A satire AGAINST VIRTUE. Aude aliquid brevibus Gyaris aut carcere dignum Si vis esse aliquis— Juven. Sat. LONDON: Printed in the Year, 1679. TO THE READER. THIS had never seen the Light, but that the Publisher does propose Gain to himself by it; and Interest you know governs the World. It cannot, I am sure, do much hurt, for that there are but few will understand it; and for the more ingenious, I hope, they will make better use of it. T. A. A POEM: Supposed to be spoken by a Town-Hector. PINDARIC, In Imitation of Mr. Cowley. (1.) NOW Curses on ye all ye virtuous Fools, Who think to fetter freeborn souls, And tie'um to dull morality and rules. The Stagarite be damned, and all the Crew Of Learned Idiots, who his steps pursue; And those more silly Proselytes whom his fond precepts drew. Oh, had his Ethics been with their wild Author drowned, Or a like Fate which those lost Writings found, Which that grand Plagiary doomed to fire, And made by unjust Flames expire: They ne'er had then seduced Morality, ne'er lasted to debauch the World with their lewd Pedantry. But damned and more (if Hell can do't) be that their cursed name, Who ere the Rudiments of Law designed; Who e'er did the first model of Religion frame, By nought before but their own power or will confined: Now quite abridged of all their Primitive Liberty And slaves to each capricious Monarch's Tyranny. More happy Brutes who the great Rule of Sense observe, And ne'er from their first Charter swerve. Happy whose lives are merely to enjoy, And feel no sting of sin which may their bliss annoy. Still unconcerned at Epithets of ill or good, Distinctions, unadulterate Nature never understood. (2.) Hence hated Virtue from our godly Isle, No more our joys beguile, No more with thy loathed presence plague our happy state, Thou enemy to all that's brisk, or gay, or brave, or great. Be gone with all thy pious meager Train, To some unfruitful unfrequented Land, And there an Empire gain, And there extend thy rigorous command: There where illiberal Nature's nigardise Has set a Tax on Vice. Where the lean barren Region does enhance The worth of dear intemperance. And for each pleasurable sin exacts excise, We (thanks to Heaven) more cheaply can offend, And want no tempting Luxuries, No good convenient sinning opportunities, Which Nature's bounty could bestow, or Heaven's kindness lend. Go follow that nice Goddess to the Skies, Who here too sore disgusting at increasing Vice, Disliked the World, and thought it too profane, And timely hence retired, and kindly ne'er returned again: Hence to those airy Mansions rove, Converse with Saints and holy folks above; Those may thy presence woe, Whose lazy ease affords them nothing else to do: Where haughty scornful I, And my great Friends, will ne'er vouchsafe thee company. thou'rt now a hard unpracticable good, Too difficult for flesh and blood; Were I all soul; like them, perhaps, I'd learn to practise thee. (3.) Virtue, thou solemn grave impertinence, Abhorred by all the men of wit and sense. Thou damned fatigue, that clogst life's journey here, Though thou no weight of wealth or profit bear; Thou puling fond Green-sickness of the mind, That makest us prove to our own selves unkind, Whereby, we Coals and Dirt for diet choose, And, pleasure, better food, refuse. Cursed ill, that lead'st deluded Mortals on, Till they too late do find themselves undone, Choosed by a Dowry in reversion, The greatest Votary thou e'er couldst boast, Pity so brave a Soul, was on thy service lost; What wonders he in wickedness had done, Whom thy weak power could so inspire alone! There long with fond amours he courted thee, Yet dying, did recant his vain Idolatry. At length, though late, he did repent with shame, Forced to confess thee nothing but an empty name. So was that Lecher gulled whose haughty love, Designed a Rape on the Queen Regent of the Gods above. When he a Goddess thought he had in chase, He found a gaudy vapour in the place, And with thin Air beguiled his starved embrace. Idly he spent his vigour, spent his blood, And tired himself to oblige an unperforming Cloud. (4.) If Human bind to thee, ere worship paid, They were by ignorance misled, That only them devout, and thee a Goddess made. None haply in the World's rude untaught infancy, Before it had out-grown its childish innocence. Before it had arrived at sense, Or watched the manhood and discretion of Debauchery; None in those ancient Godly duller times, When crafty Pagans had ingross'd all crimes; When Christian fools were obstinately good, Nor yet their Gospel freedom understood. Tame easy Fops who could so prodigally bleed, To be thought Saints, and die a Calendar with red: No prudent Heathen e'er seduced could be, To suffer Martyrdom for thee, Only that errand Ass whom the false Oracle called wise; No wonder if the Devil uttered lies. That snivelling Puritan who in spite of all the mode, Would be unfashionably good, And exercised his whining gifts to rail at Vice; Him all the Wits of Athens damned, And justly with Lampoons defamed. But when the mad Fanatic could not silenced be, From broaching dangerous Divinity; The wise Republic made him for prevention die, And sent him to the Gods and better Company. (5.) Let Fumbling Age be grave and wise, And Virtues poor contemned Idea prize, Who never knew, or now are past the sweets of Vice, While we whose active pulses beat With lusty youth and vigorous heat, Can