POEMS ON Affairs of State: FROM The Time of Oliver Cromwell, to the Abdication of K. James the Second.  
Written by the greatest Wits of the Age.  
VIZ. 

Duke of Buckingham,  
Earl of Rochester,  
Lord Bu— st,  
Sir John Denham,  
Andrew marvel, Esq  
Mr. Milton,  
Mr. Dryden,  
Mr. Sprat,  
Mr. Waller.  
Mr. Ayloffe, etc.    
With some Miscellany Poems by the same: Most whereof never before Printed.  
Now carefully examined with the Originals, and Published without any Castration.  
Printed in the Year 1697.   

THE PREFACE.  
THE common aim of Prefaces to prepossess the Reader in favour of the Book, is here wholly useless; for what is now published is none of the trifling Performances of the Age, that are yet to make their fortune, but a Collection of those vaulable Pieces, which several great Men have produced, no less inspired by the injured Genius of their Country, than by the Muses. They are of Established Fame, and already received, and allowed the best Patriots, as well as Poets. I am sensible, that should we consult our superficial Hypocriticks, they would often be apt to arraign the Numbers; for there are a sort of Men, who having little other merit, than a happy chime, would fain fix the Excellence of Poetry in the smoothness of the Versification, allowing but little to the more Essential Qualities of a Poet, great Images, good Sense, etc. Nay they have so blind a Passion for what they Excel in, that they will exclude all variety of Numbers from English Poetry, when they allow none but jambics, which must by an identy of sound bring a very unpleasing satiety upon the Reader. I must own that I am of opinion that a great many rough Cadencies that are to be found in these Poems, and in the admirable Paradise Lost, are so far from Faults that they are Beauties, and contribute by their variety to the prolonging the pleasure of the Readers. But I have unawares fallen into this Digression, which requires more time and room than I have here to allow to set to it, in that just Light it requires. I shall return to the following Poems, writ by Mr. Milton, Mr. marvel, etc. which will show us, that there is no where a greater Spirit of Liberty to be found, than in those who are Poets; Homer, Aristophanes, and most of the inspired Tribe have showed it; and Catullus in the midst of Caesar's Triumphs attacked the Vices of that great Man, and exposed 'em to lessen that Popularity and Power he was gaining among the Roman People, which he saw would be turned to the destruction of the Liberty of Rome.  Quis hoc potest videre, quis potest pati, etc. 
And 
Pulchre convenit improbis cinaedis  
Mamurrae,, Pathicoque, Caesarique.   
And again Nil nimium studeo Caesar tibi velle placere, etc.  
But it would be endless to quote all the Liberties the Poets have of old taken with Ill men, whose Power had awed others to a servile Flattery; the succeeding Tyrants have not been able to suppress the numerous Instances we have yet of it. We have therefore reason to hope that no Englishman that is a true lover of his Country's Good and Glory, can be displeased at the publishing a Collection, the design of each of which was to remove those pernicious Principles which lead us directly to Slavery; to promote a Public and Generous Spirit, which was then almost a shame to the Possessor, if not a certain Ruin. I believe were a man of equal Ability and unbyass'd Temper to make a just Comparison, some of the following Authors might claim perhaps an equal share with many of the most celebrated of the Romans or Greeks. I know in a Nation so factious as this, where the preposterous Principles of Slavery are run into a point of Conscience and Honour, and yet hold abundance in unseasonable and monstrous Divisions, it would be a task that must disoblige too many to undertake. But when all Europe is engaged to destroy that tyrannic Power, the mismanagement of those Times, and the selfish evil Designs of a corrupt Court had given Rise to, it cannot be thought unseasonable to publish so just an Account of the true source of all our present Mischiefs; which will be evidently found in the following Poems, for from them we may collect a just and secret History of the former Times.  
And looking backward with a wise Affright,  
See Seams of Wounds dishonest to the Sight.  
Oh that we could yet learn, under this Auspicious Government founded on Liberty, the generous principles of the Public Good! Sure th●s Consort of Divine Amphion's will charm the distracted pieces of the public Building into one noble and regular Pile to be the wonder, as well as safeguard of Europe. This being the aim of this present Publication, it must be extremely approved by all true Patriots, all lovers of the general Good of Mankind, and in that most certainly of their own particular. 
Omnes profecto liberi libentius  
Sumus, quam servimus.  Take off the gaudy veil of Slavery, and she will appear so frightful and deformed that all would abhor her: For all Mankind naturally prefer Liberty to Slavery.  
'Tis true some few of these Poems were printed before in loose Papers, but so mangled that the persons that wrote them would hardly have known, much less have owned them; which put a Person on examining them by the Originals or best Copies, and they are here published without any Castration, with many curious Miscellaneous Poems of the same great Men, which never before see the Light.   

By mistake of the Printer, the Running Titles of the Sheet G, (viz.) from p. 81 to 96 are printed wrong; and should have been printed, Poems on State Affairs, instead of State Poems Continued.   

The INDEX.  

A Panegyric on Oliver Cromwell and his Victories, by E. Waller, Esq Page 1  
●●ree Poems on the Death of the late Protector Oliver Cromwell, viz. by Mr. Dryden, p. 6  
By Mr. Sprat, p. 13  
By Mr. Waller, called the Storm, p. 23  
directions to a Painter, said to be written by Sir John Denham, but believed to be writ by Mr. Milton, p. 24  
〈◊〉 the King by the same, p. 33  
continuation of Directions to a Painter, by the same, p. 34  
〈◊〉 the King, by the same, p. 45  
directions to a Painter, by the same, p. 46  
directions to a Painter, by the same, p. 50  
〈◊〉 last Instructions to a Painter about the Dutch Wars, 1667, by A. marvel, Esq p. 54  
〈◊〉 the King, by the same, p. 78  
〈◊〉 Loyal Scot, or Cleaveland's Ghost, upon the Death of Captain Douglas, burnt in his Ship at Chatham, by the same, p. 79  
●●itannia and Raleigh, a Dialogue, by A. marvel, Esq. p. 84  
advice to a Painter, by A. marvel, Esq. p. 89  
〈◊〉 the King, by the same. p. 92  
●ostradamus's Prophecies, by A. marvel, Esq Ibid.  
●●r Edmundbury Godfrey's Ghost, p. 94  
〈◊〉 Historical Poem, by A. marvel, Esq. p. 97  
hodge's Vision from the Monument, Decemb. 1675, by the same. p. 102  
〈◊〉 Dialogue between two Horses, by the same, 1674, p. 106  
〈◊〉 the Lord Mayor and Court of Aldermen presenting the late King and Duke of York each with a Copy of their Freedoms, 1674, by the same, p. 112  
〈◊〉 Blood's stealing the Crown, by the same, p 115  
●●rther Instructions to a Painter, 1670, by the same, Ibid.  
●ceana and Britannia, a Dialogue, by the same, p. 117  
〈◊〉 his Excellent Friend, Mr. Andrew marvel, p. 122  
〈◊〉 Epitaph on the Lord Fairfax, by the Duke of Buckingham, p. 123  
〈◊〉 Essay upon tho Earl of Shaftsbury's Death, p. 125  
〈◊〉 satire in Answer to a Friend, p. 128  
〈◊〉 Character of the English in allusion to Tacitus de Vita Agric. p. 131  
●ollen with his Flock of Court Misses, p. 132  
●●r Tho. Armstrong's Ghost, p. 135  
●he Royal Game, or a Princely New Play found in a Dream, 1672, p. 136  
●he Dream of the Cabal, a Prophetic satire, 1672, p. 137  
●n the three Dukes killing the Beadle on a Sunday Morning, Feb. 26. 1670, p. 147  
●he History of Insipids, a Lampoon, 1676, by the Lord Roch— r, p 149  
rochesters Farewell to the Court, 1680, p. 154  
marvel's Ghost, by Mr. Jo. Ayloffe, p. 16●  
The True Englishman, 1686, p. 16●  
On the young Statesmen, by I D— n, 1680, p. 16●  
Portsmouth's Looking-glass, by the Lord Roch— r, p. 16●  
The Impartial Trimmer, 1682, p. 16●  
Bajazet to Gloriana, 1683, p. 16●  
On King Charles, by the Earl of Rochester, for which we he was banished the Court and turned Mountebank, p. 17●  
Cato's Answer to Libanius when he advised him to go and consult th● Oracle of Jupiter Hamon, translated out of the Ninth Book of Lucan, p. 17●  
The Lord Lucas' Ghost, 1687, p. 17●  
An Epitaph on Algernoon Sidney, p. 17●  
The Brazen Head, p. 17●  
The Answer to it, Ibi●  
Upon the Execrable Murder of the Right Honourable Arthur Earl 〈◊〉 Essex, p. 17●  
An Essay upon satire, by J. D— n, Esq p. 179  
Upon an undeserving and ungrateful Mistress, whom he could not hel● loving, p. 186  
The Town Life, p. 19●  
A satire on the Modern Translators, 1684, p. 19●  
The Parliament-House to be Let, 1678, p. 19●  
Advice to Apollo, 1678, Ibid  
The Duel of the Crabs, by the Lord B—st, occasioned by Sir R. H● his Duel of the Stags, p 20●  
Instructions to his Mistress how to behave herself at Supper with he● Husband, 1682, p. 20●  
The Sessions of the Poets, to the Tune of Cook Laurel, p. 20●  
Desire, a Pindaric, p. 21●  
On the Prince's going to England with an Army to restrore the Government, 1688, p. 21●  
On his Royal Highness' Voyage beyond Sea, March 3d. 1678, p. 21●  
The Rabble, 1680, p. 21●  
A New Song of the Times, 1683, p. 21●  
The Battle-Royal: A Dream, 1687, p. 22●  
An Epitaph upon Felron, who was hanged in Chains for Murdering th● Old Duke of Buckingham: Written by the late Duke of Buckingham, p. 24●  
An Answer to Mr Waller's Poem on Oliver's Death; called the Storm Written by Sir W— G—. p. 24●  
Clarindon's House-Warming: Printed formerly with the Directions to 〈◊〉 Painter. Writ by an unknown Hand. p. 24●  
Royal Resolutions: By A. marvel, Esq p. 25●  
On the Lord Chancellor H— is Disgrace and Banishment, by King Charles II. p. 25●  
The Parallel, 1682. p. 254  
The perfect Enjoyment, by the Earl of Rochester, p. 25●  
A satire against Marriage, by the same, p. 25●   

ADDENDA.  
In Opposition to Mr. Dryden's Essay on satire, 1689. p. 16●    

POEMS ON State Affairs.  

A Panegyric on O. Cromwell, and his Victories.  By E. Waller, Esq. 
WHile with a strong, and yet a gentle Hand,  
You bridle Faction, and our Hearts command;  
Protect us from ourselves and from the Foe;  
Make us unite, and make us Conquer too.  
Let partial Spirits still aloud complain,  
Think themselves injured that they cannot Reign;  
And own no liberty, but where they may,  
Without control upon their Fellows prey.  
Above the Waves as Neptune showed his Face,  
To chide the Winds, and save the Trojan Race:  
So has your Highness (raised above the rest)  
Storms of ambition tossing us repressed.  
Your drooping Country, torn with Civil hate,  
Restored by you, is made a glorious State:  
The Seat of Empire, where the Irish come,  
And the unwilling Scot to fetch their doom.  
The Sea's our own, and now all Nations greet  
With bending Sails each Vessel in our Fleet.  
Your power resounds as far as Wind can blow,  
Or swelling Sails upon the Globe may go.  
Heaven that has placed this Island to give Law,  
To balance Europe and her State to awe;  
In this Conjunction does our Britain smile,  
The greatest Leader to the greatest Isle.  
Whether this Portion of the World were rend  
By the wide Ocean from the Continent;  
Or thus created, it was sure designed  
To be the sacred Refuge of Mankind.  
Hither the oppressed shall henceforth resort,  
Justice to crave, and succour of your Court,  
And show, your Highness▪ not for ours alone,  
But for the World's Protector shall be known.  
Fame, swifter than your winged Navy flies  
Through every Land that near the Ocean lies;  
Sounding your Name, and telling dreadful News  
To all that Piracy and Rapine use:  
With such a Chief the meanest Nation blest,  
Might hope to lift her head above the rest.  
What may be thought impossible to do  
For us, embraced by the Sea and you?  
Lords, of the World's great waist, the Ocean, we  
Whole Forests send to reign upon the Sea:  
And every Coast may trouble and relieve,  
But none can visit us without your leave.  
Angels and we know this Prerogative,  
That none can at our happy State arrive;  
While we descend at pleasure to invade  
The bad with Vengeance, or the good to aid;  
Our little World, the Image of the great,  
Like that amidst the boundless Ocean set,  
Of her own growth has all that Nature craves,  
And all that's Rare, as Tribute from the Waves.  
As Egypt does not on the Clouds rely:  
But to the Nile owes more that to the Sky;  
So what our Heaven, or what our Earth denies,  
Our ever constant Friend, the Sea supplies.  
The taste of hot Arabia's Spice we know,  
Free from the scorching Sun that makes it grow.  
Without the Worm in Persian Silks we shine,  
And without Planting, Drink of every Vine.  
To dig for Wealth we weary not our Limbs;  
Gold, though the heaviest Metal, hither swims.  
Ours is the Harvest where the Indians mow;  
We plough the Deep, and reap what others sow;  
Things of the noblest kind our own Soil breeds;  
Stout are our Men, and Warlike are our Steeds;  
Rome, though her Eagle through the World had flown,  
Could never make this Island all her own.  
Here the Third Edward, and the Black Prince too;  
France-conquering Henry flourished, and now You.  
For whom we stayed, as did the Grecian State,  
Till Alexander came to urge their Fate.  
When for more worlds that Macedonian cried,  
He wist not Thetis in her lap did hide  
Another yet, a world reserved for you,  
To make more great than that he did subdue.  
He safely might old Troops to Battle lead  
Against th'unwarlike Persian, or the Mede,  
Whose hasty flight did from a bloodless Field  
More Spoil than Honour to the Victor yield.  
A Race unconquered by their Clime made bold,  
The Calydonians armed with want and cold,  
Have by a Fate indulgent to your Fame,  
Been from all ages kept for you to tame:  
Whom the old Roman Wall so ill contined,  
With a new Chain of Garrisons you bind.  
Here foreign Gold no more shall make them come,  
Our English Iron holds them fast at home.  
They that henceforth must be content to know  
No warmer Region than their Hills of Snow,  
May blame the Sun, but must extol your Grace,  
Which in our Senate hath allowed them place.  
Preferred by Conquest, happily o'erthrown;  
Falling they rise, to be with us made one.  
So kind Dictator's made, when they came home,  
Their vanquished Foes free Citizens of Rome.  
Like favour find the Irish, with like Fate  
Advanced to be a portion of our State;  
While by your Valour, and your courteous mind,  
Nations divided by the Sea, are joined.  
Holland to gain your Friendship, is content  
To be our O●t-gard on your Continent.  
She from her Fellow-Provinces would go,  
Rather than hazard to have you her Foe.  
In our late Fight, when Cannons did diffuse  
Preventing Posts, the terror of the News,  
Our Neighbour-Provinces trembled at their roar,  
But our conjunction makes them tremble more.  
Your never failing Sword made War to cease,  
And now you heal us with the arts of Peace;  
Our minds with bounty and with awe engage,  
Unite affections, and restrain our Rage.  
Less pleasures take brave minds in battle won,  
Than in restoring such as are undone.  
Tiger's have courage, and the rugged Bear,  
But Man alone can whom he conquers spare:  
To pardon willing, and to punish loath,  
You strike with one hand, but you heal with both.  
Lifting up all that prostrate lie, you grieve  
You cannot make the dead again to live.  
When Fate or Error had our age misled,  
And o'er these Nations such Confusion spread,  
The only Cure which could from Heaven come down,  
Was so much Power and Clemency in one;  
One whose Extraction is from an ancient Line,  
Gives hope again that wellborn men may shine:  
The meanest in your Nature, mild and good,  
The noble rest secured in your blood.  
Oft have we wondered how you hid in peace  
A Mind proportioned to such things as these:  
How such a Ruling Spirit could restrain,  
And practise first o'er your own self to Reign.  
Your private Life did a just pattern give,  
How Fathers, Husbands, pious Sons should live.  
Born to Command, your Princely Virtues slept,  
Like humble David, whilst the Flock he kept;  
But when your troubled Country called you forth,  
Your flaming Courage, and your matchless Worth,  
Dazzling the Eyes of all that did pretend  
To sow Contention— gave a prosperous end;  
Still as you rise, the State's exalted too,  
Finds no Distemper while it's changed by you:  
Changed like the World's great Scene, when without noise  
The rising Sun Night's vulgar Lights destroys.  
Had you some ages past this Race of Glory  
Run, with amazement we should read your Story.  
But living Virtue all achievements past,  
Meets Envy still to grapple with at last.  
This Caesar found, and that ungrateful Age  
With losing him, fell back to blood and rage.  
Mistaken Brutus thought to break their Yoke,  
But cut the bond of Union at that stroke.  
That Sun once set, a thousand meaner Stars  
Gave a dim light to Violence and Wars.  
To such a Tempest as now threatens all,  
Did not your mighty Arm prevent the fall.  
If Rome's great Senate could not wield the Sword,  
Which of the conquered World had made them Lord,  
What hope had ours, while yet their power was new,  
To rule victorious Armies, but by you?  
You that had taught them to subdue their Foes,  
Could Order teach, and all their Hearts compose.  
To every Duty could their Minds engage,  
Provoke their Courage, and commend their Rage.  
So when a Lion shakes his dreadful Main,  
And angry grows, if he that first took pain,  
To tame his Youth, approach the haughty Beast,  
He bends to him but frights away the rest.  
As the vexed World, to find repose at last,  
Itself into Augusta's Arms did cast:  
So England now, does, with like toil oppressed,  
Her weary Head upon your Bosom rest  
Then let the Muses with such Notes as these,  
Instruct us what belongs unto our Peace:  
Your Battles they hereafter shall indite,  
And draw the Image of our Mars in Fight;  
Tell of Towns stormed, of Armies overrun,  
And mighty Kingdoms by your Conduct won:  
How, while you thundered, Clouds of Dust did choke  
Contending Troops, and Seas lay hid in Smoak.  
Illustrious Arts high Raptures do infuse,  
And every Conqueror creates a Muse.  
Here in low strains your milder deeds we sing;  
But there, my Lord, we'll Bays & Olives bring  
To crown your Head while you in triumph ride  
O'er vanquished Nations, and the Sea beside:  
While all your Neighbour Princes unto You,  
Like Joseph's Sheaves, pay reverence, and bow.   

Three POEMS on the Death of the late Protector, Oliver Cromwell.  Written by Mr. John Dryden, Mr. Sprat of Oxford, and Mr. Edm. Waller. 

Heroic Stanza's, on the late Usurper Oliver Cromwell: Written after his Funeral,  by Mr. Dryden. 

I.  
AND now 'tis time; for their officious haste,  
Who would before have born him to the Sky,  
Like eager Romans, ere all Rites were passed,  
Did let too soon the sacred Eagle fly.   

II.  
Though our best Notes are Treason to his Fame,  
Joined with the loud applause of public Voice;  
Since Heaven, what praise we offer to his Name,  
Hath rendered too authentic by its choice.   

III.  
Though in his praise no Arts can liberal be,  
Since they whose Muses have the highest flown,  
Add not to his immortal Memory,  
But do an act of Friendship to their own.   

IV.  
Yet 'tis our duty, and our interest too,  
Such Monuments as we can build, to raise,  
Lest all the world prevent what we should do,  
And claim a Title in him by their praise.   

V.  
How shall I then begin, or where concude,  
To draw a Fame so truly Circular?  
For in a round, what order can be showed,  
Where all the parts so equal perfect are?   

VI  
His Grandeur he derived from Heaven alone,  
For he was great ere Fortune made him so;  
And Wars like mists that rise against the Sun,  
Made him but greater seem, not greater grow.   

VII.  
No borrowed Bays his Temples did adorn,  
But to our Crown he did fresh Jewels bring;  
Nor was his Virtue poisoned soon as born,  
With the too early thoughts of being King.   

VIII.  
Fortune (that easy Mistress to the young,  
But to her ancient Servants coy and hard)  
Him, at that age, her Favourites ranked among,  
When she her best loved Pompey did discard.   

IX.  
He private, marked the Faults of others sway,  
And set as Sea-marks for himself to shun;  
Not like rash Monarches, who their youth betray,  
By Acts their Age too late would wish undone.   

X.  
And yet Dominion was not his design,  
We owe that blessing not to him, but Heaven,  
Which to fair Acts unsought rewards did join;  
Rewards that less to him, than us were given.   

XI.  
Our former Chief like Sticklers of the War,  
First sought t' inflame the parties, then to poise:  
The quarrel loved, but did the cause abhor,  
And did not strike to hurt, but make a noise.   

XII.  
War, our Consumption, was their gainful Trade;  
He inward bled, whilst they prolonged our pain;  
He fought to hinder fight, and assayed  
To staunch the blood by breathing of the Vein.   

XIII.  
Swift and resistless through the Land he passed,  
Like that bold Greek, who did the East subdue,  
And made to Battles such Heroic haste,  
As if on wings of Victory he flew.   

XIV.  
He fought secure of Fortune as of Fame,  
Still by new Maps the Island might be shown,  
Of Conquests which he strewed wherever he came,  
Thick as the Galaxy with Stars is sown.   

XV.  
His Palms, though under weights they did not stand,  
Still thrived, no Winter could his Laurels fade:  
Heaven in his Portrait showed a Workman's hand,  
And drew it perfect, yet without a shade.   

XVI.  
Peace was the price of all his toil and care,  
Which War had banished, and did now restore:  
Bolognia's Walls thus mounted in the Air,  
To seat themselves more surely than before.   

XVII.  
Her safety rescued Ireland, to him owes,  
And treacherous Scotland to no interest true,  
Yet blessed that Fate which did his Arms dispose  
Her Land to civilize, as to subdue.   

XVIII.  
Nor was he like those Stars which only shine,  
When to pale Mariners, they storms portend;  
He had his calmer influence, and his Mein  
Did Love and Majesty together blend.   

XIX.  
'Tis true his Countenance did imprint an awe;  
And naturally all Souls to his did bow,  
As Wands of Divination downward draw,  
And point to Beds where sovereign Gold doth grow.   

XX.  
When past all offerings to Pheretrian jove,  
He Mars deposed, and Arms to Gowns made yield;  
Successful Councils did him soon approve,  
As fit for close Intrigues as open Field.   

XXI.  
To suppliant Holland he vouchsafed a Peace,  
Our once bold Rival in the British Main,  
Now tamely glad her unjust claim to cease,  
And buy our Friendship with her Idol, Gain.   

XXII.  
Fame of th' asserted Sea through Europe blown,  
Made France and Spain ambitious of his Love;  
Each knew that side must conquer he would own;  
And for him fiercely, as for Empire strove.   

XXIII.  
No sooner was the Frenchman Cause embraced,  
Than the light Monsieur, the grave Don outweighed;  
His Fortune turned the Scale where it was cast,  
Though Indian Mines were in the other laid.   

XXIV.  
When absent, yet we conquered in his Right;  
For though that some mean Artists Skill were shown  
In mingling Colours, or in placing Light;  
Yet still the fair Designment was his own.   

XXV.  
For from all Tempers he could Service draw;  
The worth of each with its Alloy he knew;  
And as the Confident of Nature saw  
How she Complexions did divide and brew.   

XXVI.  
Or he their single Virtues did survey,  
By intuition in his own large Breast,  
Where all the rich Ideas of them lay,  
That were the Rule and Measure to the rest.   

XXVII.  
When such Heroic Virtue, Heaven set out,  
The Stars, like Commons, sullenly obey;  
Because it drains them when it comes about,  
And therefore is a Tax they seldom pay.   

XXVIII.  
From this high Spring our Foreign Conquests flow,  
Which yet more glorious Triumphs do portend;  
Since their Commencement to his Arms they owe,  
If Springs as high as Fountains may ascend.   

XXIX.  
He made us Freemen of the Continent,  
Whom Nature did like Captives treat before;  
To Nobler Preys the English Lion sent,  
And taught him first in Belgian walks to roar.   

XXX.  
That old unquestioned Pirate of the Land,  
Proud Rome, with dread the Fate of Dankirk heard;  
And trembling wished behind more Alps to stand,  
Although an Alexander were her Guard.   

XXXI.  
By his Command, we boldly crossed the Line,  
And bravely fought where Southern Stars arise,  
We traced the far-fetched Gold unto the Mine,  
And that which bribed our Fathers made our Prize.   

XXXII.  
Such was our Prince, yet owned a Soul above  
The highest Acts it could produce to show:  
Thus poor M●chanick Arts in public move▪  
Whilst the deep secrets beyond practice go.   

XXXIII.  
Nor died he when his ebbing Fame went less,  
But when fresh Laurels courted him to live;  
He seemed but to prevent some new Success,  
As if above what Triumphs Earth can give.   

XXXIV.  
His latest Victories still thickest came,  
As near the Centre, Motion doth increase;  
Till he pressed down by his own weighty Name,  
Did like the Vestal, under spoils decease.   

XXXV.  
But first the Ocean as a Tribute sent.  
That Giant Prince of all her wat'ry Herd;  
And th'●sle, when her protecting Genius went,  
Upon his Obsequies loud sighs conferred.   

XXXVI.  
No civil Broils have since his Death arose,  
But Faction now by habit does obey;  
And Wars have that respect for his Repose,  
As Winds for Halcyons, when they breed at Sea.   

XXXVII.  
His Ashes in a peaceful Urn shall rest,  
His Name a great Example stands to show,  
How strangely high Endeavours may be blest,  
Where Piety and Valour jointly go.    

To the Reverend Dr. Wilkins, Warden of Wadham College in Oxford.  
SIR,  
SEeing you are pleased to think fit that these Papers should come into the public, which were at first designed to live only in a Desk, or some private Friends hands; I humbly take the boldness to commit them to the security, which your Name and Protection will give them, with the most knowing part of the World. There are two things especially in which they stand in need of your Defence: One is, That they fall so infinitely below the full and lofty Genius of that excellent Poet, who made this way of writing free of our Nation: The other, That they are so little proportioned and equal to the Renown of that Prince, on whom they were written. Such great Actions and Lives, deserving rather to be the Subjects of the noblest Pens and divine Fancies, than of such small Beginners and weak Essayers in Poetry as myself. Against these dangerous Prejudices, there remains no other Shield, than the Universal Esteem and Authority which your judgement and Approbation carries with it. The Right you have to them, Sir, is not only on the account of the Relation you had to this great Person, nor of the general favour which all Arts receive from you; but more particularly by reason of that Obligation and Zeal, with which I am bound to dedicate myself to your Service: For having been a long time the Object of you Care and Indulgence towards the advantage of my Studies and Fortune, having been moulded (as it were) by your own Hands, and form under your Government; not to entitle you to any thing which my meanness produces, would not only be Injustice, but Sacrilege: So that if there be any thing here tolerably said, which deserves pardon, it is yours Sir, as well as he, who is  
Your most Devoted, and Obliged Servant.   

To the happy Memory of the late Usurper, Oliver Cromwell.  By Mr. Sprat of Oxon, Pindaric Odes. 

I.  
'tIS true, great Name, thou art secure  
From the forgetfulness and Rage  
Of Death, or Envy, or devouring Age;  
Thou canst the force and teeth of Time endure:  
Thy fame, like Men, the Elder it doth grow,  
Will of its self turn whiter too,  
Without what needless Art can do;  
Will live beyond thy breath, beyond thy Hearse,  
Though it were never heard or sung in Verse.  
Without our help, thy Memory is safe;  
They only want an Epitaph,  
That do remain alone  
Alive in an Inscription,  
Remembered only on the Brass, or Marblestone.  
'Tis all in vain what we can do:  
All our Roses and Perfumes,  
Will but officious folly show,  
And pious Nothings, to such mighty Tombs.  
All our Incense, Gums, and Balm,  
Are but unnecessary Duties here:  
The Poets may their Spices spare,  
Their costly Numbers, and their tuneful Feet:  
That need not be embalmed, which of itself is sweet.   

II.  
We know to praise thee is a dangerous proof  
Of our Obedience and our Love:  
For when the Sun and Fire meet,  
Th' one's extinguished quite;  
And yet the other never is more bright:  
So that they write of thee, and join  
Their feeble Names with thine,  
Their weaker sparks with thy illustrious light,  
Will lose themselves in that ambitious thought;  
And yet no fame to thee from hence he brought,  
We know, blessed Spirit, thy mighty Name  
Wants no addition of another's Beam;  
It's for our Pens too high, and full of Theme:  
The Muses are made great by thee, not thou by them.  
Thy Fame's eternal Lamp will live,  
And in thy sacred Urn survive,  
Without the food of Oil, which we can give.  
'Tis true; but yet our Duty calls our Songs;  
Duty commands our Tongues.  
Though thou want not our praises, we  
Are not excused for what we owe to thee;  
For so Men from Religion are not freed.  
But from the Altars Clouds must rise,  
Though Heaven itself doth nothing need,  
And though the Gods don't want an earthly Sacrifice.   

III.  
Great Life of wonders, whose each year  
Full of new Miracles did appear!  
Whose every Month might be  
Alone a Chronicle, or a History!  
Others great Actions are  
But thinly scattered here and there;  
At best, but all one single Star;  
But thine the Milky-way,  
All one continued light, of undistinguished Day;  
They thronged so close, that naught else could be seen,  
Scarce any common Sky did come between:  
What shall I say or where begin?  
Thou may'st in double shapes be shown,  
Or in thy Arms, or in thy Gown;  
Like Jove sometimes with Warlike Thunder, and  
Sometimes with peaceful Sceptre in his Hand;  
Or in the Field, or on the Throne.  
In what thy Head, or what thy Arm hath done,  
All that thou didst was so refined,  
So full of substance and so strongly joined,  
So pure, so weighty Gold,  
That the least Grain of it  
If fully spread and beat,  
Would many Leaves and mighty Volumes hold.   

IV.  
Before thy Name was published, and whilst yet,  
Though only to thyself were't great,  
Whilst yet thy happy Bud  
Was not quite seen, or understood,  
It then sure signs of future Greatness showed:  
Then thy Domestic worth  
Did tell the World what it would be,  
When it should fit occasion see,  
When a full Spring should call it forth:  
As bodies in the Dark and Night,  
Have the same Colours, the same red and white,  
As in the open Day and Light,  
The Sun doth only show  
That they are bright, not make them so:  
So whilst but private Walls did know  
What we to such a mighty Mind should owe,  
Then the same Virtues did appear,  
Though in a less and more contracted Sphere,  
As full, though not as large as since they were:  
And like great Rivers, Fountains, though  
at first so deep thou didst not go;  
Though then thine was not so enlarged a Flood;  
Yet when 'twas little, 'twas as clear as good.   

V.  
●Tis true thou wast not born unto a Crown,  
Thy sceptre's not thy Fathers, but thy own:  
Thy Purple was not made at once in haste,  
And after many other Colours past,  
It took the deepest Princely Dye at last.  
Thou didst begin with lesser Cares,  
And private Thoughts took up thy private Years:  
Those hands, which were ordained by Fates,  
To change the World, and alter States,  
Practised at first that vast Design  
On meaner things with equal Mind.  
That Soul which should so many Sceptres sway,  
To whom so many Kingdoms should obey,  
Learned first to rule in a domestic way,  
So Government itself began  
From Family, and single Man,  
Was by the small relation, first,  
Of Husband, and of Father Nursed,  
And from those less beginnings past,  
To spread itself o'er all the World at last.   

VI  
But when thy Country (than almost enthralled)  
Thy Virtue, and thy Courage called;  
When England did thy Arms entreat,  
And 't had been Sin in thee not to be Great:  
When every Stream, and every Flood;  
Was a true Vein of Earth, and run with Blood;  
When unused Arms, and unknown War  
Filled every Place, and every Ear;  
When the great Storms, and dismal Night  
Did all the Land affright;  
'Twas time for thee to bring forth all our Light.  
Thou left'st thy more delightful Peace,  
Thy private Life, and better ease;  
Then down thy Steel and Armour took,  
Wishing that it still hung upon the Hook:  
When Death had got a large Commission out,  
Throwing her Arrows, and her Sting about;  
Then thou (as once the healing Serpent rose)  
Waste lifted up, not for thyself, but us.   

VII.  
Thy Country wounded was, and sick before  
Thy Wars and Arms did her restore:  
Thou knewest where the Disease did lie,  
And like the Cure of Sympathy,  
Thy strong and certain remedy  
Unto the Weapon didst apply;  
Thou didst not draw the Sword, and so  
Away the Scabbard throw,  
As if thy Country should  
Be the Inheritance of Mars and Blood:  
But that when the great work was spun,  
War in itself should be undone;  
That Peace might land again upon the Shore  
Richer and better than before:  
The Husbandmen no Steel should know,  
None but the useful Iron of the Blow;  
That Bays might creep on every Spear:  
And though our Sky was overspread  
With a destructive Red;  
'Twas but till thou our Sun didst in full light appear.   

VIII.  
When Ajax died, the purple Blood  
That from his gaping Wound had flowed,  
Turned into Letters every Leaf  
Had on it wrote his Epitaph:  
So from that Crimson Flood,  
Which thou by fate of times wert led,  
Unwillingly to shed,  
Letters, and Learning rose, and renewed:  
Thou foughtest not out of Envy, Hope, or Hate,  
But to refine the Church and State;  
And like the Romans whate'er thou  
In the Field of Mars didst mow,  
Was, that a holy Island hence might grow.  
Thy Wars, as Rivers raised by a Shower,  
With welcome Clouds do pour:  
Though they at first may seem,  
To carry all away with an enraged Stream;  
Yet did not happen that they might destroy,  
Or the better parts annoy:  
But all the filth and mud to scour,  
And leave behind another slime,  
To give a birth to a more happy power.   

IX.  
In Fields unconquered, and so well  
Thou didst in Battles and in Arms excel;  
That steelly Arms themselves, might be  
Worn out in War as soon as thee,  
Success, so close upon thy Troops did wait,  
As if thou first hadst conquered Fate;  
As if uncertain Victory  
Had been first overcome by thee;  
As if her Wings were clipped, and could not flee,  
Whilst thou didst only serve,  
Before thou hadst what first thou didst deserve.  
Others by thee did great things do,  
Triumphed'st thyself, and mad'st them triumph too;  
Though they above thee did appear,  
As yet in a more large and higher Sphere:  
Thou, the great Sun gav'st Light to every Star.  
Thyself an Army wert alone,  
And mighty Troops contain'd'st in one:  
Thy only Sword did guard the Land,  
Like that which flaming in the Angel's Hand,  
From Men God's Garden did defend:  
But yet thy Sword did more than his,  
Not only guarded, but did make this Land a Paradise.   

X.  
Thou foughtest not to be high or great,  
Nor for a Sceptre or a Crown,  
Or Ermine, Purple, or the Throne;  
But as the Vestal Heat,  
Thy Fire was kindled from above alone;  
Religion putting on thy Shield,  
Brought thee victorious to the Field.  
Thy Arms like those, which ancient Heroes wore,  
Were given by the God thou didst adore;  
And all the words thy Armies had,  
Were on an heavenly Anvil made;  
Not Interest, or any weak desire  
Of Rule or Empire, did thy Mind inspire;  
Thy Valour like the holy Fire,  
Which did before the Persian Armies go,  
Lived in the Camp, and yet was sacred too:  
Thy mighty Sword anticipates,  
What was reserved for Heaven and those blessed Seats,  
And makes the Church triumphant here below.   

XI.  
Though Fortune did hang on thy Sword,  
And did obey thy mighty word;  
Though Fortune for thy side and thee,  
Forgot her loved Unconstancy;  
Amidst thy Arms and Trophies thou  
Wert valiant and gentle too,  
Wounded'st thyself, when thou didst kill thy Foe;  
Like Steel, when it much work has past,  
That which was rough does shine at last:  
Thy Arms by being oftener used did smother grow;  
Nor did thy Battles make thee proud or high,  
Thy Conquest raised the state, not thee:  
Thou overcam'st thyself in every Victory:  
As when the Sun in a director Line,  
Upon a polished golden Shield doth shine,  
The Shield reflects unto the Sun again his Light:  
So when the Heavens smiled on thee in fight▪  
When thy propitious God had lent  
Success, and Victory to thy Tent;  
To Heaven again the Victory was sent.   

XII.  
England till thou didst come,  
Confined her Valour home;  
Then our own Rocks did stand  
Bounds to our fame as well as Land,  
And were to us as well,  
As to our Enemies unpassable:  
We were ashamed at what we read,  
And blushed at what our Fathers did,  
Because we came so far behind the Dead.  
The British Lion hung his main, and drooped,  
To Slavery and Burden stooped,  
With a degenerate sleep and fear  
Lay in his Den, and languished there;  
At whose least Voice before,  
A trembling echo ran through every Shore,  
And shook the world at every roar:  
Thou his subdued Courage didst restore,  
Sharpen his Claws, and his Eyes  
Mad'st the same dreadful Lightning rise;  
Mad'st him again affright the neighbouring Floods,  
His mighty Thunder sounds through all the Woods:  
Thou hast our military Fame redeemed,  
Which was lost or clouded seemed:  
Nay more, Heaven did by thee bestow  
On us, at once an Iron Age, and happy too.   

XIII.  
Till thou command'st, that Azure Chain of Waves,  
Which Nature round about us sent,  
Made us to every Pirate Slaves,  
Was rather burden than an Ornament;  
Those Fields of Sea that washed our Shores,  
We ploughed, and reaped by other hands than ours:  
To us, the liquid Mass,  
Which doth about us run,  
As 'tis to the Sun,  
Only a bed to sleep on was:  
And not as now a powerful Throne,  
To shake and sway the world thereon.  
Our Princes in their hand a Globe did show,  
But not a perfect one,  
Composed of Earth and Water too.  
But thy Commands the Floods obeyed,  
Thou all the wilderness of water swayed;  
Thou didst not only wed the Sea,  
Not make her equal, but a Slave to thee.  
Neptune himself did bear thy Yoke,  
Stooped, and trembled at thy stroke:  
He that ruled all the Main,  
Acknowledged thee his Sovereign:  
And now the conquered Sea doth pay  
More Tribute to thy Thames than that unto the Sea.   

XIV.  
Till now our Valour did ourselves more hurt;  
Our wounds to other Nations were a sport;  
And as the Earth, our Land produced  
Iron and Steel, which should to tear ourselves be used,  
Our strength within itself did break  
Like thundering Cannons creak,  
And killed those that were near,  
While the Enemies secured and untouched were.  
But now our Trumpets thou hast made to sound  
Against our Enemy's Walls in foreign ground;  
And yet no Echo back to us returning found.  
England is now the happy peaceful Isle,  
And all the World the while,  
Is exercising Arms and Wars  
With foreign or intestine Jars.  
The Torch extinguished here, we lend to others Oil,  
We give to all, yet know ourselves no fear;  
We reach the flame of ruin and of death,  
Where e'er we please, our Swords to unsheathe,  
Whilst we in calm and temperate Regions breath:  
Like to the Sun, whose heat is hurled  
Through every Corner of the world;  
Whose flame through all the Air doth go,  
And yet the Sun himself, the while no Fire doth know.   

XV.  
Besides the Glories of thy Peace,  
Are not in number, nor in value less.  
Thy hand did cure, and close the Scars  
Of our bloody civil Wars;  
Not only lanced but healed the wound,  
Made us again as healthy and as sound,  
When now the Ship was well nigh lost,  
After the Storm upon the Coast,  
By its Mariners endangered most:  
When they their Ropes and Helms had left,  
When the Planks asunder cleft,  
And Floods came roaring in with mighty sound,  
Thou a safe Land, and harbour for us found,  
And savedst those that would themselves have drowned:  
A work which none but Heaven and Thee could do,  
Thou mad'st us happy wh'th'r we would or no;  
Thy Judgement, Mercy, Temperance so great,  
As if those Virtues only in thy mind had seat:  
Thy Piety not only in the Field, but Peace,  
When Heaven seemed to be wanted least;  
Thy Temples not like Janus only were,  
Open in time of War,  
When thou hadst greater cause of fear,  
Religion and the awe of Heaven possessed  
All places and all times alike thy Breast.   

XVI.  
Nor didst thou only for thy Age provide,  
But for the Years to come beside;  
Our aftertimes, and late Posterity,  
Shall pay unto thy Fame as much as we;  
They two are made by thee.  
When fate did call thee to a higher Throne,  
And when thy mortal work was done;  
When Heaven did say it, and thou must be gone,  
Thou him to bear thy Burden chose,  
Who might (if any could) make us forget thy loss;  
Nor hadst thou him designed,  
Had he not been  
Not only to thy Blood, but Virtue kin;  
Not only Heir unto thy Throne, but Mind,  
'Tis he shall perfect all thy Cures,  
And with as fine a Thread wove out thy Loom:  
So one did bring the chosen People from  
Their slavery and fears,  
Led them through their pathless Road,  
Guided himself by God.  
He hath brought them to the Borders; but a second hand  
Did settle, and secure them in the promised Land.    

Upon the late Storm, and Death of the late Usurper Oliver Cromwell ensuing the same.  By Mr. Waller. 
WE must resign; Heaven his great Soul does claim  
In Storms as loud as his immortal Fame;  
His dying Groans, his last Breath shakes our Isle,  
And Trees uncut fall for his Funeral Pile.  
About his Palace their broad roots are tossed  
Into the Air: So Romulus was lost.  
New Rome in such a Tempest missed their King,  
And from obeying fell to worshipping.  
On Oeta's top thus Hercules lay dead,  
With ruin'd Oaks and Pines about him spread;  
The Poplar too, whose Bough he wont to wear  
On his victorious Head, lay prostrate there:  
Those his last Fury from the Mountain rend;  
Our dying Hero, from the Continent,  
Ravished whole Towns, and Forts from Spaniards rest,  
As his last Legacy to Britain left;  
The Ocean which so long our hopes confined,  
Could give no limits to his vaster Mind;  
Our bounds enlargement, was his latest Toil,  
Nor hath he left us Prisoners to our Isle:  
Under the Tropic is our Language spoke,  
And part of Flanders hath received our Yoke.  
From civil broils, he did us disengage,  
Found nobler Objects for our Martial Rage;  
And with wise Conduct to his Country showed,  
Their ancient way of conquering abroad:  
Ungrateful then, if we no tears allow  
To him that gave us Peace and Empire too:  
Princes that feared him, grieved, concerned to see  
No pitch of Glory from the Grave is free;  
Nature herself took notice of his Death,  
And sighing swelled the Sea with such a breath,  
That to remotest shores her Billows rolled,  
Th' approaching Fate of her great Ruler told.    

