A Loyal satire against Whiggism.  

AS I did lately travel from the Town  
Through distant Roads, and deserts scarcely known,  
From whose dark thickets when I'd made my way,  
A newfound World, as well as newborn day  
I thought appeared; where Nature ruled alone,  
No Art, or help, no gaudy pomp was shown,  
But every Plant, each Bush, and spreading Tree  
Did grow without man's Care or Industry.  
There as I stood, and cast my eyes around,  
Pleased with the sight of that delightful ground,  
Something from midst the Walks did towards me make,  
Which nearly did resemble humane shape;  
Soon as it nigher came it proved to be  
A man of most inviting honesty;  
An Aspect courteous, and a brow serene,  
Of humane nature, and most humble mien,  
His hoary head did Veneration bear,  
And his face spoke his Noble Character.  
Joyful I was in those strange parts to find  
A front that did foretell so brave a mind,  
For ask me Transactions of the Town,  
I told him what disorders late were done;  
What wild distractions and misshapen fears,  
And what a Cloud of Faction round appears,  
What daring Treasons were but now maintained  
By Sh. and City both in Faction trained,  
And how the bloody minded Whigs do aim  
To play again their old King-killing game.  
Which when the good old man heard me relate,  
In flowing tears he mourned his Countries fate,  
And gave me this Advice, Beware my Son  
Lest by the Wiles of Traitors thou'rt undone,  
For I have known th' Experience of those times,  
When Loyalty was thought the worst of Crimes;  
And when Rebellion with a daring eye  
Was covered by the Veil of sanctity,  
But thou art young, therefore I'll plainly show  
How thou a Monster Whig master surely know,  
It somewhat favours man; so have I seen  
When on a Christmas Evening we have been  
On frolicks bend, a thing of such like note,  
With hairy Chin, diminished hanging Coat,  
Broad Hat, stiff Band, and a malicious Eye,  
Which at a distance fully seemed to be  
The very Villain that sequestered me.  
It raised my wonder, but as 't towards us pressed  
What should it prove but a Baboon well dressed,  
For so morose are they, and more precise:  
As we're in truth, they're positive in lies;  
What one but says, the other strait will swear,  
Let it be right or wrong, or foul or fair,  
It is all one, since they the Godly are.  
Vile hypocrites, who'd only good in show,  
Whose whole Religion lies in seeming so:  
For were their Souls laid open to our view,  
We should not find amongst 'em all one true.  
Therefore beware (again the old man said)  
Lest by their flattering tongues thou art betrayed,  
But if they find you loyal, wise, and brave,  
They'll leer, and smile, and smiling dig your grave;  
Such is their malice, spite, and mortal hate  
Against all that love their Country, Prince, and State.  
Now gentle Youth let any man of wit  
Weigh right their Cause, and well Consider it  
They'll find concealed a lurking Jesuit.   

Morals and Whigs are Inconsistent things,  
The one still saves, the other still kill's King's;  
Morality would teach'em to obey,  
And make'em happy under Sovereign sway,  
Make'em speak well of, and do good to all;  
Envious towards none, but love in general.   

The very Herds do due submission yield  
To the Imperial Lion of the Field;  
No Mutinies or Factions do they know,  
But pay Allegiance where they ought to do;  
'Tis only Whig, that worse Beast than they,  
That does pretend to Sense, and disobey.  
He that although he hears his Brother's name  
Unjustly wronged, won't vindicate his fame,  
But rather blow those ashes into fire  
Which were before just ready to expire.  
Oh! where is then his Justice, does it lie  
In things like these, or Acts of charity?  
There I have known 'em well; ye poor beware,  
Better ye starve than ask for mercy there:  
For stead of helping, they will spurn your grief,  
Contemn your sorrows, and forbid relief.  
Once one of these did my assistance crave  
For certain Sums, which I most frankly gave  
Without the least distrust, his Note, or Bond,  
(For who would think that man could do such wrong)  
Which when I called for in, in rage he says,  
Nay vows he never saw me in his days.  
By this I only warn thee to be wise,  
Near trust 'em, for they're all deceit and lies,  
Whilst still they seem to act on pious grounds,  
Yet cut your throat to gain an hundred pounds.  
'Tis Interest alone that they adore,  
Almighty Interest, and a secret Whore  
Can touch the Lechers so, that they again  
Shall hug and fleer as if they're Jurymen;  
Oh that blessed time! then, than the Cause did rise,  
And full revenge for Tory Injuries,  
It was not Right, but Faction did prevail,  
A well-grown Whig of Verdicts ne'er could fail;  
Oh than ye common Hirelings, Cheats, and Knaves,  
Heroes in Stews, Stabbers, and Alley-braves;  
Turn, turn t' embrace so good, so safe a Cause  
There you may act your Murders with applause,  
Kill but a Tory, and you serve the Laws.  
Nay, though 'tis proved, that 'twas your dire Intent  
To seize your King at Oxford Parliament.  
Yet bring it up to Town, and you shall be  
Praised by a Jury for your Loyalty;  
Though at the very moment Oaths they take  
That all they do is mee● for Conscience sake.   