all their Bards-and Morals too despise, While my plump veins are filled with lust and blood. Let not one thought of her intrude, Or dare approach my breast, But know its all possessed By a more welcome guest. And know I have not yet the leisure to be good. If ever unkind destiny, Shall force long life of me; If e'er I must the curse of dotage bear, Perhaps I will dedicate those dregs of Time to her, And come with crutches her most humble votary. When sprightly vice retreats from hence, And quits the ruin of decayed sense, She'll serve to usher in a fair pretence, And banish with the name, a well dissembled impotence. When Phthisic, Rheums, Catarrhs, and Palsies seize, And all the Bills of Maladies, Which Heaven to punish over living Mortals sends; Then let her enter with the numerous infirmities, Herself the greatest place, which wrinkles and grey hairs attends. (6.) Tell me, ye Venerable Sots, who Court her most, What small advantage can she boast, Which her great Rival hath not in a greater score engrossed. Her quiet claim and peace of mind, In Wine and Company we better find. Find it with pleasure to combine. In mighty Wine, where we our senses steep, And Lull our Cares and Consciences asleep. But why do I that wild Chimaera name? Conscience! that giddy Airy Dream, Which does from brainsick heads and ill digesting stomaches steam. Conscience! the vain fantastic fear Of punishments, we know not when nor where: Projects of crafty Statesmen to support weak Law, Whereby they slavish Spirits awe, And dastard Souls to forced obedience draw. Grand wheedle which our Gowned Impostors use, The poor unthinking Rabble to abuse, Scarecrow to fright's from the forbidden fruit of vice, Their own beloved Paradise: Let those vile Canter's wickedness decry, Whose Mercenary tongues take pay For what they say; And yet commend in practice what their words deny, While we discerning Heads, who furthest pry Their holy Cheats, deny And scorn their frauds, And scorn their sanctified Cajoulery. (7.) None but dull Souls discredit vice, Who act their wickedness with an ill grace; Such their profession scandalise, And justly forfeit all that praise: All that esteem that credit and applause, Which we by our wise manage from a sin can raise, A true and brave transgressor ought To sin with the same spirit Caesar fought: Mean Souls! offenders now no honours gain, Only debaucher of the noble strain. Vice well improved yields bliss and fame beside, And some for sinning have been deified. Thus the Lewd Gods of old did move, By those brave methods, to their seats above. ere jove himself the Sovereign Deity, Father and King of the immortal Progeny, Ascended to that high Degree; By crimes beyond the reach of weak Mortality, He Heaven one large Seraglio made, Each Goddess turned a glorious Punk o'th' trade; And all that Sacred place Was filled with Bastard Gods of his own race: Almighty Lechery got his first repute, And everlasting Whoring was his chiefest Attribute. (8.) How Gallant was that wretch whose happy guilt, A Fame upon the Ruins of a Temple built! Let fools, said he, quietly allege, And urge the no great fault of Sacrilege: I'll set the Sacred Pile on Flame, And in its Ashes write my lasting Name, My Name which thence shall be Deathless as its own Deity. Thus the vain glorious Charon I'll outdo, And Egypt's proudest Monarch too; Those lavish Prodigals who idly did consume Their Lives and Treasures to erect a Tomb, And only great, by being buried, would become, At cheaper rates than they I'll buy Renown. So spoke the daring Hector, so did Prophecy, And so it proved, in vain did envious Fate By fruitless methods try, To raze his well built Fame and Memory Amongst Posterity: The Boutefeu can now Immortal write, While the inglorious Founder is forgotten quite. (9) Yet greater was that mighty Emperor; A greater crime befitted his high Power, Who sacrificed a City to a Jest, And showed he knew the grand Intrigues of humour best. He made all Rome a Bonfire for loud Fame, And Sung, and played and danced amidst the Flame; Bravely begun! yet pity there he stayed, One step, to Glory, more he should have made: He should have heaved the noble frolic higher, And made the People on that Funeral expire, Or, providently, with their blood put out the Fire. Had this been done, The utmost of glory he had run; No greater Monument could be To consecrate him to eternity, Nor should there need another Herald of his praise but me. (10.) And thou yet greater Faux, the glory of our Isle, Whom baffled Hell esteems its chiefest Foil; 'Twere injury should I omit thy name, Whose Actions merit all the breath of Fame. Methinks, I see the trembling shades below, All round, in humble reverence bow; Doubtful they seem, whether, to pay their Loyalty To their dread Monarch, or to thee: No wonder he grew jealous of thy feared success, Envied Mankind the honour of thy wickedness, And spoiled that brave attempt which should have made his grandeur less. How e'er regret not, mighty Ghost, Thy Plot by treacherous fortune crossed, Nor shink thy well deserved glory lost. Thou the full praise of Villainy shalt ever share, And all will judge thou art complete enough; when thou couldst dare, So thy great Master fared, whose high disdain, Contemned that Heaven, where he could not Reign, When he with bold ambition strove, T'usurp the Throne above. And led against the Deity an armed Train, Though from his vast designs he fell, O're-powered by his Almighty Foe, Yet gained he Victory in his overthrow. He gained sufficient Triumph that he durst Rebel, And 'twas some pleasure to be thought the greatest one in Hell. (11.) Tell me, you great Triumvirate, what shall I do To be illustrious as you. Let your example move me with a generous Fire, Let them into my daring thoughts inspire Somewhat completely wicked, some vast Gyant-crime, Unthought, unknown, unpatterned by all past and present time. 