Directions to a Painter concerning the Dutch War:  By Sir John Denham, 1667. 
NAY Painter, if thou dar'st design that Fight,  
Which Waller only Courage had to write;  
If thy bold hands can without shaking draw,  
What even th' Actors trembled at when they saw,  
Enough to make thy Colours change like theirs,  
And all thy Pencils bristle like their Hairs.  
First in fit distance of the prospect Main,  
Paint Allen tilting at the Coast of Spain;  
Heroic act! and never heard till now!  
Stemming of hercules pillars with the Prow!  
And how he lest his ship the hills to waste,  
And with new Sea-marks Cales and Dover grafted.  
Next let the flaming London come in view,  
Like Nero's Rome, burnt to rebuild it new;  
What lesser Sacrifice than this was meet  
To offer for the safety of the Fleet?  
Blow one ship up, another thence will grow:  
See what free Cities and wise Courts can do!  
So some old Merchant to insure his name,  
Marries afresh, and Courties share the Dame:  
So whatsoe'er is broke, the Servants paid,  
And Glasses are more durable than Plate.  
No mayor till now, so rich a Pageant feigned,  
Nor one Barge all the Companies contained.  
Then Painter draw Cerulean Coventry,  
Keeper, or rather Chancellor o'th' Sea;  
And more exactly to express his hue,  
Use nothing but Ultra-Marinish Blue.  
To pay his Fees, the Silver Trumpet spends,  
And Boat-swains whistle, for his place depends;  
Pilots in vain repeat their Compass o'er,  
Until of him they learn that one point more.  
The constant Magnet to the Pole doth hold,  
Steel to the Magnet, Coventry to Gold.  
Muscovy sells us Pitch, and Hemp and Tar;  
Iron and Copper, Sweden; Munster, War;  
Ashly, Prize; Warwick, Customs; Cart'ret, Pay;  
But Coventry doth sell the Fleet away.  
Now let our Navy stretch its Canvas Wings,  
Swollen like his Purse, with tackling like his strings,  
By slow degrees of the increasing gale,  
First under Sail, and after under Sale:  
Then in kind visit unto Opdam's Gout,  
Hedge the Dutch in, only to let them out.  
So Huntsmen fair unto the Hares give Law,  
First find them, and then civilly withdraw.  
That the blind Archer when they take the Seas,  
The Hambrough Convoy may betray with ease.  
So that the Fish may more securely bite,  
The Angler baits the River over night.  
But Painter, now prepare t' enrich thy piece,  
Pencil of Ermines, Oil of Ambergris,  
See where the Duchess with triumphant trail  
Of numerous Coaches, Harwich doth assail!  
So the Land-Crabs, at Natures kindly call,  
Down to engender to the Sea do crawl.  
See then the Admiral with the Navy whole,  
To Harwich through the Ocean carry Coal:  
So Swallows buried in the Sea at Spring,  
Return to Land with Summer in their Wing.  
One thrifty Ferry-boat of Mother-pearl,  
Sufficed of old the Citharean Girl;  
Yet Navies are but Fopperies when here,  
A small Sea-mask, and built to court your Dear:  
Three Goddesses in one, Pallas for Art,  
Venus for Sport, but Juno in your Heart.  
O Duchess! if thy Nuptial pomp was mean,  
'Tis paid with interest in thy Naval scene.  
Never did Roman Mark within the Nile,  
So feast the fair Egyptian Crocodile;  
Nor the Venetian Duke with such a state  
The Adriatic marry, at that rate.  
Now Painter, spare thy weaker art; forbear  
To draw her parting Passions and each Tear:  
For Love, alas! hath but a short delight;  
The Sea, the Dutch, the King, all called to fight.  
She therefore the Duke's person recommends  
To Brunker, Pen, and Coventry, her Friends,  
To Pen much, Brunker more, most Coventry;  
For they she knew were all more afraid than he:  
Of flying Fishes one had saved the Fin.  
And hoped by this he through the Air might spin;  
The other thought he might avoid the Knell,  
By the invention of the Diving Bell;  
The third had tried it, and affirmed a Cable  
Coiled round about him was impenetrable.  
But these the Duke rejected, only chose  
To keep far off; let others interpose.  
Rupert that knew no fear, but Health did want,  
Kept State suspended in a Chair volant;  
All save his Head shut in that wooden case,  
He showed but like a broken Weatherglass;  
But armed with the whole Lion Cap-a-Chin,  
Did represent the Hercules within.  
Dear shall the Dutch his twinging anguish know,  
And see what Valour whet with pain can do.  
Cursed in the mean time be that treacherous Jael,  
That through his Princely Temples drove the Nail.  
Rupert resolved to fight it like a Lion;  
And Sandwich hoped to fight it like Arion;  
He to prolong his Life in the dispute,  
And charmed the Holland Pirates, tuned his Lute,  
Till some judicious Dolphin might approach,  
And land him safe and sound as any Roach.  
Now Painter, reassume thy Pencils care,  
Thou hast but skirmisht yet, now fight prepare;  
And draw the Battle terrible to show,  
As the last Judgement was of Angelo.  
First let our Navy scour through Silver Froth,  
The Ocean's burden, and the Kingdoms both;  
Whose very bulk may represent its birth;  
From Hide and Paston, burdens of the Earth;  
Hide whose transcendent Panch so swells of late,  
That he the Rupture seems of Law and State;  
Paston, whose Belly bears more millions,  
Than Indian Carracks, and contains more Tuns.  
Let shoals of Porpoises on every side  
Wonder in swimming by our Oaks out-vy'd;  
And the Seafowl all gaze, t' behold a thing  
So vast, more swift & strong than they of Wing.  
But yet presaging George they keep in sight,  
And follow for the Relics of a Fight.  
Then let the Dutch with well dissembled fear,  
Or bold despair, more than we wish, draw near:  
At which our Gallants, to the Sea but tender,  
And more to fight their easy Stomaches render;  
With Breasts so panting, that at every stroke  
You might have felt their Hearts beat through the Oak:  
While one concerned in the interval  
Of straining Choler, thus did vent his Gall.  
Noah be damned! and all his Race accursed,  
Who in Sea-brine did pickle Timber first!  
What though he planted Vines, he Pines cut down,  
He taught us how to Drink and how to Drown:  
He first built Ships, and in his Wooden Wall,  
Saving but Eight, e'er since endangered all.  
And thou Dutch Necromantic Friar, be damned,  
And in thine own first Mortar-piece be rammed!  
Who first invented Cannon in thy Cell,  
Nitre from Earth, and Brimstone fetched from Hell.  
But damned and treble damned be Clarendine,  
Our Seventh Edward, with all his House and Line!  
Who to divert the danger of the War,  
With Bristol, bounds us on the Hollander:  
Fool coated Gown man! sells, to fight with Hans,  
Dunkirk; dismantling Scotland, quarrels France;  
And hopes he now hath business shaped, and Power  
T' outlast our Lives or his, and scape the Tower;  
And that he yet may see, ere he go down,  
His dear Clarinda circled in a Crown.  
By this time both the Fleets in reach dispute,  
And each the other mortally salute:  
Draw pensive Neptune biting of his Thumbs,  
To think himself a Slave whoever o'ercomes.  
The frighted Nymphs retreating to their Rocks,  
Beating their blue Breasts, tearing their green Locks.  
Paint Echo slain, only th'alternate sound  
From the repeating Cannon doth rebound.  
Opdam sails placed on his Naval Throne,  
Assuming Courage greater than his own;  
Makes to the Duke and threatens him from far,  
To nail him to his Board's like a Petar;  
But in the vain attempt, took fire too soon,  
And flies up in his Ship to catch the Moon.  
Monsieurs like Rockets mount aloft, and crack  
In thousand sparks, then dancingly fall back.  
Yet ere this happened, destiny allowed  
Him his Revenge, to make his death more proud;  
A fatal Bullet from his side did range,  
And battered Lawson: Oh too dear Exchange!  
He led our Fleet that day too short a space,  
But lost his Knee; since died in glories Race:  
Lawson! whose Valour beyond fate did go,  
And still fights Opdam in the Lake below.  
The Duke himself, though Pen did not forget,  
Yet was not out of dangers Random set.  
Falmouth was there, I know not what to act;  
Some say 'twas to grow Duke too by contract:  
An untaught Bullet in its wanton scope,  
Dashes him all to pieces, and his Hope.  
Such was his rise, such was his fall, unpraised;  
A Chance-shot sooner took him than Chance raised:  
His shattered Head the fearless Duke disdains,  
And gave the last first proof that he had Brains.  
Bartlet had heard it soon, and thought not good  
To venture more of Royal Harding's Blood:  
To be Immortal he was not of Age,  
And did even now the Indian Prize presage;  
And judged it safe and decent, cost what cost,  
To lose the Day, since his dear Brother's lost.  
With his whole Squadron strait away he bore,  
And like good Boy, promised to fight no more.  
The Dutch Auranea careless at us sailed;  
And promised to do what Opdam failed:  
Smith to the Duke doth intercept her way,  
And cleaves t' her closer than a Remora:  
The Captain wondered, and withal disdained,  
So strongly by a thing so small, detained;  
And in a raging bravery to him runs,  
They stab their Ships with one another's Guns:  
They fight so near it seems to be on Ground,  
And even the Bullets meeting, Bullets wound.  
The noise, the smoke, the fire, the sweat, the blood,  
Is not to be expressed, nor understood.  
Each Captain from his Quarter-deck commands,  
They wave their bright Swords glittering in their hands.  
All luxury of War, all Man can do  
In a Sea-fight, did pass between them too.  
But one must conquer whosoever fight;  
Smith takes the Giant and is made a Knight.  
Marlborough that knew, and durst do more than all,  
Falls undistinguished by an Iron ball:  
Dear Lord! but born under a Star ingrate!  
No soul more clear, nor no more gloomy fate!  
Who would set up Wars Trade that means to thrive?  
Death picks the Valiant out, Cowards survive:  
What the Brave merit, th' Impudent do vaunt;  
And none's rewarded but the Sycophant.  
Hence all his Life he against Fortune fenced,  
Or not well known, or not well recompensed:  
But envy not this praise t' his memory,  
None more prepared was, or less fit to die:  
Rupert did others and himself excel:  
Holms, Tydiman, Minns; bravely Sanson fell.  
What others did, let none omitted, blame,  
I shall record, whoever brings in his Name:  
But unless after-stories disagree,  
Nine only came to fight, the rest to see.  
Now all conspire unto the Dutchman's loss;  
The wind, the fire, we, they themselves do cross.  
When a sweet sleep began the Duke to drown,  
And with soft Diadems his Temples crown:  
And first he order all the rest to watch,  
And They the Foe, whilst He a Nap doth catch:  
But lo, Brunkar by a secret instinct,  
Slept on, nor needed; he all day had winked.  
The Duke in bed, he then first draws his steel,  
Whose virtue makes the misled Compass wheel.  
So e'er He waked, both Fleets were innocent:  
And Brunkar Member is of Parliament.  
And now, dear Painter, after pains, like those,  
'Twere time that I and thou too do repose.  
But all our Navy scaped so sound of Limb,  
That a short space served to refresh and trim;  
And a tame Fleet of theirs doth Convoy want,  
Laden with both the Indies, and Levant:  
Paint but this one Scene more the world's our own,  
And Halcyon Sandwich doth command alone:  
To Bergen we with confidence made haste,  
And th' secret spoils by hope already taste;  
Though Clifford in the Character appear  
Of Supra-Cargo to our Fleet, and their  
Wearing a Signet ready to clap on,  
And seize all for his Master Arlington,  
Ruyter whose little Squadron skimed the Seas,  
And wasted our remotest Colonies,  
With Ships all foul, returned upon our way;  
Sand— ch would not disperse, nor yet delay;  
And therefore like Commander grave and wise,  
To scape his sight and fight, shut both his Eyes;  
And for more state and sureness, Cutten true  
The left Eye closeth, the right Montague;  
And even Clifford proffered in his zeal,  
To make all safe, t' apply to both his Seal.  
Ulysses so, till Siren's he had past,  
Would by his Mates be pinioned to the Mast.  
Now can our Navy view the wished Port,  
But there (to see the Fortune!) was a Fort:  
Sand— ch would not be beaten, nor yet beat;  
Fools only fight, the Prudent use to treat.  
His Cousin Montague by Court-disaster,  
Dwindled into the wooden Horse's Master:  
To speak of Peace seemed amongst all most proper,  
Had Talbot then treated of nought but Copper:  
Or what are Forts, when void of Ammunition?  
With friends or foes what would we more condition?  
Yet we three days, till the Dutch furnished all,  
Men, Powder, Money, Cannon,— treat with Wall!  
Then Tydiman, finding the Danes would not,  
Sent in six Captains bravely to be shot.  
And Montague, though dressed like any Bride,  
And aboard him too, yet was reached and died:  
Sad was the chance, and yet a deeper care  
Wrinkled his Membranes under Forehead fair.  
The Dutch Armado yet had th' impudence  
To put to Sea, to waft their Merchants thence;  
For as if all their Ships of Walnut were,  
The more we beat them, still the more they bear:  
But a good Pilot and a favouring wind,  
Brings Sand— ch back, and once again did blind.  
Now gentle Painter, ere we leap on shore,  
With thy last strokes ruffle a Tempest o'er;  
As if in our reproach, the Wind and Seas  
Would undertake the Dutch, while we take ease:  
The Seas the spoils within our Hatches throw,  
The Winds both Fleets into our mouths do blow:  
Strew all their ships along the Shore by ours,  
As easily to be gathered up as Flowers:  
But Sand— ch fears for Merchants to mistake  
A man of War, and among Flowers a Snake.  
Two Indian ships pregnant with Eastern Pearl,  
And Diamonds, sat th' Officers and Earl:  
Then warning of our Fleet, he it divides  
Into the Ports, and so to Oxford rides.  
Mean while the Dutch uniting to our shames,  
Ride all insulting o'er the Downs and Thames!  
Now treating San— ch seems the fittest choice  
For Spain, there to condole, and to rejoice:  
He meets the French; but to avoid all harms,  
Ships to the Groin: Embassies bear no Arms:  
There let him languish a long Quarantain,  
And ne'er to England come till he be clean.  
Thus having fought, we know not why as yet;  
We've done we know not what, nor what we get:  
If to espouse the Ocean, all this pains  
Princes unite, and do forbid the Bains:  
If to discharge fanatics, this makes more;  
For all fanatics are, when they are poor:  
Or if the House of Commons to repay,  
Their Prize-Commissions are transferred away:  
But for triumphant check-stones if, and shell  
For Duchess Closet, 't hath succeeded well.  
If to make Parliaments as odious pass,  
Or to reserve a standing force, alas!  
Or if, as just, ORANGE to reinstate,  
Instead of that, he is regenerate:  
And with four Millions vainly given as spent,  
And with five Millions more of detriment,  
Our Sum amounts yet only to have won  
A Bastard Orange for Pimp Arl— tun  
Now may Historians argue con and pro:  
Denham says thus; though always Waller so:  
And he, good Man, in his long sheet and staff,  
This Penance did for Cromwel's Epitaph.  
And his next Theme must be o'th' Duke's Mistress,  
Advice to draw Madam l' Edificatress.  
Henceforth, O Gemini! two Duke's command,  
Castor and Pollux, Aumarle and Cumberland.  
Since in one Ship, it had been fit they'd went  
In Petty's Double-keeled Experiment.   

To the KING.  By Sir John Denham. 
Imperial Prince! King of the Seas and Isles!  
Dear Object of our joy, and Heaven's smiles!  
What boots it that thy Light doth gild our Days,  
And we lie basking in thy milder Rays,  
While swarms of Infects, from thy warmth begun,  
Our Land devour, and intercept our Sun?  
Thou, like Jove's Minos, rul'st a greater Crect;  
And for its hundred Cities, countest thy Fleet.  
Why wilt thou that State- Daedalus allow,  
Who builds the Butt, a labyrinth and a Cow?  
If thou art Minos, be a judge severe,  
And in's own Maze confound the Engineer.  
O may our Sun, since he too nigh presumes,  
Melt the soft wax wherewith he imps his Plumes!  
And may he falling leave his hated Name  
Unto those Seas his War hath set on Flame!  
From that Enchanter having cleared thine Eyes,  
Thy native sight will pierce within the Skies,  
And view those Kingdoms calm with joy and Light,  
Where's Universal Triumph, but no Fight.  
Since both from Heaven thy Race and Power descend,  
Rule by its Pattern there to re-ascend:  
Let justice only awe, and Battle cease:  
Kings are but Cards in War; they're Gods in Peace.   

Directions to a Painter.  By Sir John Denham. 

SAnd— ch in Spain now, and the Duke in love,  
Let's with new Generals a new Painter prove:  
lily's a Dutchman, danger's in his art,  
His Pencils may Intelligence impart.  
Thou Gibson, that among thy Navy small  
Of Muscle-shells, commandest Admiral;  
Thyself so slender, that thou show'st no more  
Than Barnacle new hatched of them before:  
Come mix thy Water-colours, and express  
Drawing in little what we yet do less.  
First paint me George and Rupert rattling far  
Both in one Box like the two Dice of War;  
And let the terror of their linked Name,  
Fly through the air, like Chain-shot, tearing fame:  
Jove in one Cloud did scarcely ever wrap  
Lightning so fierce, but never such a clap.  
United Generals sure are th' only spell,  
Wherewith United Provinces to quell:  
Alas, even they, though shelled in treble Oak,  
Will prove an addle Egg with double Yolk.  
And therefore next uncouple either Hound,  
And loo them at two Hares ere one be found.  
Rupert and Beaufort, halloo; ah, there Rupert  
Like the fantastic hunting of St. Hubert;  
When he with airy Hounds, and Horn of air,  
Pursues by Fontain-bleau the witchy Hare.  
Deep providence of State! that could so soon  
Fight Beaufort here e'er he had quit Thouloon.  
So have I seen, e'er Human Quarrels rise,  
Foreboding Meteors combat in the Skies.  
But let the Prince to fight with Rumour go,  
The Generals meet a more substantial Foe:  
Ruyter he spies, and full of Youthful heat,  
Though half their number, thinks the odds too great.  
The Fowler watching, so his watery spot,  
And more the Fowl, hopes for the better shot.  
Though such a Limb was from his Navy torn,  
He found no weakness yet, like Samson shorn;  
But swollen with sense of former Glory won,  
Thought Monk must be by Albemarle outdone:  
Little he knew with the same Arm and Sword,  
How far the Gentleman out-cuts the Lord.  
Ruyter, inferior unto none for Art.  
Superior now in number and in Heart;  
Asked if he thought, as once our Rebel-Nation,  
To conquer theirs too, with a Declaration?  
And threatens, though he now so proudly sail,  
He shall tread back his Iter Boreale:  
This said, he the short period, ere it ends,  
With Iron-words from Brazen-mouths extends:  
Monk yet prevents him ere the Navies meet,  
And charges in himself alone a Fleet;  
And with so quick and frequent motion wound  
His murdering sides about, the Ship seemed round;  
And the Exchanges of his Circling Tire,  
Like whirling Hoops, showed of triumphant Fire.  
Single he doth at their whole Navy aim,  
And shoots them through a Porcupine of flame.  
In noise so regular his Cannons met,  
You'd think that Thunder was to Music set:  
Ah! had the rest but kept a time as true,  
What age could such a Martial Consort show!  
The listening air unto the distant shore,  
Through secret Pipes conveys the tuned Roar;  
Till as the Echoes vanishing, abate,  
Men feel a dead sound like the pulse of State.  
If Fate expire let Monk her place supply,  
His Guns determine who shall live or die.  
But Victory doth always hate a Rant;  
Valour's her Brave, but Skill is her Gallant.  
Ruyter no less with virtuous Envy burns,  
And Prodigies for Miracles returns:  
Yet he observed how still his Iron Balls,  
Recoiled in vain against our Oaken Walls.  
How the hard Pellets sell away as dead,  
By our enchanted Timber fillipped.  
Leave then, said he, th' invulnerable Keel,  
we'll find their feeble, like Achilles' Heel.  
He quickly taught, pours in continual Clouds  
Of chained Dilemmas through our sinewed Shrowds.  
Forests of Masts fall with their rude embrace,  
Our stiff Sails mashed, and netted into Lace;  
Till our whole Navy lay their wanton mark,  
Nor any Ship could sail but as the Ark,  
Shot in the Wing, so at the Powder's call,  
The disappointed Bird doth fluttering fall.  
Yet Monk disabled still such courage shows,  
That none into his mortal gripe dare close:  
So an old Bustard, maimed yet loath to yield,  
Duels the Fowler in Newmarket Field.  
But since he found it was in vain to fight,  
He imps his Plumes the best he can for flight:  
This, Painter, were a noble task to tell,  
What indignation his great Breast did swell.   

Not virtuous Man unworthily abused,  
Not constant Lover without cause refused,  
Not honest Merchant broke, nor skilful Player  
Hist off the Stage, nor Sinners in despair;  
Not Parents mocked, nor Favourites disgraced,  
Not Rump by Monk, or Oliver displaced;  
Not Kings deposed, nor Prelates ere they die,  
Feel half the rage of Generals when they fly.   

Ah rather than transmit th' story to Fame,  
Draw Curtains, gentle Artist, o'er the shame:  
Cashier the Memory of Dutell, raised up  
To taste, instead of Death, his Highness' Cup;  
And if the thing were true, yet paint it not,  
How Bartlet, as he long deserved, was shot;  
Though others that surveyed the Corpse so clear,  
Said he was only petrified for fear:  
If so, th' hard Statute mummyed without Gum,  
Might the Dutch Balm have spared, and English Tomb.  
Yet if thou wilt paint MINNS turned all to soul,  
And the great HARMAN caked almost to Coal;  
And JORDAN old worthy thy Pencil's pain,  
Who all the while held up the Ducal Train:  
But in a dark Cloud cover Askew, when  
He quit the Prince to embark in Lovestein;  
And wounded Ships, which woe immortal boast,  
Now first led Captive to an hostile Coast.  
But most with story of his Hand and Thumb,  
Conceal (as honour would) his Grace's Bum,  
When the large Bullet a large Collop tore  
Out of that Buttock never turned before:  
Fortune (it seems) would give him by that lash,  
Gentle correction for his fight so rash.  
But should the Rump perceive't, they'd say that Mars  
Had now revenged them upon Aumarle's Arse.  
The long disaster better over to vail,  
Paint only Ionas three days in the Whale:  
For no less time did conquering Ruyter chaw  
Our flying Gen'ral in his Spongy Jaw.  
Then draw the youthful Perseus all in haste,  
From a Sea-Beast to free the Virgin chaste;  
But neither riding Pegasus for speed,  
Nor with the Gorgon shielded at his need:  
So Rupert the Sea-Dragon did invade,  
But to save George, himself, and not the Maid;  
And though arriving late, he quickly missed  
Even Sails to fly, unable to resist.  
Not Greenland Seamen that survive the fright  
Of the cold Chaos, and half eternal Night,  
So gladly the returning Sun adore,  
Or run to spy the next Year's Fleet from shore,  
Hoping yet once within the Oily side  
Of the fat Whale, again their Spears to hide,  
As our glad Fleet with universal shout  
Salute the Prince, and wish the second bout.  
Nor Wind's long Prisoners in Earth's hollow Vault,  
The fallow Seas so eagerly assault,  
As fiery Rupert with revengeful Joy,  
Doth on the Dutch his hungry Courage cloy;  
But soon unrigged, lay like an useless Board;  
(As wounded in the Wrist men drop their Sword)  
When a propitious Cloud between us stepped,  
And in our aid did Ruyter intercept.  
Old Homer yet did never introduce,  
To save his Heroes, Mists of better use.  
Worship the Sun, who dwell where he doth rise;  
This Mist doth more deserve our Sacrifice.  
Now joyful Fires and the exalted Bell,  
And Court-Gazettes our empty Triumphs tell.  
Alas, the time draws near, when overturned,  
Thy lying Bells shall through the Tongues be burnt;  
Paper shall want to print that Lie of State,  
And our false Fires true Fires shall expiate.  
Stay Painter here awhile, and I will stay;  
Nor vex the future Times with my survey:  
Seest not the Monkey Duchess all undressed?  
Paint thou but her, and she will paint the rest.  
This sad Tale found her in her outward Room,  
Nailing up Hangings not of Persian Loom:  
Like chaste Penelope that ne'er did room,  
But made all fine against her GEORGE came home.  
Upon a Ladder, in her Coats much shorter,  
She stood with Groom and Coachman for Supporter;  
And careless what they saw, or what they thought,  
With Honi Pense full honestly she wrought.  
One Tenter drove, to lose no time or place,  
At once the Ladder they remove, and Grace.  
Whilst thus they her translate from North to East,  
In posture just of a four footed Beast,  
She heard the News: but altered yet no more,  
Than that which was behind she turned before;  
Nor would come down, but with an Handkerchief,  
Which Pocket foul did to her Neck prefer:  
She shed no tears, for she was too Viraginous,  
But only snuffling her Trunk Cartilaginous,  
From Scaling Ladder she began a story,  
Worthy to be had in Memento Mori;  
Arraigning past, and present, and futuri,  
With a prophetic, if not friendly Fury.  
Her Hair began to creep, her Belly sound,  
Her Eyes to sparkle, and her Udder-bound;  
Half Witch, half Prophet; thus the Albemarle,  
Like Presbyterian Sibyl, began to snarl:  
Traitors both to my Lord, and to the King!  
Nay now it is beyond all suffering!  
One Valiant Man by Land, and he must be  
Commanded out to stop their leaks at Sea:  
Yet send him Rupert, as an helper meet;  
First the Commands dividing, than the Fleet:  
One may if they be beat, or both be hit;  
Or if they overcome, yet Honours split.  
But reckoning GEORGE already knocked i'th' head,  
They cut him out like Beef ere he be dead:  
Each for a Quarter hopes; the first doth skip,  
But shall fall short though at the Gen'ral-ship.  
Next they for Master of the Horse agree;  
A third the Cockpit begs, not any Me.  
But they shall know, ay marry shall they do▪  
That who the Cockpit hath, shall have Me too.  
I told George first, as Calamy told me,  
If the King brought these o'er, how it would be:  
Men that there pick his Pocket to his Face,  
And sell Intelligence to buy a Place▪  
That their Religion's pawned for clothes, nor care,  
'Tis run so long now, to redeem't, nor dare.  
O what egregious Loyalty to cheat!  
O what Fidelity it was to Eat!  
Whilst Langdales, Hoptons', Glenhams starved abroad,  
And here true Roy'lists sink beneath their load.  
Men that did there affront, defame, betray  
The King, and so do here; now who but they!  
What! say I Men! nay, rather Monsters; Men  
Only in bed, nor to my Knowledge then.  
See how they home returned in revel rout,  
With the small manners that they first went out:  
Not better grown, nor wiser all the while,  
Renew the causes of their first Exile:  
As if, to show the Fool what 'tis I mean,  
I chose a foul Smock, when I might have clean.  
First, they for fear disband the Army tame,  
And leave good George a Generals empty name:  
Then Bishops must revive, and all unfix  
With Discontents, to content Twenty six:  
The Lord's House drains the Houses of the Lord,  
For Bishop's Voices silencing the word.  
O Barthol'mew! Saint of their Kalander!  
What's worse, th' Ejection or the Massacre?  
Then Culpepper, Glouster, and the Princess died;  
Nothing can live that interrupts an Hyde.  
O more than human GLOSTER! Fate did show  
Thee but to Earth, and back again withdrew.  
Then the fat Scrivener doth begin to think  
'Twas time to mix the Royal Blood with Ink.  
Berkley that swore as oft as he had Toes,  
Doth kneeling now her Chastity depose;  
Just as the first French cardinal could restore  
Maidenhead to his Widow, Niece and Whore.  
For Portion, if she could prove light, when weighed,  
Four Millions shall within three years be paid;  
To raise it, we must have a Naval War,  
As if 'twere nothing but Taratantar!  
Abroad all Princes disobliging first,  
At home all Parties but the very worst.  
To tell of Ireland, Scotland, Dunkirk's sad;  
Or the King's Marriage: But he thinks I'm mad:  
And sweeter Creature never saw the Sun,  
If we the King wish Monk, or Queen a Nun.  
But a Dutch War shall all these Rumours still,  
Bleed out these Humours, and our Purses fill;  
Yet after four days Fight, they clearly saw  
'Twas too much danger for a Son-in-Law:  
Hire him to leave, for Six score thousand Pound:  
So with the King's Drums men for sleep compound.  
But modest Sand— ch thought it might agree  
With the State-prudence, to do less than he;  
And to excuse their timorousness and sloth,  
They found how George might now be less than both.  
First Smith must for Leghorn, with force enough  
To venture back again, but not go through:  
Beaufort is there, and to their dazzling Eyes  
The distance more the Object magnifies;  
Yet this they gain, that Smith his time should lose,  
And for my Duke too, cannot interpose.  
But fearing that our Navy, George to break,  
Might yet not be sufficiently weak;  
The Secretary, that had never yet  
Intelligence, but from his own Gazette,  
Discovers a great Secret, fit to sell,  
And pays himself fort, e'er he would it tell;  
Beaufort is in the Channel; Hixy here!  
Doxy Thoulon! Beaufort is ev'ry-where.  
Herewith assembling the supreme Divan,  
Where enters none but Devil, NED and NAN;  
And upon this pretence they strait designed,  
The Fleet to separate, and the World to blind:  
Monk to the Dutch, and Rupert (here the Wench  
Could not but smile) is destined to the French.  
To write the order, Bristol Clerk is chose;  
One slit in's Pen, the other in his Nose;  
For he first brought the News, it is his place;  
He'll see the Fleet divided like his Face;  
And through the cranny in his grisly part,  
To the Dutch Chink Intelligence impart.  
The Plot succeeds: The Dutch in haste prepared,  
And poor Peel Garlic George's Arse they shared;  
And then presuming of his certain Wrack,  
To help him late they send for Rupert back.  
Officious Will seemed fittest, as afraid  
Lest George should look too far into his Trade.  
At the first Draught they pause with statesmen's care,  
They write in full, then copy it as fair;  
And then compare them, when at last it's signed,  
Will soon his Purse-strings, but no Seal could find.  
At Night he sends it by the common Post,  
To save the King of an Express the cost.  
Lord, what ado to pack one Letter hence!  
Some Patents pass with less circumference.  
Well George, in spite of them thou safe dost ride,  
Lessened I hope in nought but thy backside;  
For as to Reputation, this Retreat  
Of thine, exceeds the Victories so great:  
Nor shalt thou stir from hence, by my consent,  
Till thou hast made the Dutch and Them repent.  
'Tis true, I want so long the Nuptial Gift,  
But as I oft have done, I'll make a shift;  
Nor will I with vain pomp accost the shore,  
To try thy Valour at the Bovy o'th' North,  
Fall to thy Work there George, as I do here;  
Cherish the valiant up, Cowards cashier:  
See that the Men have Pay, and Beef, and Beer,  
Find out the cheats of the four Millioneer.  
Out of the very Beer, they sell the Malt;  
Powder of Powder, from powdered Beef the Salt.  
Put thy hand to the Tub, instead of Ox,  
They victual with French Pork that hath the Pox.  
Never such Cotqueans by small arts do wring,  
Ne'er such ill Huswives in the managing!  
Pursers at Sea know fewer cheats than they,  
Mariners on Shore less madly spend their Pay.  
See that thou hast new Sails thyself, and spoil  
All their Sea-market, and their Cable coil.  
Look that good Chaplains on each Ship do wait,  
Nor the Sea-Diocese be impropriate:  
Look to the sick and wounded Prisoners; all  
Is prize; they rob even the Hospital,  
Recover back the Prizes too; in vain  
We fight, if all be taken that is ta'en.  
Now by our Coast the Dutchmen, like a Flight  
Of feeding Ducks, evening and morning light;  
How our Land-hectors' tremble, void of sense,  
As if they came strait to transport them hence:  
Some Sheep are stolen; the Kingdom's all arrayed,  
And eved Presbyters now call out for aid.  
They wish even George divided to command,  
One half of him at Sea, th' other on Land.  
What's that I see! ah, 'tis my George again!  
It seems they in seven Weeks have rigged him then.  
The curious heavens with Lightning him surrounds,  
To view him, and his Name in Thunder sounds.  
But with the same swift goes, their Navy's near:  
So e'er we hunt the Keeper shoots the Deer.  
Stay Heaven awhile, and thou shalt see him ●ail,  
And George too, he can thunder, lighten, hail.  
Happy the time that I e'er wedded George,  
The Sword of England, and the Holland Scourge.  
Avaunt Rotterdam-Dog, Ruyter avaunt,  
Thou Water-Rat, thou Shark, thou Cormorant.  
I'll teach thee to shoot Scissors: I'll repair  
Each Rope thou losest George, out of this Hair.  
'Tis strong and course enough; I'll him this shift,  
E'er thou shalt lack a Sail, and lie a-drift:  
Bring home the old ones; I again will sew,  
And darn them up, to be as good as new.  
What, twice disabled! Never such a thing!  
Now Sovereign help him that brought in the King,  
Guard thy Posteriors, George, e'er all be gone,  
Tho' Jury-Masts, thou'st Jury-Buttocks none.  
Courage! How bravely (whet with this disgrace)  
He turns, and Bullets spits in Ruyter's Face.  
They fly, they fly, their Fleet doth now divide,  
But they discard their Trump: our Trump is Hyde.  
Where are you now, de Ruyter, with your Bears?  
See where your Merchants burn about your Ears.  
Fire out the Wasps, George from the hollow Trees,  
Crammed with the Honey of our English Bees.  
Ah now they are paid for Guinea: e'er they steer  
To the Gold Coast, they find it hotter here.  
Turn all your Ships to stoves e'er you set forth,  
To warm your Traffic in the frozen North.  
Ah Sandwich! had thy conduct been the same,  
Bergen had seen a less but richer Flame;  
Nor Ruyter lived new battle to repeat,  
And oftener beaten be, than we can beat.  
Scarce had George leisure after all his pain,  
To tie his Breaches; Ruyter's out again:  
Thrice in one Year! Why sure this Man is wood:  
Beat him like Stockfish, or he'll ne'er be good.  
I see them both again prepare to try;  
The first shot through each other with the Eye.  
Then— but the ruling Providence that must  
With humane Projects play, as Wind with Dust,  
Raises a storm. So Constables a fray  
Knock down; and send them both well cuffed away.  
Plant now New England Firs in English Oak,  
Build your Ships Ribs proof to the Cannon stroke:  
To get the Fleet to Sea, exhaust the Land;  
Let longing Princes pine for the command:  
Strong Marchpanes! Wafers lights! so thin a puff  
Of angry air can ruin all that huff:  
So Champions having shared the Lists and Sun,  
The Judge throws down's Award, and they have done.  
For shame come home George, 'tis for thee too much  
To fight at once with Heaven and the Dutch.  
Woe's me! what see I next, alas! the fate  
I see of England, and its utmost date.  
Those Flames of theirs at which we fond smile,  
Kindle like Torches our Sepulchral Pile.  
War, Fire, and Plague against us all conspire;  
We the War, God the Plague, who raised the Fire?  
See how Men all like Ghosts, while London burns,  
Wander, and each over his Ashes mourns!  
Cursed be the Man that first begat this War,  
In an ill hour, under a blazing Star.  
For Others sport two Nations fight a Prize;  
Between them both, Religion wounded dies.  
So of first Troy, the angry Gods unpaid,  
Razed the Foundations which themselves had laid.   

Welcome, though late, dear George: here hadst thou been,  
We'd scaped: (let Rupert bring the Navy in.)  
Thou still must help them out, when in the mire;  
Gen'ral at Land, at Plague, at Sea, at Fire.  
Now thou art gone, see Beaufort dares approach,  
And our Fleets angling, as to catch a Roach.  
Gibson farewell, till next we put to Sea:  
Truth is, thou'st drawn her in Effigy.    

To the KING:  By Sir John Denham. 
GReat Prince: and so much Greater as more Wise;  
Sweet as our Life, and dearer than our Eyes,  
What Servants will conceal, and Counsels spare  
To tell, the Painter and the Poet dare.  
And the assistance of an Heavenly Muse  
And Pencil represent the Crimes abstruse.  
Here needs no Fleet, no Sword, no foreign Foe;  
Only let Vice be damned, and justice flow.  
Shake but, like Jove, thy Locks divine and frown,  
Thy Sceptre will suffice to guard thy Crown.  
Hark to Cassandra's Song, e'er fate destroy  
By thy loud Navy's wooden Horse, thy Troy.  
As our Apollo, from the Tumults wave,  
And gentle Calms, though but in Oars will save.  
So Philomela her sad embroidery strung,  
And vocal Silks tuned with her Needle's Tongue.  
The Pictures dumb in Colours loud revealed  
The Tragedies at Court so long concealed;  
But when restored to voice enclosed with wings,  
To Woods and Groves what once the Painter sings.   

Directions to a Painter.  By Sir John Denham. 

DRaw England ruined by what was given before,  
Then draw the Commons slow in giving more:  
Too late grown wiser, they their treasure see  
Consumed by fraud, or lost by treachery;  
And vainly now would some account receive  
Of those vast Sums which they so idly gave,  
And trusted to the management of such  
As Dunkirk sold, to make War with the Dutch;  
Dunkirk, designed once to a nobler Use,  
Than to erect a petty Lawyer's House.  
But what account could they from those expect,  
Who to grow rich themselves the State neglect;  
Men who in England have no other Lot,  
Than what they by betraying it have got;  
Who can pretend to nothing but Disgrace,  
Where either Birth or Merit find a place.  
Plague, Fire and War, have been the Nation's Curse,  
But to have these our Rulers, is a worse:  
Yet draw these Causers of the Kingdom's Woe,  
Still urging dangers from our growing Foe,  
Ask new Aid for War with the same face,  
As if, when given, they meant not to make Peace.  
Mean while they cheat the public with such haste,  
They will have nothing that may ease it, past.  
They Law against Irish Cattle they condemn,  
As showing distrust o'th' King; that is, of them.  
Yet they must now swallow this bitter Pill,  
Or Money want, which was the greater ill.  
And then the King to Westminster is brought,  
Imperfectly to speak the Chanc'llors thought;  
In which, as if no Age could parallel  
A Prince and Council that had ruled so well,  
He tells the Parliament he cannot brook  
Whate'er in them like Jealousy doth look:  
Adds, that no grievances the Nation load,  
While we're undone at home despised abroad.  
Thus past the Irish with the Money-Bill,  
The first not half so good, as th' other ill.  
With these new Millions might we not expect  
Our Foes to vanquish, or ourselves protect;  
If not to beat them off usurped Seas,  
At least to force an honourable Peace:  
But though the angry fate, or folly rather,  
Of our perverted State, allow us neither;  
Could we hope less to defend our Shores,  
Than guard our Harbours, Forts, our ships and stores?  
We hoped in vain: Of these remaining are,  
Not what we saved, but what the Dutch did spare.  
Such was our Rulers generous stratagem;  
A policy worthy of none but them.  
After two Millions more laid on the Nation,  
The Parliament grows ripe for Prorogation:  
They rise, and now a Treaty is confessed,  
'Gainst which before these State-cheats did protest:  
A Treaty which too well makes it appear,  
Theirs, not the Kingdom's Interest, is their care:  
Statesmen of old, thought Arms the way to Peace;  
Ours scorn such threadbare policies as these:  
All that was given for the State's defence,  
They think too little for their own expense:  
Or if from that they any thing can spare,  
●t is to buy Peace, not maintain a War:  
For which great work Ambassadors must go  
With bare submissions to our arming foe:  
Thus leaving a defenceless State behind,  
Vast Fleets preparing by the Belgians find;  
Against whose fury what can us defend?  
Whilst our great Politicians here depend  
Upon the Dutch good Nature: For when Peace  
(Say they) is making, Acts of War must cease.  
Thus were we by the name of Truce betrayed.  
Tho' by the Dutch nothing like it was made.  
Here, Painter, let thine Art describe a Story  
Shaming our warlike Island's ancient Glory:  
A Scene which never on our Seas appeared,  
Since our first ships were on the Ocean steered;  
Make the Dutch Fleet while we supinely sleep,  
Without Opposers, Masters of the Deep:  
Make them securely the Thames-mouth invade,  
At once depriving us of that and Trade:  
Draw Thunder from their floating Castles, sent  
Against our Forts, weak as our Government:  
Draw Woollidge, Deptford, London, and the Tower,  
Meanly abandoned to a foreign power.  
Yet turn their first attempt another way,  
And let their Cannons upon Sheerness play;  
Which soon destroyed, their lofty Vessels ride  
Big with the hope of the approaching Tide:  
Make them more help from our Remissness find,  
Than from the Tide, or from the eastern Wind.  
Their Canvas swelling with a prosperous gale,  
Swift as our fears make them to Chatham sail:  
Through our weak Chain their Fireships break their way,  
And our great Ships (unmanned) become their prey:  
Then draw the fruit of our ill-managed Cost,  
At once our Honour and our Safety lost:  
Bury those Bulwarks of our Isle in Smoak,  
While their thick Flames the neighbouring Country choke,  
The Charles escapes the raging Element,  
To be with triumph into Holland sent;  
Where the glad People to the Shore resort,  
To see their Terror, now become their sport.  
But Painter, fill not up thy Peice before  
Thou paint'st Confusion on our troubled shore:  
Instruct then thy bold Pencil to relate  
The saddest Marks of an ill governed State.  
Draw th'injured Seamen deaf to all Command,  
While some with horror and amazement stand:  
Others will know no other Enemy but they  
Who have unjustly robbed them of their Pay:  
Boldly refusing to oppose a Fire.  
To kindle which, our Errors did conspire:  
Some (though but few) persuaded to obey,  
Useless for want of Ammunition stay:  
The Forts designed to guard our Ships of War,  
Void both of Powder and of Bullets are:  
And what past Reigns in peace did ne'er omit,  
The present (whilst invaded) doth forget.  
Surpassing Chatham, make Whitehall appear,  
If not in danger, yet at least in fear.  
Make our dejection (if thou canst) seem more  
Than our Pride, Sloth and ignorance did before:  
The King, of danger now shows far more fear,  
Then he did ever to prevent it, care;  
Yet to the City doth himself convey,  
Bravely to show he was not run away:  
Whilst the Black Prince, and our Fifth Harry's Wars,  
Are only acted on our Theatres.  
Our Statesmen finding no expedient,  
(If fear of danger) but a Parliament,  
Twice would avoid, by clapping up a Peace;  
The Cures to them as bad as the Disease:  
But Painter, end not, till it does appear  
Which most, the Dutch or Parliament they fear.   

As Nero once, with Harp in hand, surveyed  
His flaming Rome; and as that burnt, he played:  
So our great Prince, when the Dutch Fleet arrived,  
Saw his Ships burn; and as they burned, he—    

Directions to a Painter:  By Sir John Denham. 

PAinter, where was't thy former Work did cease?  
Oh, 'twas at Parliament, and the brave Peace.  
Now for a Cornucopia: Peace, all know  
Brings Plenty with it; wish it be not Woe.  
Draw Coats of Pageantry, and Proclamations  
Of Peace, concluded with one, two, three Nations.  
Canst thou not on the change make Merchants grin  
Like outward smiles, whiles vexing thoughts within?  
Thou art no Artist, if thou canst not feign,  
And counterfeit the counterfeit disdain.  
Draw a brave Standard, ruffling at a rate  
Much other than it did for Chatham's fate.  
The Tower Guns too, thundering their Joys, that they  
Have scaped the danger of b'ing ta'en away:  
These, as now Manned, for triumph are, not fight;  
As painted fire for show, not heat or light.  
Amongst the roar of these, and the mad shout  
Of a poor nothing understanding Rout,  
That think the On and Off-Peace now is true,  
Thou mightst draw Mourners for Black Barthol'mew:  
Mourners in Zion! Oh 'tis not to be  
Discovered! draw a Curtain courteously  
To hide them. Now proceed to draw at night  
A Bonfire here and there; but none too bright,  
Nor lasting: for 'twas Brushwood, as they say,  
Which they that hoped for Coals now flung away.  
But stay, I had forgot my Mother: draw  
The Church of England amongst the Opera,  
To play their part too; or the Dutch will say,  
In War and Peace they've born the B●lls away.  
At this end then, two or three Steeples ringing,  
At th' other end, draw Quires, Te Deum singing;  
Between them leave a space for Tears: Remember  
That 'tis not long to th' Second of September.  
Now if thou skill'st prospective Landscape, draw  
At distance, what perhaps thine Eyes ne'er saw;  
Polyroon, Spicy Islands, Kits, or Guinea:  
Syrenam, Nova Scotia, or Virginia:  
No, no; I mean not these, pray hold your laughter;  
These things are far off, not worth looking after:  
Give not a hint of these: Draw Highland, Lowland,  
Mountains and Flatts: Draw Scotland first, then Holland.  
See, canst thou ken the Scots frowns? Then draw those  
That something had to get, but nought to lose.  
Canst thou through Fogs discern the Dutchmen drink?  
Buss-Skippers, lately Capers, stamp to think  
Their catching craft is over: some have ta'en,  
To eke their War, a Warrant from the Dane.  
But passing these, their Statesmen view a while,  
In every graver Countenance a Smile:  
Copy the piece there done, wherein you'll see  
One laughing out, I told you how 'twould be!  
Draw next a pompous interchange of Seals;  
But cursed be he that Articles reveals  
Before he knows them: Now for this take light  
From him that did describe Sir Edward's fight:  
You may perhaps the truth on't doubt; what tho'?  
You'll have it then Cum Privilegio.  
Then draw our Lords Commissioners advance,  
Not homewards, but for Flanders, or for France;  
There to parlier a while, until they see  
How things in Parliament resented be.  
So much for Peace. Now for a Parliament:  
A petty Sessions draw: with what content,  
Guess by their Countenance, who came up post,  
And quickly saw they had their Labour lost:  
Like the small Merchants when they Bargains sell;  
Come hither Jack: What say? Come kiss: Farewell:  
But 'twas abortive, born before its Day;  
No wonder than it died so soon away.  
Yet breathed it once, and that with such a force,  
It blasted Thirty Thousand Foot and Horse.  
As once Prometheus' Man did sneeze so hard,  
As routed all that new raised standing Guard  
Of Teeth, to keep the Tongue in order: So  
Down fall our new Gallants without a Foe.  
But if this little one could do so much,  
What will the next? Give a Prophetic touch.  
If thou know how; if not, leave a great space,  
For great things to be portrayed in their place,  
Now draw the shadow of a Parliament,  
As if to scare the upper World 'twere sent:  
Cross yourselves, Gentlemen, for shades will fright,  
Especially if't be an English Spirit:  
vermilion this man's guilt, cerule his fears;  
Sink th' others Eyes deep in his Head with cares:  
Another thoughtsome on accounts to see  
How his Disbursements with Receipts agree.  
Peep into Coaches, see Periwigs neglected,  
Crossed Arms and Legs of such as are suspected,  
Or do suspect what's coming, and foresee  
Themselves must share in this Polutrophy.  
Painter, hast travelled? Didst thou e'er see Rome?  
That famed piece there, Angelo's day of Doom?  
Horror and Anguish of Descenders there,  
May teach thee how to paint Descenders here.  
Canst thou describe the empty shifts are made,  
Like that which Dealers call, Forcing of Trade.  
Some shift their Crimes, some Places; and among  
The rest, some will their Countries too, e'er long.  
Draw in a corner, Gamesters, shuffling, cutting,  
Their little Crafts, no wit, together putting:  
How to pack Knaves, amongst Kings and Queens, to make  
A saving Game, whilst Heads are at the stake.  
But cross their Cards, until it be confessed,  
Of all the Play, fair dealing is the best.  
Draw a Veil of Displeasure, one to Hide,  
And some prepared to strike a blow on's side.  
Let him that built high, now creep low to shelter,  
When Potentates must tumble Helter Skelter.  
The Purse, Seal, Mace, are gone, as it was fit,  
Such Marks as these could not choose but be hit.  
The Purse, Seal, Mace, are gone; Bartholomew-day,  
Of all the days i'th' Year, they're ta'en away.  
The Purse, Seal, Mace, are gone: but to another  
Mitre, I wish not so, tho' to my Brother:  
I care not for translation to a See,  
Unless they would translate to Italy.  
Now draw a Sail playing before the Wind,  
From the North-West; that which it leaves behind,  
Curses or Out-cries, mind them not, tell when  
They do appear Realities, and then  
Spare not to paint them in their Colours, though  
Crimes of a Viceroy: Deputies have so  
Been served e'er now: But if the Man prove true,  
Let him with Pharoah's Butler have his due.  
Make the same wind blow strong against the Shore  
Of France, to hinder some from coming over.  
And rather draw the golden Vessel burning,  
Even there, than hither with her Fraight returning.  
'Tis true, the noble Treasurer is gone:  
Wise, Faithful, Loyal, some say th' only one!  
Yet I will hope we've Pilots left behind  
Can steer our Vessel without Southern wind.  
Women have grossly snared the wisest Prince  
That ever was before, or hath been since:  
And Granham Athaliah in that Nation,  
Was a great hinderer of Reformation.  
Paint in a new Peice painted Jezebel;  
Give't to adorn the dining Room of Hell.  
Hang by her others of the Gang; for more  
Deserve a place with Rosamond, jane Shore, etc.  
Stay Painter, now look, here's below a space  
I'th' bottom of this, what shall we place?  
Shall it be Pope, or Turk, or Prince, or Nun?  
Let the resolve be Nescio. So have done.  
Expose thy Peice now to the World to see,  
Perhaps they'll say of It, of Thee, of Me,  
Poems and Paints can speak sometimes bold Truths,  
Poets and Painters are licentious Youths.   