At this he paused, and somewhat weary grown  
In a fine odorous Grotto we sat down,  
And then he thus went on, Think not dear Youth  
That what I've said is malice more than truth,  
For Heaven can tell from such vile thoughts I'm free,  
And all is out of sense of honesty.  
Which did they know, they would not dare to own  
The Hellish Principles of Forty one,  
Nor in their Tubs of Treason still declare  
That King's Elective by the People are.  
Nor would they now, (but Whig is still the same)  
Foment Divisions, and blow up the flame;  
But Jealousies, Suspicion, Gild, and Fear  
Do on their disaffected brow appear;  
Their business is to raise Commotions higher,  
Lay open breaches, people's hearts to fire  
With wild Chimaeras of tyrannic Power,  
And of another bloody Massacre;  
Or now, which is so much the Nations Cry,  
The eminent increase of Popery.  
'Tis Popery that round our City waits,  
'Tis Popery that taints our Magistrates;  
'Tis that alone that makes our Nation fear  
A Popish Miss, and Popish Successor,  
Cries out old Belial's Heir, the noble Peer.  
Whose little bulk with Treason's so o'ercast  
That it is vanished in the mist at last;  
He that's reserved so long only to be  
A fitter pattern of Hell's Cruelty,  
Where with his Faction when he grovelling lies,  
They may, too late, cast up repenting eyes,  
And ask forgiveness of that Prince, whose name  
They made it still their business to defame;  
Whilst he shall dazzle with a Crown so bright,  
Their guilty heads shan't bear that glorious light,  
But from his presence sink, and howl in dismal night.   

Another Tenet Whig does surely hold,  
Is to rail at these times, and praise the old;  
To cry out on the Nations horrid pride,  
And cast all sins upon the Tory side;  
As if that formal looks and dress precise  
Mayn't hide a heart more proud than ever lies  
In those that wear more handsome Decencies.  
Then Whoring, Drinking, Swearing to our Charge  
They all impute, and lay our Crimes at large;  
And Crimes they are, but such with them are done,  
jenny can tell how well the Tap did run.   

'Tis thus that Faction moves, 'tis these foul ways  
That makes Rebellions, broils, and threatening days;  
These are the men from whom all trouble springs;  
'Tis they that ruin States, 'tis they that ruin Kings;  
Though he be ne'er so gracious, just, and good,  
One that wasn't pleased even with Traitor's blood;  
And though whole Hecatombs could ne'er atone  
For Royal blood, and an Usurped Throne,  
Yet, like the Almighty, with a giving hand  
Pours favours still on an ungrateful Land;  
And how do they requite him now at last?  
'Tis well, 'tis well, Acts of Oblivion past.  
Sure 'twas enough to have a Father slain,  
Not to attempt it in the Son again:  
But they who are not grateful, cannot be  
Ever expected to have honesty.  
The very Beasts do gratitude profess;  
Oblige them once, what kindness they'll express  
By every sign, and in their Language say,  
Rather than you shall die, we'll be the prey:  
Now to be Whig and grateful ne'er was known,  
It is enough to make their Charter none.  
For if such bounteous graces of their Prince  
Can't raise a grateful, nor a Loyal sense,  
But they who after all, his Power disown,  
His Favours slight, and undermine his Throne,  
First bring him low, to seize at last his Crown.  
Who'd so to Kings, oh what will they then be  
To Fellow Creatures of their own Degree?  
How are they fit for Man's Society?    

London, Printed for C. B. and are to be sold by W. Davis, 1682.