Pleasure;  
The Men shan't pale for want of Red look,  
Nor Greensick Damsels whine for Wedlock   

Rejoice ye merry Drinking Souls,  
Let Wine fly round in lusty Bowls.  
The Vintners (marry stop their Vitals)  
Who ear'st while drained our Pockets quite all;  
(For Red, like Cordial Sack of Yore,  
We paid, at least Ticked dear on Score)  
Ask but one Shilling for a Bottle;  
And then that two will buy a Pottle,  
Is not unknown to him at all  
Who's versed in sequel Logical.  
Now Taverns shan't be left in Lurches,  
But Sweat like squeezed Dissenting Churches.  
Poor younger Brothers (who last Season  
If one blessed Night they Soaked their Weasand,  
Were forced upon themselves it Entail  
A long Week's Lent, or live on Ale.)  
What Comfort Peace to them affords,  
Who now can get as Drunk as Lords?  
What Christian Soul would not be willing  
To be well Fuddled for a Shilling?  
Now Small-beet Poets (whose sick Rhymes  
Show they ne'er saw the Merry Times,  
When Wine a Genius did infuse,  
And every Bottle was a Muse)  
As poor as are Parnassus' rents,  
In Godlike Red can spend some pence.  
Inspired thus, on Conquering Kings  
They'll say a great many fine things;  
And Celia hopes to see her name  
Edged in with curious Anagram.  
Even I, least of the Rhyming Crew,  
Do all this Stuff to Claret own;  
Am able to get sound Drunk,  
And in lewd Sonnet praise a Punk.   

And ye, who catch Mankind with your Gi●●  
Whether good Wives or dainty Virgins,  
Shall be paid off your long Arrears,  
Which have been due these seven Years.  
No more shall needy Cit refuse  
Benevolence to his craving Spouse,  
For fear a costly Brat should hap  
To spend his Rents in Plumbs and Pap.  
No more shall tender Maids make Ditty,  
(Whom I with all my Soul do pity)  
Or tell their Grievance at St. Stephen's, 
Parrliament.   
That Marriage goes at Six and Seven;  
No more shall they entreat both Houses  
To grant them a supply of Spouses:  
Husbands shall come as fast as Hops,  
And Bride-beds swarm with Fools and Fops.  
No more shall puling Wenches Languish.  
Or Pipes and Cinders eat in Anguish.   

Coffers and Chests begin to fill,  
And Money whisks round like a Wheel:  
Where all that are Distressed and Broken,  
May now have leave to put a Spoke in.  
No more shall Christian People bicker  
'Bout wicked Bills of Bank or Chequer;  
No more shall deal in Paper Trash,  
Or take a Stick for ready Cash.  
Nor will we Lombard-Smiths entreat  
They'd please their humble Trout to Cheat;  
And send us lightly-laden home,  
With half of the too heavy Summ.  
Chink shall no more be a coy Coquet;  
But Grace of God fill every Pocket.   

The public Grievance of the Nation  
Taxes; shall quite grow out of Fashion;  
Assessors shall leave off to Hector,  
Nor such a Name be as Collector.  
Tough Country Louts their Beer shall pull up,  
Nor Curse the King at every Gullup;  
Since Rural A●e's as free from Tax,  
As Rural Lasses from the Pox.  
How merry will be noun dear Honey,  
Now he pays nought for Matrimony?  
For sure no Tax needs be imposed  
On those who are in Wedlock Noosed;  
'Tis dear enough to buy House— Riot,  
With sale of Liberty and Quiet.  
And when Dear Duck is fetched away,  
'Twil sure his Sorrow much allay,  
To hear how moderate the Rate is,  
That he may have a Pit-hole Gratis.   

How will the King's Liege Folks rejoice,  
To see again his roaring Boys?  
While our dear Army was in Flanders,  
And ran the risk of forty Dangers;  
We Mourned and Prayed, and took our Beads all,  
For fear a Hair should from their Heads fall.  
Now they're escaped from Bombs and Billows,  
And live at home like honest Fellows.  
By God's great blessing they're come over  
Our Hen-roosts to Protect and Cover;  
In Winter's Bleak and Summer's Sultry,  
From dirty Thiefs to keep our Poultry.  
How will the Idle Rake-hells roam on  
Sail'sbury Plain or Hounslow Common?  
How proudly wield their Blades right Trusty,  
Or mount their Muskets now grown Rusty?  
Their blustering Looks and huffing State  
Will envy through the World create,  
To see how England can with ease  
Such standing Bullies keep in Peace.   

What need I tell you, in Great Britain  
What Happiness each Soul will light on?  
No more shall wicked Lay-Men bilk  
Their Teacher of Tithe-Eggs and Milk.  
Quacks shall see glittering Fees come thick,  
Now Folks have Money to be sick.  
Loud Lawyers, who for means of Living  
With one another fell a striving.  
Will now set others by the Ears  
And plead good Neighbours into Jars.  
Secure the Merchant ploughs the Main,  
From distant Climates reaps his Gain;  
Sends Spouse at home rich Silk and Jewel,  
Which for her kind Gallant won't do ill.  
Pimps, Whores and Bawds, and all the Throng  
That Life and Pleasure does prolong,  
To Flourish, as of old, begin,  
Now 've nought else to do but Sin.   

O Lewis, thanks to thee we doom  
For all past Favours and to come;  
What Grape, though of Most Christian Race,  
Is good enough thy Health to Grace?  
Since thou'st been pleased to give us Peace,  
Consult our Luxury and Ease.  
Send thy good Breeding unto White-Hall.  
And to our Cellars thy Wine quite all;  
Thy Privateers to English Sailors,  
And Shoulder-knots to London Tailors.  
Send what e'er shall thy goodness please;  
Send us all France— but its Disease.   
FINIS.