Quae sequuntur, in limine T'halami Regii, à nescio  
quo nebulone scripta, reperibantur.   

Bella fugis, bellas sequeris, belloque repugnas  
Et bellatori▪ sunt tibi bella Thori  
Imbelles imbellis amas, audaxque videris  
Mars ad opus Veneris, Martis ad arma Venus.    

The last Instructions to a Painter, about the Dutch Wars, 1667.  By A. marvel, Esq. 
AFter two sit now our Lady-State  
To end her Picture does the third time wait;  
But e'er thou fallest to work, first Painter see,  
If't be'nt too slight grown, or too hard for thee.  
Canst thou paint without Colours, then 'tis right?  
For so we too without a Fleet can fight.  
Or canst thou daub a signpost, and that ill?  
'Twill suit our great Debauch and little Skill.  
Or hast thou marked how antique Masters Limn,  
The Aly-roof with Snuff of Candle dim,  
Sketching in shady Smoke, prodigious Tools?  
'Twill serve this race of Drunkards, Pimps and Fools.  
But if to match our crimes thy skill presumes,  
As th' Indian draw out Luxury in Plumes.  
Or if to score out our compendious Fame,  
With Hook then through your Microscope take aim;  
Where like the new controller all men laugh,  
To see a tall Louse brandish a white Staff.  
Else shalt thou off thy guiltless Pencil curse.  
Stamp on thy Palate, nor perhaps the worse.  
The Painter so long having vexed his Cloth,  
Of his Hound's mouth to feign the raging Froth,  
His desperate Pencil at the work did dart;  
His anger reached that rage which past his Art.  
Chance finished that, which Art could but begin,  
And he sat smiling how his Dog did grin.  
So may'st th●u perfect by a lucky blow,  
What all thy softest touches cannot do.  
Paint then St. Alban full of Soop and Gold,  
The new Courts pattern, Stallion of the old.  
Him neither Wit nor Courage did exalt,  
But Fortune chose him for her pleasure's Salt.  
Paint him with Dray-mans' Shoulders, Butchers Mein,  
Membered like Mule, with Elephantine Chin.  
Well he the Title of St. Alban bore;  
For never Bacon studied Nature more:  
But age allaying now that youthful heat,  
Fits him in France to play at Cards and cheat.  
Draw no Commission, lest the Court should lie,  
And disavowing Treaty, ask supply;  
He needs no Seal but to St. James' lease,  
Whose Breeches were the instruments of Peace.  
Who if the French dispute his power, from thence  
Can straight produce them a Plenipotence  
Nor fears he the Most Christian should trapan  
Two Saints at once, St. German, and St. Alban;  
But thought the Golden age was now restored,  
When Men and Women took each others word.  
Paint then again her Highness to the Life,  
Philosopher beyond Newcastles Wife:  
She naked can Archimedes self put down  
For an experiment upon the Crown.  
She perfected that Engine oft essayed,  
How after Childbirth to renew a Maid;  
And found how Royal Heirs might be matured  
In fewer Months than Mothers once endured.  
Hence Crowder made the rare Inventress free  
Ol's Highnesses Royal Society.  
Happiest of Women if she were but able  
To make her glassen Duke once maleable.)  
Paint her with Oyster lip, and Breath of fame,  
Wide Mouth, that Asparagus may well proclaim;  
With Chancellor's Belly, and so large a Rump,  
There (not behind the Coach) her Pages jump:  
Express her studying now, if China-Clay  
Can, without breaking, venomed Juice convey.  
Or how a mortal Poison she may draw  
Out of the Cordial Meal of the Cacoa.  
Witness the Stars of Night, and thou the pale  
Moon, that o'ercome with the sick Steam didst fail.  
Ye neighbouring Elms that your green Leaves did shed,  
And Fauns that from the Womb abortive fled.  
Not unprovok'd she tries forbidden Arts,  
But in her soft Breast Loves hid Cancer smarts,  
While she revolves at once Sydney's disgrace,  
And herself scorned for emulous Denham's Face,  
And nightly hears the hated Guards away  
Galloping with the Duke to other Prey.  
Paint Castlemain in colours that will hold  
Her, not her Picture, for she now grows old.  
She through her Lackey's Drawers as he ran,  
Discerned Love's cause, and a new flame began.  
Her wont joys thenceforth, and Court she shuns,  
And still within her mind the Footman runs.  
His brazen Calves, his brawny Thighs (the Face  
She slights) his Feet shaped for a smother race.  
Poring within her Glass, she re-adjusts  
Her locks, and oft-tryed Beauty now distrusts;  
Fears lest he scorned a Woman once assayed,  
And now first wished she e'er had been a Maid.  
Great Love! how dost thou triumph, and how reign,  
That to a Groom couldst humble her disdain!  
Stripped to her Skin, see how she stooping stands,  
Nor scorns to rub him down with those fair Hands,  
And washing (lest the scent her crime disclose)  
His sweaty Hoofs, tickles him betwixt the Toes.  
But envious Fame too soon began to note  
More Gold in's Fob, more Lace upon his Coat;  
And he unwary, and of Tongue too fleet,  
No longer could conceal his Fortune sweet.  
Justly the Rogue was whipped in Porter's Den,  
And Jermin straight has leave to come again.  
Ah Painter! now could Alexander live,  
And this Campaspe thee Apelles give.  
Draw next a pair of Tables opening, than  
The House of Commons clattering like the men.  
Describe the Court and Country both set right  
On opposite points, the black against the white.  
Those having lost the Nation at Tick-Tack,  
These now adventuring how to win it back.  
The Dice hetwixt them must the fate divide,  
(As chance does still in multitudes decide)  
But here the Court doth its advantage know,  
For the cheat Turner for them both must throw;  
As some from Boxes, he so from the Chair  
Can strike the die, and still with them go share.  
Here Painter rest a little and survey  
With what small Arts the public Game they play:  
For so too, Rubens with affairs of State  
His labouring Pencil oft would recreate.  
The close Cabal marked how the Navy eats,  
And thought all lost that goes not to the Cheats.  
So therefore secretly for Peace decrees,  
Yet as for War the Parliament would squeeze;  
And fix to the Revenue such a Sum  
Should Goodrick silence, and strike Paston dumb:  
Should pay Land Armies, should dissolve the vain  
Commons, and ever such a Court maintain,  
Hyde's avarice, Bennets luxury should suffice,  
And what can these defray but the Excise?  
Excise a Monster, worse than e'er before,  
Frighted the Midwife, and the Mother tore.  
A thousand Hands she has, and thousand Eyes,  
Breaks into Shops, and into Cellars pries.  
With hundred rows of Teeth the Shark exceeds,  
And on all Trades, like Casawar she feeds;  
Chaps of the piece wheres'e're she close the Jaw,  
Else swallows all down her indented Maw.  
She stalks all day in Streets concealed from sight,  
And flies like Bats with leathern Wings by night:  
She wastes the Country, and on City's preys:  
Her of a Female Harpy in Dog-days.  
Black Birch, of all the Earthborn Race most hot,  
And most rapacious like himself begot;  
And of his Brat enamoured, as't increased,  
Buggered in Incest with the mongrel Beast.  
Say Muse, for nothing can escape thy sight,  
(And, Painter wanting other, draw this fight)  
Who in an English Senate fierce debate  
Could raise so long for this new Whore of State.  
Of early Wittols first the Troop marched in;  
For diligence renowned, and Discipline.  
In loyal haste they lest young Wives in bed,  
And Denham these with one consent did head.  
Of the old Courtiers next a Squadron came,  
That sold their Master, led by Ashburnham.  
To them succeeds a despicable Rout,  
But knew the word, and well could face about;  
Expectants pale with hopes of Spoil allured,  
Though yet but Pioners, and led by Steward.  
Then damning Cowards ranged the vocal Plain:  
Wood these command, Knight of the Horn, and Cane▪  
Still his hook-shoulder seems the blow to dread,  
And under's Armpit he defends his Head.  
The posture strange men laugh at, of his pole,  
Hid with his Elbow like the Spice he stole:  
Headless St. Dennis so his Head does bear,  
And both of them alike French Martyrs were.  
Court Officers, as used, the next place took,  
And followed F— x, but with disdainful look.  
His birth, his youth, his brokage all dispraise  
In vain; for always he commands that pays.  
Then the procurers under Progers filled,  
Gentlest of men, and his Lieutenant mild;  
Bronkard Love's Squire, through all the Field arrayed,  
No Troop was better clad, nor so well paid.  
Then marched the Troop of Clarendon all full,  
Haters of Fowl, to Teal preferring Bull:  
Gross Bodies, grosser Minds, and grosser Cheats,  
And bloated Wren conducts them to their Seats.  
Charleton advances next (whose Wife does awe  
The Mitred Troop) and with his Looks gives Law.  
He marches with Beaver cocked of Bishop's brim,  
And hid much fraud under an aspect grim.  
Next the Lawyer's mercenary Band appear,  
Finch in the Front, and Thurland in the Rear.  
The Troop of Privilege, a Rabble bare  
Of Debtors deep, fell to Trelawney's care;  
Their Fortune's error they supplied in Rage,  
Nor any further would than these engage.  
Then marched the Troop whose valiant acts before  
(Their public acts) obliged them to do more.  
For Chimney's sake they all Sir Pool obeyed,  
Or in his absence him that first it laid  
Then come the thrifty Troop of Privateers,  
Whose Horses each with other interferes:  
Before them Higgins rides with brow compact,  
Mourning his Countess anxious for his Act.  
Sir Frederick and Sir Solomon draw lots  
For the Command of Politics and Scots:  
Thence fell towards— but quarrels to adjourn,  
Their Friends agreed they should command by turn.  
Carteret the rich did the Accountants guide,  
And in ill English all the world defied.  
The Papists (but of those the House had none  
Else) Talbot offered to have led them on.  
Bold Duncomb next of the Projectors chief,  
And old Fitz-Harding of the Eaters Beef.  
Late and disordered out the Drunkards drew,  
Scarce them their Leaders, they their Leaders knew.  
Before them entered equal in command  
Apsley and Brotherick marching hand in hand.  
Last then but one Powel that could not ride  
Left the French Standard weltering in his stride;  
He, to excuse his slowness, truth confessed.  
That 'twas so long before he could be dressed.  
The Lords Sons last all these did reinforce,  
Cornbury before them managed Hobby-Horse.  
Never before, nor since an Host so steeled  
Trooped on to muster in the Tuttle-field.  
Not the first Cockhorse that with Cork was shod  
To rescue Albemarle from the Sea-Cod:  
Nor the late Feathermen whom Tomkins fierce  
Shall with one breath like Thistle Down disperse.  
All the two Coventries their Generals chose,  
For one had much, the other nought to lose.  
Nor better choice all accidents could hit,  
While Hector Harry steers by Will the Wit.  
They both accept the charge with merry glee,  
To fight a Battle from all Gun-shot free.  
Pleased with their Numbers, yet in Valour wise,  
They feign a Parley, better to surprise;  
They that e'er long shall the rude Dutch upbraid,  
Who in a time of Treaty durst invade  
Thick was the Morning, and the House was thin,  
The Speaker early, when they all fell in.  
Propitious Heavens! had not you them crossed,  
Excise had got the day, and all been lost:  
For t'other side all in close Quarters lay  
Without Intelligence, Command or Pay.  
A scatterred body which the Foe ne'er tried,  
But often did among themselves divide.  
And some ran o'er each Night, while others sleep,  
And undescryed return 'fore Morning peep.  
But Strangeways that all Night still walk the round,  
For Vigilance and Courage both renowned;  
First spied the Enemy, and gave th' Alarm,  
Fight it single till the rest might arm:  
Such Roman Cocles stood before the Foe,  
The falling Bridge behind, the Streams below.  
Each ran as Chance him guides to several post,  
And all to pattern his Example, boast;  
Their former Trophies they recall to mind,  
And to new edge their angry courage grind.  
First entered forward Temple, Conqueror  
Of Irish Cattle, and Solicitor;  
Then daring S— r, that with Spear and Shield  
Had stretched the Monster Patent on the Field.  
Keen Whorwood next in aid of Damsel frail,  
That pierced the Giant Mordant through his Mail:  
And surly Williams the Accountants bane,  
And Lovelace young of Chimny-men the Cane.  
Old Waller, Trumpet-Ceneral, swore he'd write  
This Combat truer than the Naval fight.  
Of birth, state, wit, strength, courage, How'rd presumes,  
And in his breast wears many Montezumes.  
These with some more with single valour stay  
The adverse Troops, and hold them all at bay.  
Each thinks his person represents the whole,  
And with that thought does multiply his soul;  
Believes himself an Army; theirs, one Man;  
As easily conquered, and believing, can  
With heart of Bees so full, and head of Mites,  
That each, though Duelling, a Battle fights.  
Such once Orlando famous in Romance,  
Broached whole Brigades like Larks upon his Lance.  
But strength at last still under number bows,  
And the faint sweat trickled down Temples brows;  
Even Iron Strangeways chase yet gave back,  
Spent with fatigue, to breathe a while Toback—  
When marching in, a seasonable recruit  
Of Citizens, and Merchants, held dispute,  
And charging all their Pikes, a sullen band  
Of Presbyterian Swissers made a stand.  
Nor could all these the Field have long maintained,  
But for th' unknown reserve that still remained;  
A gross of English Gentry nobly born,  
Of clear Estates, and to no Fact on sworn,  
Dear Lovers of their King, and Death to meet  
For Country's cause, that glorious thing and sweet,  
To speak not forward, but in action brave,  
In giving generous, but in Council grave;  
Candidly credulous for once; nay twice:  
But sure the Devil can't cheat them thrice.  
The Van and Battle, tho' retiring, falls  
Without disorder in their Intervals;  
Then closing all in equal front, fall on,  
Led by great Garrway, and great Littleton.  
Loe equal to obey, or to command  
Adjutant-General was still at hand.  
The Marshal Standard Sands displaying shows  
St. Dunstan in it tweaking Satan's Nose.  
See sudden chance of War to paint, or write,  
Is longer work, and harder than to fight:  
At the first charge the Enemy give out,  
And the Excise receives a total rout.  
Broken in courage, yet the men the same,  
Resolve henceforth upon their other game;  
Where force had failed, with Stratagem to play,  
And what haste lost, recover by delay.  
St. Alban straight is sent to, to forbear,  
Lest the sure Peace (forsooth) too soon appear.  
The Seamens clamours to three ends they use,  
To cheat their pay, feign want, and th' House accuse▪  
Each day they bring the tale, and that too true,  
How strong the Dutch their Equipage renew.  
Mean time through all the Yards their Orders run,  
To lay the Ships up, cease the Keels begun.  
The Timber rots, the useless Axe does rust;  
Th' unpractised Saw lies buried in its dust;  
The busy Hammer sleeps, the Ropes untwine,  
The Stores and Wages all are mine and thine.  
Along the Coasts and Harbours they take care  
That Money lacks, nor Forts be in repair.  
Long thus they could against the House conspire,  
Load them with envy, and with sitting tire:  
And the loved King, and never yet denied,  
Is brought to beg in public, and to chide:  
But when this failed, and Months enough were spent,  
They with the first days proffer seem content;  
And to Land-Tax from the Excise turn round,  
Bought off with Eighteen hundred thousand pound.  
Thus like fair Thiefs, the Commons Purse they share,  
But all the Members Lives consulting spare.  
Blither than Hare that hath escaped the Hounds,  
The House prorogued, the Chanchellour rebounds.  
Not so decripet Aeson hasht and stewed  
With Magic Herbs rose from the Pot renewed;  
And with fresh Age felt his glad Limbs unite,  
His Gout (yet still he cursed) had left him quite.  
What Frosts to Fruits, what Arsenic to the Rat,  
What to fair Denham mortal Chocolat:  
What an account to Carteret, that and more,  
A Parliament is to the Chancellor.  
So the sad Tree shrinks from the Morning's Eye,  
But blooms all Night and shoots its Branches high.  
So at the Sun's recess, again returns,  
The Comet dread, and Earth and Heaven burns.  
Now Mordant may within his Castle Tower  
Imprison Parents, and the Child deflower.  
The Irish Herd is now let loose, and comes  
By Millions over, not by Hecatombs:  
And now▪ now the Canary Patent may  
Be broached again for the great Holiday.  
See how he reigns in his new Palace culminant,  
And sits in state Divine like Jove the Fulminant.  
First Buckingham that durst durst him rebel,  
Blasted with Lightning, struck with Thunder fell.  
Next the twelve Commons are condemned to groan,  
And roll in vain at Sisyphus' Stone.  
But still he cared, whilst in revenge he braved  
That Peace secured, and Money might be saved:  
Gain and Revenge, Revenge and Gain are sweet,  
United most, when most by turns they meet.  
France had St. Alban promised (so they sing)  
St. Alban promised him, and he the King.  
The Count forthwith is ordered all to close,  
To play for Flanders, and the Stake to lose.  
While chained together, two Ambassadors  
Like slaves shall beg for Peace at Holland's doors.  
This done, among his Cyclops he retires  
To forge new Thunder, and inspect their Fires.  
The Court as once of War, now fond of Peace,  
All to new sports their wanton fears release.  
From Greenwich (where Intelligence they hold)  
Comes news of Pastime martial and old.  
A punishment invented first to awe  
Masculine Wives transgressing Nature's Law;  
Where when the brawny Female disobeys,  
And beats the Husband, till for Peace he prays,  
No concerned Jury damage for him finds;  
Nor partial Justice her behaviour binds;  
But the just Street does the next House invade,  
Mounting the Neighbour couple on lean Jade;  
The Distaff knocks, the Grains from Kettle fly,  
And Boys and Girls in Troops run hooting by.  
Prudent Antiquity! that knew by shame,  
Better than Law, domestic broils to tame;  
And taught Youth by spectacle innocent,  
So thou and I dear Painter represent  
In quick Effigy, others faults; and feign,  
By making them ridic'lous, to restrain:  
With homely sight they chose thus to relax  
The Joys of State for the new Peace and Tax.  
So Holland with us had the Mastery tried,  
And our next Neighbours, France and Flanders ride.  
But a fresh News the great designment nips  
Off, at the Isle of Candy, Dutch and Ships.  
Bab May, and Arlington did wisely scoff,  
And thought all safe, if they were so far off;  
Modern Geographers! ' I was there they thought  
Where Venice twenty years the Turks had sought.  
(While the first year our Navy is but shown,  
The next divided, and the third we've none▪)  
They by the Name mistook it for that Isle  
Where Pilgrim Palmer travelled in Exile,  
With the Bull's horn to measure his own head,  
And on Pasiphae's Tomb to drop a bead.  
But Morris learned demonstrates by the Post,  
This Isle of Candy was on Essex Coast.  
Fresh Messengers still the sad news assure,  
More timorous now we are than first secure▪  
False terrors our believing fears devise,  
And the French Army one from Calais spies.  
Bennet and May, and those of shorter reach,  
Change all for Guineas and a Crown for each;  
But wiser Men, and Men foreseen in chance  
In Holland theirs had lodged before, and France.  
Whitehall's unsafe, the Court all meditates  
To fly to Windsor and mure up the Gates.  
Each doth the other blame, and all distrust,  
(But Mordant new obliged would sure be just.)  
Not such a fatal stupefaction reigned  
At London's Flames, nor to the Court complained.  
The Bloodworth Chanc'lor gives, (than does recall)  
Orders, amazed, at last gives none at all.  
St. Alban writ too, that he may bewail  
To Monsieur Lewis and tell Coward tale,  
How that the Hollanders do make a noise,  
Threaten to beat us, and are naughty Boys.  
Now Doleman's disobedient, and they still  
Uncivil, his unkindness would us kill.  
Tell him our Ships unrigged, our Forts unmanned,  
Our Money's spent, else 'twere at his command;  
Summon him therefore of his word, and prove  
To move him out of pity, if not love;  
Pray him to make D'Wit and Ruyter cease,  
And whip the Dutch, unless they'll hold their peace.  
But Lewis was of memory but dull,  
And to St. Alban too undutiful:  
Nor Word, nor near Relation did revere,  
But asked him bluntly for his Character.  
The graveled Count did with this answer faint,  
(His character was that which thou didst paint)  
And so enforced like Enemy or Spy,  
Trusses his Baggage, and the Camp does fly:  
Yet Lewis writes, and lest our heart should break,  
Condoles us morally out of Seneque.  
Two Letters next unto Breda are sent,  
In cipher one to Harry excellent:  
The first entrusts (our Verse that Name abhors)  
Plenipotentiary Ambassadors;  
To prove by Scripture, Treaty does imply  
Cessation, as the Look Adultery;  
And that by Law of Arms, in Martial strife,  
Who yields his Sword, has title to his Life.  
Presbyter Hollis the first point should clear,  
The second Coventry the Cavalier:  
But would they not be argued back from Sea,  
Then to return home straight infectâ re.  
But Harry's ordered, if they won't recall  
Their Fleet, to threaten— we will give them all.  
The Dutch are then in Proclamation shent,  
For sin against the eleventh Commandment.  
Hyde's flippant style there pleasantly curvets,  
Still his sharp wit on States and Princes whets:  
So Spain could not escape his laughter spleen,  
None but himself must choose the King a Queen.  
But when he came the odious Clause to pen,  
That summons up the Parliament again,  
His Writing-master many times he banned,  
And wished himself the Gout to seize his hand;  
Never old Lecher more repugnance felt,  
Consenting for his Rupture to be gelt.  
But still in hope he solaced ere they come  
To work the Peace, and so to send them home;  
Or in their hasty Call to find a flaw,  
Their Acts to vitiate, and them over-aw:  
But more relied upon this Dutch pretence,  
To raise a two-edged Army for's defence.  
First then he marched our whole Militia's force,  
(As if alas we Ships, or Dutch had Horse,)  
Then from the usual common place he blames  
These, and in standing Armies praise declaims:  
And the wise Court, that always loved it dear,  
Now thinks all but too little for their fear.  
Hide stamps, and straight upon the ground the swarms  
Of currant Myrmidons appear in Arms;  
And for their Pay he writes as from the King,  
With that cursed Quill plucked from a Vulture's wing,  
Of the whole Nation now to ask a Loan;  
(The Eighteen hundred thousand pounds are gone.)  
This done, he pens a Proclamation stout  
In rescue of the Bankers Bankrupt.  
His Minion-Imps that in his secret part  
Lie nuzzling at the Sacramental Wart;  
Horseleeches sucking at the Haem'royd Vein,  
He sucks the King, they him, he them again.  
The Kingdom's Farm he let's to them bids least;  
(Greater the Bribe) and cheats at Interest.  
Here Men induced by safety, gain, and ease,  
Their Money lodge, confiscate when he please:  
These can at need, at instant with a Scrip  
this liked him best) his Cash beyond Sea whip;  
When Dutch invade, and Parliament prepare;  
How can he Engines so convenient spare?  
Let no man touch them, or demand his own,  
Pain of displeasure of great Clarendon.  
The State affairs thus marshaled, for the rest,  
Monk in his Shirt against the Dutch is pressed.  
Often (dear Painter) have I sat and mused  
Why he should still b' on all Adventures used:  
Do they for nothing ill, like Ashen-wood,  
Or think him like Herb- John for nothing good?  
Whether his Valour they so much admire,  
Or that for Cowardice they all retire.  
As, Heaven in Storms they call, in gusts of State  
On Monk and Parliament, yet both do hate.  
All Causes sure concur, but must they think  
Under Herculean labours he may sink▪  
Soon than the Independent Troops would close,  
And Hyde's last project of his place dispose.  
Ruyter the while that had our Ocean curbed,  
Sailed now amongst our Rivers undisturbed;  
Surveyed their Crystal Streams and Banks so green,  
And beauties e'er this never naked seen:  
Through the vain Sedge the bashful Nymphs he eyed,  
Bosoms, and all which from themselves they hide.  
The Sun much brighter, and the Sky more clear  
He finds, the Air and all things sweeter here:  
The sudden change, and such a tempting sight  
Swells his old veins with fresh blood, fresh delight.  
Like amorous Victors he begins to shave,  
And his new face looks in the English Wave.  
His sporting Navy all about him swim,  
And witness their complacence in their trim.  
Their streaming Silks play through the weather fair,  
And with inveigling Colours court the Air▪  
While the Red Flags breath on their Top-masts high  
Terror and War, but want an Enemy.  
Among the Shrouds the Seamen sit and sing,  
And wanton Boys on every Rope do cling:  
Old Neptune springs the Tides, and Waters lent,  
(The Gods themselves do help the provident)  
And where the deep Keel on the shallow cleaves  
With Tridents Leaver and great Shoulder heaves.  
Aeolus' their Sails inspires with Eastern Wind,  
Puffs them along, and breaths upon them kind.  
With pearly Shell, the Tritons all the while  
Sound the Sea-march, and guide to Sheppy Isle.  
So have I seen in April's bud arise,  
A Fleet of Clouds sailing along the Skies.  
The liquid Region with their Squadrons filled,  
Their airy 〈…〉 Sun behind does gild,  
And gentle Gales them steer, and Heaven drives,  
When all on sudden their calm bosom rives  
With Thunder and Lightning from each armed Cloud,  
Shepherds themselves in vain in Bushes shroud.  
So up the Stream the Belgic Navy glides,  
And at Sheerness unloads its stormy Sides.  
Sprag there, though practised in the Sea command,  
With panting heart, lay like a fish on land,  
And quickly judged the Fort was not tenable;  
Which if a House, yet were not tenantable.  
No man can sit there safe, the Cannon pours  
Through the Walls untight, and Bullets showers.  
The neighbourhood ill, and an unwholesome seat,  
So at the first salute resolves retreat;  
And swore that he would never more dwell there,  
Until the City put it in repair.  
So he in Front, his Garrison in rear,  
Marched straight to Chatham to increase the fear:  
There our sick Ships unrigged in Summer lay,  
Like moulting Fowl, a weak and easy Prey:  
For whose strong bulk Earth scarce could Timber find,  
The Ocean water, or the Heaven's wind.  
Those Oaken Giants of the ancient Race,  
That ruled all Seas, and did our Channel grace.  
The conscious Stag, tho' once the Forest's dread,  
Flies to the Wood, and hides his armless Head:  
Ruyter forthwith a Squadron does untack,  
They sail securely through the River's tract.  
An English Pilot too (Oh shame! Oh sin!)  
Cheated of's Pay, was he that showed them in.  
Our wretched Ships within their Fate attend,  
And all our hopes now on frail Chain depend:  
(Engine so slight to guard us from the Sea,  
It fitter seemed to captivate a Flea,)  
A Skipper rude shocks it without respect,  
Filling his Sails more force to recollect.  
Th' English from shore the Iron deaf invoke  
For its last aid, Hold Chain, or we are broke!  
But with her sailing weight the Holland Keel,  
Snapping the brittle Links, does through reel,  
And to the rest the opened passage show:  
Monk from the Bank that dismal sight does view.  
Our feathered Gallants which came down that day  
To be Spectators safe of the New Play,  
Leave him alone when first they hear the Gun,  
(Cornb'ry the fleetest) and to London run.  
Our Seamen, whom no danger's shape could fright,  
Unpaid, refuse to mount our Ships for spite:  
Or to their Fellows swim on board the Dutch,  
Who show the tempting Metal in their clutch.  
Oft had he sent, of Duncomb and of Legg  
Cannon and Powder, but in vain, to beg;  
And upnor Castle's ill deserted Wall,  
Now needful does for Ammunition call.  
He finds, wheresoever he secure might expect,  
Confusion, Folly, Treachery, Fear, Neglect.  
But when the Royal Charles (what rage! what grief!)  
He saw seized, and could give her no relief;  
That Sacred Keel that had, as he, restored  
It's exiled sovereign on its happy board,  
And thence the British Admiral became,  
Crowned for that merit with his Master's Name:  
That pleasure-boat of War, in whose dear side  
Secure, so oft he had this Foe defied,  
Now a cheap Spoil, and the mean Victor's slave,  
Taught the Dutch Colours from its top to wave;  
Of former glories the reproachful thought  
With present shame compared, his mind distraught.  
Such from Euphrates bank a Tigress fell  
After her Robbers for her Whelps does yell;  
But sees enraged the River flow between,  
Frustrate Revenge, and Love by loss more keen;  
At her own Breast her useless Claws does arm,  
She ●ears herself▪ 'cause him she cannot harm.  
The Guards placed for the Chain's and Fleet's defence  
Long since were fled on many a feigned pretence.  
Daniel had there adventured, man of might,  
Sweet Painter, draw his Picture while I write.  
Paint him of Person tall, and big of Bone,  
Large Limbs like Ox, not to be killed but shown;  
Scarce can burnt Ivory feign a hair so black,  
Or Face so red, thine Ochre and thy Lack,  
Mix a vain terror in his Martial look,  
And all those lines by which men are mistake;  
But when by shame constrained to go on Board,  
He heard how the wild Cannon nearer roared,  
And saw himself confined like Sheep in Pen,  
Daniel then thought he was in Lion's Den:  
But when the frightful Fireships he saw,  
Pregnant with Sulphur nearer to him draw,  
Captain, Lieutenant, Ensign, all make haste,  
E'er in the fiery Furnace they be cast;  
Three Children tall unsinged, away they row,  
Like Shadrack, Mesheck and Abednego.  
Each doleful day still with fresh loss returns,  
The Loyal London now a third time burns.  
And the true Royal Oak and Royal james,  
Allied in Fate, increase with theirs her flames.  
Of all our Navy none should now survive,  
But that the Ships themselves were taught to dive;  
And the kind River in its Creek them hides,  
Fraughting their pierced Keels with Oozy sides;  
Up to the Bridge contagious Terror struck,  
The Tower itself with the near danger shook,  
And were not Ruyter's Maw with ravage cloyed,  
Even London's ashes had been then destroyed.  
Officious fear, however to prevent  
Our loss, does so much more our loss augment▪  
The Dutch had robbed those Jewels of the Crown,  
Our Merchantmen, lest they should burn, we drown:  
So when the Fire did not enough devour,  
The Houses were demolished near the Tower.  
Those Ships that yearly from their teeming hole  
Unloaded here the Birth of either Pole,  
Fir from the North, and Silver from the West,  
From the South Perfumes, Spices from the East;  
From Gamba Gold, and from the Ganges Gems,  
Take a short Voyage underneath the Thames:  
Once a deep River, now with Timber floor'd,  
And shrunk, less navigable, to a Ford.  
Now nothing more at Chatham's left to burn,  
The Holland Squadron leisurely return,  
And spite of rupert's and of Albermarles,  
To Ruyter's Triumph led the Captive Charles.  
The pleasing sight he often does prolong,  
Her Mast erect, tough Cordage, Timber strong,  
Her moving shape, all these he doth survey,  
And all admires, but most his easy Prey▪  
The Seamen search her all within, without,  
Viewing her strength, they yet their Conquest doubt;  
Then with rude shouts secure, the Air they vex,  
With gamesome joy insulting on her Decks;  
Such the feared Hebrew Captive, blinded, shorn,  
Was led about in sport, the public scorn.  
Black day accursed! on thee let no man hale  
Out of the Port, or dare to hoist a Sail,  
Or row a Boat in thy unlucky hour,  
Thee, the Years Monster, let thy Dam devour;  
And constant time to keep his course yet right,  
Fill up thy space with a redoubled Night.  
When aged Thames was bound with Fetters base,  
And Medway chaste ravished before his face,  
And their dear Offspring murdered in their sight,  
Thou and thy fellows held'st the odious light.  
Sad chance since first that happy Pair was wed,  
When all the Rivers graced their Nuptial bed,  
And Father Neptune promised to resign  
His Empire old to their Immortal line;  
Now with vain grief their vainer hopes they rue,  
Themselves dishonoured, and the Gods untrue;  
And to each other helpless couple mourn,  
As the sad Tortoise for the Sea does groan:  
But most they for their darling Charles complain,  
And were it burnt, yet less would be their pain.  
To see that fatal pledge of Sea command,  
Now in the Ravisher de Ruyter's hand,  
The Thames roared, swooning Medway turned her tide,  
And were they mortal, both for grief had died.  
The Court in Farthing yet itself does please,  
(And female Steward there rules the four Seas,)  
But fate does still accumulate our woes,  
And Richmond her commands as Ruyter those.  
After this loss, to relish discontent,  
Some one must be accused by punishment;  
All our miscarriages on Pett must fall,  
His Name alone seems fit to answer all.  
Whose counsel first did this mad War beget?  
Who all Commands sold through the Navy? Pett.  
Who would not follow when the Dutch were beat?  
Who treated out the Time at Bergen? Pett.  
Who the Dutch Fleet with Storms disabled met?  
And rifling Prizes them neglected? Pett.  
Who with false News prevented the Gazette,  
The Fleet divided, writ for Rupert? Pett.  
Who all our Seamen cheated of their debt,  
And all our Prizes who did swallow? Pett.  
Who did advise no Navy out to set?  
And who the Forts left unprepared? Pett.  
Who to supply with Powder did forget  
Languard, Sheerness, Gravesend and Upnor? Pett.  
Who all our Ships exposed in Chattham Net?  
Who should it be but the Fanatic Pett?  
Pett, the Sea-architect in making Ships,  
Was the first cause of all these Naval slips.  
Had he not built, none of these faults had been;  
If no Creation, there had been no sin▪  
But his great Crime, one Boat away he sent,  
That lost our Fleet, and did our flight prevent.  
Then that reward might in its turn take place,  
And march with punishment in equal pace:  
Southampton dead, much of the Treasure's care  
And place in Council fell to Duncomb's share.  
All men admired, he to that pitch could fly,  
Powder ne'er blew man up so soon, so high;  
But sure his late good husbandry in Peter,  
Showed him to manage the Exchequer meeter;  
And who the Forts would not vouchsafe a Corn,  
To lavish the King's Monoy more would scorn.  
Who hath no Chimneys, to give all, is best,  
And a blessed Speaker, who of Law hath least.  
Who less Estate for Treasurer most fit,  
And for a Chanc'lour he that has lest wit.  
But the true Cause was that in's Brother May,  
Th' Exchequer might the Privy Purse obey.  
And now draws near the Parliaments return,  
Hide and the Court again begin to mourn;  
Frequent in Council, earnest in debate,  
All Arts they try how to prolong its date.  
Grave Primate Shelden (much in preaching there)  
Blames the last Session, and this more does fear;  
With Boynton or with Middleton 'twere sweet,  
But with a Parliament abhors to meet;  
And thinks 'twill ne'er be well within this Nation,  
Till it be governed by a Convocation.  
But in the Thames-mouth still the Ruyter laid,  
The Peace not sure, new Army must be paid;  
Hide saith he hourly waits for a Dispatch,  
Harry came Post just as he showed his Watch;  
All to agree the Articles were clear,  
The Holland Fleet and Parliament so near:  
Yet Harry must job back and all mature,  
Binding ere th' Houses meet the Treaty sure,  
And 'twixt necessity and spite, till then  
Let them come up so to go down again▪  
Up ambles Country Justice on his Pad,  
And Vest bespeaks to be more seemly clad:  
Plain Gentlemen are in Stage-Coach o'erthrown,  
And Deputy Lieutenants in their own;  
The portly Burgess through the weather hot  
Does for his Corporation sweat and troth;  
And all with Sun and Choler come adust,  
And threaten Hide to raise a greater dust.  
But fresh, as from the Mint, the Courtiers fine  
Salute them, smiling at their vain design;  
And Turner gay up to his Perch doth march▪  
With Face new bleacht, smoothed and stiff with Starch,  
Tells them he at Whitehall had took a turn,  
And for three days thence moves them to adjourn.  
Not so, quoth Tomkins, and strait drew his Tongue,  
Trusty as Steel that always ready hung,  
And so proceeding in his motion warm,  
Th' Army soon raised he doth as soon disarm.  
True Trojan! whilst this Town can Girls afford,  
And long as Cider lasts in Hereford,  
The Girls shall always kiss thee, though grown old,  
And in eternal Healths thy Name be trouled.  
Meanwhile the certain News of Peace arrives  
At Court, and so reprieves their guilty Lives.  
Hyde orders Turner that he should come late,  
Lest some new Tomkins spring a fresh Debate:  
The King that early raised was from his rest,  
Expects, as at a Play, till Turner's dressed.  
At last together Eton came and he,  
No Dial more could with the Sun agree:  
The Speaker summoned to the Lords repairs,  
Nor gave the Commons leave to say their Prayers,  
But like his Prisoners to the Bar them led,  
Where mute, they stand to hear their Sentence read;  
Trembling with joy and fear, Hide them prorogues,  
And had almost mistake, and called them Rogues.  
Dear Painter, draw this Speaker to the Foot,  
Where Pencil cannot, there my Pen shall do't.  
That may his Body, this his Mind explain;  
Paint him in golden Gown with Maces train;  
Bright Hair, fair Face, obscure, and dull of Head,  
Like Knife with Ivory Haft, and edge of Lead:  
At Prayers his eyes turn up the pious white,  
But all the while his private Bill's in sight:  
In Chair he smoking sits like Master Cook,  
And a Poll-bill does like his Apron look.  
Well was he skilled to season any Question,  
And make a Sauce fit for Whitehall's digestion:  
Whence every day the Palate more to tickle,  
Court-Mushroms ready are sent in to pickle.  
When Grievances urged he swells like squatted Toad,  
Frisks like a Frog to croak a Taxes load:  
His patient Piss he could hold longer than  
An Urinal, and sit like any Hen;  
At Table jolly as a Country Host,  
And soaks his Sack with Norfolk like a Toast;  
At Night than Chanticleer more brisk and hot,  
And Sergeants Wife serves him for Portelott.  
Paint last the King, and a dead shade of Night,  
Only dispersed by a weak Tapers light:  
And those bright gleams that dart along and glare  
From his clear Eyes (yet these too dart with care)  
There, as in the calm horror all alone,  
He wakes and muses of th' uneasy Throne:  
Raise up a sudden shape with Virgin's face,  
Though ill agree her posture, hour or place;  
Naked as born, and her round Arms behind,  
With her own Tresses interwove and twined:  
Her Mouth locked up, a blind before her Eyes,  
Yet from beneath her Veil her blushes rise,  
And silent tears her secret anguish speak;  
Her Heart throbs, and with very shame would break·  
The object strange in him no terror moved,  
He wondered first, then pitied, than he loved;  
And with kind hand does the coy Vision press,  
Whose beauty greater seemed by her distress:  
But soon shrunk back, chilled with a touch so cold,  
And th' airy Picture vanished from his hold.  
In his deep thoughts the wonder did increase,  
And he divined 'twas England, or the Peace.  
Express him startling next, with listening Ear,  
As one that some unusual noise doth hear;  
With Cannons, Trumpets, Drums, his Door surround,  
But let some other Painter draw the sound:  
Thrice he did rise, thrice the vain tumult fled,  
But again thunders when he lies in bed.  
His mind secure does the vain stroke repeat,  
And finds the Drums Lewis' March did beat.  
Shake then the Room, and all his Curtains tear,  
And with blue streaks infect the Taper clear,  
While the pale Ghost his Eye doth fixed admire  
Of Grandsire Harry, and of Charles his Sire.  
Harry sits down, and in his open Side  
The grisly Wound reveals of which he died:  
And Ghostly Charles, turning his Choler low,  
The purple Thread about his Neck doth show:  
Then whispering to his Son in words unheard,  
Through the locked Door, both of them disappeared:  
The wondrous Night the pensive King revolves,  
And rising strait on Hide's disgrace resolves.  
At his first step he Castlemain does find,  
Bennet and Coventry as 'twere designed;  
And they not knowing the same thing propose,  
Which his hid Mind did in his depths enclose:  
Through their feigned speech their secret Hearts he knew,  
To her own Husband Castlemain untrue;  
False to his Master Bristol, Arlington  
And Coventry falser than any one,  
Who to his Brother, Brother would betray;  
Nor therefore trusts himself to such as they.  
His Father's Ghost too whispered him one Note,  
That who does cut his Purse will cut his Throat:  
But in wise anger he their Crimes forbear,  
As Thiefs reprieved from Executioner:  
While Hide provoked his foaming Tusk does whet,  
To prove them Traitors, and himself the Pett.  
Painter, adieu: How well our Arts agree!  
Poetic Picture, Painted Poetry!  
But this great Work is for our Monarch fit,  
And henceforth Charles only to Charles shall sit.  
His Master-hand the Ancients shall outdo,  
Himself, the Painter, and the Poet too.   

To the KING.  
SO his bold Tube Man to the Sun applied,  
And Spots unknown in the bright Star descried,  
Showed they obscure him, while too near they please,  
And seem his Courtiers are but his Disease.  
Through Optic Trunk the Planet seemed to hear,  
And hurls them off e'er since in his career.  
And you (Great Sir) that with him Empire share,  
Seen of our World, as he the Charles is there;  
Blame not the Muse that brought those Spots to sight,  
Which in your Splendour hid, corrode your Light:  
(Kings in the Country oft have gone astray,  
Nor of a Peasant scorned to learn the way,)  
Would she the unattended Throne reduce,  
Banishing Love, Trust, Ornament and Use;  
Better it were to live in Cloyster's lock,  
Or in fair Fields to rule the easy Flock;  
She blames them only who the Court restrain,  
And where all England serves themselves would reign.  
Bold and accursed are they that all this while  
Have striven to Isle this Monarch from this Isle;  
And to improve themselves by false Pretence,  
About the common Prince have raised a Fence:  
The Kingdom from the Crown distinct would see,  
And peel the Bark to burn at last the Tree.  
But Ceres' Corn, and Flora is the Spring,  
Bacchus is Wine, the Country is the King.  
Not so does Rust insinuating wear,  
Nor Powder so the vaulted Bastion tear:  
Nor Earthquakes so an hollow Isle overwhelm,  
As scratching Courtiers undermine a Realm.  
And through the Palaces Foundations bore,  
Burrowing themselves to hoard their guilty Store.  
The smallest Vermin make the greatest waste,  
And a poor Warren once a City raced.  
But they whom born to Virtue and to Wealth,  
Nor Gild to Flattery binds, nor Want to Stealth;  
Whose generous Conscience, and whose Courage high,  
Does with clear Councils their large Souls supply;  
That serve the King with their Estates and Care,  
And as in Love on Parliaments can stare;  
Where Few the number, Choice is there less hard;  
Give us this Court, and rule without a Guard.  By A. M.  

