A LETTER TO FERGUSON, Or any other, the supposed Author of a late Scandalous Libel, Entitled, An Elegy upon Sir Tho. Armstrong.  From one that hearty wishes them what they deserve. 

WHEN first the noted Libel did appear,  
The Hearts of all your Friends were struck with fear;  
Finding, like a true Blockhead, you had chose  
Some Belgic Muse to rally Armstrong's Foes.  
For all your dear Acquaintants in this Isle,  
Tho' they extolled the Treason, damned the style,  
And jointly owned that by Poetic Laws,  
True Hanging you deserved, but no Applause.  
Stories obscene may dully be expressed,  
And with each wanton Humour pass for jest:  
Misprisions too may crawl in humble strain,  
And no Whig cursed for his insipid vein.  
But haughty Treason, dangerous and sublime,  
Should have a Genius lofty as the Crime.  
For who upon that Theme poor Dogrill writes,  
Rather does damp Rebellion, than excites.  
Curse on thy sottish Head, that was the cause  
Of forming Monsters without Teeth or Claws:  
Poison they have enough, and shape to fright,  
But the poor Devils can neither scratch nor by't.  
Scorned and thrown by, like a blunt edgless Tool,  
And show thee much a Rogue, but more a Fool.   

Ah! could Old Shaftsbury have leave to rise  
From the dark noisome Charnel where he lies,  
What Rage thy Rhimes would in his Soul beget,  
To see such Loads of Treason, and no Wit!  
The Germane Heresy he had suppressed,  
And Anabaptist Cant by thee professed.  
He would have Christened thee to hid that shame,  
And thou Eternal Dunce had been thy Name.  
Methinks I see the little Elder stand  
Wielding his Fatal Spigot in his hand,  
Which he had torn from out its tender place,  
Ready to throw the Faucet in thy face.  
If ere his Maxims were before thy Eyes,  
Thou then wouldst find a Rebel should be wise,  
And with sly Logic gloss his fallacies.  
But thy dull Brain makes all the Party droop;  
Thy Soul was gorged with Treason's Poisoned Cup,  
And here thy nasty Muse has spewed it up.  
Burn then that Hand that held thy guilty Pen,  
And so recover thy lost Fame again.  
Atone for writing Nonsense, burn it strait,  
And Cranmer, whom thou talk'st of, imitate.  
Yet, in each Case, be this distinction taught,  
He burned for what his Conscience found a fault,  
But thou for having proved thyself a Sot.  
And when it comes, as sure 'twill be thy Fate,  
That the same Truncheon shall adorn a Gate:  
There flourish, since thou thinkest it flourishing,  
And stink in black defiance of the King.   

'Mongst all the Sciences in Kingdoms known,  
To be a Villain, is the easiest one.  
From English Soil in swarms such Infects rise,  
Bred out of Excrement, like Drones and Flies.  
But tho' a Dunce may serve in common Arts,  
A Rebel still should be a Rogue of Parts.  
Fools Ominously show our near Disgraces;  
Thus Dick the Sceptre lost, M—th his Places.  
Sir Martin mars the Polititian's toil,  
And Oats and Cummins two wise Plots did spoil.   

'Twere wondrous well, if Fate would ordered so:  
That each man did his Sphere of Knowledge know,  
Then thou thy Talon cautiously wouldst see,  
And School the Rabble, not write Elegy.  
Instruction there might raise thy Fame again,  
A Canting Saint, tho' Devil at thy Pen.  
For when Hell's Synod would Rebellion Teach,  
The dullest Rogue is still most fit to Preach.  
Excuse me, that thy want of Brains I quote,  
Affronts seem Raillery with Friends remote;  
Besides, I merely do't to save thy Soul,  
Lest thou shouldst damn it by some other Scroll.  
Like one that squints, thou seest not thy own ill,  
But throw'st on others Atoms that can kill,  
Envenomed like this Couplet of thy Quill;  
To be concerned the STUARTS to restore, 
Libel.   
Is a Reproach that hardly can be boar.  
Did ever Hellhound writ the like before?  
Such Malice, with such Nonsense, for 'twas all  
Armstrong had left to save his certain fall.  
His turncoat Zeal was his best Policy,  
For he long since had else been mounted high,  
And his Preferment cursed of Pensioner and Spy.   