'Tis done, 'tis done, I think I feel the powerful charms, And a new heat of sin my spirit warms: I travel with a glorious mischief, for whose birth, My Soul's too narrow, and weak fate too feeble yet to bring forth. Let the unpitied vulgar tamely go And stalk for company, the wide Plantation below: Such their vile Souls for viler Barter sell, Scarce worth the damning, or their room in Hell. We are his Grandees, and expect as high preferments there, For our good Service, as on earth we share In them, sin is but a mere privative of good, The frailty and defect of flesh and blood: In us 'tis a perfection, who profess A studied and elaborate wickedness. We are the great Royol Society of Vice, Whose Talents are to make discoveries, And advance Sin like other Arts and Sciences, It's I the bold Columbus, only I, Who must new Worlds in Vice descry, And fix the pillars of unpassable iniquity. (12.) How sneaking was the first debauch we find, Who for so small a sin sold Human kind. How undeserving that high place, To be thought Parent of our sin and race, Who by low guilt our nature doubly did debase: Unworthy was he to be thought Father of the first born Cain, which got The noble Cain, whose bold and gallant act Proclaimed him of more high extract. Unworthy me, And all the braver part of his Posterity. Had the just Fates designed me in his stead, I had done some great and unexampled deed; A Deed which should decry The Stoics dull Eznallity, And show that sin admits transcendency: A Deed wherein the Tempter should not share Above what Heaven could punish, and above what he could dare For greater crimes than this I would have fell, And acted somewhat which might merit more than Hell. An Apology for the preceding Poem, by way of Epilogue, to be annexed. MY part is done, and you'll, I hope, excuse Th'extravagance of a Repenting Muse, Pardon what e'er she hath too boldly said, She only acted here in Masquerade. For the slight Argument. She did produce, Were not to flatter Vice, but to traduce. So we Buffoons in Princely dress expose. Not to be gay, but more Ridiculous. When she an Hector for her Subject had, She thought she must be Termagant and mad. That made our Spark like a lewd punk o'th' Town, Who by converse with Bullies wicked grown, Has learned the Mode to cry all Virtue down. But now the Vizards off, she changes Scene. And turns a modest civil Girl again. Our Poet has a different taste of Wit, Nor will tothth' Common Vogue himself submit. Let some admire the Fops whose Talents lie In venting dull insipid Blasphemy, He swears, he cannot with those terms dispense, Nor will be damned for the repute of sense. Wit's Name was never to profaneness due, For than you see he could be witty too: He could Lampoon the State, and Libel Kings, But that he is Loyal, and knows better things, Than Fame whose guilty Birth from Treason springs. He likes not Wit which can't a Licence claim, To which the Author dares not set his Name. Wit should be open, court each Readers eye, Not lurk in fly unprinted privacy. But Criminal Writers, like dull Birds of Night, For weakness, or for shame avoid the light; May such, a Jury for the Audience have, And from the Bench, not Pit, their doom receive. May they the Tower for their due merits share, And a just wreath of Hemp, not Laurel, wear: He could be Bawdy too, and nick the times, In what they dearly love: Damned placket Rhimes, Such as our Nobles write— Whose Nasceous Poetry can reach no higher Than what the Codpiece, or its God inspire, So lewd they spend at quill you'd justly think, They wrote with some thing nastier than Ink. But he still thought that little Wit, or none, Which a just modesty must never own, And a mere Reader with a Blush a Tone. If Ribaldry deserved the praise of Wit, He must resign to each illiterate Citt, And Prentices and Carmen challenge it. Even they too can be smart and witty there; For all men on that Subject Poets are, Henceforth he Vows, if ever more he find Himself tothth' busy itch of Verse inclined, If e'er he's given up so far to write, He never means to make his end delight: Should he do so, he must despair success, For he's not now debauched enough to please, And must be damned for want of wickedness. He'll therefore use his Wit another way, And next the ugliness of Vice display. Though against Virtue once he drew his Pen, He'll ne'er for aught, but her defence again. Had he the Genius and Poetic rage, Great as the Vices of this guilty Age. Were he all Gall, and armed with store of spite, 'Twere worth his pains to undertake to write; To Noble satire he'd direct his aim, And bite Mankind, and Poetry reclaim, And shoot his Quill just like a Porcupine At Vice, and make it stab in every Vein, The world should learn to blush, And dread the Vengeance of his— Wit, Which more than their own Consciences should fright, And should think him for Heavens just Plague designed To visit for the sins of lewd Mankind. FINIS.