The Loyal Scot  By Cleaveland's Ghost, upon the Death of Captain Douglas, burnt on his Ship at Chatham. 
OF the old Heroes, when the Warlike Shades  
Saw Douglas marching on the Elysium Glades,  
They all consulting gathered in a Ring,  
Which of their Poets should his Welcome sing:  
And as a favourable Penance chose  
Cleaveland, on whom they would that task impose.  
He understood but willingly addressed  
His ready Muse to court that noble Guest.  
Much had he cured the tumour of his Vein,  
He judged more clearly now, and saw more plain;  
For those soft Airs had tempered every Thought,  
And of wise Lethe he had drunk a Draught.  
Abruptly he began, disguising Art,  
As of his satire this had been a part.  
Not so, brave Douglas, on whose lovely Chin,  
The early Down but newly did begin:  
And modest Beauty yet his Sex did veil,  
While envious Virgin's hopes he is a Male.  
His yellow Locks curls back themselves to seek,  
Nor other Courtship knew but to his Cheek.  
Oft as he in i'll Esk or Seyn by Night,  
Hardened and cooled, his Limbs so soft, so white;  
Among the Reeds to be espied by him  
The Nymphs would rustle, he would forwards swim;  
They sighed, and said, Fond Boy, why so untame,  
That fliest Loves fires, reserved for other flame?  
First on his Ship he faced that horrid Day,  
And wondered much at those that run away:  
No other fear himself could comprehend,  
Than least Heaven fall e'er thither he ascend;  
But entertains the while his time too short,  
With birding at the Dutch, as if in sport;  
Or waves his Sword, and could he them conjure  
Within his Circle, knows himself secure.  
The fatal Bark him boards with grappling Fire,  
And safely through its Port the Dutch retire.  
That precious Life he yet disdains to save,  
Or with known Art to try the gentle Wave;  
Much him the honour of his ancient Race  
Inspired, nor would he his own Deeds deface;  
And secret Joy in his calm Soul does rise,  
That Monk looks on to see how Dowglas dies.  
Like a glad Lover the fierce flames he meets,  
And tries his first Embraces in their Sheets:  
His Shape exact, which the bright flames enfold,  
Like the Sun's Statue stands of burnished Gold.  
Round the transparent Fire about him glows,  
As the clear Amber on the Bees does close;  
And as on Angels heads their Glories shine,  
His burning Locks adorn his Face divine.  
But when in his immortal Mind he felt  
His altering Form, and soldered Limbs to melt;  
Down on the Deck he laid himself, and died,  
With his dear Sword reposing by his Side:  
And on the flaming Plank so rests his Head,  
As one that warmed himself, and went to Bed.  
His Ship burns down, and with his Relics sinks,  
And the sad Stream beneath his Ashes drinks.  
Fortunate Boy! If either Pencils Fame,  
Or if my Verse can propagate thy Name;  
When Aeta and Alcides are forgot,  
Our English Youth shall sing the valiant Scot  
Skip Saddles Pegasus, thou needst not brag,  
Sometimes the Galloway proves the better Nag.  
Shall not a Death so generous, when told,  
Unite our distance, fill our Breaches old?  
Such in the Roman Forum, Curtius' brave  
Galloping down, closed up the gaping Cave.  
Nor more discourse of Scotch and English Race,  
No chant the fabulous hunt of Chevy Chase.  
Mixed in Corinthian Metal at thy Flame  
Our Nations melting, thy Colossus frame;  
Prick down the Point, whoever has the Art,  
Where Nature Scotland does from England part.  
Anatomists may sooner fix the Cells  
Where Life resides, and Understanding dwells:  
But this we know, though that exceeds our Skill,  
That whosoever separates them does ill.  
Will you the Tweed that sullen Bounder call  
Of Soil, of Wit, of Manners, and of all?  
Why draw you not as well the thrifty Line  
From Thames, from Humber, or at least the Tine?  
So may we the State Corpulence redress,  
And little England, when we please make less.  
What Ethic River is this wondrous Tweed,  
Whose one Bank Virtue, t'other Vice does breed?  
Or what new Perpendicular does rise  
Up from her Streams, continued to the Skies,  
That between us the common Air should bar,  
And split the Influence of every Star?  
But who considers right, will find, indeed,  
'Tis Holy Island parts us, not the Tweed.  
Nothing but Clergy could us two seclude,  
No Scotch was ever like a Bishop's Feud.  
All Litanies in this have wanted Faith;  
There's no Deliver us, from a Bishop's Wrath.  
Never shall Calvin pardoned be for Sales,  
Never, for Burnet's sake, the Lauderdales';  
For Becket's sake Kent always shall have Tails.  
Who Sermons e'er can pacify and Prayers?  
Or to the Joynt-stools reconcile the Chairs?  
Though Kingdoms join, yet Church will Kirk oppose,  
The Mitre still divides, the Crown does close;  
As in Rogation Week they whip us round,  
To keep in mind the Scotch and English Bound.  
What the Ocean binds, is by the Bishop's rent,  
Then Sees make Islands in our Continent.  
Nature in vain us in one Land compiles,  
If the Cathedral still shall have its Isles.  
Nothing, not Bogs, nor Sands, nor Seas, nor Alps,  
Separate the World so as the Bishop's Scalps.  
Scretch for the Line, their Circingle alone  
‛ I will make a more unhabitable Zone.  
The friendly Loadstone has not more combined,  
Than Bishops cramped the Commerce of Mankind.  
Had it not been for such a Bias strong,  
Two Nations had ne'er missed the Mark so long.  
The World in all doth but two Nations bear,  
The Good, the Bad, and these mixed every where:  
Und●● each Pole place either of these two;  
The Bad will basely, Good will bravely do.  
And few, indeed, can parallel our Climes,  
For Worth Heroick, or Heroic Crimes.  
The trial would, however, be too nice,  
Which stronger were, a Scotch or English Vice:  
Or whether the same Virtue would reflect  
From Scotch or English Heart the same effect.  
Nation is all but Name, a Shiboleth,  
Where a mistaken Accent causes Death.  
In Paradise Names only Nature showed,  
At Babel Names from Pride and Discord flowed;  
And ever since Men with a Female Spite,  
First call each other Names, and then they fight.  
Scotland and England, cause of just uproar,  
Do Man and Wife signify, Rogue and Whore.  
Say but a Scot, and strait we fall to Sides,  
That Syllable like a Picts' Wall divides.  
Rational men's Words, Pledges are of Peace,  
Perverted, serve Dissension to increase.  
For shame extirpate from each Loyal Breast,  
That senseless Rancour against Interest.  
One King, one Faith, one Language, and one Isle,  
English and Scotch, 'tis all but Cross and Pile.  
Charles, our Great Soul, this only understands,  
He our Affections both, and Wills commands.  
And where twin-Sympathies cannot atone,  
Knows the last Secret, how to make us one.  
Just so the prudent Husbandman that sees  
The idle Tumult of his factious Bees;  
The Morning Dews, and Flowers neglected grown,  
The Hive a Comb-Case, every Bee a Drone;  
Powders them over, till none discerns his Foes,  
And all themselves in Meal and Friendship lose:  
The Insect Kingdom strait begins to thrive,  
And all work Honey for the common Hive.  
Pardon, young Hero, this so long Transport,  
Thy Death more noble did the same extort.  
My former satire for this Verse forget;  
My Fault against my Recantation set.  
● single did against a Nation write,  
Against a Nation thou didst single fight.  
My differing Crimes does more thy Virtue raise,  
And such my Rashness best thy Valour praise.  
Here Douglas smiling said, He did intend,  
After suck Frankness shown, to be his Friend  
Forewarned him therefore, lest in time he were  
Metempsycosed to some Scotch Presbyter.  By A. M.  

Britannia and Raleigh.  By A. Marvel, Esq Brit. 
AH Raleigh, when thou didst thy Breath resign  
To trembling James, would I head quitted mine▪  
Cubs didst thou call them? Hadst thou seen this Brood  
Of Earls, Dukes, and Princes of the Blood;  
No more of Scottish Race thou wouldst complain,  
These would be Blessings in this spurious Reign.  
Awake, arise from thy long blessed repose,  
Once more with me partake of mortal Woes.  Ra. 
What mighty Power hath forced me from my rest?  
Oh mighty Queen, why so untimely dressed?  Brit. 
Favoured by Night, concealed in this Disguise,  
Whilst the lewd Court in drunken slumber lies,  
I stole away; and never will return,  
Till England knows who did her City burn:  
Till Cavaliers shall Favourites be deemed,  
And Loyal Sufferers by the Court esteemed:  
Till Leigh and Galloway shall Bribes reject;  
Thus O—ns Golden Cheat I shall detect:  
Till Atheist Lauderdale shall leave this Land,  
And Commons Votes shall Cut-Nose Guards disband:  
Till Kate a happy Mother shall become,  
Till Charles loves Parliaments, and James hates Rome.  Ral. 
What fatal Crimes make you for ever fly  
Your once loved Court, and Martyr's Progeny?  Brit. 
A Colony of French possess the Court;  
Pimps, Priests, Buffoons, in Privy-Chamber sport.  
Such slimy Monsters ne'er approached a Throne  
Since Pharaoh's Days, nor so defiled a Crown.  
In sacred Ear Tyrannic Arts they croak,  
Pervert his Mind, and good Intention choke:  
Tell him of Golden Indies, Fairy Lands,  
Leviathan, and absolute Commands.  
Thus Fairy-like the King they steal away,  
And in his room a Changeling Lewis lay.  
How oft have I him to himself restored,  
In's Left the Scale, in's Right-hand placed the Sword?  
Taught him their use, what Dangers would ensue,  
To them who strive to separate these two?  
The bloody Scotish Chronicle read over,  
Showed him how many Kings in purple Gore  
Were hurled to Hell by cruel Tyrant Lore.  
The other day famed Spencer I did bring,  
In lofty Notes, Tudor's blessed Race to sing;  
How Spain's proud Powers her Virgin Arms controlled,  
And golden Days in peaceful Order roul'd:  
How like ripe Fruit she dropped from off her Throne,  
Full of grey Hairs, good Deeds and great Renown.  
As the Jessean Hero did appease  
Saul's stormy Rage, and stopped his black Disease;  
So the learned Bard, with artful Song suppressed  
The swelling Passion of his cankered Breast:  
And in his Heart kind Influences shed  
Of Countries Love, by Truth and Justice bred:  
Then to perform the Cure so well begun,  
To him I showed this glorious setting Sun.  
How by her People's Looks pursued from far,  
So mounted on a bright Celestial Car  
Outshining Virgo or the Julian Star.  
Whilst in Truth's Mirror this good Scene he spied,  
Entered a Dame bedecked with spotted Pride,  
Fair Flower-de-Luce within an Azure Field,  
Her lefthand bears the ancient gallic Shield,  
By her usurped; her Right a bloody Sword,  
Inscribed Leviathan, our Sovereign Lord;  
Her tow'ry Front a fiery Meteor bears,  
An Exhalation bred of Blood and Tears;  
Around her Jove's lewd ravenous Curs complain,  
Pale Death, Lust, Tortures, fill her pompous Train:  
She from the easy King Truth's Mirror took,  
And on the ground in spiteful Fall it broke;  
Then frowning, thus, with proud Disdain, she spoke:  
Are threadbare Virtues Ornaments for Kings?  
Such poor pedantic Toys teach Underlings!  
Do Monarches rise by Virtue, or by Sword?  
Who e'er grew Great by keeping of his Word?  
Virtue's a faint Green-sickness to brave Souls,  
Dastards their Hearts, their active Heat controls:  
The Rival God, Monarches of t'other World,  
This mortal Poison among Princes hurled;  
Fearing the mighty Projects of the Great,  
Shall drive them from their proud Celestial Seat,  
If not o'er-awed: This new found holy Cheat,  
Those pious Frauds too slight t'ensnare the brave,  
Are proper Arts the long-eared Rout t'inslave.  
Bribe hungry Priests to deify your Might,  
To teach your Will's your only Rule to Right,  
And sound Damnation to all that dare deny't.  
Thus Heavens designs against Heaven you shall turn,  
And make them feel those Powers they once did scorn,  
When all the gobbling Interest of Mankind,  
By Hirelings sold to you, shall be resigned;  
And by Impostures God and Man betrayed,  
The Church and State you safely may invade:  
So boundless Lewis in full Glory shines,  
Whilst your starved Power in Legal Fetters pines.  
Shake off those Baby-Bands from your strong Arms,  
Henceforth be deaf to that old Witches Charms:  
Taste the delicious Sweets of Sovereign Power,  
'Tis Royal Game whole Kingdoms to deflower.  
Three spotless Virgins to your Bed I'll bring,  
A Sacrifice to you their God and King:  
As these grow stale we'll harrass Human kind,  
Rack Nature, till new Pleasures you shall find,  
Strong as your Reign, and beauteous as your Mind.  
When she had spoke a confused Murmur rose,  
Of French, Scotch, Irish, all my mortal Foes:  
Some English too, O shame! disguised I spied,  
Led all by the wise Son in Law of Hide:  
With Fury drunk, like Bachanals, they roar,  
Down with that common Magna Charta Whore.  
With joint Consent, on helpless me they flew,  
And from my Charles to a base Goal me drew:  
My reverend Age exposed to Scorn and Shame,  
To Prigs, Bawds, Whores, was made the public Game.  
Frequent Addresses to my Charles I send,  
And my sad State did to his Care commend:  
But his fair Soul transformed by that French Dame,  
Had lost a Sense of Honour, Justice, Fame.  
Like a tame Spinster in's Seraigl ' he sits,  
Besieged by Whores, Buffoons, and Bastards Chits;  
Lulled in Security, rolling in Lust,  
Resigns his Crown to Angel Carwells Trust.  
Her Creature O— the Revenue steals,  
False F—h, Knave Ang— esy, misguide the Seals:  
Mac-James the Irish Biggots does adore;  
His French and Teague commands on Sea and Shore:  
The Scotch-Scalado of our Court two Isles,  
False Lauderdale with Ordure all defiles.  
Thus the State's Night marred by this hellish Rout,  
And no one left these Furies to cast out.  
Ah! Vindex come, and purge the poisoned State;  
Descend, descend, e'er the Cures desperate.  Ral. 
Once more great Queen thy Darling strive to save,  
Snatch him again from Scandal and the Grave:  
Present to's Thoughts his long scorned Parliament,  
The Basis of his Throne and Government.  
In his deaf Ears sound his dead Father's Name;  
Perhaps that Spell may's erring Soul reclaim.  
Who knows what good Effects from thence may spring?  
'Tis Godlike good to save a falling King.  Brit. 
Raleigh, no more; for long in vain I've tried,  
The Stewart from the Tyrant to divide;  
As easily learned Vertuoso's may  
With the Dog's Blood his gentle Kind convey  
Into the Wolf, and make him Guardian turn,  
To the bleating Flock, by him so lately torn.  
If this Imperial Juice once taint his Blood,  
'Tis by no potent Antidote withstood.  
Tyrants, like Lep'rous Kings, for public Weal  
Should be immured, lest the Contagion steal  
Over the whole. Th' Elect of the Jessean Line,  
To this firm Law their Sceptre did resign.  
And shall this base Tyrannic Brood evade  
Eternal Laws, by God for Mankind made.  
To the serene Venetian State I'll go,  
From her sage Mouth famed Principles to know:  
With her the Prudence of the Ancients read,  
To teach my People in their steps to tread.  
By their great Pattern such a State I'll frame,  
Shall eternize a glorious lasting Name.  
Till then, my Raleigh, teach our noble Youth  
To love Sobriety, and holy Truth.  
Watch and preside over their tender Age,  
Lest Court-Corruption should their Soul engage.  
Teach them how Arts and Arms in thy young Days  
Employed our Youth, not Taverns, Stews and Plays.  
Tell them the generous Scorn their rise does owe  
To Flattery, Pimping, and a Gaudy Show.  
Teach them to scorn the Carwells, Portsmouths, Nells,  
The cleveland's, O— Berties, Lauderdales',  
Poppea, Tegoline, and Arteria's Name,  
Who yield to these in Lewdness, Lust and Fame.  
Make 'em admire the Talbots, Sidneys, Vere's,  
Drake, Cav'ndish, Blake; Men void of slavish Fears,  
True Sons of Glory, Pillars of the State,  
On whose famed Deeds all Tongues and Writers wait:  
When with fierce Ardour their bright Souls do burn,  
Back to my dearest Country I'll return.  
Tarquin's just Judge, and Caesar's equals Peers,  
With them I'll bring to dry my People's Tears.  
Publicola with healing Hands shall pour  
Balm in their Wounds, and shall their Life restore:  
Greek Arts, and Roman Arms, in her conjoined  
Shall England raise, relieve oppressed Mankind.  
As Jove's great Son th' infested Globe did free  
From noxious Monsters, hellborn Tyranny:  
So shall my England, in a Holy War,  
In Triumph lead chained Tyrants from a far:  
Her true Crusado shall at last pull down  
The Turkish Crescent, and the Persian Sun.  
Freed by thy Labours, Fortunate, Blessed Isle,  
The Earth shall rest, the Heaven shall on thee smile;  
And this kind Secret for Reward shall give,  
No poisoned Tyrants on thy Earth shall live.   

Advice to a Painter.  By A. marvel, Esq 
SPread a lage Canvas, Painter, to contain  
The great Assembly, and the numerous Train;  
Where all about him shall in Triumph sit  
Abhorring Wisdom, and despising Wit;  
Hating all Justice, and resolved to Fight,  
To rob their native Country of their Right.  
First draw his Highness prostrate to the South,  
Adoring Rome, this Label in his Mouth.  
Most holy Father, being joined in League  
With Father Patrick, D—, and with Teague;  
Thrown at your Sacred Feet I humbly bow,  
ay, and the wise Associates of my Vow:  
A Vow, nor Fire nor Sword shall ever end,  
Till all this Nation to your Footstool bend:  
Thus armed with Zeal and Blessings from your Hands,  
I'll raise my Papists, and my Irish Bands;  
And by a noble well-contrived Plot,  
Managed by wise Fitz-Gerald, and by Scot,  
Prove to the World, I'll make old England know,  
That common Sense is my eternal Foe.  
I ne'er can fight in a more glorious Cause,  
Than to destroy their Liberty and Laws;  
Their House of Commons and their House of Lords;  
Their Parchment Precedents, and dull Records,  
Shall these e'er dare to contradict my Will,  
And think a Prince o' th' Blood can e'er do ill?  
It is our Birthright to have Power to kill.  
Shall they e'er dare to think they shall decide  
The way to Heaven? And who shall be my Guide?  
Shall they pretend to say, That Bread is Bread,  
If we affirm it is a God indeed?  
Or that there's no Purgatory for the Dead?  
That Extreme Unction it's but common Oil,  
And not infallible the Roman Soil.  
I'll have those Villains in our Notions rest;  
And I do say it, therefore it's the best.  
Next, Painter, draw his Mordant by his Side,  
Conveying his Religion, and his Bride:  
He who long since abjured the Royal Line,  
Does now in Popery with his Master join.  
Then draw the Princess with her golden Locks,  
Hastening to be envenomed with the P—  
And in her youthful Veins receive a Wound,  
Which sent N.H. before her under Ground;  
The Wound of which the tainted C—t fades,  
Laid up in store for a new Set of Maids.  
Poor Princess, born under a sullen Star,  
To find such Welcome when you came so far!  
Better some jealous Neighbour of your own  
Had called you to a sound though petty Throne:  
Where 'twixt a wholesome Husband and a Page,  
You might have lingered out out a lazy Age,  
Than on dull Hopes of being here a Q—  
E'er Twenty dye, and rot before Fifteen.  
Now, Painter, show us in the blackest Dye,  
The Counsellors of all this Villainy.  
Clifford, who first appeared in humble Guise,  
Was always thought too gentle, meek, and wise:  
But when he came to act upon the Stage,  
He proved the mad Cathegus of our Age.  
He, and his Duke, had both too great a Mind,  
To be by Justice or by Law confined:  
Their boiling Heads can bear no other Sounds,  
Than Fleets and Armies, Battles, Blood and Wounds;  
And to destroy our Liberty, they hope  
By Irish Fools, and an old doting Pope.  
Next, Talbot, must by his great Master stand,  
Laden with Folly, Flesh, and ill got Land:  
He's of a size indeed to fill a Porch,  
But ne'er can make a Pillar of the Church;  
His Sword is all his Argument, not his Book,  
Although no Scholar, he can act the Cook;  
And will cut Throats again, if he be paid;  
In th' Irish Shambles he first learned the Trade.  
Then Painter show thy Skill, and in fit place  
Let's see the Nuncio Arundel's sweet Face;  
Let the Beholders by thy Art espy  
His Sense and Soul, as squinting as his Eye.  
Let Bellasis autumnal Face be seen,  
Rich with the Spoils of a poor Algerine;  
Who trusting in him, was by him betrayed,  
And so shall we when his Advice's obeyed:  
The Hero once got Honour by the Sword,  
He got his Wealth by breaking of his Word;  
And now his Daughter he hath got with Child,  
And Pimps to have his Family defiled,  
Next Painter draw the Rabble of the Plot.  
German, Fitz-Gerald, Loftus, Porter, Scot:  
These are fit Heads indeed, to turn a State,  
And change the Order of a Nation's Fate;  
Ten thousand such as these shall ne'er control  
The smallest Atom of an Enlish Soul.  
Old England on its strong Foundation stands,  
Defying all their Heads and all their Hands▪  
Its steady Basis never could be shaken,  
When wiser Men her Ruin undertook:  
And can her Guardian-Angel let her stoop  
At last, to Madmen, Fools and to the Pope?  
No Painter, no; close up this Piece, and see  
This Crowd of Traitors hanged in Effigy.   

To the KING.  
GReat Charles, who full of Mercy wouldst command  
In Peace and Pleasure this thy Native Land;  
At last take pity of thy tottering Throne,  
Shaken by the Faults of others, not thine own.  
Let not thy Life and Crown together end.  
Destroyed by a false Brother and a Friend.  
Observe the Danger that appears so near,  
That all your Subjects do each Minute fear:  
One drop of Poison, or a Popish Knife,  
Ends all the Joys of England with thy Life.  
Brothers, 'tis true, by Nature, should be kind;  
But a too zealous and ambitious Mind,  
Bribed with a Crown on Earth, and one above,  
Harbours no Friendship, Tenderness, or Love:  
See in all Ages what Examples are  
Of Monarches murdered by their impatient Heir.  
Hard Fate of Princes, who will ne'er believe,  
Till the Stroke's struck which they can ne'er retrieve.   

Nostradamus' Prophecy.  By A. marvel, Esq 
FOR Faults and Follies London's Doom shall fix,  
And she must sink in Flames in Sixty six;  
Fire-Balls shall fly, but few shall see the Train,  
As far as from White-Hall to Pudding-Lane;  
To burn the City which again shall rise,  
Beyond all hopes, aspiring to the Skies,  
Where Vengeance dwells. But there is one thing more  
(Tho its Walls stand) shall bring the City lower:  
When Legislators shall their Trust betray,  
Saving their own, shall give the rest away;  
And those false Men by th' easy People sent,  
Give Taxes to the King by Parliament;  
When barefaced Villains shall not blush to cheat,  
And Chequer Doors shall shut up Lombardstreet:  
When Players come to Act the part of Queens,  
Within the Curtains, and behind the Scenes:  
When Sodomy shall be prime Min'sters Sport,  
And Whoring shall be the least Crime at Court:  
When Boys shall take their Sisters for their Mate,  
And practice Incest between Seven and Eight:  
When no Man knows in whom to put his trust,  
And even to rob the Chequer shall be just:  
When Declarations, Lies, and every Oath  
Shall be in use at Court, but Faith and Troth,  
When two good Kings shall be at Brentford Town,  
And when in London there shall be not one;  
When the Seats given to a talking Fool,  
Whom wise Men laugh at, and whom Women rule;  
A Min'ster able only in his Tongue,  
To make harsh empty Speeches two hours long:  
When an old Scotch Covenanter shall be  
The Champion for th' English Hierarchy:  
When Bishops shall lay all Religion by,  
And strive by Law t'establish Tyranny:  
When a lean Treasurer shall in one Year  
Make himself fat, his King and People bare:  
When th' English Prince shall English men despise,  
And think French only Loyal, Irish Wise:  
Whon Wooden Shoes shall be the English wear,  
And Magna Charta shall no more appear;  
Then th' English shall a greater Tyrant know,  
Than either Greek or Latin Story show;  
Their Wives to's Lust exposed, their Wealth to's Spoil,  
With Groans to fill his Treasury they toil;  
But like the Bellides, must sigh in vain;  
For that still filled, flows out as fast again:  
Then they with envious Eyes shall Belgium see,  
And wish in vain Venetian Liberty.  
The Frogs too late grown weary of their Pain,  
Shall pray to Jove to take him back again.   

Sir Edmundbury Godfrey's Ghost.  
IT happened in the twilight of the Day,  
As England's Monarch in his Closet lay,  
And Chiffinch stepped to fetch the Female-Prey.  
The bloody shape of Godfrey did appear,  
And in sad Vocal sounds these things declare:  
" Behold, Great Sir, I from the Shades am sent,  
" To show these Wounds that did your Fall prevent.  
" My panting Ghost, as Envoy, comes to call,  
" And warn you, lest, like me, ye untimely fall;  
" Who against Law your Subjects Lives pursue,  
" By the same Rule may dare to murder you.  
" I, for Religion, Laws, and Liberties,  
" Am mangled thus, and made a Sacrifice.  
" Think what befell Great Egypt's hardened King,  
" Who scorned the Prophet's oft admonishing.  
" Shake off your Brandy-slumbers; for my Words  
" More Truth than all your close Cabal affords:  
" A Court you have with Luxury overgrown,  
" And all the Vices e'er in Nature known;  
" Where Pimps and Panders in their Coaches ride,  
" And in Lampoons and Songs your Lust deride.  
" Old Bawds and slighted Whores, there tell with shame,  
" The dull Romance of your Lascivious Flame.  
" Players and Scaramoches are your Joy;  
" Priests and French Apes do all your Land annoy:  
" Still so profuse, you are insolvent grown▪  
" A mighty Bankrupt on a Golden 〈◊〉  
" Your nauseous Palate the worst Food doth crave;  
" No wholesome Viands can an entrance have:  
" Each Night you lodge in that French Syren's Arms,  
" She straight betrays you with her wanton Charms;  
" Works on your Heart, softened with Love and Wine,  
" And than betrays you to some Philistine.  
" Imperial Lust does o'er your Sceptre sway;  
" And though a Sovereign, makes you to obey.  
" She that from Lisbon came with such Renown,  
" And to enrich you with the Afric Town.  
" In nature mild, and gentle as a Dove;  
" Yet for Religion can a Serpent prove:  
" Priest-rid with Zeal, she plots, and did design  
" To cut your Thread of Life, as well as mine:  
" Yet Thoughts so stupid have your Soul possessed,  
" As if enchanted by some Magic Priest:  
" There's no Example urge you to relent,  
" You pardon guilty, punish innocent.  
" Next he who against the Senate's Vote did wed,  
" Took defiled H. and Este to his Bed.  
" Fiend in his Face, Apostate in his Name,  
" Contrived to Wars to your eternal shame.  
" He ancient Laws and Liberties defies;  
" On standing Guards and new-raised Force relies.  
" The Teagues he courts, and doth the French admire,  
" And fain he would be mounted one step higher.  
" All this by you must needs be plainly seen,  
" And yet he awes you with his daring Spleen.  
" Th' unhappy Kingdom suffered much of old,  
" When Spencer and loose Gaveston controlled;  
" Yet they by just Decrees were timely sent,  
" To suffer a perpetual Banishment.  
" But your bold States men nothing can restrain,  
" Their most enormous Courses you maintain.  
" They like those head strong Horses in the Sun,  
" Guided by the unskilful Phaeton:  
" Your tottering Chariot bears through uncouth ways,  
" Till the next World's inflamed with your Rays.  
" Witness that Man, who had for divers Years  
" Paid the bribed Commons, Pensions, and Arrears;  
" Though your Exchequer was at his Command,  
" Durst not before his just Accusers stand:  
" His Crimes and Treasons of so black a hue,  
" None dare to prove his Advocate but you.  
" Who e'er within your Palace Walls remain,  
" Abhor your Actions, serve you but for Gain.  
" The Assyrians (as Histories relate)  
" Had once a King grown so effeminate;  
" All State Affairs seemed irksome in his sight,  
" In Spinning-wheels he placed his whole delight:  
" With his lewd Strumpet-Crew he did retire,  
" Condemned and loathed, he set himself on fire,  
" And only in this Act the World did own,  
" The greatest Manhood of his Life was shown.  
" Rome ne'er to such a glorious State had grown,  
" Had no luxurious Tarquin there been known,  
" A single Rape was deemed such a Disgrace,  
" They extirpate his odious Name and Race:  
" Though he from Tuscan Kings did succour crave,  
" Yet they with Arms pursued him to the Grave:  
" Ingenious People always have withstood,  
" What stains their Honour or the public good:  
" Trust not in Prelates false Divinity,  
" Who wrong their Prince, and shame their Deity,  
" Making their God so partial in their Cause,  
" Exempting Kings alone from humane Laws,  
" These lying Oracles they did infuse  
" Of old, and did your Martyred Sire abuse.  
" Their strong Delusions did him so enthral,  
" No Cautions would anticipate his Fall.  
" Repent in time, and banish from your sight  
" The Pimp, the Whore, Buffoon, Church-Parasite▪  
" Let Innocence deck your remaining Days,  
" That after-Ages may unfold your Praise:  
" So may Historians in new methods write,  
" And draw a Curtain 'twixt your black and white.  
" The Ghost spoke thus, groaned thrice and said no more;  
" Strait in came Chiffinch, Hand in Hand, with Whore;  
" The King tho' much concerned 'twixt Joy and Fear,  
" Starts from the Couch, and bids the Dame draw near.   

An Historical Poem.  By A. Marvel, Esq. 
OF a Tall Stature, and of Sable Hue;  
Much like the Son of Kish, that lofty Jew:  
Twelve years complete he suffered in Exile,  
And kept is F— there's Asses all the while.  
At length by wonderful impulse of Fate,  
The People call him home to help the State;  
And what is more, they send him Money too,  
And Cloth him all, from Head to Foot, a new.  
Nor did he such small Favours than disdain,  
But in his Thirtieth year began his Reign:  
In a slashed Doublet than he came ashore,  
And dubbed poor P— mer's Wife his Royal Wh—  
Bishops and Deans, Peers, Pimps, and Knights he made,  
Things highly fitting for a Monarch's trade;  
With Women, Wine and Viands of Delight,  
His Jolly Vassals feast him Day and Night:  
But the best Times have ever some allay,  
His younger Brother died by Treachery.  
Bold James survives, no dangers make him flinch,  
He Marries Signior Fal— h's pregnate Wench:  
The Pious Mother Queen hearing her Son  
Was thus Enamoured on a Buttered Bun;  
And that the Fleet was gone in Pomp and State  
To fetch, for Charles, the Flowery Lisbon Kate,  
She Chants Te Deum, and so comes away,  
To wish her hopeful Issue timely Joy;  
Her most Uxorious Mate she ruled of old,  
Why not with easy youngsters make as Bold?  
From the French Court she haughty Topics brings,  
Deludes their Pliant Nature with vain things;  
Her Mischief-breeding Breast did so prevail,  
The new got Flemish Town was set to sale;  
For these and Germains Sins she Found'st a Church,  
So slips away, and leaves us in the Lurch.  
Now the Court-Sins did every Place defile,  
And Plagues and War fell heavy on the Isle.  
Pride nourished Folly, Folly a Delight  
With the Batavian Commonwealth to fight:  
But the Dutch Fleet fled suddenly with Fear,  
Death and the Duke so dreadful did appear.  
The dreadful Victor took his soft Repose,  
Scorning pursuit of such Mechanic Foes.  
But now Y— ks Genitals grew over hot,  
With D—ham and Carneige's infected Plot;  
Which, with Religions so inflamed his Ire.  
He left the City when 'twas got on Fire:  
So Philip's Son, inflamed with a Miss,  
Burnt down the Palace of Presepolis.  
Foiled thus by Venus, he Bellona woe's,  
And with the Dutch a second War renews.  
But here his French bred Prowess proved in vain,  
De Ruyter claps him in Sole Bay again.  
This Isle was well reformed, and gained Renown,  
Whilst the brave Tudor's wore th' Imperial Crown;  
But since the Royal Race of St— s came,  
It has recoiled to Popery, and Shame.  
Misguided Monarches, rarely Wise and Just;  
Tainted with Pride, and with impetuous Lust.  
Should we the Black-heath Project here relate,  
Or count the various Blemishes of State,  
My Muse would on the Reader's Patience grate.  
The poor Priapus King led by the Nose,  
Looks as a thing set up to scare the Crows;  
Yet in the Mimics of the Spinstrian sport,  
Outdoes Tiberius, and his Goatish Court.  
In Love's Delights none did 'em ere excel.  
Not Tereus with his Sister Philomela.  
As they at Athens, we at Dover meet,  
And Gentlier far the Orleans Duchess treat.  
What sad Event attended on the same,  
We'll leave to the Report of Common Fame.  
The Senate, which should headstrong Princes stay,  
Let lose the Reins, and give the Realm away,  
With lavish Hands they constant Tributes give,  
And Annual Stipends for their Gild receive;  
Corrupt with Gold, they Wives and Daughters bring  
To the Black Idol for an Offering.  
All but Religious Cheats might justly swear,  
He true Vicegerent to old Molock were.  
Priests were the first Deluders of Mankind.  
Who with vain Faith made all their Reason blind;  
Not Lucifer himself more proud than they,  
And yet persuade the World they must obey;  
Against Avarice and Luxury complain,  
And practise all the Vices they arraign.  
Riches and Honour they from Laymen reap,  
And with dull Crambo feed the silly Sheep.  
As Killigrew Buffoons his Master, they  
Droll on their God, but a much duller way;  
With Hocus Pocus, and their Heavenly slight  
They gain on tender Consciences at Night.  
Who ever has an over zealous Wife,  
Becomes the Priest's Amphitryo, during life.  
Who would such Men Heavens Messengers believe,  
Who from the Sacred Pulpit dare deceive;  
Baal's wretched Curates Legerdemained it so,  
And never durst their Tricks above-board show,  
When our first Parent's Paradise did grace,  
The Serpent was the Prelate of the place.  
Fond Eve did for this subtle Tempter's sake,  
From the Forbidden Tree the Pippin take.  
His God and Lord this Preacher did betray,  
To have the weaker Vessel made his Prey.  
Since Death and Sin did humane Nature blot,  
The chiefest Blessings Adam's Chaplain got.  
Thrice wretched they, who Nature's Laws detest.  
And trace the ways fantastic of a Priest;  
Till native Reasons basely forced to yield,  
And Hosts of upstart Errors gains the Field.  
My Muse presumed a little to digress,  
And touch their holy Function with my Verse.  
Now to the State again she tends direct,  
And does on Giant L— dale reflect.  
This haughty Monster, with his ugly Claws,  
First tempered Poison to destroy our Laws;  
Declares the Councils Edicts are beyond  
The most Authentic Statutes of the Land:  
Sets up in Scotland A-la-mode de France;  
Taxes, Excise, and Armies does advance.  
This Saracen his Country's Freedom broke,  
To bring upon our Necks the heavier Yoke:  
This is the Savage Pimp without dispute,  
First brought his Mother for a Prostitute.  
Of all the Mescreants that e'er went to Hell,  
This Villain Rampant bears away the Bell.  
Now must my Muse deplore the Nation's Fate,  
Like a true Lover, for her dying Mate.  
The Royal Evil so malignant grows,  
Nothing the dire Contagion can oppose.  
In our Weal-public scarce one thing succeeds,  
For one Man's weakness a whole Nation bleeds,  
Ill-luck starts up, and thrives like evil Weeds.  
Let Cromwell's Ghost smile with contempt to see  
Old England struggling under Slavery.  
His Meager Highness now has got a stride,  
Does on Britannia, as on Churchil ride.  
White-livered D— for his swift Jackcall.  
To hunt down's Prey, and hopes to Master all.  
Clifford and Hide before had lost the Day;  
One hanged himself, and the other ran away;  
'Twas want of Wit and Courage made them fail.  
But O—ne and the D—ke must need, prevail.  
The D—ke now vaunts with Popish Mermydons,  
Our Fleets, our Ports, our Cities, and our Towns,  
Are Man'd by him, or by his Holiness,  
Bold Irish Ruffians to his Court Address:  
This is the Colony to plant his Knaves,  
From hence he picks and culls his Murdering Braves.  
Here for an Ensign, or Lieutenant's place,  
They'll kill a Judge or Justice of the Peace.  
At his Command Mac will do any thing;  
He'll burn a City; or destroy a King.  
From Tiber came th' Advice-Boat monthly home,  
And brought new Lessons to the Duke from Rome.  
Here with cursed Precepts, and with Councils dire,  
The godly Cheat-King (would be) did inspire;  
Heaven had him Chieftain of Great Britain made;  
Tells him the Holy Church demands his Aid,  
Bade him be bold, all Dangers to defy,  
His Brother, sneaking Heretic, should die:  
A Priest should do it, from whose sacred stroke,  
All England straight should fall beneath his Yoke.  
God did Renounce him, and his Cause disown,  
And in his stead had placed him on his Throne.  
From Saul the Land of Promise thus was rend,  
And Jess' Son placed in the Government:  
The Holy Scripture vindicates his Cause,  
And Monarches are above all humane Laws.  
Thus said the Scarlet Whore to her Gallant,  
Who straight designed his Brother to supplant:  
Fiends of Ambition here his Soul possessed,  
And thirst of Empire Calentured his Breast.  
Hence Ruin and Destruction had ensued,  
And all the People been in Blood imbrued,  
Had not Almighty Providence drawn near,  
And stopped his Malice in its full career.  
Be wise you Sons of Men, tempt God ●o more,  
To give you Kings in's wrath to vex you sore:  
If a King's Brother can such Mischiefs bring,  
Then how much greater Mischiefs such a King?   

Hodges' Vision from the Monument, December, 1675.  By A. marvel Esq 

A Country Clown called Hodge, went up to view  
The Pyramid; pray mark what did ensue.   
WHen Hodge had numbered up how many score  
The Airy Pyramid contained, he swore,  
No Mortal Wight e'er Climbed so high before:  
To the best best vantage placed he views around  
The Imperial Town, with lofty Turrets Crowned;  
That wealthy Storehouse of the bounteous Flood,  
Whose Peaceful Tides o'erflow our Land with good:  
Confused forms flit by his wondering Eyes,  
And his rapt ●ouls overwhelmed with Ecstasies:  
Some God it seems had encered his plain Breast,  
And with's abode the rustic Mansion blest;  
Almighty change he feels in every part,  
Light shines in's Eyes, and Wisdom rules his Heart:  
So when her Pious Son, fair Venus showed  
His flaming Troy, with Slaughtered dardan's strewed;  
She Purged his Optics, filled with mortal Night,  
And Troy's sad Doom he read, by Heaven's light.  
Such light Divine broke on the Clouded Eyes  
Of humble Hodge.  
Regions remote, Courts, Councils, Polices,  
The circling wills of Tyrant's treacheries:  
He Views, Discerns, Unc●phers, Penetrates,  
From Charle's Dukes, to Europe's armed States;  
First he beholds Proud Rome and France Combined,  
By double Vassalage to enslave Mankind;  
That would the Soul, this would the Body sway,  
Their Bulls and Edicts, none must disobey.  
For these with War sad Europe they inflame,  
Rome says for God, and France declares for Fame:  
See Sons of Satan know Religions force,  
Is Gentleness, Fame bought with Blood a Curse,  
He whom all styled Delight of humane kind,  
Justice and Mercy, Truth with Honour joined:  
His kindly Rays cherish the teeming Earth,  
And struggling Virtue blest with prosperous Birth;  
Like Chaos you the tottering Globe Invade,  
Religion cheat, and War ye make a Trade.  
Next the lewd Palace of the Plotting King,  
To's Eyes new Scenes of Frantic Folly bring;  
Behold (says he) the Fountain of our Woe,  
From whence our Vices and our Ruin flow:  
Here Parents their own Offspring prostitute,  
By such vile Arts t' obtain some viler Suit;  
Here blooming Youth adore Priapus' shrine,  
And Priests pronounce him Sacred and Divine.  
The Goatish God behold in his Alcove,  
(The secret Scene of Damned incestuous Love.)  
Melting in Lust, and Drunk like Lot he lies  
Betwixt two bright Daughter Divinities:  
Oh! that like Satura he had eat his Brood,  
And had been thus stained with their impious Blood,  
He had in that less ill, more Manhood showed.  
Cease, cease, (O C—) thus to pollute our Isle,  
Return, return to thy long wished Exile;  
There with thy Court defile thy Neighbour States,  
And with thy Crimes precipitate their fates.  
See where the Duke in damned Divan does sit,  
To's vast designs wracking his Pigmy Wit;  
Whilst a choice Senate of the Ignation Crew,  
The ways to Murder, Treason, Conquest show.  
Dissenters they oppress with Laws severe,  
That whilst to Wound those Innocents', we fear,  
Their cursed Sect we may be forced to spare.  
Twice the Reformed must fight a Bloody Prize,  
That Rome and France may on their ruin rise:  
Old Bonner, single Heretics did burn,  
These Reformed Cities into Ashes turn,  
●nd every year new Fires make us Mourn:  
Ireland stands ready for his Cruel Reign,  
Well fattened once, she gapes for Blood again,  
For Blood of English Martyrs basely Slain.  
Our Valiant Youth abroad must learn the Trade  
Of unjust War, their Country to Invade,  
Whilst others here do guard us to prepare  
Our Gauled Necks, his Iron Yoke to bear.  
Lo how the Wight already is betrayed,  
And Bashaw Holms, does the poor Isle invade:  
T' ensure the Plot, France must her Legions lend  
Rome to restore, and to Enthrone Rome's Friend:  
'Tis in return, James does our Fleet betray;  
(That Fleet whose Thunder made the World obey;)  
Ships once our safety, and our glorious might,  
Are doomed with Worms and Rottenness to Fight;  
Whilst France rides Sovereign o'er the British Main,  
Our Merchants robbed, and our brave Seamen ta'en:  
Thus this rash Phaeton with fury hurled,  
And rapid rage consumes our British World;  
Blast him, Oh Heavens! in his mad Career,  
And let this Isle no more his Frenzy fear.  
C— I—, 'tis he that all good Men abhor,  
False to thyself, but to thy Friend much more;  
To him who did thy promised Pardon hope, 
Coleman.   
Whilst with pretended Joy he kissed the Rope:  
Overwhelmed with Gild, and gasping out a Lie,  
Deceived and unprepared, thou lets him Die.  
With equal Gratitude and Charity.  
In spite of Jermin, and of Black-mouthed Fame;  
This St— s trick Legitimates thy Name.  
With one consent we all her Death desire,  
Who durst her Husbands and her Kings Conspire;  
And now just Heavens prepared to set us free,  
Heaven and our hopes, are both opposed by thee.  
Thus fond thou dost Hides old Treason own,  
Thus makes thy new suspected Treason known.  
Bless me! What's that at Westminster I see?  
That piece of Legislative Pageantry?  
To our dear James, has Rome her Conclave lent?  
Or has Charles bought the Paris Parliament:  
None else would promote James with so much Zeal,  
Who by Proviso hopes the Crown to steal:  
See how in humble guise the Slaves advance,  
To tell a tale of Army, and of France;  
Whilst proud Prerogative in scornful Guise,  
Their Fear, Love, Duty, Danger does despise;  
There in a bribed Committee they contrive,  
To give our Birth-right's to Prerogative:  
Give, did I say? They sell, and sell so dear,  
That half each Tax D— distributes there  
D—, 'tis fit the price so great should be,  
They sell Religion, sell their Liberty;  
These Vipers have their Mother's Entrails torn;  
And would by force a second time be born;  
They haunt the place to which you once were sent,  
This Ghost of a departed Parliament. 
Octob. the 15 th', 76.   
Gibbets and Halters Country men prepare,  
Let none, let none, their Renegadoes spare:  
When that Day comes we'll part the Sheep and Goats,  
The spruce bribed Monsieurs from the true Grey Coats.  
New Parliaments, like Manna, all Tastes please,  
But kept too long, our Food turns our Disease;  
From that loathed sight, Hodge turned his weeping Eyes,  
And London thus Alarms with Loyal Cries.  
Tho' common Danger does approach so nigh,  
This stupid Town sleeps in Security:  
Out of your Golden Dream awake, awake,  
Your All, your All, tho' you see't not at's Stake;  
More dreadful Fires approach your falling Town,  
Then those which burned your stately Structures down,  
Such fatal Fires, as once in Smithfield shone.  
If then ye stay till Edward's Orders give, 
Major.   
No mortal Arm your safety can retrieve;  
See how with Golden Baits the crafty Gaul,  
Has bribed our Geese to yield the Capital;  
And will ye tamely see yourselves betrayed?  
Will none stand up in our dear Country's aid?  
Self-preservation, Nature's first great Law,  
All the Creation, except Man, does awe,  
'Twas in him fixed, till lying Priests defaced  
His heaven-born Mind, and Nature's Tablets razed.  
Tell me (ye forging Crew) what Law revealed  
By God, to Kings the Jus Divinum sealed?  
If to do good, ye Jus Divinum call,  
It is the grand Prerogative of all:  
If to do lll unpunished be their Right,  
Such Power's not granted that great King of night;  
Man's Life moves on the Poles of hope and fear,  
Reward and Pain all Orders do revere.  
But if your dear Lord Sov'raign you would spare,  
Admonish him in his Bloodthirsty Heir:  
So when the Royal Lion does offend,  
The beaten Curs example makes him mend:  
This said poor Hodge, then in a broken tone,  
Cried out, Oh Charles! thy Life, thy Life, thy Crown;  
Ambitious James, and Bloody Priests Conspire,  
Plots, Papists, Murders, Massacres, and Fire;  
Poor Protestants! With that his Eyes did roll,  
His Body fell, out fled his frighted Soul.   

