NEW ADVICE TO A PAINTER, etc.  

PAinter, once more thy Pencil reassume.  
Draw me a Night Piece— Draw me Rome.  
Rome under ground, 'twill make a curious Piece!  
Out do the boldest hands of Ancient Greece.  
Let the pale Tapers, which afford it lights,  
Burn blue, affrighted with approaching Spirits.  
Draw me the shaking Triple Mitred Head,  
And all the Conclave, looking like the Dead.  
Draw fallen Lucifer in Brimstone Robes,  
Infernal Posts arriving thick like Jobes:  
Each telling after other rueful Tale,  
How all the Pious Stratagems still fail;  
Nor Pistol, Poison, Poniard will prevail.  
How in defence of See Apostolic,  
Like all true Bigots' Roman Catholic,  
Most boldly living, their late Martyrs tied,  
And all without Confessing, bravely died.  
How daring Coleman led the Forlorn Hope,  
Of all th' Unfortunate Brethren of the Rope,  
Who murder Princes to exalt a Pope.  
Of this new Order of Cordeliers how  
He was the Founder and Confounder too.  
How Cardinal Ireland, Hartcourt, Gaven fell,  
Of Pickering, Grove, and Turner, let them tell,  
How all's undone, Rome, Purgatory, Hell!  
So! Painter 'tis enough; now let's retire,  
And leave the Pope in this new Malvidere.   

Next, let me see a spacious Curtain Drawn,  
Fine and transparent as the Cobweb Lawn.  
It must with curious Art and Care be wrought,  
That through it one may see a nimble thought.  
The ground with Faction, Treason, Tumult lay,  
All Varnished o'er with shining Preach and Pray.  
Shade it with Fineness, Artifice, Intrigue,  
Darken the foldings with the Solemn League.  
Behind this Curtain let bold Actors stand,  
Buskined for Tragedy upon command;  
Inspired with furious, not Poetic Rage,  
A second time to tread a bloody Stage.  
Draw there an Aged Pope upon all four,  
With riding Furniture Equipped o'er,  
With Warlike Saddle, and with Kerbing Bit,  
Holsters and Howsings, Breastplate, all complete.  
Then let a dapper Pres'ter Poll bestride  
The Scarlet Rampant Beast, and fiercely ride.  
Let him be clad in the new Silken Buff,  
And wear an old Round-head without a Ruff.  
Upon the top of his Triumphant Lance,  
The spoilt Whore of Babel's Smock advance.  
Before him let there march Lewd Reformation,  
Proclaiming Liberty and Toleration.  
Paint dismal Ruin stalking in the Rear,  
Than Landscape Desolation far and near.  
Paint close Cabals, and Midnight's secret Clubs,  
Paint the Disciples of the bawling Tubs,  
With Ears erected and with Mouths displayed,  
And all the Brethren o'th' Religious Blade,  
Big with their hopes and expectations blown,  
That e'er't be long the day will be their own.  
Let several Labels from their mouths proceed,  
To note the different Tribes o'th' Holy Seed:  
Here, Root and Branch, there, down with Babel down.  
Away with bishops, this, that, with the Crown.  
Here draw one closesly laughing in his sleeve,  
That he has made the zealous fools believe,  
What he has told them is as Gospel true,  
If't be not so, then he's a very Jew.  
Paint here Ambition making humble Court  
To Popular Ears, and showing Scripture for't.  
There, Draw me Envy, and here, private Pique,  
Looking demure while deep Revenge they seek.  
Here one who lost his Crown and Bishop's Lands,  
Clapping for joy his Sacrilegious hands.  
Draw busy Jealousy among the Crowd,  
And whispering Fear, and Calumny still loud.  
Paint Armed Zeal in fight Gospel Buff;  
Paint what thou wilt, so't be confused enuff.  
Then Painter Draw one laughing out this Mott,  
Come do it boldly then, Plot upon Plot.  
Now Painter let us Trade in open day,  
And bare faced Light: a barren Landscape lay,  
Like some cold Northern Clime; there must not be  
Much Beauty in it, much Variety:  
Not many fruitful Vales, nor pleasant Springs,  
Nor murmu'ring rivulets, nor delightful things.  
But cragged Rocks, and the bald Mountains show,  
No Perrewigs of Wood, but Bonnets blew  
Of distant Sky, Paint Loughs, and Treacherous Bogs,  
Stored with Revelation croaking Frogs.  
And now the Scene is fit, the Curtain draw,  
Trumpets and Drums within, Sasa, Sasa.  
A Reverend Prelate must the Prologue be,  
Enough alone to make a Tragedy.  
Paint him all over wounds and purple gore,  
Greater than Caesar's and in number more.  
Than let the mad brained Zealous Troops advance,  
Hasting to forfeit their Allegiance,  
In the defence of Covenant; Well a way!  
True Protestant Religion to betray.  
While thus with Violence, Murder, Perjury,  
They strive to raise their new Fifth Monarchy,  
The Iron Sceptre of Presbytery.  
Now Painter Summon all thy skilful Art,  
Thy choicest Colours, cleanest strokes impart.  
Draw me a blooming Hero, let him fly,  
more swift than  from a sullen Sky:  
Whose early Valour Rivals Caesar's Fame,  
For he too came, and saw, and overcame.  
Paint Woods of Laurels for his Conquering brow,  
he'll reap them all as fast as they can grow.  
But gentle Painter, plant them in the shade,  
Lest as they quickly grew, they quickly fade.  
And now dear Painter, how shall we devise,  
To draw some thoughts? Oh! how would that surprise!  
But since those swift Ideas will not sit,  
Till thou canst finish 'em, even venture it,  
A careless dash does sometimes bravely hit.  
Draw then the discontented Factious crew  
Of Disaffected Brethren; let us view  
Their Faces well, and we shall easily find,  
Their secret thoughts by th' Index of the mind.  
Draw biting Lips, and sullen frowning Brow,  
And hands lift up betwixt a Curse and Vow:  
Paint this half drawing out his angry Sword,  
That weeping for the people of the Lord,  
Who for the Gospel were in Battle slain,  
Or by the Common En'my Captive ta'en.  
Let hasty blood mount in that manly Face,  
There let it sneak, and give pale Choler place  
Here Paint one raving, raging, staring mad;  
Thus disappointed after seeking Gad!  
Thus by ill Conduct, and base Cowardice,  
To spoil the Good Old Cause, and ope' the Eyes  
Of Wicked men, to see and Triumph too;  
What hast thou done Lard? Lard! What must we do?  
Can not th' impatient Brethren stay till we  
Had fully hatched a New Conspiracy,  
No King, or else of Clouts, till we had made,  
(That is a Glorious King) they might have stayed:  
But thus with Shell on head, and callow wing,  
Thus run away! Lard! This was such a thing!  
Now should we strive to lend our helping hand  
To work Salvation, th' wicked of the Land  
Will call't Rebellion: and should they prevail,  
We can expect no Mercy, if we fail  
In our attempt, no second Amnesty  
Can e'er be hoped, Ah! No Indemnity!  
Painter, close up thy Piece, exposeed to view;  
'Twill meet with various Censures: But 'tis true.  
Till the next time we meet, Painter Adieu.    