Methinks I see thee Summon the Cabal,  
And on that Distich ask their Counsels all:  
G G —y, N— p, Ire— n, to the Theme advance,  
And B—don, that went over in Complaisance.  
Then Goodenough brings grizly T—ner in,  
And his fair Spouse, that lately sick had been,  
And scap't great danger her last Lying-in.  
The Mighty lines were scanned and understood,  
And all upon their Honours swore 'em good:  
Methinks too at their words I see thee swell,  
As Boys make Bubbles, or as Butcher's Veal.  
Thus rank Abuse, and Praise in Ridicule,  
ne'er fail to please with your conceited Fool.   

Show me a Traitorous Plot has been achieved,  
Where Rogues were not at last by Rogues deceived:  
Like Lobsters struck, they Naturally draw  
The rest, and on each other fix a Claw.  
Therefore to give thee cause to think me just,  
I'll show thee why these are not fit for trust.  
First, G G —y, that now is weary of one Wh—  
Will' peach, because he's Scandalously poor:  
Besides, she's ugly grown; and 'tis our Natures,  
When Beauty's gone, to think 'em nauseous Creatures:  
She too enraged, because another Dame  
Lately come o'er, Usurps her Place and Name,  
Is wondrous thoughtful: And 'tis ten to one,  
When such can think, some Mischief will be done.  
Next, burly B—don he so wide does gape,  
Secrets, as well as Flies, must needs escape:  
Treason can ne'er lie safe in one, whose Skin  
Is made too little to contain it in:  
For whilst he cleanlily takes pains to stop  
One end, another certainly is open;  
And I should be in fear of the backdoor,  
As much as of the Wicket that's before.  
Then never trust, nor think him secret proof,  
Whom Nature would not trust with Skin enough.   

Ire— n his parts for Armstrong lately played,  
And spoke so well in Dutch to get him Aid;  
The Shag-haired Ruffian well deserved the Grace  
To have been Shipped, and gained the second Place.  
His Name concealed, he durst appear in this;  
For the Devil himself has not a worse than his:  
But finding that he was observed, and known,  
Quenched his hot Zeal, and sneaked into the Town.  
Friends are forgot when Dangers are too near,  
By such as tremble with a guilty fear.  
Then since the least of Ills 'tis best to take,  
Faith trust to thy own self for thy own sake:  
'Tis better to be hanged for what thou dost,  
Than by their tricks to dangle, as thou must.  
Self-preservation is our chiefest care,  
And thou thy Treason best canst know and bear;  
Besides, thy Folly makes thee safe enough,  
Nothing holds Poison like an Ass' hoof.   

Your Quoting Scripture is as dull a thing,  
As you should swear you're Loyal to the King;  
Of equal worth and weight to all your Friends:  
So once the Devil did it for his Ends;  
But was, I think, more subtle than you are,  
And sure the better Writer too by far.  
Instead of matching Tom with Cato, he  
Had wrote, Bold Bravo, Thou art fit for me:  
But thou hast washed him, and as spotless made,  
As he had never Murdered nor Betrayed.  
Some Counsel now, and then I'll give thee o'er,  
Continue Rogue, but dare to write no more:  
With Satyrs if thou wouldst thy Foes disgrace,  
Show 'em no more thy scribbling, but thy face:  
There's profit in't, five hundred pounds lie dead  
For want of thy Satirical damned Head:  
But touch no more on CHARLES his Sacred Line,  
For all th' Assembly of the Powers Divine,  
In Miracles his Godlike Virtues own,  
Defending many Years his oft-attempted Crown.  
Besides, broad Lies the Party will undo,  
Satyrs should all be sharp, but yet be true:  
Nor needest thou thus thyself more Guilty make;  
But now, if after all, I should mistake,  
And that the Libel was not thine, pray tell  
The Author, this will serve his turn as well.   
From Pontack's Tavern, formerly known by the Noted Name of Shepherds, this 13th. of August, 1684.  
FINIS.   

LONDON, Printed for Joseph Hindmarsh, Bookseller to His ROYAL HIGHNESS, at the Black Bull in Cornhill, 1684.