A Dialogue between two Horses.  By Andrew marvel, Esq 1674. 

The Introduction.  
WE read in profane and sacred Records  
Of Beasts, that have uttered Articulate Words;  
When Magpies and Parrots cry, Walk Knaves walk,  
It is a clear Proof that Birds too may talk.  
And Statues without either Wind-pipes or Lungs,  
Have spoken as plainly as Men do with Tongues:  
Livy tells a strange Story, can hardly be fellowed,  
That a Sacrificed Ox when his Guts were out, bellowed.  
Phalaris had a Bull, which as grave Authors tell you,  
Would roar like a Devil with a Man in his Belly.  
Friar Bacon had a Head that speak, made of Brass;  
And Balaam the Prophet was reproved by his Ass.  
At Delphos and Rome, Stocks and Stones now and then Sirs,  
Have to Questions returned Articulate Answers.  
All Popish Believers think something divine,  
When Images speak, possesseth the Shrine:  
But they that Faith Catholic never understood,  
When Shrines give Answer, a Knaves on the Road.  
Those Idols ne'er spoke, but are Miracles done  
By the Devil, a Priest, a Friar or a Nun.  
If the Roman Church, good Christians, oblige ye  
To believe Man and Beast have spoke in Effigy.  
Why should we not credit the public Discourses  
In a Dialogue between two Inanimate Horses?  
The Horses, I mean of Wool-church and Charing—  
Who told many Truth's worth any Man's hearing.  
Since Viner and Osborn did buy, and provide 'em▪  
For the two mighty Monarches that now do bestride 'em  
The stately brass Stallion, and the white marble Steed,  
One Night came together by all 'tis agreed:  
When both Kings being weary of sitting all Day,  
Were stolen off Incognito each his own way.  
And then the two Jades, after mutual Salutes,  
Not only discoursed, but fell to Disputes.   

The Dialogue.  W. 
Quoth the marble Horse, it would make a Stone speak,  
To see a Lord Mayor and a Lombardstreet break:  
Thy Founder and mine to cheat one another,  
When both Knaves agreed to be each others Brother.  C. 
Here Charing broke forth, and thus he went on,  
My Brass is provoked as much as thy Stone,  
To see Church and State bow down to a Whore,  
And the King's chief Minister holding the Door.  
The Money of Widows and Orphans employed,  
And the Bankers quite broke to maintain the Whore's Pride.  W. 
To see Dei Gratia writ on the Throne,  
And the K—'s wicked Life say, God there is none.  C. 
That he should be styled Defender of the Faith,  
Who believes not a Word, what the Word of God saith.  W. 
That the D.- should turn Papist, and that Church defy,  
For which his own Father a Martyr did die.  C. 
Tho' he changed his Religion, I hope he's so civil  
Not to think his own Father is gone to the Devil.  W. 
That bondage and beggary should be in a Nation,  
By a cursed House of Commons, and a blessed Restoration.  C. 
To see a white Staff make a Beggar a Lord,  
And scarce a wise Man at a long Council-board.  W. 
That the Bank should be seized, yet the Cheq. so poor,  
Lord have Mercy, and a Cross might be set on the door.  C. 
That a Million and half should be the Revenue,  
Yet the King of his Debts pay no Man a Penny.  W. 
That a K— should consume three Kingdom's Estates,  
And yet all the Court be as poor as Church-Rats.  C. 
That of four Seas Dominion and of their guarding,  
No token should appear, but a poor Copper Farthing.  W. 
Our Wormeaten Ships to be laid up at Chatham,  
(Not our Trade to secure) but for Fools to come at 'em.  C. 
And our few Ships abroad become Tripoli's scorn,  
By pawning for Victuals their Guns at Leghorn.  W. 
That making us Slaves by Horse and Foot-Guard,  
For restoring the King shall be all our reward.  C. 
The basest Ingratitude ever was heard,  
But Tyrants ungrateful are always afraid.  W. 
On Harry the VII's Head, he that placed the Crown,  
Was after Rewarded by losing his own.  C. 
That Parliament-men should rail at the Court,  
And get good Preferments immediately for't.  
To see them that suffer both for Father and Son,  
And helped to bring the latter to his Throne:  
That with their Lives and Estates did loyally serve,  
And yet for all this, can nothing deserve;  
The King looks not on 'em, Preferments denied 'em,  
The Roundheads insult, and the Courtiers deride them.  
And none gets Preferments, but who will betray  
Their Country to Ruin, 'tis that opes the way  
Of the bold talking Members.—  W. 
— If the Bastards you add,  
What a number of Rascally Lords have been made.  C. 
That Traitors to their Country in a bribed House of C.  
Should give away Millions at every Summons.  W. 
Yet some of those Givers, such beggarly Villains,  
As not to be trusted for twice fifty Shillings.  C. 
No wonder that Beggars should still be for giving,  
Who out of what's given, do get a good living.  W. 
Four Knights and a Knave, who were Burgesses made,  
For selling their Consciences were liberally paid.  C. 
How base are the Souls of such low prized Sinners,  
Who Vote with the Country for Drink and for Dinners,  W. 
'Tis they that brought on us this Scandalous Yoke.  
Of Excising our Cups, and Taxing our Smoke.  C. 
But thanks to the Whores who made the K— dogged,  
For giving no more the R— are Prorogued.  W. 
That a King should endeavour to make a War cease,  
Which augments and secures his own profit and peace.  C. 
And Plenipotentiaries send into France.  
With an addleheaded Knight, & a Lord without Brains  W. 
That the King should send for another French Whore,  
When one already had made him so Poor.  C. 
The Misses take place, and advanced to be Duchess,  
With Pomp great as Queens in their Coach and six Horses:  
Their Bastards made Dukes, Earls, Viscounts & Lords,  
And all the High Titles that Honour affords.  W. 
While these Brats and their Mothers, do live in such Plenty  
The Nation's empoverisht, and the Chequor quite empty:  
And tho' War was pretended when the Money was lent,  
More on Whores, than in Ships, or in War, hath been spent.  C. 
Enough, dear Brother, although we speak Reason;  
Yet truth many times being punished for Treason,  
We ought to be wary, and bridle our Tongues.  
Bold speaking hath done both Men and Beasts wrong:  
When the Ass so boldly rebuked the Prophet,  
Thou knowest what danger was like to come of it;  
Though the Beast gave his Master ne'er an ill Word,  
Instead of a Cudgel Balaam wished for a Sword.  W. 
Truth's as bold as a Lion, I am not afraid,  
I'll prove every tittle of what I have said:  
Our Riders are absent, who is't that can hear;  
Le's be true to ourselves, who then need we fear?  
Where is thy K— gone, (Chair.) to see Bishop Laud?  W. 
To Cuckold a Scrivener, mines in Masquerade?  
On such Occasions he oft strays away,  
And returns to remount about break of Day.  
In very dark Nights sometimes you may find him  
With a Harlot, got up on my Crupper behind him.  C. 
Pause Brother a while, and calmly consider  
What thou hast to say against my Royal Rider.  W. 
Thy Priestridden King turned desperate fighter  
For the Surplice, Lawn-sleeves, the Cross and the Mitre;  
Till at last on the Scaffold he was left in the lurch  
By Knaves, that cried up themselves for the Church.  
Arch-Bishops and Bishops, Arch-Deacons and Deans;  C. 
Thy King will ne'er fight unless't be for Queans.  W. 
He that dies for Ceremonies, dies like a Fool.  C. 
The K— on thy back is a lamentable Tool.  W. 
The Goat and the Lion, I equally hate,  
And Freeman alike value Life and Estate:  
Though the Father and Son be different rods,  
Between the two Scourges we find little odds;  
Both Infamous stand in three Kingdoms Votes,  
This for Picking our Pockets, that for cutting our Throats:  C. 
More tolerable are the Lion Kings Slaughters,  
Then the Goat making Whores of our Wives and Daughters.  
The Debauched and Cruel since they equally gall us,  
I had rather bear Nero than Sardanapalus.  W. 
One of the two Tyrants must still be our Case,  
Under all that shall Reign of the false S— Race.  
De Wit and Cromwell had each a brave Soul,  
I freely declare it, I am for old Nol;  
Though his Government did a Tyrant resemble,  
He made England great and his Enemies tremble.  C. 
Thy Rider puts no Man to Death in his Wrath,  
But is buried alive in Lust and in Sloth.  W. 
What is thy Opinion of James Duke of York?  C. 
The same that the Frogs had of Jupiter's Stork.  
With the Turk in his Head, and the Pope in his Heart,  
Father Patrick's Disciples will make England smart.  
If e'er he be King, I know Britain's Doom,  
We must all to a Stake, or be Converts to Rome.  
Ah! Tudor, ah! Tudor, we have had Stu—s enough;  
None ever Reigned like old Bess in the Ruff.  
Her Walsingham could dark Counsels unriddle,  
And our Sir J—pk write New-Books, and Fiddle.  W. 
Truth Brother, well said, but that's somewhat bitter,  
His perfumed Predecessor was never more fitter:  
Yet we have one Secretary Honest and Wise;  
For that very Reason, he's never to rise.  
But canst thou devise when things will be mended?  C. 
When the Reign of the Line of the S— 'tis, are ended.   

Conclusion.  
If Speeches from Animals in Rome's first Age,  
prodigious Events did surely presage,  
That should come to pass, all Mankind may swear,  
That which two Inanimate Horses declare.  
But I should have told you before the Jades parted,  
●oth galloped to Whitehall, and there humbly farted;  
Which Tyranny's downfall portended much more  
Than all that the Beasts had spoken before.  
If the Delphic Sybil's Oracular Speeches,  
(As learned Men say) came out of their Breeches,  
Why might not our Horses, since Words are but Wind,  
Have the Spirit of Prophecy likewise behind?  
Tho' Tyrants make Laws, which they strictly proclaim,  
To conceal their own Faults, and cover their own Shame;  
Yet the Beasts in the Field, and the Stones in the Wall,  
Will publish their Faults and prophecy their Fall;  
When they take from the People the Freedom of words,  
They teach them the sooner to fall to their Swords.  
Let the City drink Coffee, and quietly groan,  
(They that conquered the Father won't be Slaves to the Son,  
For Wine and strong Drink make Tumults increase,  
Chocolate, Ten and Coffee, are Liquors of Peace;  
No Quarrels or Oaths among those that drink them,  
'Tis Bacchus and the Brewer, swear damn 'em and sink 'em,  
Then C—s thy late Edict against Coffee recall,  
There's ten times more Treason in Brandy and Ale.    

On the Lord Mayor and Court of Alderman, presenting the late King and Duke of York each with a Copy of their Freedoms, Anno Dom. 1674.  By A. marvel, Esq 

I.  
THE Londoners Gent. to the King do present  
In a Box the City Maggot;  
'Tis a thing full of Weight, that requires the Might  
Of whole Guild-Hall Team to drag it.   

II.  
Whilst their Church's unbuilt and their Houses undwelt,  
And their Orphans want ●read to fe●d 'em;  
Themselves they've bereft of the little Wealth they had left.  
To make an Offering of their Freedom.   

III.  
O ye Addle-brained Cits! who henceforth in their Wits  
Would intrust their Youth to your heading;  
When in Diamonds and Gold you have him thus enroled,  
You know both his Friends and his Breeding?   

IV.  
Beyond Sea he began, where such a Riot he ran,  
That every one there did leave him;  
And now he●s come o'er ten times worse than before,  
When none but such Fools would receive him.   

V.  
He ne'er knew, not he, how to serve or be free,  
Though he has passed through so many Adventures;  
But e'er since he was bound, (that is he was crowned)  
He has every Day broke his Indentures.   

VI  
He spends all his Days in running to Plays,  
When he should in the Shop be poring:  
And he wastes all his Nights in his constant Delights,  
Of Revelling, Drinking and Whoring.   

VII.  
Thro'out Lumbard-street each Man he did meet,  
He would run on the Score and borrow,  
When they'd asked for their own, he was broke and gone,  
And his Creditors left to Sorrow.   

VIII.  
Though oft bound to the Peace, yet he never would cease,  
To vex his poor Neighbours with Quarrels,  
And when he was beat, he still made his Retreat,  
To his Cleaulands, his Nels, and his Carwels.   

IX.  
Nay, his Company lewd, were twice grown so rude,  
That had not Fear taught him Sobriety,  
And the House being well barred with Guard upon Guard,  
They'd rob us of all our Propriety.   

X.  
Such a Plot was laid, had not Ashley betrayed,  
As had cancelled all former Disasters;  
And your wives had been Strumpets to his Highness' Trumpets,  
And Footboys had all been your Masters.   

XI.  
So many are the Debts, and the Bastards he gets,  
Which must all be defrayed by London,  
That notwithstanding the Care of Sir Thomas Player,  
The Chamber must needs be undone,   

XII.  
His Words nor his Oath cannot bind him to Troth,  
And he values not Credit or History;  
And though he has served through two Prenticeships now,  
He knows not his Trade nor his Mystery.   

XIII.  
Then London Rejoice in thy fortunate Choice,  
To have made him free of thy Spices;  
And do not mistrust he may once grow more just,  
When he's worn of his Follies and Vices.   

XIV.  
And what little thing is that which you bring  
To the Duke, the Kingdom's Darling;  
Ye hug it and draw like Ants at a Straw,  
Tho too small for the Gristle of Starling.   

XV.  
Is it a Box of Pills to cure the King's Ills?  
(He is too far gone to begin it)  
Or that your fine Show in Processioning go,  
With the Pix and the Host within It.   

XVI.  
The very first Head of the Oath you him read,  
Show you all how fit he's to Govern,  
When in Heart (you all knew) he ne'er was nor will be true.  
To his Country or to his Sovereign.   

XVII.  
And who could swear, that he would forbear  
To cull out the good of an Alien,  
Who still doth advance the Government of France,  
With a Wife and Religion Italian?   

XVIII.  
And now, Worshipful Sirs, go fold up your Furs,  
And Vyners turn again, turn again;  
I see who e'ers freed, you for Slaves are decreed  
Until you burn again, burn again.    

On Blood's Stealing the Crown.  By A. marvel, Esq 
WHen daring Blood, his Rent to have regained  
Upon the English Diadem distrained:  
He chose the Cassock, Sursingle and Gown,  
The fittest Mask for one that robs the Crown;  
But his lay-pitty underneath prevailed,  
And whilst he saved the Keeper's Life he failed,  
With the Priest's Vestment had he but put on,  
The Prelate's Cruelty, the Crown had gone.  
A. marvel.   

Farther Instructions to a Painter, 1670.  By A. marvel Esq 
PAinter once more thy Pencil reassume,  
And draw me in one Scene London and Rome:  
Here holy Charles, there good Aurelius sat,  
Weeping to see their Sons Degenerate:  
His Romans taking up the Teemers Trade,  
The Britain's Jigging it in Masquerade;  
Whilst the brave Youths tired with the Toil of State,  
Their wearied Minds, and Limbs to recreate;  
Do to their more belov'd Delights repair,  
One to his—, the other to his Player,  
Then change the Scene, and let the next present  
A Landscape of our Motley Parliament;  
And Place hard by the Bar, on the Lefthand,  
Circean Clifford with his Charming Wand:  
Our Pig-eyed on his Fashion,  
Set by the worst Attorney of our Nation:  
This great Triumvirate that can divide  
The spoils of England, and along that side  
Place Falstefs Regiment of thread bare Coats,  
All looking this way, how to give their Votes,  
And of his dear Reward let none Despair.  
For Money comes when Say— r leaves the Chair:  
Change once again, and let the next afford  
The Figure of a Motley Council Board.  
At arlington's, and round about it sat,  
Our mighty Masters in a warm debate:  
Full Bowls, and lusty Wine repeat,  
To make them t'other Council-board forget:  
That while the King of France with powerful Arms,  
Gives all his fearful Neighbours strange Alarms;  
We in our glorious Bachanals dispose  
The humbled Fate of a Plebeian Nose.  
Which to effect, when thus it was Decreed;  
Draw me a Champion mounted on a Steed,  
And after him a brave Briggade of Horse,  
Armed at all Points, ready to reinforce,  
His, this Assault upon a single Man.  
'Tis this must make Obryon great in Story,  
And add more beams to Sandy's former Glory.  
Draw our Olimpia, next in Council set,  
With Cupid, S— r, and the tool of State.  
Two of the first recanters of the House.  
That Aim at Mountains, and bring forth a Mouse;  
Who make it by their mean retreat appear,  
Five Members need not be demanded here:  
These must assist her in her Countermines,  
To overthrow the Derby House Designs.  
Whilst positive Walks, like Woodcock in the Park,  
Contriving Projects with a Brewer's Clerk;  
Thus all Employ themselves, and without Pity,  
Leave Temple singly to be beat i'th' City.  
A. marvel.   

Oceana. & Britannia.  By A. marvel. Esq 
Non ego sum vates, sed prisci Conscius aevi.  Oceana. 
WHither, O whither wander I forlorn?  
Fatal to Friends, and to my Foes a scorn.  
My pregnant Womb is labouring to bring forth  
Thy offspring Archon, Heir to thy just worth.  
Archon, O Archon, hear my groaning Cries;  
Lucina, help, assuage my Miseries.  
Saturnian spite pursues me through the Earth,  
No corner's left to hide my long wished Birth.  
Great Queen of the Isles, yield me a safe retreat  
From the crowned Gods, that would my Infants eat.  
To me O Delos on my Childbed smile,  
My happy Seed shall fix thy floating Isle.  
I feel fierce pangs assault my Teeming Womb,  
Lucina, O Britannia, Mother, come.  Britan. 
What doleful shrieks pierce my affrighted Ear!  
Shall I ne'er rest for this lewd Ravisher?  
Rapes, Burnings, Murders are his Royal Sport,  
These Modish Monsters haunt his perjured Court.  
No tumbling Player so oft e'er changed his shape,  
As this Goat, Fox, Wolf, timorous French Ape.  
True Protestants in Roman Habits dressed,  
With Scrogs he baits that Ravenous Butcher's Beast.  
Tresilian jones, that fair faced Crocodile,  
Tearing their Hearts, at once doth weep and smile,  
Neronian Flames at London do him please,  
At Oxford Plots to Act Agathocles.  
His Plot's revealed, his Mirth is at an end,  
And's fatal hour shall know no Foe nor Friend,  
Last Martyr's day I saw a Cherub stand  
A cross my Seas, one Foot upon the Land,  
The other on the enthralled gallic Shore,  
Aloud Proclaim their Time shall be no more.  
This mighty Power heavens equal Balance swayed,  
And in one Scale Crowns, Cros●ers, Sceptres laid.  
I'th' other a sweet Smiling Babe did lie,  
Circled with Glories, decked with Majesty.  
With steady Hand he poised the Golden pair,  
The gilded Gewgaws mounted in the Air,  
The ponderous Babe descending in its Scale,  
Leapt on my Shore—  
Nature triumphed, Joy echoed throw the Earth,  
The heavens bow●d down to see the blessed Birth,  
What●s that I hear? A new born Babe's soft Cries,  
And joyful Mother's tender Lullabies!  
'Tis so, behold my Daughter's past all harms.  
Cradeling an Infant in her fruitful Arms.  
The very same th' Angelic Vision showed  
In mein, in Majesty how like a God.  
What a firm Health does on her Visage dwell?  
Her sparkling Eyes Immortal Youth foretell.  
Rome, Sparta, Venice, could bring forth  
So strong, so temperate, such lasting worth.  
Marp●sia from the North with speed advance,  
Thy Sister's Birth brings thy Deliverance.  
Fergusian Founders this just Babe exceeds,  
I'th' Arts of Peace and mighty Martial Deeds.  
Ye Panopeians kneel unto your equal Queen,  
Safe from the Foreign Sword, and Barbarous Skeen.  
Transports of Joy divert my yearning Heart  
From my dear Child, my Soul, my better part.  
Heaven shower her choicest Blessings on thy Womb,  
Our present help, our stay in time to come.  
Thou best of Daughters, Mothers, Matrons say,  
What forced thy Birth, and got this glorious Day?  Ocea. 
Scaped the slow Jaws o'th' grinding Pensioners,  
I fell i'th' Traps of Rome's dire Murderers;  
Twice rescued by my Loyal Senate's Power,  
Twice I expected my Babes happy Hour.  
Malignant force twice checked their Pious aid,  
And to my foes as oft my State betrayed.  
Great, full of pain, in a dark Winters-night,  
Threatened, pursued, escaped by sudden flight.  
Pale fear gave speed to my weak trembling Feet,  
And far I fled e'er Day our World could greet.  
That dear loved Light which the whole Globe doth cheer,  
Spurred on my flight, and added to my fear,  
Whilst black Conspiracy, that Child of Night,  
In Royal Purple clad, out dares the Light.  
By Day herself the Faith's Defender styles,  
By Night dig Pits, and spreads her Papal Toils.  
By Day he to the Pompous Chapel goes,  
By Night with York adores Rome's Idol shows:  
Witness ye Stars and silent Powers of Night,  
Her Treacheries forced my Innocent flight.  
With the broad Day my danger too drew near,  
Of help, of Council void, how shall I steer?  
I'th' Pulpit of damned, Strumpet at Court proclaimed,  
Where should I hide, where should I rest defamed:  
Tortured in Thought, I raised my weeping Eyes,  
And sobbing Voice to th' all helping Skies;  
As by Heaven sent a Reverend Sire appears,  
Charming my Grief, and stopping my flood of Tears:  
His busy circling Orbs (two restless Spies)  
Glanced to and fro, out-ranging Argos Eyes.  
Like fleeting Time, on's Front one lock did grow,  
From his glib Tongue Torrents of Words did flow.  
Propose, Resolve, Agrarian Forty one,  
Lycurgus, Brutus, Solon, Harington.  
He said, he knew me in my Swaddling bands,  
Had often danced me in his careful hands.  
He knew Lord Archon too, then wept and Swore,  
Enshrined in me, his Fame he did adore.  
His Name I asked, he said, Politico,  
Descended from the Divine Nicholo.  
My state he knew, my danger seemed to dread,  
And to my safety vowed, Hand, Heart, and Head.  
Grateful Returns I up to Heaven send,  
That in Distress had sent me such a Friend.  
I asked him where I was? Pointing he showed  
Oxford's Old Towers, once the Learned Arts abode.  
(Once great in Fame, now a Piratic Port,  
Where Romish Priests and Elvish Monk's resort)  
He added near a new-built College stood,  
Endowed by Plato for the Public good.  
Thither allured by Learned Honest Men,  
Plato vouchsafed once more to live again.  
Securely there I might myself repose,  
From my fierce Griefs and my more cruel Foes.  
Tired with long flights, even hunted down with fear,  
The welcome news my drooping Soul did cheer.  
His pleasing words shortened the time and way,  
And me beguiled at Plato's house to stay.  
When we came in, he told me (after rest,)  
He'd show me Plato and's Venetian Guest,  
I scarce replied, with weariness oppressed,  
To my desired Apartment I repaired,  
Invoking Sleep and Heaven's Almighty Guard.  
My waking Cares and stabbing frights recede,  
And nodding Sleep dropped on my drowsy Head.  
At last the summons of a busy Bell,  
And glimmering Lights did Sleeps kind Mists dispel.  
From Bed I stole, and creeping by the Wall,  
Through a small Chink I spied a Spacious Hall.  
Tapers as Thick as Stars did shed their Light  
Around the place, and made a Day of Night.  
The curious Art of some great Master's hand,  
Adorned the Room— Hide, Clifford, D.— stand  
In one large piece, next them the two Dutch Wars,  
In bloody Colours paint our fatal Jars.  
Here London Flames in Clouds of smoke aspire,  
Done to the life, I'd almost cried out Fire.  
But living Figures did my Eyes divert  
From those, and many more of wondrous Art.  
There entered in three Mercenary Bands.  
(The different Captains had distinct Commands)  
The beggar's desperate Troop did first appear,  
L—ton led, proud S—re had the Rear.  
The disguised Papists under Garroway,  
Talbot Lieutenant (none had better pay)  
Next greedy Lee led Particoloured Slaves,  
Deaf Fools i'th' right, i'th' wrong sagacious Knaves.  
Brought up by M—, than a Nobler Train,  
(In Malice mighty, impotent in Brain)  
The Pope's Solicitor brought into th' Hall,  
Not guilty Lay much guilty Spiritual.  
I also spied behind a private Screen,  
Colebert and Portsmouth, York and Mazarine.  
Immediately in close Cabal they join,  
And all applaud the Glorious Design.  
Against me and my loved Senates Free born Breath,  
Dire threats I heard, the Hall did Echo Death.  
A Curtain drawn, another Scene appeared,  
A tinkling Bell, a mumbling Priest I heard.  
At Elevation every Knee adored  
The Baker's Craft, Infallible's vain Lord.  
When Catiline with Vipers did conspire,  
To Murder Rome and bury it in Fire,  
A Sacramental Bowl of Humane Gore,  
Each Villain took, and as he drank he swore.  
The Cup denied, to make their Plot complete,  
These Catiline's their conjured Gods did eat.  
Whilst to their Breaden Whimsies they did kneel,  
I crept away, and to the door did steal.  
As I got out, by Providence I flew,  
To this close Wood, too late they did pursue.  
That dreadful night, my Childbed Throws brought on,  
My Cries moved yours and Heaven's Compassion.  Britania. 
Oh happy day! A Jubilee Proclaim,  
Daughter adore the unutterable name.  
With grateful Heart breath out thyself in Prayer.  
In the mean time thy Babe shall be my care.  
There is a man my Island's Hope and Grace,  
The chief Delight and Joy of humane Race.  
Exposed himself to War, in tender Age,  
To free his Country from the gallic Rage,  
With all the Graces blest his riper Years,  
And full blown Virtue waked the Tyrant's fears.  
By's Sire rejected, but by Heaven called,  
To break my Yoke, and rescue the Enthralled.  
This, this is he who with a stretched out Hand,  
And matchless might shall free my groaning Land.  
On Earth's proud Basilisks he'll justly fall,  
Like Moses Rod, and Prey upon them all.  
He'll guide my People through the Raging Seas,  
To Holy-Wars and certain Victories.  
His spotless Fame, and his Immense Desert,  
Shall plead Love's cause, and storm this Virgin's Heart.  
She like Aegeria shall his Breast inspire,  
With Justice, Wisdom, and Celestial Fire.  
Like Numa he her Dictates shall obey,  
And by her Oracles the World shall sway.   

On his Excellent Friend Mr. Anth. marvel, 1677  
WHile lazy Prelates leaned their Mitred-Heads  
On downy Pillows, lulled with Wealth and Pride,  
(Pretending Prophecy, yet naught foresee.)  
marvel, this Islands watchful Centinel  
Stood in the gap, and bravely kept his Post,  
When Courtiers too in Wine and Riot slept:  
'twas he the approach of Rome did first explore,  
And the grim Monster, Arbitrary Power.  
The ugliest Giant ever trod the Earth,  
Who like Goliath marched before the Host:  
Truth, Wit and Eloquence, his Constant Friends,  
With swift dispatch he to the Mainguard sends,  
Th' Alarm straight their Courage did Excite,  
Which checked the Haughty Foes bold Enterprise.  
And left them halting between Hope and Fear;  
He like the Sacred Hebrew Leader stood,  
The People's surest Guide, and Prophet too.  
Athens may boast of Virtuous Socrates,  
The Chief among the Greeks for Moral good.  
Rome of her Orator, whose famed Harangues,  
Foiled the Debauched Antony's designs.  
We him, and with deep Sorrows ' wail his loss;  
But whether Fate or Art unwound his thread,  
Remains in doubt, Fame's lasting Register,  
Shall leave his Name enroled as great as theirs,  
Who in Phillippi for their Country fell.   

An Epitaph on the Lord Fairfax.  By the D. of Buckingham. 

I.  
UNder this Stone does lie  
One, born for Victory,  
Fairfax the valiant, and the only He,  
Who e'er, for that alone a Conqueror would be,  
Both Sex's Virtues were in him combined:  
He had the Fierceness of the Manliest Mind,  
And eke the Meekness too of Woman kind.  
He never knew what Envy was, or Hate:  
His Soul was filled with Worth and Honesty;  
And with another thing quite out, of date,  
Called Modesty.   

II.  
He ne'er seemed Impudent, but in the Field; a Place  
Where Impudence itself dares seldom show her Face:  
Had any stranger spied him in the Room  
With some of those whom he had overcome,  
And had not heard their Talk, but only seen,  
Their gesture and their mien,  
They would have sworn he had the Vanquished been;  
For as they bragged, and dreadful would appear,  
While they their own ill lucks in War repeated,  
His Modesty still made him blush, to hear  
How often he had them Defeated.   

III.  
Through his whole Life, the Part he bore  
Was Wonderful, and Great,  
And yet, it so appeared in nothing more,  
Than in his private last retreat:  
For it's a stranger thing, to find  
One Man of such a Glorious mind,  
As can dismiss the Power he has got,  
Than Millions of the Pools, and Braves;  
Those despicable Fools and Knaves,  
Who such a Pother make,  
Through dulness and mistake;  
In seeking after Power, but get it not.   

IV.  
When all the Nation he had won,  
And with expense of Blood had bought,  
Store great enough he thought,  
Of Fame and of Renown;  
He than his Arms laid down,  
With full as little Pride  
As if he had been of his Enemy's side,  
Or one of them could do that were undone:  
He neither Wealth, nor Places sought;  
For others, not himself he Fought.  
He was content to know,  
For he had found it so,  
That, when he pleased, to Conquer, he was able  
And left the Spoil and plunder to the Rabble:  
He might have been a King,  
But that he understood  
How much it is a meaner thing  
To be unjustly Great, than honourably Good.   

V.  
This from the World did admiration draw;  
And from his Friends, both Love and Awe,  
Remembering what in Fight he did before:  
And his Foes loved him too,  
As they were bound to do,  
Because he was resolved to fight no more.  
So blessed of all, he Died; but far more blessed were we,  
If we were sure to live, till we could see  
A Man as great in War, in Peace as just as Herald    

An Essay upon the Earl of Shaftsbury's Death.  
WHen ever Tyrants fall, the Air  
And other Elements prepare  
To Combat in a Civil-War,  
Large Oaks up by the Roots are torn,  
The Savage Train  
Upon the Forest or the Plain  
To a Procession through the Sky are born,  
Sulphureous Fire displays  
Its baneful Rays.  
Then from the hollow Womb  
Of some rend Cloud does comes  
The Blazing Meteor or Destructive Stone;  
Distant below the Grumbling Wind  
Penned up in Earth a vent would find;  
But failing, roars  
Like broken Waves upon the Rocky Shores.  
The Earth with Motion rowls,  
Those Buildings which did brave the Sky,  
Now in an humble posture lie,  
While here and there  
A subtle Priest and Sooth sayer  
The Fatal Dirges howl.  
Thus when the first twelve Caesars fell,  
A Jubilee was kept in Hell;  
But when that Heaven designs the Brave  
Shall quit a Life to fill a Grave,  
The Sun turns pale and Courts a Cloud,  
From Mortals sight his Grief to shroud,  
Shakes from his Face a shower of Rain,  
And faintly views the World again.  
The Tombs of Ancient Heroes weep,  
Hard Marble Tears let fall:  
The Genii, who possess the Deep,  
And seems the Islands Fate to keep,  
Lament the Funeral.  
Silence denotes the greatest Woe,  
So Calms precede a Storm,  
Deep Waters smoothest are we know,  
And bear the evenest Form.  
So 'tis when Patriots cease to be,  
And hast to Immortality;  
Their Noble Souls blest Angels bear  
To the Ethereal Palace there,  
Mounting upon the ambient Air,  
While Wounded Atoms press the Ear  
Of Mortals who far distant are.  
Hence sudden Grief does seize the Mind,  
For good and brave agree;  
Each being moves unto his Kind  
By Native Sympathy.  
So 'twas when mighty Cooper died  
The Fabius of the Isle,  
A sullen look the Great overspread,  
The Common People look as dead,  
And Nature drooped the while.  
Living; Religion, Liberty,  
A mighty Fence he stood,  
Peers Rights and Subjects Property  
None stronglier did maintain than he,  
For which Rome sought his Blood.  
Deep Politician, English Peer,  
That quashed the power of Rome,  
The change of State they brought so near,  
In bringing Romish Worship here,  
Was by thy skill overthrown:  
‛ Less Heaven a Miracle designed  
Sure it could never be  
One so Gyantick in his Mind,  
That soared a pitch 'bove humane kind,  
So small a Corpse should be.  
Time was, the Court admired thy shrine,  
And did the homage pay:  
But wisely thou didst Countermine,  
And having found the black design,  
Scorned the Ignoble way.  
Having thus strongly stemmed the Tide,  
And set thy Country free:  
Thou, Cato like, an Exile prid'st,  
Amongst Enemies beloved resid'st,  
Whilst Good men Envy thee.  
And as the Sacred Hebrew Seer  
Canaan to view desired;  
So Heaven did show this Noble Peer  
The end of Popish Malice here,  
Which done, his soul expired.   

A satire in Answer to a Friend. 1682.  
'TIs strange that you, to whom I've long been known,  
Should ask me why I always rail at th' Town▪  
As a good Hound when he runs near his Prey,  
With double Eagerness is hard to Bay.  
So when a Coxcomb dot● offend my sight,  
To ease my Spleen, I strait go home and write:  
I love to bring Vice ill concealed to light.  
And I have found that they that satire write,  
Alone can season the useful with the sweet.  
Should I write Songs, and to cool Shades confined,  
Expire with Love, who hate all Women kind!  
Then in my Closet, like some fight Sparks,  
Thinking on Phillis Love upon my works!  
I grant I might with bolder Muse inspired,  
Some Hero Sing worthy to be admired,  
Our King hath Qualities might entertain,  
With Noblest Subjects Waller's lofty Pen.  
But than you'll own no Man is thought his Friend,  
That doth not love the Pope and York commend.  
He who his Evil Counselors dislikes,  
Say what he will, still like a Traitor speaks.  
Now I Dissimulation cannot bear,  
Truth and good Sense, my Lines alike must share.  
I love to call each Creature by his Name,  
H— a Knave, S— an Honest Man.  
With equal scorn I always did abhor,  
The Effeminate Fops and bustling Men of War.  
The careful Face of Ministers of State,  
I always judged to be a downright Cheat.  
The smiling Courtier, and the Counsellor Grave,  
I always thought two different Marks of Knave.  
They that talk loud, and they that draw i'th' Pit,  
These want of Courage show, those want of Wit.  
Thus all the World endeavours to appear,  
What they'd be thought to be, not what they are.  
If any then by most unhappy choice,  
Seek for content in London's crowed and noise.  
Must form his words and manners to the place,  
If he'll see Ladies must like Villers dress.  
In a soft tone without one word of Sense,  
Must talk of Dancing and the Court of France.  
Must praise alike the ugly and the fair,  
Buckly's good Nature, Feltons' shape and Hair,  
Exalt my Lady Portsmouth's Birth and Wit,  
And vow she's only for a Monarch fit.  
Although the fawning Coxcombs all do know,  
She's lain with Beaufort and the Count de Leave.  
This method with some ends of Plays,  
Basely applied, and dressed in a French Phrase  
To Lady's favour, can even Hewit raise.  
He that from Business would Preferment get,  
Plunged in the Toils and Infamies of State,  
All Sense of Honour from his Breast must drive,  
And in a course of Villainies resolve to live.  
Must cringe and flatter the King's Owls and Curs,  
Nay worse, must be obsequious to his Whores.  
Must always seem to approve what they commend,  
What they dislike, by him must be contemned.  
And when at last by a thousand different Crimes,  
The Monster to his wished-for Greatness climbs,  
He must in his continued greatness wait,  
With Gild and Fears, the Imprisoned D— y's Fate  
This Road has H— r and S— r gone,  
And thus must answer for the Ills they've done.  
Who then would live in so depraved a Town,  
Where pleasure is but Folly, power alone  
By Infamy obtained?—  
Wise Heraclitus, all his life-time grieved,  
Democritus in endless Laughter Lived;  
Yet to the first no fears of Plots were known,  
Nor Parliaments removed to Popish Town.  
Murders not favoured, Virtues not suppressed,  
Laws not derided, Commons not oppressed  
Nor King, who Claudius like, expels his Son,  
To make th' Imperious Nero Prince of Rome;  
Nor yet to move the others merry vane,  
Did Cuckold's (who each Boy i'th' street could name)  
Most learned proof in public daily give,  
That they themselves do their own shame contrive;  
While their Lewd Wives scouring from place to place,  
T' expose their secret Members, hide their Face.  
But Lo! how would this Sage have burst his spleen,  
Had he seen Whore and Fool with merry King,  
And Ministers of State at Supper sit,  
Mistaking Bawdy Ribaldry for wit;  
Whilst C— s with tottering Crown and empty purse,  
(Derided by his Foes, to's Friends a Curse)  
Abandoned now by every Man of Wit,  
Delights himself with any he can get.  
Pimps, Fools, and Parasites, make up the Rout,  
For want of Wedding Garments, none's left out.  
But I shall weary both myself and you,  
To tell you all the Follies that I know.  
How a great Lord, in numbers soft, thought fit,  
(Though void of Sense, to set up for a Wit.)  
And how with wondrous Spirit, he and's Friend  
An Epitaph to Cruel Cloris penned;  
His Name (I think) I hardly need to tell,  
For who should be, but the Lord Are— l.  
But should I here waste Paper to declare,  
The senseless Tricks of every silly Peer,  
I'd as good tell how many several ways,  
The trusty Duke his Country still betrays.  
How full the World is stuffed with Knave and Fool,  
How to be very Honest is counted dull.  
How to speak plain, and greatness to despise,  
Is thought a Madness, but Flattery is Wise,  
Dissimulation excellent, to cheat a Friend  
A very Trifle, provided still our end  
Be but the Snare We call our Interest,  
Then nothing is so bad, but that is best;  
I'll therefore end this vain Satiric rage,  
And leave the Bishops to reform the Age.   

A Character of the English. In All●sion to Tacit. de Vit. Agric.  
THE Freeborn English, Generous and Wise,  
Hate Chains, but do not Government despise:  
Rights of the Crown, Tribute and Taxes, they  
When Lawfully Exacted, freely pay.  
Force they abhor, and Wrong they scorn to bear,  
More guided by their Judgement than their Fear;  
Justice with them is never held severe.  
Here Power by Tyranny was never got;  
Laws may perhaps Ensnare them, Force cannot:  
Rash Councils here, have still the same Effect;  
The surest way to Reign is to protect.  
King's are least safe in their unbounded Will,  
Joined with the Wretched Power of doing ill.  
Forsaken most when they're most Absolute;  
Laws guard the Man, and only bind the Brute:  
To force that Guard, and with the worst to join,  
Can never be a prudent King's design;  
What King would choose to be a Catiline?  
Break his own Laws, stake an unquestioned Throne,  
Conspire with Vassals to Usurp his own;  
'Tis rather some base Favourites Vile pretence,  
To Tyrannize at the wronged King's expense.  
Let France grow Proud, beneath the Tyrant's Lust,  
While the Racked People crawl and lick the Dust:  
The mighty Genius of this Isle disdains  
Ambitious Slavery and Golden Chains.  
England to servile Yoke did ne●er bow,  
What conquerors ne'er presumed, who dares do now.  
Roman nor Norman ever could pretend  
To have Enslaved, but made this Isle their Friend.   

Cullen with his Flock of Misses, 1679.  
AS Cullen drove his Sheep along,  
By Whitehall there was such a throng  
Of Earls Coaches at the Gate,  
The silly Swain was forced to wait.  
Chance threw him on Sir Edward S—  
The silly Knight that Rhimes to Mutton:  
Cullen, (said he,) this is the Day,  
For which poor England once did pray;  
The day that sets our Monarch free,  
From buttered Buns and Slavery.  
This hour from French Intrigues, ('tis said,)  
He'll clear his Council and his Bed.  
Portsmouth he vouchsafes to know,  
Was the cast Whore of Count de Loe.  
She must return and sell her place;  
Buyers (you see) flock in a pace;  
Silence i th' Court being once Proclaimed,  
In steps fair Ri— d once so famed:  
She offers much but was refused,  
And of miscarriages accused.  
Nor would his Majesty accept her:  
At thirty, who at fifteen left her:  
She blushed and Modestly withdrew:  
Next M—ton appeared in View,  
Who strait was told of M—ue.  
Of Cates from Hide; of clothes from France,  
Of Armpits, Toes of Nauseance;  
At which the Court set up a Laughter,  
She never pleads but for her Daughter;  
A Buxom lass sit for the place,  
Were not her Father in Disgrace:  
Besides some strange incestuous Stories  
Of Harvey and her long C—ies:  
With these exceptions she's dismissed,  
And M—nd Fair enters the List:  
Husband in Hand most decently,  
And begs at any rate to Buy:  
She offered Jewels of great price,  
And dear Sir samuel's next Device.  
Whether it be a Pump or Table,  
Glass House or any other Bauble.  
But she was told she had been tried,  
And for good Reason laid aside.  
Next in steps pretty Lady G G —y,  
Offers her Lord should nothing say;  
Against the next Treasurer accused,  
So her pretence was not refused:  
R— in rage bid her be gone,  
And play her game out with her Son;  
Or if she liked an aged Carcase,  
For L—get a Noble Marquis.  
Sh—ry offered for the place,  
All she had gotten from his Grace; 
D— of Buck.   
She knew his wants and could comply  
With all his wants of Lechery.  
She was dismissed with Scorn and told  
Where a Tall P— was to be Sold.  
Then in came Dowdy M—ine,  
That Foreign Antiquated Quean;  
Who soon was told the King no more  
Would deal with an Intrigueing Whore:  
That she already had about her  
To good an Equipage de Foutre;  
Her Grace at these Rebukes looked Blank,  
And sneaked away to Villain Frank.  
Fair L— too her claim put in,  
'Twas urged she was to much a Kin:  
She modestly replied no more  
A Kin than S— x was before:  
Besides she had often heard her Mother  
Call her the Daughter of another:  
She did not drivel and had Sense,  
To which all his had no pretence;  
Yet for the present she's put off,  
And told she was not Whore enough.  
L— s Smiled at that Exception,  
And doubted not of good Reception.  
Put in her claim, Vowing she'd Steal  
All that her Husband got of Neale:  
To by the place all she could get,  
By his long Suit with Mr. Pitt:  
But from Goliah's seize of Gath,  
Down to the Pitch of little Wroth;  
The Court was told she lay with all,  
The roaring Roisters of Whitehall:  
For which old R— lest she'd grudge,  
Gave her the making of a Judge:  
She bowed and strait went her way,  
To Haunt the Court, Park, and Play.  
In stepped stately Carry F—er,  
Strait the whole Court began to Praise her:  
As fine as Chains and Point could make her,  
She vowed the King or Goal must take her.  
R— replied, he was Retrenching,  
And Vowed no more of costly Wenching:  
That she was Proud and went too Gaudy,  
Nor could she Swear, Drink or talk Bawdy,  
Virtues requisite for that place  
More than Youth, Wit, or a good Face.  
C— and offered down a Million,  
But she was soon told of Castillion;  
At that name she fell a weeping  
And swore she was undone with Keeping:  
That C—, G—, had so drained her,  
She could not live on the Remainder:  
The Court said, there was no Record,  
Of any to that place Restored,  
Nor might the King at these Years venture,  
Who in his Prime could not content her.  
Young Lady J—s stepped up and urged,  
She'd give the Deed her Father Forged:  
But she was told her Family  
Was tainted with Presbytery:  
She said her Mother with clean Heart  
And Hand, had lately done her part,  
In bringing M—ne to Bed,  
Nor was't her fault the Babe was Dead:  
For her R R —y owned his Passion,  
But said, he stayed for Declaration.  
Engaged, no matter of great weight,  
To pass till after some debate  
In his great Council so they Adjourned,  
And Cullen with his Flocks returned.  
Swearing there was at every Fair  
Blither Girls than any there.   