To the KING.  
HAil Mighty Charles! Joy of our Lives and Eyes:  
Born and preserved, restored in wondrous wise!  
At last take pity of a Glorious State,  
Shaken by the Malice, and the restless Hate,  
Of Undermining Foes, and Treacherous Friends,  
By differing methods driving the same ends.  
Papist and Presbyterian both combine,  
And Sampsons' flaming Foxes Tails conjoin  
To Rob thee of thy Crown, and to destroy,  
With thee our Lives, Religion, Liberty.  
Rome and Geneva, both strive to pull down  
The Envied Mitre and Imperial Crown.  
The Royal Martyr Charles, the Wise, the Just,  
Commands you to forgive, but never trust.  
Lose not your Friends in hopes your Foes to gain,  
Eternal hates are reconciled in vain.  
You are no longer safe than they want power,  
No Monarch after that can Reign an hour.  
Cherish you Friends if Sceptres you will sway,  
And Rule your Subjects many a happy day.  
Defend that Faith which does defend your Crown,  
Which Christ first taught, which all true Christians own:  
Who teaches any other, comes from Hell;  
The devil first did, then taught men to Rebel.  
Read all the rest in the late Rebel Scot,  
There is enough to show a second Plot.  
The Banks are yet entire, 'tis not too late  
To stop another Deluge o'er the State.  
Who his to morrow trusts for safety, may,  
Before it comes be ruined by delay.  
To speak bold truths Poets and Painters dare,  
Believe them, Mighty Sir, Believe, Beware!  
Nothing can save us from a dreadful Doom,  
But what secures from Faction and from Rome.  
FINIS.