Sir Tho. Amstrong's. Ghost.  
THE groans, dear Armstrong, which the world employ,  
Would please thy Ghost, to see transformed to joy:  
Hadst thou abroad found safety in thy flight,  
Thy immortal honour had not shined so bright;  
Thou still hadst been a worthy Patriot thought:  
But now thy glory's to perfection brought,  
In Exile and in Death to England true,  
What more could Brutus or just Cato do?  
What can the Villains spread to blast thy fame,  
Unless thy former Loyalty they blame?  
To be concerned the Stuarts to restore,  
Is a reproach that hardly can be boar.  
The utmost Plague a Nation could befall,  
Like the forbidden Fruit, it cursed us all.  
Yet thou in season a brave Convert grew,  
Abhorred their counsels and their interest too:  
And death at last before their smiles preferred;  
So holy Cranmer burned the hand that erred.  
Let 'em now place thy Quarters in the Air,  
'Twill please thy soul to think they flourish there:  
Thou scornest to hope for freedom in the Grave;  
And slumbering lie, whilst England was a Slave:  
Thy Carcase stands a Monument to all,  
Till the whole Progeny a Victim fall;  
And like their Father, tread that Stage, which some,  
In a blasphemous strain, call Martyrdom;  
For they in guilt transcendently excel,  
All that e'er Poets or Historians tell.  
To act fresh Murders, and by Flames devour,  
Is but the recreation of their power:  
For they alone are for destruction chose,  
Who either Rome or Tyranny oppose:  
Tarquin and Nero were but Types of these,  
In whom all crimes are in their last degrees▪  
Swelling like Nile in a prodigious Flood  
Of execrable Villainies and Blood:  
Yet how the age their Lives and Peace betray,  
And those whom th' aught to sacrifice th' obey.  
They lick up Poison and to Tortures run,  
And madly hug all Egypt's Plagues in one.  
Degenerous Slaves! such Monsters to adore,  
Was ever Sodom so caressed before?  
Quick vengeance put a period to their breath,  
By their destruction ease the groaning earth:  
For Mortals attempt the righteous work in vain;  
Heaven itself does th' immediate glory claim,  
For they're reserved by Thunder to be slain.   

The Royal Game: or, A Princely new Play found in a Dream, etc. 1672.  

PROLOGUE.  
WHoever looks about and minds things well,  
And on Affairs abroad doth take a view,  
May think the Story which I here do tell  
Was never dreamt it falleth out so true.  
I do confess it's something hard to find  
A crooked Path directly in the dark;  
And while a Man's asleep, you know he's blind,  
And can't easily hit on a Mark.  
Well, be it so, yet this you know is right,  
What's seen i'th' Day is dreamt again at Night.  
A Dream I hope will no Wise man offend,  
Nor will it Treason be (I trow) to lend  
A Copy of my Dream unto my Friend.  
Cabal, beware your Shins,  
For thus my Tale begins.   

The Dream of the Cabal: A Prophetic satire. Anno 1672.  
AS another's Night in Bed I thinking lay,  
How I my Rent should to my Landlord Pay,  
Since Corn, nor Wool, nor Beast would Money make;  
Tumbling perplexed, these Thoughts kept me awake.  
What will become of this mad World, quoth I?  
What●s its Disease? what is its Remedy?  
Where will it issue? whereto does it tend?  
Some ease to Misery 'tis to know its end.  
Till Servants Dreaming, as they used to do  
Snored me asleep, I fell a Dreaming too.  
Methought there met the Grand Cabal of Seven,  
(Odd numbers some Men say do best please Heaven)  
When sat they were, and Doors were all fast shut,  
I secret was behind the Hangings put:  
Both hear and see I could; but he that there  
Had placed me, bade me have as great a care  
Of stirring, as my life: and ere that out  
From thence I came, resolved should be my Doubt.  
What would become of this mad World, unless  
Present Designs were crossed with ill success?  
An awful Silence there was held some space,  
Till trembling, thus began one called his Grace.  
Great Sir, your Government for first twelve years  
Has spoiled the Monarchy, 
Buck.  and made our Fears  
So potent on us, that we must change quite  
Th' old Foundations, and make new, wrong or right.  
For too great mixture of Democracy  
Within this Government allayed must be;  
And no allay like nulling Parliaments  
O'th' People's Pride and Arrogance, the vents  
Factious and Saucy, disputing Royal Pleasure,  
Who your Commands by their own humours measure.  
For King in Barnacles (and to th' Rack-Staves tied)  
You must remain, if these you will abide.  
So spoke the Long blue-Ribbon: then a Second,  
Though not so tall, yet quite as wise is reckoned, 
Orm.   
Did thus begin: Great Sir, you are now on  
A tender Point much to be thought upon,  
And thought on only; for by Ancient Law,  
'Twas Death to mention what my Lord foresaw;  
His trembling showed it, wherefore I am so bold  
To advise its standing, lest it should be told  
We did attempt to change it; for so much  
Our Ancestors secured it, that to touch,  
Like Sacred Mount, 'tis Death; and such a Trick,  
I no-ways like my Tongue should break my Neck.  
Thus said, he sat. Then Lord of Northern Tone,  
In Gall and Guile a second unto none, 
Lauder●.   
Enraged rose, and Col'rick, thus began.  
Dread Majesty, Male beam of Fame, a Son  
Of th' hundred and tenth Monarch of the North;  
De'l split the Weam of th' Loon that spoke afore,  
Shame faw the Crag of that ill-mannered Lord,  
That nent his King durst speak so faw a word;  
And awe my Saul, right we'll the first man meant,  
De'l hoop his Lugs that loves a Parliament.  
Twa Houses awe my Saul are too too much,  
They'll gar the Leard shall ne'er have a more prickle;  
No money get to give the bonny Lass,  
But full as good be Born without a—  
Ten thousand Plagues light on his Cragg (that gang)  
To make you be but third part of a King.  
De'l take my Saul, I'll ne'er the matter mince,  
I'd rather subject be then sike a Prince.  
To Hang, and Burn, and Slay, and Draw, and Kill,  
And measure awe things by my awn good will,  
Is gay Dominion; a Checkmate I hate,  
Of Men, or Laws, it looks so like a State.  
This eager well-meant Zeal some Laughter stirred;  
Till Nose half Plush, half Flesh, the Inkhorn Lord  
Craved Audience thus. Grave Majesty Divine, 
Arling.   
(Pardon that Cambridge Title, I make mine)  
We now are entered on the great'st Debate  
That can concern your Throne and Royal State.  
His grace hath so spoke all, that we who next  
Speak after, can but comment on his Text:  
Only 'tis wonder at this sacred Board,  
Should sit amongst us a Magna Charta Lord,  
A Peer of old Rebellious Barons breed,  
Worst, and great'st Enemies to Royal Seed.  
But to proceed; well was it urged by s Grace,  
Such Liberty was given for twelve years' space,  
That are by past, there's no necessity  
Of new Foundations, if safe you'll be.  
What Travel, Charge and Art before was set  
This Parliament, we had, you can't forget;  
Now force, cajole, and court, and bribe for fear  
They wrong should run, e'er since they have been here.  
What diligence, what study, day and night  
Was on us, and what care to keep them right?  
Wherefore (if good) you can't make Parliament,  
On whom such costs, such art and pains were spent,  
And Moneys, all we had for them to do;  
Since we miss that, 'tis best dismiss them too.  
●Tis true, this House the best is you can call,  
But in my Judgement, best is none at all:  
Well moved, the whole Cabal cried, Parliaments  
Are clogs to Princes, and their brave intents.  
One did object, 'twas against Majesty  
To obey the People's pleasure. Another he  
Their Inconvenience argues, and that neither  
Close their Designs were, nor yet speedy either.  
Whilst thus confused chattered the Cabal,  
And many moved, none heard, but speak did all;  
A little bobtailed Lord, Urchin of State, 
Chancel Shafts.   
A Praise-God-bare-bone Peer whom all men hate,  
Amphibious Animal, half Fool, half Knave;  
Begged silence, and this purblind Counsel gave:  
Blessed and best Monarch that e'er Sceptre bore,  
Renowned for Virtue, but for Honour more;  
That Lord spoke last, has well and wisely shown,  
That Parliaments, nor new, nor old, nor none  
Can well be trusted longer; for the State  
And Glory of the Crown, hate all Checkmate.  
That Monarchy may from its Childhood grow  
To man's Estate; France has taught us how  
Monarchy's Divine: Divinity it shows,  
That he goes backward that not forward goes.  
Therefore go on, let other Kingdoms see  
Your Will's your Law, that's absolute Monarchy;  
A mixed hodgepodge will now no longer do,  
Caesar or nothing you are brought unto:  
Strike then, Great Sir, 'fore these Debates take wind,  
Remember that Occasion's bald behind.  
Our Game is sure in this, if wisely played,  
And sacred Votes to th' Vulgar not betrayed;  
But if the Rumour should once get on wing,  
That we consult to make you absolute King,  
The Plebeians head, the Gentry forsooth,  
They straight would snort and have an aching Tooth;  
Lest they, I say, should your great Secrets scent,  
And you oppose in nulling Parliament.  
I think it safer, and a greater skill  
To obviate, than to overcome an ill:  
For those that head the Head are full as rude,  
When th' humour takes, as th' following Multitude;  
Therefore be quick in your Resolves, and when  
Resolved you have, execute quicker then.  
Remember your great Father lost the Game  
by slow Proceedings, mayn't you do the same?  
An unexpected, unregarded blow  
Wounds more than ten made by an open Foe.  
Delays do Dangers breed; the Sword is yours,  
By Law declared, what need of other Powers?  
We may unpolitick be judged, or worse,  
If we can't make the Sword command the Purse;  
No Art, or Courtship can the rule so shape  
Without a Force, it must be done by Rape:  
And when 'tis done, to say you cannot help,  
Will satisfy enough the gentle Whelp.  
fanatics they'll to Providence impute  
Their Thraldom, and immediately grow mute;  
For they, poor pious Fools, think the Decree  
Of Heaven falls on them, though from Hell it be;  
And when their reason is abased to it,  
They forthwith think the Religion to submit,  
And vainly glorying in a passive Shame,  
They'll put of Man to wear the Christian Name:  
Wherefore to lull 'em, do their Hopes fulfil  
With Liberty, they're haltered at your Will;  
Give them but Conventicle-room, and they  
Will let you steal the Englishman away,  
And heedless be, till you your Nets have spread,  
And pulled down Conventicles on their Head.  
Militia therefore and Parliaments cashier,  
A formidable standing Army rear,  
They'll mount you up, and up you soon will be,  
They'll fear who ne'er did love your Monarchy:  
And if they fear, no matter for their hate;  
To rule by Law becomes a sneaking State.  
Lay by all Fear, care not what People say,  
Regard to them will your Designs betray:  
When by't they cannot, what hurt can barking do?  
And, Sir, in time we'll spoil their barking too,  
Make Coffee-Clubs talk of more humble things  
Than State Affairs, and Interest of Kings.  
Thus spoke the Rigling Peer, when one more grave,  
That had much less of Fool, but more of Knave,  
Began: Great Sir, it gives no small content, 
Cliff.   
To hear such Zeal (for you) against Parliament;  
Wherefore, though I an Enemy no less  
To Parliaments than you yourselves profess;  
Yet I must also enter my protest  
Against these rude rumbling Counsels indigest.  
And, Great Sir, tell you, 'tis an harder thing  
Than they suggest, to make you absolute King;  
Old Buildings to pull down, believe it true,  
More danger in it hath, than building New.  
And what shall prop your Superstructure till  
Another you have built that suits your Will?  
An Army shall, say they (content) but stay,  
From whence shall this new Army have its pay?  
For easy gentle Government a while  
Must first appear this Kingdom to beguile  
The People's minds, and make them cry up you,  
For raising Old, and making better New.  
For Taxes with new Government all will blame,  
And put the Kingdom soon into a flame:  
For Tyranny has no such lovely Look  
To catch Men with, unless you hide the Hook;  
And no Bait hides it more than present Ease;  
Ease but their Taxes, then do what you please.  
Wherefore, all wild Debates laid by, from whence  
Shall Money rise to bear this vast expense?  
For our first thoughts thus well resolved, we  
in other things much sooner shall agree:  
Join then with Mother-Church, whose bosom stands  
open to receive us, stretching forth her Hands:  
Close but this breach, and she will let you see  
Her Purse as open as her Arms shall be.  
For sacred Sir, (by guess I do not speak)  
Of poor she'll make you rich, and strong of weak.  
At home, abroad, no Money, no nor Men,  
She'll let you lack, turn but to her again.  
The Scot could hear no longer hold, but cried, 
Laud.   
Del' take the Pape, and all that's on his side;  
The Whore of Rome, that much Man of Sin,  
Plague take the Mother, Bearns, and awe the Kin.  
What racks my Saul! must we the holy Rood  
Place in God's Kirk again? troth 'tis not good,  
I defy the Loon, the De'l and all his Works,  
The Pape shall lig no mare in God's good Kirk,  
The Scot with Laughter checked, they all agreed,  
The Lord spoke last should in his Speech proceed, 
Cliff.   
Which thus he did; Great Sir, You know 'tis Season  
Salts all the motions that we make with Reason;  
And now a season is afforded us,  
The best e'er came, and most propitious.  
Besides the Sum the Cath'licks will advance,  
You know the Offers we are made from France;  
And to have Money and no Parliament,  
Must fully answer your designed intent.  
And thus without tumultuous noise, or huff  
Of Parliaments, you may have Money enough;  
Which, if neglected now, there's none knows when  
Like Opportunities may be had again,  
For all to extirpate, now combined be,  
Both civil and religious Liberty.  
Thus Money you'll have to exalt the Crown,  
Without stooping Majesty to Country Clown.  
The triple League, I know, will be objected;  
As if that aught by us to be respected;  
But who to Heretics, or Rebel pay'th  
The truth engaged to by solemn Faith,  
Debauched Virtue, by those very things,  
The Church profaneth and debaseth Kings,  
As you yourself have admirably shown  
By burning solemn Covenant, though your own;  
Faith, Justice, Truth, Plebeian Virtues be,  
Look well in them, and not in Majesty.  
For public Faith is but a public Thief,  
The greatest Cheat in Nature's vain Belief.  
The second Lord though checked, yet did not fear,  
Impatient grew and could no longer bear,  
But rose in heat, and that a little rude  
The Lord's voice interrupts, and for Audience sued:  
Great Majesty, authentic Authors say,  
When hands was lifted up, Croesus to slay,  
The Fathers's danger on th' Dumb Son did make  
Such deep Impressions that he forthwith spoke.  
Pardon, Great Sir, If I, in imitation,  
Seeing the danger to your Land and Nation,  
Do my resolv'd-on Silence also break,  
Although I see the matter I shall speak,  
Under such disadvantages will fall,  
That it, as well as I, exploded shall;  
But vainly do they boast they Loyal are,  
That can't for Princes good, Reflections bear;  
Nor will I call Compurgators to prove,  
What honour to the Crown I've born, with Love,  
My Acts have spoken, and sufficient are,  
Above what e'er Detractors did or dare.  
Wherefore, Great Sir, 'tis Ignorance, or Hate,  
Dictates these Counsels, you to precipitate.  
For say't again I will, not eat my word,  
No Council's Power, no, nor yet the Sword  
Can old Foundations alter or make new:  
Let time interpret who hath spoken true.  
Those Country Gentry with their Beef and Bacon,  
Will show how much you Courtiers are mistaken;  
For Parliaments are not of that cheap rate,  
That they will down without a broken Pate;  
And then I doubt you'll find those worthy Lords  
More Brave and Champions with their Tongue tha● Sword  
Wherefore, Dread Sir, incline not Royal Ear  
To their Advice, but safer Counsels hear;  
Stay till these Lords have got a Crown to lose,  
And then consult with them which way they'll choose,  
Will you all hazard for their humours sake,  
Who nothing have to lose, nothing at stake;  
And at one Game your Royal Crown expose,  
To gratify the foolish Lusts of those,  
Who hardly have subsistence how to live,  
But what your Crown and Grace to them does give?  
And one of those (Bagg-pudding) Gentleman,  
(Except their Places) would buy nine or ten:  
Then, why they should thus slight the Gentleman,  
I see no reason, nor think how they can;  
For had not Gentleman done more than Lord,  
I'll boldly say't, you ne'er had been restored.  
But why, of Armies now, Great Sir, must we  
(So fond just now) all on the sudden be?  
What faithful Guardians have they been to Powers  
That have employed 'em, that you'd make 'em yours?  
Enough our Age, we need not seek the glory  
Of Army's Faith, in old, or doubtful Story:  
Your Father against the Scots an Army reared,  
But soon, that Army more than Scot he feared:  
He was in haste to raise them, as we are,  
But to disband them was far more his care;  
How Scottish Army after did betray  
His Trust and Person both, I need not say.  
Rump-Parliament an Army reared, and they  
The Parliament that raised them, did betray;  
The Lord Protector they set up one hour,  
The next pulled down the Protectorian power.  
Your Father's Block and Judges the same Troops  
Did guard, some Tongues at Death of both made hoops:  
And will you suffer Armies to beguile,  
And give your Crown and them to Cross and Pile?  
What if as Monk should both swear, lie and feign,  
Till he does both your Trust and Army gain,  
And you believe his Oath and Faith is true,  
But serves himself instead of serving you.  
Pardon, Great Sir, if Zeal transports my Tongue,  
T● express what your Greatness don't become.  
Expose I can't your Crown and sacred Throat  
To the false Faith of a common Red-coat.  
Your Law, your All does sense secure from Fears;  
That kept, what trouble needs of Bandeliers?  
Consider, Sir, 'tis Law that makes you King,  
The Sword another to the Crown may bring;  
For Force knows no distinction, longest Sword  
Makes Peasant Prince, Lackquey above his Lord.  
If that be all that we must have for Laws,  
Your Will inferior may be to Jack Straw's.  
If greater Force him follow; there's no Right  
Where Law is failing, and for Will men fight.  
Best Man is he alone whose Steels most strong;  
Where no Law is, there's neither right nor wrong.  
That Fence broke down, and all in common laid,  
Subjects may Prince, and Prince may them invade.  
See, greatest Sir, how these your Throne lay down,  
Instead of making great your Royal Crown,  
How they divest you of your Majesty:  
For Law destroyed, you are no more than we.  
And very vain would be the Plea of Crown,  
When Statute-Laws, and Parliaments are down.  
This Peer proceeded on to show how vain  
An Holy League would be with Rome again,  
And what dishonour 'twould be to our Crowns,  
If unto France give cautionary Towns.  
He's interrupted, and bid speak no more,  
By's enraged Majesty, who deeply swore,  
His Tongue had so run over, that he'd take  
Such Vengeance on him, and example make  
To after Ages, all which heard should fear,  
To speak what would displease the Royal Ear;  
And bid the Lord that spoke before go on,  
And silence all should keep till he had done;  
Who thus his Speech re'ssumed. If Lord spoke last,  
To interrupt me had not made such haste,  
I soon had done; for I was come, Great Sir,  
T' advise your sending Dutch Ambassador;  
But much it does concern you whom to trust,  
With this Embassy: for none true, nor just,  
Wise, Stout, or Honourable, nor a Friend,  
Should you in any wise resolve to send,  
Lest any unseen, or unlucky Chance  
Should in this War befall to us or France.  
We may that loathed wretch give to the hate  
Of th' People's fury, them to satiate.  
And when all's done that can be done by man,  
Much must be left to chance, do what we can.  
And if you'll make all Christendom your Friend,  
And put to Dutch-land-League an utter end;  
Then surely you may have of Men and Treasure  
Enough of both to execute your Pleasure.  
This Speech being ended, five or six agree,  
France shall be loved, and Holland hated be.  
All gone, I waked, and wondered what should mean  
All I had heard, methought 'twas more than Dream.  
And if Cabal thus serve us Englishmen,  
'Tis ten to one but I shall dream again.    

On the Three Dukes killing the Beadle on Sunday Morning, Febr. the 26th, 1670/1.  
NEar Holborn lies a Park of great Renown,  
The place, I do suppose, is not unknown.  
For brevity's sake the Name I shall not tell,  
Because most genteel Readers know it well,  
Since middle Park near Chairing-Cross was made,  
They say there is a great decay of Trade,  
'Twas there Gleek of Dukes by Fury brought  
With bloody mind a sickly Damsel sought,  
And against Law her Castle did invade,  
To take from her her instrument of Trade,  
'Tis strange (but sure they thought not on't before)  
Three Bastard Dukes should come t'undo one Whore.  
Murder was cried (truth is, her case was sad)  
When she was like to lose even all she had:  
In came the Watch, disturbed with Sleep and Ale,  
By shrill Noises, but they could not prevail,  
T' appease their Graces; strait rose Mortal Jars  
Betwixt the Night black Guard and Silver Stars;  
Then fell the Beadle by a Ducal Hand,  
For daring to pronounce the saucy Stand.  
The way in Blood certain Renown to win,  
Is first with Bloody Noses to begin.  
The highborn Youths their hasty Errand tell,  
Damn ye you Rogue, we'll send your Soul to Hell.  
They need not send a Messenger before,  
They're too well known there to stay long at Door.  
See what mishaps dare even invade Whitehall;  
This silly Fellow's death puts off the Ball,  
And disappoints the Queen, poor little Chuck,  
I warrant 'twould have danced it like a Duck.  
The Fiddlers, Voices, Entries, all the sport,  
And the gay Show put off, where the brisk Court  
Anticipates in rich Subsidy-Coats  
All that is got by Mercenary Votes:  
Yet shall Whitehall the Innocent, the Good,  
See these men dance all daubed with Lace and Blood.  
Near t'other Park there stands an aged Tree,  
As sit as if 'twere made o'th' nonce for Three;  
Where that no Ceremony may be lost,  
Each Duke for State may have a several Post.  
What Storms may rise out of so black a Cause,  
If such Turd-Flies shall break through Cobweb Laws   

The History of Insipids; A Lampoon, 1676.  By the Lord Roch— r. 

1.  
Chaste, pious, prudent, C— the Second,  
The Miracle of thy Restoration,  
May like to that of Quails be reckoned  
Reigned on the Israelitish Nation;  
The wished for Blessing from Heaven sent,  
Became their Curse and Punishment.   

2.  
The Virtues in thee, C— inherent,  
Although thy Countenance be an odd-piece,  
Prove thee as true a God's Vicegerent  
As e'er was Harry with the Codpiece:  
For Chastity and pious Deeds,  
His Grandsire Harry, C— exceeds.   

3.  
Our Romish Bondage-breaker Harry,  
Espoused half a dozen Wives;  
C— only one resolved to marry,  
And other men's he never—  
Yet hath he Sons and Daughters more,  
Than e'er had Harry by threescore.   

4.  
Never was such a Faith's Defender,  
He like a politic Prince, and pious,  
Gives liberty to conscience tender,  
And doth to no Religion tie us.  
Jews, Turks, Christians, Papists, he'll please us,  
With Moses, Mahomet, or I—   

5.  
In all affairs of Church or State,  
He very zealous is, and able,  
Devout at Prayers, and sits up late  
At the Cabal and Council-Table;  
His very Dog at Council-Board,  
Sits grave and wise as any Lord.   

6.  
Let C— his Policy no man flout,  
The wisest Kings have all some Folly;  
Nor let his Piety any doubt;  
C— like a Sovereign wise and holy,  
Make young Men Judges of the Bench,  
and Bishops those that love a Wench,   

7.  
His Father's Foes he doth reward,  
Preserving those that cut off's Head:  
Old Cavaliers the Crown's best Guard,  
He let's them starve for want of Bread.  
Never was any King endowed  
With so much Grace and Gratitude.   

8.  
Blood that wears Treason in his Face,  
Villain complete, in Parson's Gown,  
How much is he at Court in Grace  
For stealing Ormond and the Crown?  
Since Loyalty does no man good,  
Let's steal the King and outdo Blood.   

9  
A Parliament of Knaves and Sots,  
Members by name, you must not mention,  
He keeps in Pay, and buys their Votes;  
Here with a Place there with a Pension.  
When to give Money he can't cologue 'em,  
He doth with Scorn prorogue, prorogue 'um.   

10.  
But they long since, by too much giving,  
Undid, betrayed, and sold the Nation;  
Making their Memberships a Living,  
Better than e'er was Sequestration.  
God give thee C— a Resolution  
To damn the Knaves by Dissolution,   

11.  
Fame is not grounded on Success,  
Though Victories were Caesar's Glory;  
Lost Battles make not Pompey less,  
But left them styled great in Story,  
Malicious Fate doth oft devise  
To beat the Brave and fool the Wise.   

12.  
Charles in the first Dutch War stood fair  
To have been Sovereign of the Deep;  
When Opdam blew up in the Air,  
Had not his Highness gone to sleep.  
Our Fleet slacked Sails, fearing his waking,  
The Dutch else had been in sad taking.   

13.  
The Bergen Business was well laid,  
Though we paid dear for that Design:  
Had we not three days parling stayed,  
The Dutch Fleet there, Charles had been thine.  
Though the false Dane agreed to sell 'em,  
He cheated us, and saved Skellum.   

14.  
Had not Charles sweetly choosed the States,  
By Bergen baffle grown more wise,  
And made them Shit as small as Rats,  
By their rich Smyrna Fleets surprise.  
Had haughty Holms but called in Spragg,  
Hans had been put into a Bag.   

15.  
Mists, Storms, short Victuals, adverse Winds,  
And once the Navies wise Division,  
Defeated Charles his best designs,  
Till he became his Foes Derision.  
But he had swinged the Dutch at Chattam,  
Had he had ships but to come at 'um.   

16.  
Our Blackheath Host without dispute,  
Raised, (put on Board, why, no man knows)  
Must Charles have rendered absolute,  
Over his Subjects or his Foes.  
Has not the French King made us Fools,  
By taking Maestricht with our Tools?   

17.  
But Charles what could thy Policy be,  
To run so many sad Disasters;  
To join thy Fleet with false D' Etrees,  
To make the French of Holland Masters?  
Was't Carewell, Brother James, or Teague,  
That made thee break the Triple League?   

18.  
Could Robin Viner have foreseen  
The glorious Triumphs of his Master,  
The Wool-Church Statue Gold had been,  
Which now is made of Alabaster:  
But wise Men think, had it been Wood,  
'Twere for a Bankrupt K— too good.   

19  
Those that the Fabric well consider,  
Do of it diversely discourse;  
Some pass their Censure of the Rider,  
Others their Judgement of the Horse:  
Most say the Steed's a goodly thing,  
But all agree 'tis a Lewd K—   

20.  
By the Lord Mayor and his grave Coxcombs,  
Freeman of London Charles is made;  
Then to Whitehall a Rich Gold Box comes,  
Which was bestowed on the French Jade.  
But wonder not it should be so, Sirs,  
When Monarches rank themselves with Grocers.   

21.  
Cringe, scrape no more, ye City Fops,  
Leave off your Feasting and fine Speeches,  
Beat up your Drums, shut up your Shops,  
The Courtiers then will kiss your Breeches,  
Armed, tell the Popish Duke that rules,  
You're Freeborn Subjects, not French Mules.   

22.  
New Upstarts, Pimps, Bastards, Whores,  
That Locust-like devour the Land,  
by shutting up th' Exchequer Doors,  
When thither our Money was trepanned,  
Have rendered C— his Restauration,  
But a small Blessing to the Nation.   

23.  
Then C— beware of thy Brother York  
Who to thy Government gives Law;  
If once we fall to the old Sport,  
You must again both to Breda:  
Where 'spight of all that would restore you,  
Grown wise by wrongs, we shall abhor you,   

24.  
If of all Christian Blood the guilt  
Cry loud for Vengeance unto Heaven;  
That Sea by Treacherous Lewis spilt,  
Can never be by God forgiven.  
Worse Scourge unto his Subjects, Lord,  
Than Pestilence, Famine, Fire or Sword.   

25.  
That false repacious Wolf of France,  
The Scourge of Europe, and its Curse,  
Who at his Subjects cry, does dance,  
And studies how to make them worse.  
To say such Kings, Lord, rule by thee,  
Were most prodigious Blasphemy.   

26.  
Such know no Law but their own Lust,  
Their Subject's Substance, and their Blood,  
They count it Tribute due and just,  
Still spent and spilt for Subjects good.  
If such Kings are by God appointed,  
The Devil may be L— Anointed.   

27.  
Such King's cust be the Power and Name,  
Let all the World henceforth abhor 'em;  
Monsters which Knaves sacred proclaim,  
And then like Slaves fall down before 'em.  
What can there be in Kings Divine?  
The most are Wolves, Goats, Sheep, or Swine.   

28.  
Then farewell sacred Majesty,  
Let's pull all Brutish Tyrants down;  
When Men are born, and still live free,  
Here every Head doth wear a Crown,  
Mankind like miserable Frogs,  
Prove wretched, Kings by Storks and Logs.    

ROCHESTER's Farewell, 1680.  
Tired with the nousom Follies of the Age,  
And weary of my part, I quit the Stage;  
For who in Life's dull Farce a part would bear,  
Where Rogues, Whores, Bawds, all the head Actors are?  
Long I with charitable Malice strove,  
Lashing the Court, those Vermin to remove,  
But thriving Vice under the Rod still grew,  
As aged Lechers whipped, their Lust renew;  
Yet though my Life hath unsuccessful been,  
(For who can this Augaean Stable clean)  
My generous end I will pursue in Death,  
And at Mankind rail with my parting breath.  
First then, the Tangier Bullies must appear,  
With open Bravery, and dissembled Fear:  
Mulg— e their Head; but Gen'ral have a care,  
Though skilled in all those Arts that cheat the fair,  
The undiscerning and Impartial Moor,  
Spares not the Lover on the Lady's score.  
Think how many perish by one fatal shot,  
The Conquests all thy Ogling ever got.  
Think then (as I presume you do) how all  
The English Beauties will lament your fall;  
Scarce will there greater Grief pierce every heart,  
Should Sir George Hewit of Sir Carr depart.  
Had it not better been, than thus to roam.  
To stay and tie the Cravat-string at home?  
To strut, look big, shake Pantaloon, and swear  
With Hewit, Dame, there's no Action there.  
Hadst thou no Friend that would to Rowly write,  
To hinder this thy eagerness to fight?  
That without danger thou a Brave mightst be,  
As sure to be denied as Shrews— y.  
This sure the Ladies had not failed to do,  
But who such Courage could suspect in you?  
For say, what reason could with you prevail,  
To change Embroidered Goat for Coat of Mail?  
Let Plim—h, or let Mord— t go, whom Fate  
Has made not valiant but desperate.  
For who would not be weary of his Life,  
Who's lost his Money, or has got a Wife?  
To the more tolerable Alcaid of Alcazzer,  
One flies from's. Creditors, the other from Frazier;  
'Twere cruelty to make too sharp Remarks,  
On all the little, forward, fight Sparks;  
Only poor Charles I can't but pity thee,  
When all the pert young Volunteers I see.  
Those Chits in War, who as much Mirth create,  
As the Pair Royal of the Chits of State:  
Their Names shall equal or exceed in Story,  
Chit Sund— d, Chit Godo— n, and Chit L— y.  
When thou lettest Plim— h. go 'twas such a jest,  
As when the Brother made the same request;  
Had Rich— d but got leave as well as he,  
The Jest had been complete and worthy thee.  
Well since be must, he●ll to Tangier advance  
It is resolved, but first let's have a Dance.  
First, at her Highness' Ball he must appear,  
And in a parting Country Dance, learn there  
With Drum and Fife to make a Jig of War;  
What is of Soldier seen in all the heap,  
Besides the fluttering Feather in the Cap,  
The Scarf, and Yard or two of Scarlet Cloth,  
From Gen'ral Mulg— e down to little Wroth?  
But now they're all embarked and curse their Fate,  
Curse Charles that gave them leave, and much more Kate,  
Who then Tangier to England and the King  
No greater Plague, besides herself could bring;  
And wish the Moors, since now their hand was in,  
As they have got her Portion, had the Queen.  
There leave we them, and back to England come,  
Where-by the wiser Sparks that stay at home,  
In safe Ideas by their fancy formed,  
Tangier (like Mastrich) is at Windsor stormed.  
But now we talked of Mastrich, where is he,  
Famed for that brutal piece of Bravery?  
He with his thick impenetrable Skull,  
The solid, hardened Armour of a Fool:  
Well might himself to all Wars ill expose,  
Who (come what will yet) had no Brains to lose:  
Yet this is he, the dull unthinking he,  
Who must (forsooth) our future Monarch be,  
This Fool by Fools (Armstrong and Venus— n) led,  
Dreams that a Crown will drop upon his head,  
By great example, he this Path doth tread,  
Following such senseless Asses up and down,  
(For Saul sought Asses when he found a Crown)  
But Rosse is risen as Samuel at his call,  
To tell that God hath left th' ambitious Saul.  
Never (says Heaven) shall the blushing Sun,  
See Proger's Bastard fill the Regal Throne.  
So Heaven says, but Bran— n says he shall,  
But who e'er he protects is sure to fall.  
Who can more certain of Destruction be,  
That he that trusts to such a Rogue as he?  
What good can come from him who York forsook,  
T' espouse the Interest of this booby Duke?  
But who the best of Masters could desert,  
Is the most fit to take a traitor's part.  
Ungrateful! This thy Masterpiece of sin,  
Exceeds even that with which thou didst begin.  
Thou great Proficient in the Trade of Hell,  
Whose latter Crimes still do thy first excel:  
The very top of Villainy we seize,  
By steps in order, and by just degrees.  
None e'er was perfect Villain in one day,  
The murdered Boy to Treason led the way;  
But when degrees of Villainy we name,  
How can we choose but think on Buck— m?  
He who through all of them hath boldly ran,  
Left ne'er a Law unbroke of God or Man.  
His treasured Sins of Supererogation,  
Swell to a sum enough to damn a Nation:  
But he must here, per force, be let alone,  
His acts require a Volume of their own:  
Where ranked in dreadful order shall appear,  
All his Exploits from Shrews Shrews —y to Le Mere.  
But stay, methinks I on a sudden find,  
My Pen to treat of th' other Sex inclined:  
But where in all this choice shall I begin?  
Where, but with the renowned Mazarine?  
For all the Bawds the Courts rank Soil doth bear,  
And Bawds and Statesmen grow in plenty there.  
To thee submit and yield, should we be just,  
To thy experienced and well-travelled Lust:  
Thy well-known Merits claim that thou shouldst be,  
First in the Glorious Roll of Infamy.  
To thee they all give place, and Homage pay,  
Do all thy Lecherous Decrees obey;  
(Thou Queen of Lust, thy Bawdy Subjects they.)  
While Sussex, Brughill, Betty Felton come,  
Thy Whores of Honour, to attend thy Throne;  
For what proud Strumpet e'er could merit more,  
Than be Anointed the Imperial Whore?  
For tell me in all Europe, where's the part,  
That is not conscious of thy Lewd desert.  
The great Pedalion Youth, whose Conquests run  
O'er all the World, and travelled with the Sun,  
Made not his Valour in more Nations known,  
Than thou thy Lust, thy matchless Lust have shown.  
All Climes, all Countries do with Tribute come,  
(Thou World of Lewdness) to thy boundless Womb:  
Thou Sea of Lust, that never ebb dost know,  
Whither the Rivers of all Nations flow.  
Lewd Messalina was but a Type of thee,  
Thou highest, last degree of Lechery:  
For in all Ages, except her and you,  
Who ever sinned so high and stooped so low?  
She to the Imperial Bed each Night did use,  
To bring the stink of the exhausted Stews;  
Tired (but not satify'd) with Man did come,  
Drunk with abundant Lust, and reeling home.  
But thou to our admiring Age dost show  
More sin than innocent Rome did ever know;  
And having all her Lewdnesses outran,  
Takes up with Devil, having tired Man:  
For what is else that loathsome ugly Black,  
Which you and Sussex in your Arms do take?  
Nor does Old Age, which now rides on so fast,  
Makes thee come short of all thy Lewdness past:  
Though on thy Head, Grey Hairs, like Aetna's Snow  
Are shed, thou'rt Fire and Brimstone all below.  
Thou monstrous thing, in whom at once does rage  
The Flames of Youth, and Impotence of Age.  
My Lady Duchess takes the second place,  
Proud with thy favour and peculiar grace;  
Even she with all her Piety and Zeal,  
The hotter flames that burn in thee does feel.  
Thou dost into her kindling Breast inspire,  
The lustful Seeds of thy contagious fire;  
So well the Spirit and the Flesh agree,  
Lust and Devotion, Zeal and Lechery.  
Of what Important use Religion's made,  
By those who wisely drive the cheating Trade;  
As Wines prohibited securely pass,  
Changing the Name of their own native Place.  
So Vice grows safe, dressed in Devotion's Name,  
Unquestioned by the Custom-house of Fame:  
Where ever too much Sanctity you see,  
Be more suspicious of hid Villainy?  
Whose ' ever's Zeal is than his Neighbours more,  
If Man suspect him Rogue, if Woman Whore:  
And such a thing art thou religious Pride,  
So very Lewd, and yet so sanctified.  
Let now the Duchess take no further care,  
Of numorous Stallions let her not despair,  
Since her indulgent Stars so kind have been,  
To send her Bromley H— and Mazarine;  
This last doth banished Monmouth's place supply,  
And Wit supplanted is by Lechery.  
For Monmouths he had Parts, and Wit, and Sense,  
To all which Mazrine had no pretence;  
A proof that since such things as she prevail,  
Her Highness' Head is lighter than her Tail.  
But stay, I Portsmouth almost had forgot,  
The common Theme of every rhyming Sot;  
She'll after railing make us laugh a while,  
For at her Folly who can choose but smile?  
While them who always slight her, great she makes,  
And so much pains to be despised she takes.  
Goes sauntring with her Highness up to Town,  
To an old Play, and in the dark come down;  
Still makes her Court to her as to the Queen,  
But still is Justled out by Mazarine.  
So much more Worthy a kind Bawd is thought,  
Than even she who her from Exile brought.  
O Portsmouth, foolish Portsmouth! Not to take  
The offer the great Sun— d did make.  
When cringing at thy Feet; even Monmouth bowed,  
The Golden Calf, that's worshipped by the Crowd.  
But thou for Y— k, who now despises thee,  
To leave both him and powerful Shaftsbury.  
If this is all the Policy you know,  
This all the skill in States you boast of so,  
How wisely did thy Country's Laws ordain,  
Never to let the foolish Women reign,  
But what must we expect, who daily see  
Unthinking Charles ruled by Unthinking thee?   

Marvil's Ghost.  By Mr. Jo. Ayloffe. 

FRom the dark Stygian Lake I come,  
To acquaint poor England with her doom;  
Which by the infernal Sisters late,  
I copied from the Book of Fate:  
And though the sense may seem disguised,  
'Tis in these following Lines comprised.   

When England shall forsake the Broom,  
And take the Thistle in the room;  
A wanton Fiddler shall be led  
By Fate to shame his Master's Bed;  
From whence a spurious Race shall grow,  
Designed for Britain's overthrow.  
These, whilst they do possess her Throne,  
Shall serve all interests but their own;  
And shall be both in Peace and War,  
Scourges unto themselves and her.  
A brace of Exciled Youths, whose Fates  
Shall pull down Vengeance on those States  
That harboured them abroad, must come  
Well skilled in foreign Vices home,  
And shall their dark designs to hide,  
With two contesting Churches side;  
Till with cross persecuting Zeal,  
They have destroyed the Common-weal:  
Then Incest, Murder, Perjury,  
Shall fashionable Virtues be;  
And Villainies infest this Isle,  
Shall make the Son of Claudius' smile.  
No Oaths or Sacraments hold good,  
But what are sealed with Lust and Blood:  
Lust, which cold Exile could not tame,  
Nor Plague nor Fire at home reclaim:  
For this she shall in Ashes mourn,  
From Europe's envy turn her scorn,  
And curse the day that e'er gave Birth  
To Caecil, or to Monk on Earth.  
But as I onwards strove to look,  
The angry Sister shut the Book,  
And said, No more, that fickle State  
Shall know no further of her Fate;  
Her future Fortunes must be hid,  
Till her known Ills be remedied;  
And she to those Resentments come,  
That drove the Tarquins out of Rome;  
Or such as did in fury turn  
The Assyran's Palace to his Urn.    

The True Englishman, 1686.  
Cursed be the timorous Fool, whose feeble Mind  
Is turned about with every blast of Wind;  
Who to self-interest basely does give ear,  
And suffers Reason to be led by Fear:  
He only merits a true English Name,  
Who always says, and does, and is the same;  
Who dares be honest, though at any rate,  
And stands prepared to meet the worst of Fate:  
He laughs at Threats, and Flatteries does despise,  
And won't be knavish to be counted wise:  
No public storm can his clear Reason blind,  
Or bad example influence his mind.  
Let M— like a Cur kicked out of doors,  
For his aspiring Projects and Amours,  
Unman himself to sneak, fawn, cringe and whine,  
And play the Spaniel, till they let him in;  
Then, with a grinning and affected Leer,  
Run his red Snout in every Lady's ear.  
Let a lewd Judge come reeking from a Wench,  
To vent a wilder Lust upon the Bench;  
Bawl out the Venom of his rotten Heart,  
Swelled up with envy, overact his part;  
Condemn the Innocent by Laws ne'er framed;  
And study to be more than doubly damned.  
Let a mean scoundrel Lord (for equal fear  
Of hanging, or of starving) falsely swear;  
Let him, whose Knavery and Impudence  
Is known to every Man's experience,  
With scraps of broken evidence, contrive  
To feed, and keep a fainting Plot alive:  
Nay, though he swears by the same Deities,  
Whom he has mocked by Mimmic Sacrifice.  
Let Rumsey, with his ill-looked treacherous Face,  
That swarthy offspring of a Hellish Race,  
Whose Mother, big with an intriguing Devil,  
Brought an Epitome of all that's evil:  
Let him be perjured, and as rashly damn  
THE eternal Infamy his odious Name.  
Let Knaves and Fools confound the tottering State,  
And plunge the Subjects in their Monarch's hate;  
Blinding by false accounts of Men and Things,  
The most indulgent and the best of Kings.  
Let an unthinking hare-brained Bigot's zeal,  
(Not out of any thought of doing well,  
But in a pure defiance of the Law)  
In bloody Lines his true Idea draw;  
That Men may be informed, and early see,  
What such a Man (if once in power) would be:  
Of Royal Mercy: let him stop the source,  
That Death may have a free and boundless course;  
Till shivering Ghosts come from their gloomy Cell,  
And in dumb Forms a fatal story tell.  
Let the Court swarm with Pimps, Rogues, Bawds and Whores,  
And honest men be all turned out of doors;  
Let Atheism and profaneness there abound,  
And not an upright Man (God save the King) befound.  
Let men of Principles be in disgrace,  
And mercenary Villains in their place;  
Let free born Cities be by Treach'ry won,  
Lose their just Liberties, and be undone:  
Let Statesmen sudden Changes undertake,  
And make the Government's foundation shake;  
Till strange tempestuous Murmurs do arise,  
And show a storm that's gathering in the Skies.  
Let all this happen. Nay, let certain Fate  
Upon the issue of their Actions wait;  
If you've a true, a brave undaunted Mind  
Of English Principles, as well as kind;  
You'll on the bottom of true Honour stand,  
Firm as a Rock, unshaken as the Land:  
So when vast Seas of Trouble against you beat,  
They'll break, and force themselves to a Retreat;  
No Fate, no flattery can e●er control  
A steady, resolute, Heroic Soul.   

On the Young Statesmen.  By J. Dryden, 1680. 

CLarenden had Law and Sense,  
Clifford was Fierce and Brave,  
Bennets grave look was a pretence,  
And D— y's matchless impudence  
Helped to support the Knave.   

2.  
But Sund— d, God— n, L  L —y,  
These will appear such Chits in story,  
'Twill turn all Politics to Jests,  
To be repeated like John Dory,  
When Fiddlers sing at Feasts.   

3.  
Protect us, mighty Providence,  
What would these Madmen have?  
First, they would bribe us without Pence,  
Deceive us without common Sense,  
And without Power enslave.   

4.  
Shall freeborn Men in humble awe,  
Submit to servile shame;  
Who from consent and custom, draw  
The same Right to be ruled by Law  
Which Kings pretend to reign?   

5.  
The Duke shall wield his conquering Sword,  
The Chancellor make a Speech,  
The King shall pass his honest word,  
The pawned Revenue Sums afford;  
And then come kiss my Breech.   

6.  
So have I seen a King on Chess,  
(His Rooks and Knights withdrawn,  
His Queen and Bishops in distress)  
Shifting about, grow less and less,  
With here and there a Pawn.    

Portsmouth's Looking-Glass.  By the Lord Roch— r. 
MEthinks I see you newly risen,  
From your Embroidered Bed and pissing;  
With studied Mein and much Grimace,  
Present yourself before your Glass,  
To varnish and rub o'er those Graces,  
You rubbed off in your Night Embraces:  
To set your Hair, your Eyes, your Teeth,  
And all those Powers you Conquer with;  
Lay trains of Love and State-Intrigues,  
In Powders, Trim, and curled Wigs:  
And nicely choose, and neatly spread,  
Upon your Cheeks the best French Red.  
Indeed for Whites none can compare,  
With those you naturally wear;  
And though her Highness much delights  
To laugh and talk about your Whites;  
I never could perceive your Grace  
Made use of any for your Face.  
Here 'tis you practise all your Art,  
To triumph o'er a Monarch's Heart;  
Tattle and smile, and wink and twink on't,  
It almost makes me sp— to think on't.  
These are your master-strokes of Beauty,  
That keeps poor Rowley to hard Duty:  
And how can all these be withstood,  
By frail amorous Flesh and Blood?  
These are the Charms that have bewitched him,  
As if a Conjurer's Rod had switcht him:  
Made him he knows not what to do,  
But loll and fumble here with you.  
Amongst your Ladies, and his Chitts,  
At Cards and Council here he sits:  
Yet minds not how they play at either,  
Nor cares not when 'tis walking weather:  
Business and Power he has resigned,  
And all things to your mighty Mind.  
Is there a Minister of State,  
Or any Treasurer of late,  
That's fawning and imperious too?  
He owes his Greatness all to you:  
And as you see just cause to do it,  
You keep him in, or turn him out.  
Hence 'tis you give us War and Peace,  
Raise Men, disband them as you please:  
Take any Pensions, retrench Wages,  
For Petticoats, and lusty Pages:  
Contrive and Execute all Laws,  
Suiting the Judges to the Cause.  
Learned Scroggs and honest Jeffreys,  
A Faithful Friend to you who e'er is;  
He made the Jury come in booty,  
And for your service would hang Doughty.  
You govern every Council meeting,  
Making th● Fools do as you think fitting:  
Your Royal Cully has command,  
Only from you at second hand;  
He does but at the Helm appear,  
Sits there and sleeps while your Slaves steer:  
And you are the bright Northern Star,  
By which they guide this Man of War;  
Yet without doubt they might conduct  
Him better, were you better f—  
Many begin to think of late,  
His Crown and C—ds have both one date;  
For as they fall, so falls the State.  
And as his Reins prove loose and weak,  
The Reigns of Government must break.   

The Impartial Trimmer. 1682.  
SInce there are some that with me see the state  
Of this declining Isle, and mourn its fate;  
French Councillors and Whores, French Education,  
Have changed our Natures, and enslaved our Nation:  
There was a time when Barons boldly stood,  
And spent their Lives for their dear Countries good;  
Confimed our Charter, with a Curse to light  
On those that should destroy that sacred Right,  
Which Power with Freedom can so well unite,  
The hated name of Rebel is not due  
To him that is to Law and Justice true.  
Brutus' bold part may justly claim Renown,  
Preferring Right to Friendship and a Crown;  
For 'twas not Treason then to keep our own.  
But now the Nation with unusual need  
Cries help, where is our bold, our English Breed?  
Popery and Slavery are just at hand,  
And every Patriot is a S— d.  
Shaftsbury's gone, another Change to try;  
He hates his Word, yet more the Monarchy.  
No Head remains our Loyal Cause to grace,  
For Monmouth is too weak for that high Place:  
More proper for the Court where he was raised,  
His Dancing envied, and his Dressing praised,  
Where still such Folly is so well protected,  
Those few that han't it are obliged t' affect it;  
For Statesmen, King, and Whore, and all have sworn  
T'advance such Wit and Virtue as their own:  
Degenerate Rome and Spain deserves to outbrave us,  
If Hide or Hallifax can e'er enslave us;  
Or he that knelt 'twixt his Dogs and Whore,  
Ruled by a Woman, he can use no more;  
Whispers with Knaves, and Jests all day with Fools,  
Is chid to Counsel like a Boy to School.  
False to Mankind, and true to him alone.  
Whose Treason still attempts his Life and Crown.  
Rouse up and cry, No Slavery, no York  
And free your King from that devouring ●●ork;  
Tho' lulled with Ease and Safety he appear,  
And trusts the Reins to him he ought to fear.  
'Tis Loyalty indeed to keep the Crown  
Upon a Head that would itself dethrone.  
This is the case of our unthinking Prince,  
Wheedled by Knaves, to rule against common Sense;  
That we provoked our Wrongs to justify,  
Might in his Reign his Brother's Title try.  
Live long then Charles, secure of those you dread,  
There's not five whigs that ever wished you dead,  
For as old Men rarely of Gout complain,  
That Life prolongs, but soothes its wholesome pain.  
So we with as small cause (God knows) to boast,  
Bear much with you, rather than with him roast:  
For if a subject he such Terror bring,  
What may we hope from a revengeful King?  
Both lewd and zealous, stubborn in his Nonsense,  
He'll sacrifice Mankind to ease his Conscience.  
O happy Venice, whose good Laws are such,  
No private Crime the public Peace can touch.  
But we most wretched, while two Fools dispute,  
If Leg or Armstrong shall be absolute.   

Bajazet to Gloriana, 1683/4;.  
FAir Royal Maid, permit a Youth undone,  
To tell you how he drew his ruin on;  
By what degrees he took that Passion in,  
That made him guilty of Promethean Sin,  
Who from the Gods durst steal Celestial Fire;  
And tho' with less success I did as high aspire:  
Ah! why (you Gods) was she of mortal Race,  
And why 'twix her and me was there so vast a space?  
Why was she not above my Passion made?  
Some Star in Heaven or Goddess of the Shade.  
And yet my haughty Sold could ne'er have bowed  
To any Beauty of the common Crowd.  
None but the Brow that did expect a Crown  
Could charm or awe me with a Smile or Frown.  
I lived the Envy of the Arcadian Plains,  
Sought by the Nymphs, and bowed to by the Swains.  
Where e'er I passed, I swept the Street along,  
And gathered round me all the gazing Throng.  
In numerous Flocks and Herds I did abound,  
And when I vainly spread my Wishes round,  
They wanted nothing but my being crowned;  
Yet witness all you spiteful Powers above,  
If my Ambition did not spring from Love:  
Had you, bright Gloriana, been less fair,  
Less excellent, less charming than you are,  
I had my honest Loyalty retained,  
My noble Blood untainted had remained;  
Witness your Graces, witness your sacred Bowers,  
You shaded River, Banks, and Beds of Flowers,  
Where the expecting Nymphs have passed their Hours;  
Witness how oft (all careless of their fame)  
They Languished for the Author of their Flame:  
And when I came reproached, my old reserve  
Asked for what Nymph I did my Joys preserve?  
What sighing Maid was next to be undone,  
For whom I dressed and put my Graces on?  
And never thought (tho' I feigned every proof  
Of tender Passion) that I loved enough.  
While I with Love's Variety was cloyed,  
Or the faint Pleasure like a Dream enjoyed;  
'Twas Gloriana's Eyes, my Soul alone,  
With everlasting Gust could feed upon.  
From her first Bloom my fate I did pursue,  
And from the tender fragrant Bud I knew,  
The charming Sweet it promised when it blew.  
They gave me hope, and 'twas in vain I tried  
The Beauty from the Princess to divide:  
For he at once must feel whom you inspire  
A soft Ambition and a haughty Fire,  
And hopes the natural Aid of young Desire.  
My unconsidering Passion had not yet  
Thought your Illustrious Birth for mine too great  
'Twas Love that I pursued, that God that leads  
Sometimes the equalled Slave to Prince's Beds.  
But oh! I had forgot that Flame must rest  
In your bright Soul that makes th' Adorer blest;  
Your sacred Fire alone must you subdue,  
'Tis that, not mine, can raise me up to you;  
Yet if by chance my ambition meet a stop,  
With any thought that checked my advancing hope:  
This new one strait would all the rest confound,  
How every Coxcomb aimed at being crowned:  
The vain young Fool with all his Mother's parts,  
Who wanted Sense enough for little arts;  
Whose composition was like Cheder Cheese,  
(〈…〉 Production all the Town agrees.)  
To whom from Prince to Priest was added Suff,  
From great King Charles even down to Father Goff;  
Yet he with vain Pretention lays a claim,  
To th● glorious 〈◊〉 of a Sovereign:  
And when for Gods such wretched things set up,  
Was it so great a Crime for me to hope?  
No Laws of God or Man my Vows reprove,  
There is no Treason in ambitious Love:  
That sacred Antidote i'th' poisoned Cup,  
Quells the Contagion of each little drop.  
I bring no forces but my Sighs and Tears,  
My Languishments, my soft Complaints and Prayers.  
Artillery which was never sent in vain,  
Nor fails, wherever it lights, to wound or pain.  
Here only, here rebated they return,  
Meeting the solid Armour of your Scorn;  
Scorn by the Gods, I any thing could bear,  
The rough Fatigues and Storms of dangerous War;  
Long Winter Marches or the Summer's Heat,  
Nay even in Battle from the Foe defeat;  
Scars on this Face, Scars, whose dull recompense  
Would ne'er atone for what they rob from thence;  
Scandal of Coward, nay half witted too,  
Or siding with the pardoned rebel Crew:  
Or ought but Scorn, and yet you must frown on,  
Your Slave was destined thus to be undone;  
You the avenging Deity appear,  
And I a Victim fall to all the injured fair.   

On King CHARLES, by the Earl of Rochester, For which he was banished the Court and turned Mountebank.  
IN the Isle of Great Britain long since famous known,  
For breeding the best C— in Christendom;  
There reigns, and long may he reign and thrive,  
The easiest Prince and best bread Man alive:  
Him no ambition moves to seek Renown,  
Like the French Fool, to wander up and down,  
Starving his Subjects, hazarding his Crown.  
Nor are his high desires above his strength,  
His sceptre and his P— are of a length,  
And she that plays with one may sway the other,  
And make him little wiser than his Brother.  
I hate all Monarches and the Thrones that they sit on,  
From the Hector of France to the Cully of Britain.  
Poor Prince, thy P— like the Boffoons at Court,  
It governs thee, because it makes thee sport;  
Tho' Safety, Law, Religion, Life lay out,  
'Twill break through all to make its way to C—.  
Restless he rolls about from Whore to Whore,  
A merry Monarch, scandalous and poor.  
To Carewell the most Dear of all thy Dears,  
The sure relief of thy declining Years;  
Oft he bewails his fortune and her fate,  
To love so well, and to be loved so late;  
For when in her he settles well his T—,  
Yet his dull graceless Buttocks hang an Arse.  
This you'd believe, had I but time to tell you,  
The pain it costs to poor laborious Nelly,  
While she employs Hands, Fingers, Lips and Thighs,  
E'er she can raise the Member she enjoys.   

Cato's Answer to Libanius, when he advised him to go and consult the Oracle of Jupiter Hamon; translated out of the 9th. Book of Lucan, beginning at quid quin. Labiene jubes, etc.  By Mr. John Ayloffe. 
WHat should I ask my Friends which best would be,  
To live enslaved or thus in Arms die free;  
If any force can honour's price abate,  
Or Virtue bow beneath the Blows of Fate:  
If Fortune's Threats a steady Soul disdains;  
Or if the Joys of life be worth the pains:  
If it our Happiness at all import,  
Whether the foolish Scene be long or short:  
If when we do but aim at noble ends,  
The attempt alone immortal Fame attends:  
If for bad accidents which thickest press,  
On Merit we should like a good cause less,  
Or be the fonder of it for success.  
All this is clear, words in our Minds it strikes,  
Nor Hamon nor his Priest can deeper fix,  
Without the Clergies venial Cant and Pains,  
Gods never frustrate Will holds ours in Chains,  
Nor can we act, but what th' Alwise ordains,  
Who need no Voice nor perishing Word to awe  
Our wild Desires and give his Creatures Law;  
Whate'er to know, or needful was or fit,  
In the wise Frame of humane Souls is writ,  
Both what we ought to do and what forbear,  
He once for all did at our Birth declare;  
But never did he seek out desert Lands,  
To bury Truth in unfrequented Sands;  
Or to a corner of the World withdrew  
Head of a Sect, or partial to a few.  
Nature's vast Fabric is his House alone,  
This Globe his Footstool, and high Heaven his Throne.  
In Earth, Air, Sea, and in who e'er excels  
In knowing Heads and honest Hearts he dwells.  
Why seek we then among these barren Sands,  
In narrow Shrines and Temples built with hands;  
Him whose dread Presence does all Places fill,  
Or look but in our Reason for his Will?  
And we e'er saw is God, in all we find  
Apparent print of the eternal Mind.  
Let flattering Fools their course by Prophets steer,  
And always of the future live in fear:  
No Oracle or Dream the Crowd is told,  
Can make me more or less resolved or bold;  
But certain Death which equally on all  
Both on the Coward and the Brave must fall;  
This said, and turning with disdain about,  
He left scorned and Hamon to the vulgar Rout.   

The Lord Lucas' Ghost, 1687.  
FRom the blessed Regions of eternal day,  
Where Heavenborn Souls imbibe th' immortal Ray,  
Where Liberty and Innocence reside  
Free from the Gripes of Tyranny and Pride,  
Where pious Patriots that have shed their Blood  
For sacred Truths and for the public Good,  
Now rest secure from thence (poor Isle) I come  
To see thy Sorrows and bewail thy Doom,  
Thy sore Oppressions and thy piercing Cry,  
Disturbs our Rest and drowns our Harmony.  
When stiffnecked Israel did their God reject,  
And in his stead an Idol-King erect:  
heavens flaming Sword he brandished in his hand,  
And dreadful Thunder struck their sinful Land▪  
Till Penitence atoned his sinful Ire,  
And quenched the rage of his consuming fire.  
But this poor Land still feels the dire Effect  
Of his just Wrath, who his mild Reign reject.  
Unhappy Isle, how oft hast thou been cursed  
With f— lish Kings; but this of all's the worst.  
The Fire, the Plague, the Sword, are dreadful fiends,  
This R— l Plague all other far transcends.  
From him the Fountain of all our Mischifs flows,  
From him the Fire, from him the War arose.  
With Rome he plots, Religion to overthrow,  
With France combines to enslave the People too.  
No Man must near his sacred Person come,  
Unless he be for Tyranny and Rome.  
With hardened Face he assaults the frail and fair,  
Uses his Power the Virtuous to ensnare.  
With Troops of Vice he conquers Liberty;  
Depresses Virtue, enthrones Tyranny;  
Threatens the Coward, fawns upon the Bold,  
Debauches all with Power or with Gold.  
Lift up thy Head, afflicted Isle, and hear,  
The time of thy Deliverance draws near;  
His full-blown Crimes will certainly pull down  
A slow, but sure Destruction of his Crown.  
His loathed Acts thy freedom's Birth shall cause,  
Secure Religion, produce wholesome Laws.  
No more the Poor, the Rich one shall devour;  
No more shall Right yield to oppressive Power:  
No more shall Rapine make the Country groan,  
Nor Civil Wars shall Reign within the Town:  
The Iron Sceptre, and the Tyrant's Hand,  
Shall cease henceforth to bruise thy happy Land.  
Rome's Hocus Pocus Ministers no more  
Shall cause Mankind their juggling Priests t' adore:  
Thy Learned Clergy shall confound them all,  
And they, like Ely's Sons, unpitied fall.  
Dark Mists of Errors than must fly away,  
And Hell's Delusions shrink from the bright day  
Truth's sacred Light in full abundance shall  
Upon thy Teachers and thy People fall.  
So when th' eternal Son was born to die  
For all the World, the lesser Gods did fly;  
His bright appearance struck their Prophet's dumb,  
And Death, like Silence, did their Gods entomb.  
The tuneful Spheres with Hallelujahs rung,  
Heaven's mighty Host with Man one Chorus sung▪  
Ne'er fading Glory unto God above,  
Peace upon Earth, to Men eternal Love.  
Thus the Creation shouted with one Voice;  
Thus Heaven and Earth did at his Birth rejoice:  
And thus shall all repeat this Song again,  
When upon Earth he shall begin to reign.  
But this lov●d Isle shall be the chosen place,  
Here shall the King of Kings begin his race:  
Judea was his Cradle and the Tomb,  
Britain shall be his Throne in time to come.   

An EPITAPH.  
ALgernoon Sidney fills this Tomb:  
An Atheist, by declaiming Rome:  
A Rebel bold, by striving still  
To keep the Laws above the Will;  
And hindering those would pull them down,  
To leave no limits to a Crown:  
Crimes damned by Church and Government,  
Oh! whither must his Soul be sent?  
Of Heaven it must needs despair,  
●f that the Pope be Turn-key there;  
And Hell can ne'er it entertain,  
For there is all Tyrannic Reign;  
And Purgatory's such a Pretence,  
As ne'er deceived a Man of Sense.  
Where goes it then? Where't aught to go,  
Where Pope and Devil have nought to do.   

The Brazenhead, 1688  
WHat strepitantious Noise is it that sounds  
From raised Banks, or from the lower Grounds▪  
From hollow Caverns, Labyrinths from far,  
Threatening Confusions of a dreadful War?  
What dismal Cries of People in Despair,  
Fill the vast Region of the troubled Air?  
The Tune of Horror, or of what's as strange,  
That strikes uneven like a World of Change?  
With such a bold Surprise attacks my Sense,  
Beyond the Power of Counsel or Defence?  
But tho' blind Fortune rools her turning Wheel  
With a perpetual Motion, who can feel  
This Surge of Fate, pushed on with Fire and Steel?  
You precious Moment's of serener Days!  
When many Victories enlarged my Praise,  
And all things ran in a most easy Stream,  
Back unto me their Ocean and Supreme.  
Are you all vanished by the sudden Fright,  
And left my encompassed with a dismal Night?  
By my own Subjects in suspicion held,  
Murmurings as bad, as if they had Rebelled?  
You all controling Powers of things above!  
Whose easier Dictates guide the World by Love!  
Avert th' impendent Miseries, and show  
Us Earthly Gods to govern here below.  

The Answer.  
'TIS well you've thought upon the chiefest Cause,  
Change nothing of Religion nor the Laws.  
Let the great Monarch this good Motto wear,  
Not only in his Arms but everywhere.  
Integer Vitae, is my whole Defence;  
Scelerisque purus, a most strong Defence;  
Non eget Mauri, that no Forces need,  
Jaculis nec Arcu, which contentions breed:  
Nec venenatis gravida Sagittis  
Pharetra, to make Loyal his own Cities.    

Upon the Execrable Murder of the Honourable Arthur Earl of Essex.  

MOrtality would be too frail to hear,  
How ESSEX fell, and not dissolve with fear▪  
Did not more generous Rage take off the Blow,  
And by his Blood the steps to vengeance show.   

The Tower was for the Tragedy designed,  
And to be slaughtered he is first confined:  
As fettered Victims to the Altar go.  
But why must noble ESSEX perish so?  
Why with such fury dragged into his Tomb,  
Murdered by Slaves, and sacrificed to Rome?   

By Stealth they kill, and with a secret Stroke  
Silence that Voice, which charmed when'er it spoke.  
The bleeding Orifice overflowed the Ground,  
More like some mighty Deluge than a Wound.  
Through the large space his Blood and Vitals glide,  
And his whole Body might have passed beside.  
The reeking Crimson swelled into a Flood,  
And streamed a second time in Capel's Blood.  
He's in his Son again to death pursued,  
An instance of the highest Ingratitude.  
They then malicious Stratagems employ,  
With Life, his dearer. Honour to destroy;  
And make his Fame extinguish with his Breath,  
And act beyond the Cruelties of Death  
Here Murder is in all its shapes complete,  
As Lines united in their Centre meet;  
Formed by the blackest Politics of Hell:  
Was Cain so devilish when his Brother fell?   

He that contrives, or his own Fate desires.  
Wants Courage, and for fear of Death expires;  
But mighty ESSEX was in all things brave,  
Neither to Hope, nor to Despair, a Slave.  
He had a Soul too Innocent and Great,  
To fear, or to anticipate his Fate:  
Yet their exalted Impudence and Gild,  
Charge on himself the precious Blood they spilt.  
So were the Protestants some Years ago,  
destroyed in Ireland without a Foe.  
By their own barbarous Hands the Mad men die,  
And massacre themselves, they know not why:  
Whilst the kind Irish howl to see the Gore,  
And pious Catholics their Fate deplore.  
If you refuse to trust erroneous Fame,  
Royal Mac-Ninny will confirm the same.   

We have lost more in injured Capel's Heir,  
Than the poor Bankrupt Age can e'er repair,  
Nature indulged him so, that there we saw  
All the choice Strokes her steady Hand could draw.  
He the Old English Glory did revive,  
In him we had Plantagenets alive.  
Grandeur and Fortune, and a vast Renown,  
Fit to support the Lustre of a Crown.  
All these in him were potently conjoined,  
But all was too ignoble for his Mind:  
Wisdom and Virtue, properties Divine,  
Those, Godlike ESSEX, were entirely thine.   

In this great Name he's still preserved alive,  
And will to all succeeding Times survive.  
With just Progression, as the constant Sun  
Doth move, and through its bright Ecliptic run.  
For whilst his Dust does unextinguished lie,  
And his blessed Soul is soared above the Sky,  
Fame shall below his parted Breath supply.    

An Essay upon satire:  By J. Dr— en, Esquire. 
HOW dull, and how insensible a Beast  
Is Man, who yet would Lord it o'er the rest?  
Philosophers and Poets vainly striven  
In every Age the lumpish Mass to move:  
But those were Pedants when compared with these,  
Who know not only to instruct, but please.  
Poets alone found the delightful way,  
Mysterious Morals gently to convey  
In charming Numbers; so that as men grew  
Pleased with their Poems, they grew wiser too.  
satire has always shone among the rest,  
And is the boldest way if not the best,  
To tell men freely of their foulest Faults,  
To laugh at their vain Deeds, and vainer Thoughts.  
In satire too the Wise took different ways,  
To each deserving its peculiar praise.  
Some did all Folly with just sharpness blame,  
Whilst others laughed and scorned them into shame.  
But of these two, the last succeeded best,  
(As men aim rightest when they shoot in jest:)  
Yet if we may presume to blame our Guides,  
And censure those who censure all besides;  
In other things they justly are preferred,  
In this alone methinks the Ancients erred;  
Against the grossest Follies they disclaim,  
Hard they pursue, but hunt ignoble Game.  
Nothing is easier than such blots to hit,  
And 'tis the Talon of each vulgar Wit;  
Besides, 'tis labour lost; for who would preach  
Morals to Armstrong, or dull Aston teach?  
'Tis being devout at Play, wise at a Ball,  
Or bringing Wit and Friendship to Whitehall;  
But with sharp Eyes those nicer faults to find,  
Which lie obscurely in the wisest Mind;  
That little speck, which all the rest does spoil,  
To wash off that would be a noble Toil,  
Beyond the loose-writ Libels of this Age,  
Or the forced Scenes of our declining Stage;  
Above all Censure too, each little Wit  
Will be so glad to see the greater hit:  
Who judging better, though concerned the most,  
Of such Correction will have cause to boast.  
In such a satire all would seek a share,  
And every Fool will fancy he is there.  
Old Story-tellers too must pine and die,  
To see their antiquated Wit laid by;  
Like her who missed her Name in a Lampoon,  
And grieved to find herself decayed so soon;  
No common Coxcomb must be mentioned here,  
Not the dull train of dancing Sparks appear;  
Not fluttering Officers, who never fight?  
Of such a wretched Rabble who would write?  
Much less half Wits, that's more against our Rules;  
For they are Fops, the other are but Fools.  
Who would not be as silly as Dunbar?  
As dull as Monmouth, rather than Sir Carr?  
The cunning Courtier should be slighted too,  
Who with dull Knavery makes so much ado;  
Till the shrewd Fool, by thriving too too fast,  
Like Aesop's Fox, becomes a Prey at last:  
Nor shall the Royal Mistresses be named,  
Too ugly, or too easy to be blamed;  
With whom each rhyming Fool keeps such a pother,  
They are as common that way as the other:  
Yet santering Charles between his beastly Brace,  
Mee●s with dissembling still in either place,  
Affected Humour or a painted Face.  
In Loyal Libels we have often told him,  
How one has Jilted him, the other sold him.  
How that affects to laugh, how this too weep;  
But who can rail so long as he can sleep?  
Was ever Prince by two at once misled,  
False, foolish, old, ill-natured, and illbred?  
Earnely and Aylesbury, with all that Race  
Of busy Blockheads shall have here no place;  
At Council set as foils on D—'s score,  
To make that great false Jewel shine the more;  
Who all that while was thought exceeding wise,  
Only for taking pains and telling lies.  
But there's no meddling with such nausceous Men,  
Their very Names have tired my lazy Pen;  
'Tis time to quit their company, and choose  
Some fitter Subject for a sharper Muse.  
First, let's behold the merriest Man alive,  
Against his careless Genius vainly strive;  
Quit his dear Ease, some deep design to lay,  
Against a set time, and then forget the day:  
Yet he will laugh at his best Friends, and be  
Just as good Company as Nokes and Lee.  
But when he aims at Reason or at Rule,  
He turns himself the best in ridicule.  
Let him at business ne'er so earnest sit,  
Show him but Mirth, and bait that Mirth with Wit;  
That shadow of a Jest shall be enjoyed,  
Though he left all Mankind to be destroyed:  
So Cat transformed sat gravely and demure,  
Till Mouse appeared and thought himself secure;  
But soon the Lady had him in her Eye.  
And from her Friend did just as oddly fly;  
Reaching above our Nature does no good,  
We must fall back to our old flesh and blood.  
As by our little Matchi avel we find  
(That nimblest Creature of busy kind)  
His Limbs are crippled, and his Body shakes,  
Yet his hard Mind, which all this bustle makes,  
No pity of its poor Companion takes.  
What Gravity can hold from laughing out,  
To see that drag his feeble Legs about;  
Like Hounds ill coupled, Jowler lugs him still  
Through Hedges, Ditches, and through all that's ill!  
'Twere Crime in any Man but him alone,  
To use a Body so, though 'tis one's own:  
Yet this false Comfort never gives ' him ' o'er,  
That whilst he creeps his vigorous thoughts can soar:  
Alas, that soaring to those few that know,  
Is but a busy grovelling here below.  
So Men in Rapture think they mount the Sky,  
Whilst on the Ground th'entranced Wretches lie;  
So modern Fops have fancied they could fly:  
Whilst 'tis their Heads alone are in the Air,  
And for the most part building Castles there;  
As the new Earl with Parts deserving praise,  
And wit enough to laugh at his own ways;  
Yet loses all soft days and sensual nights,  
Kind Nature checks, and kinder Fortune slights;  
Striving against his quiet all he can,  
For the fine Notion of a busy Man;  
And what is that at best but one whose Mind,  
Is made to tyre himself and all Mankind:  
For Ireland he would go, faith let him reign,  
For if some odd fantastic Lord would fain  
Carry in Trunks, and all my drudgery do,  
I'll not only pay him but admire him too;  
But is there any other Beast that lives,  
Who his own harm so wittily contrives?  
Will any Dog that has his Teeth and Stones,  
Refin'dly leave his Bitch's and his Bones  
To turn a Wheel? and bark to be employed,  
While Venus is by rival Dogs enjoyed;  
Yet this fond Man to get a Statesman's Name,  
Forfeits his Friends, his Freedom and his Fame.  
Though satire nicely writ, no humour stings  
But those who merit Praise in other things;  
Yet we must needs this one exception make,  
And break our rules for folly Tropos sake;  
Who was too much despised to be accused;  
And therefore scarce deserves to be abused;  
Raised only by his mercenary Tongue,  
From railing smoothly, and from reasoning wrong:  
As Boys on holidays let loose to play,  
Lay waggish Traps for Girls that pass that way;  
Then shout to see in dirt and deep distress,  
Some silly Cit. in flowered foolish Dress;  
So have I mighty satisfaction found,  
To see his tinsel reason on the Ground.  
To see the florid Fool despised (and know it)  
By some who scarce have words enough to show it;  
(For sense sits silent, and condemns for weaker  
The finer; nay, sometimes the wittiest Speaker)  
But 'tis prodigious so much Eloquence  
Should be acquired by such a little Sense;  
For words and wit did anciently agree,  
And Tully was no Fool though this may be:  
At Bar abusive, on the Bench unable,  
Knave on the Woolsack, Fop at Council-Table▪  
These are the Grievances of such Fools as would,  
Be rather wise than honest, great than good.  
Some other kind of Wits must be made known,  
Whose harmless Errors hurt themselves alone;  
Excess of Luxury they think can please,  
And laziness call loving of their ease;  
To live dissolved in pleasures still they feign,  
Though their whole Life's but intermitting pain:  
So much of Surfeits, headaches, Claps are seen,  
We scarce perceive the little time between:  
Well-meaning men who makes this gross mistake,  
And pleasure lose only for pleasures sake;  
Each pleasure has its price, and when we pay  
Too much of pain we squander Life away.  
Thus D—et purring like a thoughtful Cat,  
Married but wiser, Puss ne'er thought of that:  
And first he worried her with railing rhyme,  
Like Pembrook's Mastiffs at his kindest time;  
Then for one night sold all his slavish Life,  
A teeming Widow but a barren Wife;  
Suckled by contract of such a fulsome toad,  
He lugged about the matrimonial load;  
Till Fortune blindly kind as well as he,  
Has ill restored him to his liberty;  
Which he would use in all his sneaking way,  
Drinking all night, and dozing all the day;  
Dull as Ned Howard, whom his brisker Times,  
Had famed for dulness in malicious Rhimes.  
Mul— ve had much ado to scape the snare,  
Though learned in those ill Arts that cheat the Fair:  
For after all his vulgar Marriage-mocks,  
With Beauty dazzled Numps was in the Stocks:  
Deluded Parents dried their weeping Eyes,  
To see him catch his Tartar for his Prize:  
Th' impatient Town waited the wished for change,  
And Cuckolds smiled in hopes of sweet revenge;  
Till Petworth Plot made us with sorrow see,  
As his Estate his Person too was free:  
Him no soft thoughts, no gratitude could move,  
To Gold he fled from Beauty and from Love;  
Yet failing there he keeps his freedom still,  
Forced to live happily against his will:  
'Tis not his fault if too much wealth and power,  
Break not his boasted quiet every hour.  
And little Sid Sid —y for Simile renowned,  
Pleasures has always sought but never found:  
Though all his Thoughts on Wine and Women fall,  
His are so bad sure he ne'er thinks at all.  
The Flesh he lives upon his rank and strong,  
His Meat and Mistresses are kept too long;  
But sure we all mistake this pious Man,  
Who mortifies his Person all he can:  
What we uncharitably take for Sin,  
Are only Rules of this old Capuchin;  
For never Hermit under grave pretence,  
Has lived more contrary to common sense;  
And 'tis a miracle we may suppose,  
No Nastiness offends his skilful Nose:  
Which from all stink can with peculiar art  
Extract Perfume, and Essence, from a F— t;  
Expecting Supper is his great delight,  
He toils all day but to be drunk at night:  
Then o'er his Cups this Night-bird chirping sits,  
Till he takes Hewet, and Jack Hall for Wits.  
Roch— r I despise for his mere want of wit,  
Though thought to have a Tail and Cloven Feet;  
For while he mischief means to all Mankind,  
Himself alone the ill effects does find;  
And so like Witches justly suffers shame,  
Whose harmless malice is so much the same.  
False are his words, affected is his wit,  
So often he does aim, so seldom hit;  
To every face he cringes while he speaks,  
But when the back is turned the head he breaks.  
Mean in each Action, lewd in every Limb,  
Manners themselves are mischievous in him:  
A proof that chance alone makes every Creature,  
A very Killigrew without good Nature.  
For what a Bessus has he always lived,  
And his own Kickings notably contrived:  
For (there's the folly that still mixed with fear)  
Cowards more blows than any Hero bear;  
Of fight Sparks some may her pleasures say,  
But 'tis a bolder thing to run away:  
The World may well forgive him all his ill,  
For every Fault does prove his penance still:  
Falsely he falls into some dangerous noose,  
And then as meanly labours to get loose;  
A Life so infamous is better quitting,  
Spent in base injury and low submitting.  
I'd like to have left out his Poetry;  
Forgot by all almost as well as me.  
Sometimes he has some humour, never wit,  
And if it rarely, very rarely hit,  
'Tis under so much nasty rubbish laid,  
To find it out's the Cinder-woman's trade;  
Who for the wretched remnants of a fire,  
Must toil all day in ashes and in mire:  
So lewdly dull his idle Works appear,  
The wretched Texts deserve no Comments here;  
Where one poor Thought sometimes left all alone,  
For a whole Page of dulness to atone:  
Amongst forty bad, one tolerable line,  
Without expression, fancy, or design.  
How vain a thing is Man, and how unwise,  
Even he would himself the most despise;  
I who so wise and humble seem to be,  
Now my own Vanity and Pride can't see.  
While the World's nonsense is so sharply shown,  
We pull down others but to raise our own;  
That we may Angels seem, we paint them Elves,  
And are but Satyrs to set up ourselves.  
I who have all this while been finding fault,  
Even with my Master, who first satire taught;  
And did by that describe the Task so hard,  
It seems stupendious and above reward.  
Now labour with unequal force to climb  
That lofty Hill, unreacht by former time;  
'Tis just that I should to the bottom fall,  
Learn to write well, or not to write at all.   

Upon an undeserving and ungrateful Mistress, whom he could not help loving.  
Being a Paraphrastical Translation of Ovid's Tenth Elegy. Lib. 3. Amorum.  
I Have to long endured her guilty Scorn,  
Too long her falseness my fond Love has born;  
My freedom and my wits at length I claim;  
Be gone base Passion, die unworthy Flame;  
My Life's sole torment and my Honour's stain,  
Quit this tired Heart, and end the lingering pain.  
I have resolved I'll be myself once more  
Long banished Reason to her right restore,  
And throw off Love's tyrannic sway, that still encroaching power.  
My growing shame I see at last, tho' late,  
And my past Follies both despise and hate:  
Hold out my Heart, nor let her Beauty move,  
Be constant in thy Anger as thy Love:  
My present pains shall give thee future ease,  
As bitter Potions cure, tho' they displease.  
'Tis for this end, for freedom more assured,  
I have so long such shameful Chains endured.  
Like a scorned Slave before her door I lay,  
And proud repulses suffered every day;  
Without complaining, banished from her sight,  
On the cold ground I spent the tedious Night;  
While some glad Rival in her Am's did lie,  
Glutted with Love and surfeited with Joy.  
Thence have I seen the tired Adulterer come,  
Dragging a weak exhausted Carcase home.  
And yet this Curse a Blessing I esteem,  
Compared with that of being seen by him;  
By him descried attending in the Street,  
May my foes only such Disgraces meet.  
What toil and time has this false Woman cost?  
How much of unreturning Youth has for her sake been lost?  
How long did I, where fancy led or fate;  
Unthanked unminded, on her Rambles wait?  
Her Steps, her Looks were still by mine pursued,  
And watched by me she charmed the gazing Crowd.  
My diligent Love and overfond Desire,  
Has been the means to kindle others Fire.  
What need I mention every little Wrong,  
Or curse the softness of her soothing Tongue.  
The private Love-signs that in public pass,  
Between her and some common staring Ass.  
The Coquet Art her faithless Heart allows,  
Or tax her with a thousand broken Vows:  
I hear she's sick, and with wild hast I run,  
Officious Hast, and Visit importune.  
Entering, my Rival on her Bed I see,  
The politic Sickness only was to me.  
With this and more oft has my Love been tried,  
Some other Coxcomb let her now provide,  
To bear her Jilting and maintain her Pride;  
My battered Bark has reached the Port at last,  
Nor fears again the Billows it has past.  
Cease your soft Oaths and that still ready shower,  
Those once dear words have lost their charming power.  
In vain you flatter, I am now no more,  
That easy Fool you found me heretofore.  
Anger and Love a doubtful fight maintain,  
Each strives by turns my staggering heart to gain:  
But what can long against love's force contend,  
My love I fear will conquer in the end;  
I'll do what e'er I can to hate you still,  
And if I Love, know 'tis against my Will.  
So the Bull hates the Ploughman's Yoke to wear,  
Yet what he hates, his stubborn Neck must bear.  
Her manners oft my Indignation raise,  
But strait her Beauty the short storm allays.  
Her Life I loathe, her Person I adore;  
Much I contemn her, but I love her more.  
Both with her and without her I'm in pain,  
And rage to lose what I should blush to gain:  
Uncertain, yet at what my wishes aim;  
Loath to abandon Love or part with Fame:  
That Angel-form ill suits a form all sin;  
Ah! be less fair without, or more within.  
When these soft Smiles my yielding Powers invade,  
In vain I call her Vices to my aid;  
Tho' now disdaining the disguise of Art,  
In my esteem her Conduct claims no part,  
Her Face a natural right has to my Heart.  
No Crime's so black as to deform her Eyes,  
Those Clouds must scatter when these Suns shall rise.  
Enough, fair Conqueror, the day's your own,  
See at your Feet, Love's vanquished Rebel thrown;  
By these dear Joys, (Joys dear tho' they are passed)  
When in the kindest Links of Love we held each other fast;  
By th'injured Gods your false Oaths did profane  
By all those Beauties that support and feed your proud disdain;  
By that loved Face from the whole Sex Elect,  
To which I all my Vows and Prayers direct,  
And equal with a Power divine respect:  
By every feature of a turn so fine,  
And by those Arms that charm and dazzle mine.  
Spare from new triumphs, cherish without art,  
This over-faithfull, this too tender Heart:  
A Heart that was respectful while it strove,  
But yielding is all blind impetuous Love:  
Live as you please, torment me as you will,  
Still are you fair, and I must love you still.  
Think only, if with just and clement Reign,  
A willing Subject you would choose to gain,  
Or drag a conquered Vassal in a Chain;  
But to what ever Conduct you incline,  
Do suffer, be what my worse fears divine,  
You are, you ought, you must, you shall be mine,  
Reason for ever, the vain strife give over,  
Thy cruel Wisdom I can bear no more;  
Let me indulge this one soft Passion's rule,  
Curb vexing Sense and be a happy Fool;  
With full spread Sails the tempting Gale obey,  
That down Love's Current drives me fast away.   

The Town Life.  
ONce how I doted on this Jilting Town,  
Thinking no Heaven was out of London known;  
Till I her Beauties artificial found,  
Her pleasure's but a short and giddy round;  
Like one who has his Phillis long enjoyed  
Grown with the fulsome repetition cloyed:  
Love's Mists than vanish from before his Eyes,  
And all the Lady's Frailties he descries:  
Quite surfeited with Joy, I now retreat  
To the fresh Air, a homely Country Seat,  
Good Hours, Books, harmless Sports, & wholesome Meat.  
And now at last I have chose my proper Sphere,  
Where Men are plain and rustic, but sincere.  
I never was for Lies not Fawning made,  
But call a Wafer Bread, and Spade a Spade.  
I tell what merits got Lord— his place,  
And laugh at married M—ve to his Face.  
I cannot vere with every change of State,  
Nor flatter Villains, tho' at Court they're great:  
Nor will I prostitute my Pen for Hire,  
Praise Cromwell, damn him, write the Spanish Friar:  
A Papist now, if next the Turk should reign,  
Then piously transverse the Alcoran.  
Methinks I hear one of the Nation cry,  
Be Christ, this is a Whiggish Calumny,  
All Virtues are comprised in Loyalty.  
Might I dispute with him, I'd change his Note,  
I'd silence him, that is, he'd cut my Throat.  
This powerful way of reasoning never missed,  
None are so positive but then desist,  
As I will, e'er it come to that extreme;  
Our Folly, not our Misery is our Theme.  
Well may we wonder what strange Charm, what Spell,  
What mighty Pleasures in this London dwell,  
That Men renounce their Ease, Estates and Fame,  
And drudge it here to get a Fopling's Name.  
That one of seeming sense advanced in years,  
Like a Sir Courtly Nice in Town appears:  
Others exchange their Land for tawdry clothes,  
And will in spite of Nature pass for Beauxes.  
Indulgent Heaven, who ne'er made aught in vain,  
Each Man for something proper did ordain;  
Yet most against their Genius blindly run,  
The wrong they choose, and what they're made for shun.  
Thus Are— n thinks for State affairs he's fit;  
Hewit for Ogling, Chomly for a Wit:  
But 'tis in vain, so wise, these Men to teach,  
Besides the King's learned Priests should only preach.  
We'll see how Sparks the tedious day employ,  
And trace them in their warm pursuit of Joy;  
If they get dressed (with much ado) by Noon,  
In quest of Beauty to the Mall they run,  
Where (like young Boys) with Hat in hand they try  
To catch some fluttering gaudy Butterfly.  
Thus Grace pursues the Lady with a Face,  
Like forty more, and with the same success,  
Whose Jilting Conduct in her Beauty's spite,  
Loses her fame, and gets no pleasure by't.  
The secret Joys of an Intrigue she slights,  
And in an Equipage of Fools delights:  
So some vain Heroes for a vain command,  
Forfeit their Conscience, Liberty and Land.  
But see high Mass is done, in Crowds they go,  
What, all these Irish and Mall Howard too?  
'Tis very late, to Lockets let's away,  
The Lady Frances comes, I will not stay.  
Expecting Dinner, to discourse they fall,  
Without respect of Morals censuring all:  
The Nymph they loved, the Friend they hug'd before▪  
He's a vain Coxcomb, she's a common Whore:  
No obligation can their Jests prevent;  
Wit, like unruly Wind in Bowels penned,  
Torments the bearer till he gives it vent;  
Tho' this offends the Ear as that the Nose,,  
No matter, 'tis for Ease and out it goes.  
But what they talk (too nauseous to rehearse)  
I leave for the late Ballad-writers Verse.  
After a dear bought Meal they hast away,  
To a desert of Ogling at the Play:  
What's here which in the Box's front I see,  
Deformed old Age, diseases Infamy.  
Warwick, North, Poget, Hinton, Martin, Willis,  
And that Epitome of Lewdness, Elly's:  
I'll not turn that way, but observe the Play,  
Pox▪ 'tis a tragic Farce of Banks to day:  
Besides some Irish Wits the Pit invade  
With a worse Din than Cat-call Serenade:  
I must be gone, let's to Hyde-park repair,  
If not good Company, we'll find good Air:  
Here with effected Bow and Side-Glass look,  
The selfconceited Fool is easily took.  
There comes a Spark with six in Tarsels dressed,  
Charming the Lady's Hearts with dint of Beast:  
Like Scullers on the Thames with frequent bow,  
They labour, tug, and in their Coaches row,  
To meet some fair one, still they wheel about,  
Till she retires, and then they hurry out.  
But next we'll visit where the Beauxes in order come,  
('Tis yet too early for the drawing-room)  
Here nowel's and Olivio's abound;  
But one plain Manly is not to be found:  
Flattering the present, the absent they abuse,  
And vent their Spleen and Lies, pretending News:  
Why, such a Lady's pale and would not dance;  
This to the Country gone, and that to France:  
Whose married, slipped away, or missed at Court,  
Others Misfortunes thus offord them sport:  
A new Song is produced, the Author guest,  
The Verses and the Poet made a Jest.  
Live Laureate E—er, in whom we see,  
The English can excel Antiquity.  
Dryden writes Epic, Wosley Odes in vain,  
Virgil and Horace still the chief maintain:  
He with his matchless Poems has alone,  
Bavius and Mevius in their way outdone.  
But now for Cards, and play they all propose,  
While I who never in good breeding lose,  
Who cannot civilly sit still and see  
The Ladies pick my Purse and laugh at me,  
Pretending earnest business drive to Court,  
Where those who can do nothing else resort.  
The English must not seek preferment there,  
For Mack's and O's all places destined are.  
No more we'll send our Youth to Paris now,  
French Principles and Breeding once would do:  
They for improvement must to Ireland sail,  
The Irish Wit and Language now prevail.  
But soft my Pen, with care this Subject touch,  
Stop where you are, you soon may write too much.  
Quite weary with the hurry of the day,  
I to my peaceful home direct my way;  
While some in Hack and Habit of Fatigue,  
May have (but oft pretend) a close Intrigue;  
Others more open to the Tavern scour,  
Calling for Wine, and every Man his Whore,  
As safe as those with quality perhaps,  
For N—rgh says great Ladies can give Claps:  
Somewhere they're kept, and many where they keep;  
Most see an easy Mistress e'er they Sleep.  
Thus Sparks may dress, dance, play, write, fight, get drunk,  
But all the mighty Pother ends in Punk.   

A satire on the modern Translators. Odi imitatores servum pecus, etc.  By Mr. P— r. 

SInce the united cunning of the Stage,  
Has balked the hireling Drudges of the Age:  
Since Betterton of late so thrifty's grown,  
Revives old Plays, or wisely acts his own:  
Thumbed Rider with a Catalogue of Rhimes,  
Makes the compleatest Poet of our times:  
Those who with nine months' toil had spoiled a Play,  
In hopes of eating at a full Third day,  
Justly despairing longer to sustain  
A craving Stomach from an empty Brain,  
Have left Stage-practice, changed their old Vocations,  
Atoning for bad Plays, with worse Translations,  
And like old Sternhold with laborious spite,  
Burlesque what nobler Muses better write:  
Thus while they for their causes only seem  
To change the Channel, they corrupt the Stream.  
So breaking Vintners to increase their Wine,  
With nauseous Drugs debauch the generous Vine:  
So barren Gipsies for recruit are said,  
With Stranger's Issue to maintain the Trade;  
But lest the fair Bantling should be known,  
A daubing Walnut makes him all their own.  
In the head of this Gang too John Dryden appears,  
But to save the Town-censure and lessen his Fears,  
Joined with a Spark whose title makes me civil,  
For Scandalum Magnatum is the Devil;  
Such mighty thoughts from Ovid's Letters flow,  
That the Translation is a work for two;  
Who in one Copy joined their shame have shown,  
Since T— e could spoil so many tho' alone:  
My Lord I thought so generous would prove,  
To scorn a Rival in affairs of Love:  
But well he knew his teeming pangs were vain,  
Till Midwife Dryden eased his labouring Brain;  
And that when part of Hudibras' Horse  
Jogged on, the other would not hang an Arse;  
So when fleet Jowler hears the joyful hollow,  
He drags his sluggish Mate, and Tray must follow.  
But how could this learned brace employ their time?  
One construed sure, while th' other pumped for Rhyme:  
Or it with these, as once at Rome, succeeds,  
The Bibulus subscribes to Caesar's Deeds:  
This, from his Partners acts ensures his Name,  
Oh sacred thirst of everlasting Fame!  
That could defile those well-cut Nails with Ink,  
And make his Honour condescend to think:  
But what Excuse, what Preface can atone,  
For crimes which guilty Bays has singly done?  
Bays, whose Rose Alley Ambuscade enjoined,  
To be to Vices which he practised kind,  
And brought the venom of a spiteful satire,  
To the safe innocence of a dull Translator.  
Bays, who by all the Club was thought most fit  
To violate the Mantuan Prophet's wit,  
And more debauch what loose Lucretius writ.  
When I behold the rovings of his Muse,  
How soon Assyrian Ointments she would lose  
For Diamond Buckles sparkling at their Shoes.  
When Virgil's height is lost, when Ovid soars,  
And in Heroics Canace deplores  
Her Follies louder than her Father roars,  
I'd let him take Almanzor for his Theme;  
In lofty Verses make Maximin blaspheme,  
Or sing in softer Airs St. Katharine's Dream.  
Nay, I could hear him damn last Ages Wit,  
And rail at Excellence he ne'er can hit;  
His Envy should at powerful Cowley rage,  
And banish Sense with Johnson from the Stage:  
His Sacrilege should plunder Shakespear's Urn,  
With a dull Prologue make the Ghost return  
To bear a second Death, and greater pain,  
While the Fiend's words the Oracle profane;  
But when not satisfied with Spoils at home,  
The Pirate would to foreign Borders roam;  
May he still split on some unlucky Coast,  
And have his Works or Dictionary lost;  
That he may know what Roman Authors mean,  
No more than does our blind Translatress Behn.  
The Female Wit; who next convicted stands,  
Nor for abusing Ovid's Verse but Sand's:  
She might have learned from the ill borrowed Grace,  
(Which little helps the ruin of her Face)  
T●at Wit, like Beauty, triumphs o'er the Heart,  
When more of Nature's seen and less of Art:  
Nor strive in Ovid's Letters to have shown,  
As much of Skill, as Lewdness in her own:  
Then let her from the next inconstant Lover,  
Take a new Copy for a second Rover:  
Describe the cunning of a jilting Whore,  
From the ill Arts herself has used before;  
Thus let her write, but Paraphrase no more.  
R—mer to Crambo privilege does claim,  
Not from the Poet's Genius, but his Name;  
Which Providence in contradiction meant,  
Though he Predestination coul'd prevent,  
And with bold dulness translate Heaven's intent.  
Rash Man! we paid thee Adoration due,  
That ancient Critics were excelled by you:  
Each little Wit to your Tribunal came  
To hear their doom, and to secure their Fame:  
But for respect you servilely sought praise,  
Slighted the Umpire's Palm to court the Poet's Bays;  
While wise Reflections and a grave Discourse,  
Declined to Zounds a River for a Horse.  
So discontented Pemberton withdrew,  
From sleeping Judges to the noisy Crew;  
Changed awful Ermine for a servile Gown,  
And to an humble fawning smoothed his frown:  
The Simile will differ here indeed;  
You cannot versify, though he can plead.   

To painful Creech my last advice descends,  
That he and Learning would at length be Friends;  
That he'd command his dreadful forces home,  
Not be a second Hannibal to Rome.  
But since no Counsel his Resolves can bow;  
Nor may thy fate, O Rome, resist his Vow;  
Debarred from Pens as Lunatics from Swords,  
He should be kept from waging War with words.  
Words which at first like Atoms did advance,  
To the just measure of a tuneful Dance,  
And jumped to form, as did his worlds, by chance.  
This pleased the Genius of the vicious Town;  
The Wits confirmed his Labours with renown,  
And swear the early Atheist for their own.  
Had he stopped here— but ruined by success,  
With a new Spawn he filled the burdened Press,  
Till, as his Volumes swelled, his fame grew less.  
So Merchants flattered with increasing gain,  
Still tempt the falsehood of the doubtful Main;  
So the first running of the lucky Dice,  
Does eager Bully to new Bets entice;  
Till Fortune urges him to be undone,  
And Ames-Ace loses what kind Six won.  
Witness this truth Lucretia's wretched Fate,  
Which better have I heard my Nurse relate;  
The Matron suffers Violence again,  
Not Tarquin's Lust so vile as Creech's Pen;  
Witness those heaps his Midnight Studies raise,  
Hoping to Rival Ogilby in Praise:  
Both writ so much, so ill, a doubt might rise,  
Which with most Justice might deserve the Prize;  
Had not the first the Town with Cutts appeased,  
And where the Poem failed, the Picture pleased.  
Wits of a meaner Rank I would rehearse,  
But will not plague your Patience nor my Verse:  
In long Oblivion may they happy lie,  
And with their Writings may their Folly die.  
Now why should we poor Ovid yet pursue,  
And make his very Book an Exile too,  
In words more barbarous than the place he knew?  
If Virgil laboured not to be translated,  
Why suffers he the only thing he hated?  
Had he foreseen some ill officious Tongue,  
Would in unequal Strains blaspheme his Song;  
Nor Prayers, nor Force, nor Fame should e'er prevent  
The just Performance of his wise Intent:  
Smiling h'had seen his Martyred Work expire,  
Nor live to feel more cruel Foes than Fire.  
Some Fop in Preface may those Thefts excuse,  
That Virgil was the draught of Homer's Muse:  
That Horace's by Pindar's Lyre was strung,  
By the great Image of whose Voice he sung;  
They found the Mass, 'tis true, but in their Mould  
They purged the drossy Oar to current Gold:  
Mending their Pattern, they escaped the Curse;  
Yet had they not writ better, they'd writ worse.  
But when we bind the Lyric up to rhyme,  
And lose the Sense to make the Poem chime:  
When from their Flocks we force Sicilian Swains,  
To ravish Milkmaids in our English Plains;  
And wand'ring Authors, e'er they touch our shore,  
Must, like our Locust Hugonots, be poor;  
I'd bid th' importing Club their pains forbear,  
And traffic in our own, tho' homely Ware,  
Whilst from themselves the honest Vermin spin,  
I'd like the Texture, tho' the Web be thin;  
Nay, take Crown's Plays, because his own, for wit;  
And praise what D'urfey, not translating, writ.    

The Parliament-House to be Let, 1678.  

1.  
HEre's a House to be let,  
For C— s S— d swore,  
On Portsmouth's bare Arse,  
He would shut up the Door.   

2.  
Inquire at the Lodgings  
Next Door to the Pope,  
At Duke Lauderdale's Head,  
With a Cravat of Rope.   

3.  
And there you will hear  
How next he will let it,  
If you pay the old Price  
You may certainly get it.   

4.  
He holds it in Tail,  
From his Father, who fast  
Did keep it long shut,  
But paid for't at last.    

Advice to Apollo, 1678.  
I'VE heard the Muses were still soft and kind,  
To Malice Foes, to gentle Love inclined;  
And that Parnassus Hill was fresh and gay,  
Crowned still with Flowers, as in the fairest May;  
That Helicon with pleasures charmed the Soul,  
Could Anger tame and restless care control:  
That bright Apollo still delights in Mirth,  
Cheering (each welcome day) the drowsy Earth;  
Then whence comes satire, is it Poetry?  
O great Apollo, God of Harmony!  
Farneze be't from thee, this cruel Art t'inspire,  
Then strike these Wretches who thus dare aspire,  
To tax thy gentleness, making thee seem  
Malicious as their Thought, harsh as their Theme.  
First, strike Sir Carr, that Knight o'th' withered Face,  
Who (for th' reversion of a Poet's place)  
Waits on Melpomene, and soothes her Grace;  
That angry miss alone he strives to please,  
For fear the rest should teach him wit and ease,  
And make him quit his loved laborious walks,  
When sad or silent o'er the room he stalks,  
And strives to write as wisely as he talks.  
Next with a gentle Dart strike Dryden down,  
Who but begins to aim at the Renown  
Bestowed on Satirists, and quits the Stage,  
To lash the witty Follies of the Age.  
Strike him but gently that he may return,  
Writ Plays again, and his past Follies mourn.  
He had better make Almanzor give offence  
In fifty Lines without one word of Sense,  
Than thus offend and wittily deserve,  
What will ensue with his loved Muse to starve.  
D—set writeth satire too, but writes so well,  
O great Apollo! let him still rebel,  
Pardon a Muse which does so far excel:  
Pardon a Muse which does with Art support,  
Some drowsy Wit in our unthinking Court.  
But M—ve strike with many angry Dart,  
He who profanes thy Name offends thy Art,  
Ne'er saw thy Light, yet would usurp thy power,  
And govern Wit, and be its Emperor.  
In see with Dryden to be counted wise,  
Who tells the World he has both Wit and Eyes.  
Rochester's easy Muse does still improve,  
Each hour thy little wealthy World of Love,  
(That World in which each Muse is thought a Queen)  
That he must be forgiven in Charity then;  
Though his sharp Satyrs have offended thee;  
In charity to Love who will decay,  
When his delightful Muse (its only stay)  
Is by thy power severely ta'en away.  
Forbear (then) civil Wars, and strike not down  
Love, who alone supports thy tottering Crown.  
But saucy Sh—ard with the affected train,  
Who Satyrs write, yet scarce can spell their Name,  
Blast, great Apollo, with perpetual shame.   

The Duel of the Crabs:  By the Lord B—st. 
IN Milford-lane near to St. Clement's Steeple,  
There lived a Nymph kind to all Christian People.  
A Nymph she was, whose comely Mien and Stature,  
Whose height of Eloquence and every Feature,  
Struck through the heart of City and of Whitehall,  
And when they pleased to court her, did 'em right all▪  
Under her beauteous Bosom their did lie  
A Belly smooth as Ivory.  
Yet Nature to declare her various Art,  
Had placed a Tuft in one convenient part,  
No Park with smoothest Lawn or highest Wood,  
Could e'er compare with this admired abode.  
Here all the Youth of England did repair,  
To take their pleasure and unease their care.  
Here the distressed Lover that had born  
His haughty Mistress Anger or her Scorn  
Came for Relief; and in this pleasant Shade,  
Forgot the former, and this Nymph obeyed.  
And yet what corner of the World is found,  
Where pain or pleasure does not still surround?  
One would have thought that in this shady Grove,  
Nought could have dwelled but Quiet, Peace and Love.  
But Heaven directed otherwise; for here,  
I'th' midst of plenty bloody Wars appear:  
The Gods will frown where ever they do smile;  
The Crocodile infests the fertile Soil:  
Lions and Tigers on the Lybian Plains,  
Forbid all pleasures to the fearful Swains:  
Wild Beasts in Forests do the Hunter's fright,  
They fear their ruin 'midst of their delight.  
Thus in the shade of this dark silent Bower,  
Strength strives with strength, & power vies with power.  
Two mighty Monsters did this Wood infest,  
And struck such awe and terror in the rest,  
That no Sicilian Tyrant e'er could boast  
He e'er with greater rigour ruled the roast.  
Each had his Empire, which he kept in awe,  
Was by his will obeyed, allowed no Law:  
Nature so well divided had their states,  
Nought but Ambition could have changed their fates:  
For 'twixt their Empire, stood a briny Lake,  
Deep as the Poets do the Centre make;  
But dire Ambition does admit no bounds,  
There are no limits to aspiring Crowns.  
The Spaniard by his Europe Conquests bold,  
Sailed o'er the Ocean for the Indian's Gold:  
The Carthaginian Hero did not stay,  
Because he met vast Mountains in his way:  
He passed the Alps like Molehills; such a Mind  
As thinks on Conquest will be unconfined.  
Both with these haughty thoughts one course to tend,  
To try if this vast Lake had any end:  
Where finding Countries yet without a Name,  
They might by Conquests get eternal Fame.  
After long Marches both their Armies tired,  
At length they find the place so much desired:  
Where in a little time each does descry,  
The glymps of an approaching Enemy.  
They in this sight do equal pleasure prove,  
As we should do in well rewarded Love:  
Bloodthirsty Souls, whose only perfect Joy,  
Consists in what their fury can destroy.  
And now both Armies do prepare to fight,  
And each of th'other unto War incite;  
In vain, alas, for all their force and strength  
Was quite consumed by their Marches length;  
But the great Chiefs, impatient of delay,  
Resolve by single fight to try the day.  
Each does the other with Contempt defy,  
Resolved to conquer, or resolved to die;  
Both Armies are commanded to withdraw,  
In expectation who should give 'em Law;  
While the amazed Spectators full of care,  
Hope for a better or worse Tyrant fear:  
And now these Princes meet, now they engage  
With all their chiefest Strength and highest Rage:  
Now with their Instruments of Wrath they push,  
As Hills in Earthquakes on each other rush;  
Where their Militia lies is still in doubt,  
Whether like Elephants upon their Snout;  
Or if upon their Heads vast Horns they wore,  
Or if they fought with Tusks like the wild Boar.  
Some Greshamites perhaps, with help of Glass,  
And poring long upon't, may chance to guests;  
But no Tradition has informed our Age,  
What were their chiefest instruments of Rage.  
With small or no advantage they proceed,  
Both are much bruised, and their Wounds do bleed:  
Both keep their Anger, both do lose their force,  
Both get the better, neither get the worse;  
Justice herself might put into each Scale  
One of these Princes, and see neither fall:  
Spurred on by Fury, now they both provide,  
To let one grapple, this great cause decide;  
Joining, they strive, and such resistance make,  
Both fall together in the Briny Lake,  
Where from the trouble of a tottering Crown,  
Each mighty Monarch is laid gently down:  
Both Armies at this sight amazed stand,  
In doubt, who shall obey, who shall command:  
In this extremity they both agree,  
A Commonwealth their Government shall be.   

Instructions to his Mistress how to behave herself at Supper with her Husband, 1682.  
SInce to restrain our Joys, that ill, but rude  
Familiar thing, your Husband, will intrude;  
For a just judgement, may th' unwelcome Guest,  
At this Night's lucky Supper eat his last;  
O how shall I with Patience e'er stand by,  
While my Corinna gives another Joy;  
His wanton hands in her soft Bosom warms,  
And folds about her Neck his clasping Arms.  
O torturing Sight; but since it must be so,  
Be kind, and learn what 'tis I'd have you do.  
Come first be sure; for though the place may prove,  
Unfit for all we wish, you'll show me Love:  
When called to Table, you demurely go,  
Gently in passing, touch my hand or so:  
Mark all my Actions, well observe my Eye,  
My speaking Signs, and to each Sign reply.  
If I do aught of which you would complain,  
Upon your Elbow languishingly lean:  
But if you're pleased with what I do or say,  
Steal me a Smile, and snatch your Eyes away:  
When you reflect on our past secret Joys,  
Hold modestly your Fan before your Eyes;  
And when the nauseous Husband tedious grows,  
Your lifted Hands with scornful Anger close,  
As if you called for vengeance from above,  
Upon that dull impediment to Love:  
A thousand skilful ways we'll find to show  
Our mutual Love, which none but we shall know.  
I'll watch the parting Glass wherever you drink,  
And where your Lips have touched it, kiss the Brink:  
Like still the dish that in your reach does stand,  
Taking the Plate, I so may feel your hand.  
But what he recommends to you to eat,  
Coily refuse, as if you loathed the Meat;  
Nor let his Matrimonial Right appear,  
By any ill-timed Household freedom there:  
Let not his fulsome Arms embrace your Waste,  
Nor lolling Head upon your Bosom rest.  
One Kiss would strait make all my Passion known,  
And my fierce Eyes with rage would claim their own;  
Yet what thus passes will be done i'th' Light,  
But oh! the Joys that may be kept from Sight;  
Legs locked in Legs, Thighs pressing Thighs, and all  
The wanton Spells that up Love's Fury call:  
Those cunning Arts that I so oft have used,  
Makes me now fear to be myself abused;  
To clear my doubts, so far your Chair remove,  
As may prevent th' intelligence of Love  
Put him in mind of pledging every Health,  
And let the tutored Page add Wine by stealth;  
The Sot grown drunk, we easier may retire,  
And do as the occasion will require:  
But after all, (alas) how small the gains  
Will be, for which we take such mighty pains:  
Torn from my Arms, you must go home to bed,  
And leave your poor forsaken Lover dead:  
Cruel Divorce, enough to break my Heart,  
Without you promise this before we part;  
When my blessed Rival goes to reap his Joy,  
Receive him so as may the Bliss destroy:  
Let not the least kind mark of Love escape,  
But all be Duty and a lawful Rape;  
So deadly cold and void of all desire,  
That like a Charm it may put out the Fire;  
But if compelled you should at last comply,  
When we meet next be sure you all deny.   

The Session of the Poets,  
to the Tune of Cook Laurel  

1.  
APollo concerned to see the Transgressions  
Our paltry Poets do daily commit,  
Gave order once more to summon a Sessions,  
Severely to punish the abuses of Wit.   

2.  
Will D'Avenant would fain have been Steward o'th' Court  
To have fined and amered each Man at his will;  
But Apollo, it seems, had heard a report,  
That his choice of new Plays did show h'had no skill.   

3.  
Besides some Critics had owed him a spite,  
And a little before had made the God fret,  
By letting him know the Laureate did write,  
That damnable Farce, The House to be Lett.   

4.  
Intelligence was brought, the Court being set,  
That a Play Tripartite was very near made;  
Where malicious Matt Clifford and spiritual S— t  
Were joined with their Duke, a Peer of the Trade.   

5.  
Apollo rejoiced, and did hope for amends,  
Because he knew it was the first case,  
The Duke e'er did ask the advice of his Friends,  
And so wish his Play as well clapped as his Grace.   

6.  
O yes being made, and silence proclaimed,  
Apollo began to read the Court Roul,  
When as soon as he saw Frank Berkley was named,  
He scarce could forbear from tearing the Scroul.   

7.  
But Berkley, to make his interest the greater,  
Suspecting before what would come to pass,  
Procured him his Cousin Fitz harding's Letter,  
With which Apollo wiped his Arse.   

8.  
Guy with his Pastoral next went to Pot,  
At first in a doleful Study he stood,  
Then showed a Certificate which he had got  
From the Maids of Honour, but it did him no good.   

9  
Humorous Weeden came in in a pet,  
And for the Laurel began to splutter;  
But Apollo chid him, and bid him first get  
A Muse not so common as Mrs. Rutter.   

10.  
A number of other small Poets appeared,  
With whom for a time Apollo made sport;  
Clifford and Flecknoe were very well jeered,  
And in conclusion whipped out of the Court.   

11.  
Tom Killigrew boldly came up to the Bar,  
Thinking his jibing would get him the Bays,  
But Apollo was angry and bid him beware  
That he caught him no more a printing his Plays.   

12.  
With ill luck in Battle but worse in Wit,  
George Porter began for the Laurel to bawl,  
But Apollo did think such impudence fit  
To be thrust out of Court, as he's out of Whitehall.   

13.  
Savage missing Cowley came into the Court,  
Making Apologies for his bad Play,  
Every one gave him so bad a report,  
That Apollo gave heed to all he could say:   

14.  
Nor would he have had, 'tis thought, a rebuke,  
Unless he had done some notable Folly;  
Writ Verses unjustly in praise of Sam Tuke,  
Or printed his pitiful Melancholy.   

15.  
Cotton did next to the Bays pretend,  
But Apollo told him it was not fit,  
Though his Virgil was well, it made but amends  
For the worst Panegyric that ever was writ.   

16.  
Old Shirley stood up and made an excuse,  
Because many young Men before him were got;  
He vowed he had switched and spurgalled his Muse,  
But still the dull Jade kept to her old Trot.   

17.  
Sir R— t H— d called for over and over,  
At length sent in Teague with a Packet of News,  
Wherein the sad Knight, to his grief, did discover,  
How Dryden had lately robbed him of his Muse.   

18.  
Each man in the Court was pleased with the Theft,  
Which made the whole Family swear and rant,  
Desiring their Obin i'th' lurch being left,  
The Thief might be fined for the wild Gallant.   

19  
Dryden, whom one would have thought had more Wit,  
The censure of every man did disdain,  
Pleading some pitiful Rhimes he had writ,  
In praise of the Countess of Castlemaine.   

20.  
Ned Howard, in whom great Nature is found,  
Tho' never took notice of till that day,  
Impatiently sat till it came to his round,  
Then rose and commended the Plot of his Play.   

21.  
Such Arrogance made Apollo stark mad,  
But Shirley endeavoured to appease his Chollar,  
By owning the Play, and swearing the Lad  
In Poetry was a very pert Scholar.   

22.  
James Howard being called for out of the Throng,  
Booted and spurred to the Bar did advance,  
Where singing a damned nonsensical Song,  
The Youth and his Muse were sent into France.   

23.  
Newcastle and's Horse for entrance next strives,  
Well stuffed was his Cloak-bag and so was his Breeches.  
And unbutt'ning the place where Nature's Posset-maker lives,  
Pulled out his Wife's Poems, Plays, Essays & Speeches.   

24.  
Whoop, quoth Apollo, what a Devil have we here,  
Put up thy Wife's Trumpery good noble Marquis,  
And home again, home again take thy Career,  
To provide her fresh Staw, and a Chamber that dark is.   

25.  
Sam Tuke sat and formally smiled at the rest,  
But Apollo, who well did his Vanity know,  
Called him to the Bar to put him to th' Test,  
But his Muse was so stiff she scarely could go.   

26.  
She pleaded her Age desired a Reward▪  
It seems in her Age she doted on praise,  
But Apollo resolved that such a bold Bard  
Soued never be graced with a Per'wig of Bays.   

27.  
Stapleton stood up and had nothing to say,  
But Apollo forbid the old Knight to despair,  
Commanding him once more to write a new Play,  
To be danced by the Poppets at Barthol'mew Fair.   

28.  
Sir William Killigrew doubting his Plays,  
Before he was called crept up to the Bench,  
And whispered Apollo, in case he would praise  
Selyndra, he should have a Bout with the Wench.   

29  
B—st and Sydley, with two or three more  
Translators of Pompey dispute in their claim,  
But Apollo made them be turned out of door,  
And bid them be gone like Fools as they came.   

30.  
Old Waller heard this, and was sneaking away,  
But somebody spied him out of the Crowd;  
Apollo though he had not seen him many a day,  
Knew him full well, and called to him aloud;   

31.  
My old Friend Mr. Waller, what make you there,  
Among those young Fellows that spoil the French Plays;  
Then beckoning to him, whispered in his Ear,  
And gave him good counsel instead of the Bays.   

32.  
Then in came Denham, that limping old Bard,  
Whose fame on the Sophy and Cooper's Hill stands;  
And brought many Stationers who swore very hard,  
That nothing sold better, except 'twere his Lands.   

33.  
But Apollo advised him to write something more,  
To clear a suspicion which possessed the Court,  
That Cooper's Hill, so much bragged on before,  
Was writ by a Vicar, who had forty pound for't.   

34.  
Then Hudibras boldly demanded the Bays,  
But Apollo bade him not be so fierce;  
And advised him to lay aside making his Plays,  
Since he already began to write worse and worse.   

35.  
Tom Porter came into the Court in a huff,  
Swearing damn him he had writ the best Plays;  
But Apollo, it seems, knew his way well enough,  
And would not be hectored out of his Bays.   

36.  
Ellis in great discontent went away,  
Whilst D'Avenant against Apollo did rage;  
Because he declared the Secrets a Play,  
Fitting for none but a Mountebank Stage.   

37.  
John Wilson stood up and wildly did stare,  
When on the sudden stepped in a bold Scot;  
And offered Apollo he freely would swear,  
The said Master Wilson might pass for a Sot.   

38.  
But all was in vain, for Apollo, 'tis said,  
Would in no wise allow of any Scotch wit;  
Then Wilson in spite made his Plays to be read,  
Swearing he'd answer for all he had writ.   

39  
Clarges stood up, and laid claim to the Bays,  
But Apollo rebuked that arrogant Fool;  
Swearing if e'er he translated more Plays,  
He'd Crown him Sir-Reverence with a Close-stool.   

40.  
Damned Holden with's dull German Princess appeared,  
Whom if Davenant he got as some do suppose,  
Apollo said the Pillory should crop off his Ears,  
And make them more suitable unto his Nose.   

41.  
Rhodes stood and played at bopeep in the door,  
But Apollo instead of a Spanish Plot;  
On condition the Varlet would never write more,  
Gave him three pence to pay for a Pipe and a Pot.   

42.  
Ethridge and Shadwell and the Rabble appealed  
To Apollo himself in a very great rage;  
Because their best Friends so freely had dealed,  
As to tell them their Plays were not fit for the Stage.   

43.  
Then seeing a Crowd in a Tumult resort,  
Well furnished with Verses, but loaded with Plays;  
It forced poor Apollo to adjourn the new Court,  
And left them together by th' Ears for the Bays.    

DESIRE. A Pindaric.  

WHat art thou, O thou new fond pain?  
From what Infection dost thou spring?  
Tell me, O tell me, thou enchanting thing,  
Thy Nature and thy Name.  
Inform me by what subtle art,  
What powerful influence,  
You got such vast Dominion in a part,  
Of my unheeded and unguarded Heart,  
That Fame and Honour cannot drive you thence?  
Oh mischievous Usurper of my Peace!  
Oh soft Intruder on my Solitude!  
Charming disturber of my Ease,  
That hast my nobler Fate pursued;  
And all the Glories of my Life subdued.   

Thou hauntest my inconvenient Hours,  
The business of the day, nor silence of the night,  
That should to cares and sleep invite,  
Can bid defiance to thy conquering pow'ers.  
Where hast thou been this livelong Age,  
That from my Birth till now,  
Thou never didst one thought engage,  
Or charm my Soul with the uneasy Rage,  
That made it all its humbler Feebles know?  
Where were't thou, O malicious Spirit,  
When shining glory did invite?  
When interest called, than thou were't shy,  
Nor one kind aid to my assistance brought;  
Nor wouldst inspire one tender thought,  
When Princes at my feet did lie  
When thou couldst mix Ambition with my Joy,  
Then, peevish Phantom, thou were't nice and coy.  
Not beauty would invade thee then,  
Nor all the arts of lavish Men;  
Not all the powerful empiric of the Tongue,  
Nor sacred Wit could charm thee on;  
Not the soft play that Lovers make,  
Nor Sighs could fan thee to a Fire;  
No pleading Tears or Vows could thee awake,  
Nor charm the unformed— Something— to Desire.   

Oft I've conjured thee to appear,  
By Youth, by Love, by all their powers,  
Have searched and sought thee everywhere,  
In silent Groves, in lonely Bowers,  
On flowery Beds, where Lovers wishing lie,  
In sheltering Woods, where sighing Maids  
To their assinging Shepherds high,  
And hide their Blushes in the gloom of Shades.  
Yet there, even there, though Youth assailed,  
Where Beauty prostrate lay, and Fortune wooed,  
My Heart (insensible) to neither bowed;  
Thy lucky Aid was wanting to prevail.  
In Courts I sought thee then, thy proper Sphere,  
But thou in Crowds were't stifled there;  
Interest did all the loving business do,  
Invites the Youths, and wins the Virgins too;  
Or if by chance some Heart thy Empire own,  
Ah, power ingrate! the Slave must be undone.  
Tell me thou nimble Fire, that dost dilate  
Thy mighty force through every part  
What God or human Power did thee create,  
In my (till now) unfacile Heart?  
Art thou some welcome Plague sent from above,  
In this dear Form, this kind Disguise?  
Or the false Offspring of mistaken Love,  
Begot by some soft thought that feebly strove  
With the bright piercing Beauties of Lysander's Eyes.  
Yes, yes, Tormenter, I have found thee now,  
And found to whom thou dost thy Being owe;  
'Tis thou the blushes dost impart,  
'Tis thou that tremblest in my Heart.  
When the dear Shepherd does appear,  
I faint and die with pleasing pain;  
My words intruding, sigh break,  
Whenever I touch the charming Swain;  
Whenever I gaze, whenever I speak,  
Thy conscious fire is mingled with my Love.  
As in the sanctify'd Abodes  
Misguided Worshippers approve  
The mixing Idols with their Gods.  
In vain (alas) in vain I strive,  
With Errors which my Soul do please and vex;  
For Superstition will survive,  
Purer Religion to perplex.   

Oh tell me, you Philosophers in Love,  
That can these burning fev'rish Fits control,  
By what strange Arts you cure the Soul,  
And the fiery Calenture remove?   

Tell me, ye Fair ones, you that give Desire,  
How 'tis you hide the kindling Fire?  
Oh would you but confess the truth,  
It is not real Virtue makes you nice:  
But when you do resist the pressing Youth,  
'Tis want of dear Desire to thaw the Virgin-Ice.  
And while your young Adorers lie,  
All languishing and hopeless at your Feet;  
Raising new Trophies to your Chastity,  
Oh, tell me how you do remain discreet?  
And not the Passion to the throng make known,  
Which Cupid in revenge has now confined to one.  
How you suppress the rising Sighs,  
And the soft yielding Soul that wishes in your Eyes,  
While to the admiring Crowd you nice are found,  
Some dear, some secret Youth, who gives the wound,  
Informs you all your virtue's but a Cheat,  
And Honour but a false disguise,  
Your Modesty a necessary slight.  
To gain the dull repute of being wise?  
Deceive the foolish world, deceive it on,  
And veil your Passion and your Pride;  
But now I've found your weakness by my own,  
From me the needful fraud you cannon hide;  
For, though with Virtue I the world perplex,  
Lysander finds the feeble of my Sex:  
So Helen, tho' from Theseus' Arms she fled,  
To charming Paris yields her Heart and Bed.    

On the Prince's going to England, with an Army to restore the Government, 1688.  
Hunc saltem everso Juvenem succurrere Saeclo  
Ne prohibit—  Virg. Georg. Lib. 1. 
ONce more a FATHER and a SON falls out;  
The World involving in their high dispute;  
Remotest India's Fate on theirs depends,  
And Europe, trembling, the Event attends.  
Their motions ruling every other State,  
As on the Sun the lesser Planets wait.  
Power warms the Father, Liberty the Son,  
A Prize well worth th' uncommon venture run.  
Him a false pride to govern unrestrained,  
And by mad means, bad ends to be attained;  
All bars of property drives headlong through,  
Millions oppressing to enrich a few.  
Him Justice urges and a noble Aim  
To equal his Progenitors in Fame,  
And make his life as glorious as his Name.  
For Law and Reason's power he does engage,  
Against the reign of appetite and rage.  
There all the licence of unbounded might:  
Here conscious Honour and deep sense of Right,  
Immortal enmity to arms incite.  
Greatness the one, Glory the other fires,  
This only can deserve what that desires.  
This strives for all that e'er to Men was dear,  
And he for what the most abhor and fear.  
Caesar and Pompey's cause by Cato thought  
So ill adjudged, to a new Tryal's brought,  
Again at last Pharsalia must be fought.  
Ye fatal Sisters! now to Right be Friends,  
And make Mankind for Pompey's Fate amends.  
In Orange's great Line, 'tis no new thing,  
To free a Nation, and uncrown a King.   

On his Royal Highness' Voyage beyond Sea. March 30. 1678.  

R. H. they say is gone to Sea,  
Designed for the Hague;  
But Portsmouths left behind to be  
The Nations Whorish Plague.   

Some think he went unwillingly,  
Say others he was sent there;  
But most conclude for certainty,  
He's gone to keep his Lent there.   

What need I to apologise?  
'Tis said, nothing more true is,  
The chiefest part of's Errand lies,  
To fetch in Cousin Lewis.   

That both together, as they say,  
If one may dare to speak on't;  
Through Heretics Throats may cut their way,  
To bring in James the Second.   

By Yea and Nay the Quaker cries,  
How can we hope for better?  
Truth's not in him that this denies;  
Read Edward Coleman's Letter.   

Gar, gar, the Jockey swears faugh things,  
Man here is much work;  
Devil split his Wem, he's ne'er be King,  
Whose Name does rhyme to Pork.   

cote's splutter a Nails, the Welshman cries,  
Got shield her frow her Foes;  
He near shall be a Prince of Wales,  
That wears a Roman Nose.    

The RABBLE. 1680.  

THE Rabble hates, the Gentry fear,  
And wise Men want support:  
A rising Country threatens, There,  
And Here a starving Court.   

Not for the Nation, but the Fair,  
Our Treasury provides:  
Buckly's, Go— n only care,  
As Middleton is Hyde's.   

Rowly too late will understand,  
What now he shuns to find;  
That nothing's quiet in the Land,  
Except his careless Mind.   

England is now 'twixt Thee and York,  
The Fable of the Frog:  
He is the fierce devouring Stork,  
And Thou the lumpish Log.    

A New Song of the Times, 1683.  

1.  
'twere folly for ever,  
The Whigs to endeavour  
Disowning their Plots, when all the world knows 'em;  
Did they not fix  
On a Council of Six,  
Appointed to govern though no body chose 'um?  
They that bore sway,  
Knew not one would obey,  
Did Trincalo make such a ridiculous pother:  
Monmouths the Head,  
To strike Monarchy dead,  
They chose themselves Vice-Roys all o'er one another.   

2.  
Was't not a damned thing  
For Russel and Hambden,  
To serve all the Projects of hotheaded Tony?  
But much more untoward,  
To appoint my Lord Howard  
Of his own Purse and Credit to raise Men and Money?  
That at Knightsbridge did hide  
Those brisk Boys unspyed,  
Who at Shaftsbury's Whistle were ready to follow;  
And when Aid he should bring,  
Like a true Brandford King,  
Was here with a whoop, and gone with a hollow.   

3.  
Algernoon Sidney,  
Of Commonwealth Kidney,  
Composed a damned Libel (ay marry was it)  
Writ to occasion  
Ill Blood in the Nation,  
And therefore dispersed it all over his Closet.  
It was not the Writing  
Was proved, or indicting;  
Tho' he urged Statutes, what was it but fooling,  
Since a new trust is  
Placed in the Chief Justice,  
To damn Law and Reason too by overruling.   

4.  
What if a Traitor,  
In spite of the State, Sir,  
Should cut his own Throat from one Ear to the other?  
Shall then a new freak  
Make Braddon and Speak  
To be more concerned than his Wife or his Brother?  
A Razor all bloody,  
Thrown out of a Study,  
Is Evidence strong of his desperate Gild, Sir;  
So Godfrey, when dead,  
Full of horror and dread,  
Run his Sword through his Body, up to the Hilt, Sir.   

5.  
Who can think the case hard  
Of Sir Patience Ward,  
That loved his just Rights more than those of his Highness?  
Oh disloyal Ears,  
As on Record appears,  
Not to hear when to do the Papists a kindness.  
An old doting Citt,  
With his Elizabeth Wit,  
Against the French mode for Freedom to hope on;  
His Ears that told Lies,  
Were less dull than his Eyes,  
For both them were shut when all others were open.   

6.  
All Europe together  
Can't show such a Father,  
So tenderly nice of his Son's Reputation,  
As our good King is,  
To labour to bring his  
By tricks to subscribe to a shame Declaration.  
'Twas very good reason  
To pardon his Treason,  
To obey (not his own, but) his Brother's Command, Sir;  
To merit whose Grace,  
He must in the first place  
Confess he's dishonest under his hand, Sir.   

7.  
Since fate the Court blesses,  
With daily Successes,  
And giving up Charters go round for a frolic,  
Whilst our Duke Nero,  
The Churches blind Hero  
By Murder is planting his Faith Apostolic.  
Our modern Sages,  
More wise than past Ages,  
Think ours to establish by Popish Successors;  
Queen Bess never thought it,  
And Cecil forgot it,  
But 'tis lately found out by our prudent Addressors.    

The Battle-Royal: A Dream, 1687.  
AS restless on my Bed one Night I lay,  
Hoping with Sleep to ease the toils of Day,  
I thought, as graver Coxcombs used to do,  
On all the mischiefs we had late run through,  
And those which are now likely to ensue:  
What 'tis that thus the frantic Nation dreads?  
And from what cause their jealousy proceeds?  
Whither at last to what event and end,  
These sad Presages probably might tend?  
For as Physicians always choose to know  
Th'original cause from whence Distempers flow;  
And by their early Symptoms boldly guests,  
Whether or no their art shall have success:  
So I, like a young bold State Emp'rick too,  
Did the same methods, and same course pursue;  
Till with variety of thoughts oppressed,  
I turned about to sleep and take my rest:  
While fancy like a Quean alone bore sway,  
And did this Vision in a Dream convey.  
Unknown, and unperceived, I was me-thought,  
Into a close retiring Chamber brought,  
And by my Guide behind the Hangings placed,  
Where I could hear and see whatever passed:  
When in a corner of the room there sat  
Three fierce contenders in a hot debate;  
And on a Table lay before them there  
The Directory, Mass, and Common-Pray'r.  
This in a Cloak, That had a shaved Crown,  
The other in a Surcingle and Gown;  
Who by his Garb, Demeanour, and grave Look,  
I for a Church of England Preacher took;  
For howsoever they're dressed they may be known  
By a peculiar Carriage of their own.  
At first I heard a strange confused Sound,  
Nor could the meaning, nor the sense expound:  
Till he I mentioned last in rage up rose,  
And partly through the Mouth, and through the Nose,  
Did thus his whining Sentiments disclose.  
And is this all the great reward we must  
Enjoy for being faithful to our trust?  
Will all the Services we've done the King,  
No better recompense and profit bring?  
And can our boasted Loyalty return  
No other payment but Contempt and Scorn?  
Must we thus basely from our hopes fall down,  
And grow the public scandal of the Town?  
As our insulting Pride and Government  
Has been the public Grievance and Complaint;  
Our prebend's, and our Bishops too, turned out,  
Deprived, and scorned, in Querpo walk about;  
And must a transubstantiating Priest,  
Be with their goodly Lands and Lordships blest?  
Did we for this the Popish Plot deride,  
And all our Sense, and Nonsense too applied  
To blind the people's Reason and their Eyes,  
To take it for a Shame and mere Device:  
Our best and learned'st of Divines employ  
To foil the Scent, and to divert the Cry;  
Set bawling P—ing up to talk it down,  
And fill with canting Raillery the Town?  
Did we for this young Levites send about,  
To charm the Rabble and possess the Rout,  
With feigned Chimaeras of a strange design,  
Against the Church, and State, and Royal Line?  
And vilely Russel and the rest removed,  
When neither Crime or Plot was ever proved?  
Nay did we all for this the Church disown,  
And coin a New Religion of our own,  
Of a more spruce and fashionable make,  
Than was the Old; and boldly undertake  
By Scripture for to prove the Common Prayer,  
When we well knew there's no such matter there:  
Yet like the Calves at Bethel set it up,  
And made them all before the Idol stoop;  
And whosoe'ere the business would dispute,  
We did by Fines and Pillory confute.  
O precious Book! the dearest thing that's ours,  
Except our Livings and our Sine-cures;  
For which, might they but still with us abide,  
We'd part with thee, or any thing beside:  
As heretofore without reluctance we,  
Have trucked our forfeit Consciences for thee:  
But those are going too— no more he could,  
Prevented by an overflowing Flood  
Of Tears, which his lawn Band and Gown besmeared,  
As th' Ointment drenched his Predecessor's Beard.  
The subtle Priest who had resolved to stay,  
Till he had spoken all he had to say;  
Seeing the wretch with too much Grief overlayed,  
Stood up, and thus the following Answer made.  
'Tis true, you've done all this and ten times more,  
As bad or worse than we have done before;  
And if ye think ye have obliged the King,  
Who were but under-Actors in the thing;  
Then what do we deserve, whose wit and brain  
Contrived the Plot and every private Scene?  
For though a Conquest always is obtained,  
And by each Soldiers single valour gained;  
Yet those who did command and lead them on,  
Share all the open Honour and Renown.  
Ye were our Instruments, and Drudges too;  
As Rumney, Keeling, Howard, were to you;  
Who when they brought about your own design,  
You left them to themselves to starve and pine:  
So we the grand projectors of the Plot,  
Who did to you your several parts allot,  
Having no farther Service to employ,  
Think fit, as useless Tools, to lay you by.  
Besides, what title or pretence have you,  
To any thing ye hold as right and due,  
Since they were settled first on us alone,  
And could no other Lords and Masters own;  
Till ye by Rapine, Sacrilege and Force,  
Discas'd us of our Rights and made them yours?  
Nor can a Case more Legal ere appear,  
At Court of Conscience, or at Chanc'ry Barr,  
Than what ye did by violence obtain,  
Should to their ancient Lords return again.  
But that which you so much insist upon,  
Your boasted Loyalty and Service done,  
From whence ye most erroneously inferred,  
The Justice of your Claim to a Reward,  
Is a mere trifle and a weak defence,  
With no validity of Consequence;  
For there's no reason he should be repaid,  
Who undesignedly a Kindness did;  
When all the while his thoughts were fixed upon  
His own advancement and increase alone;  
And all the profit that to me he brings,  
Is by the buy and natural course of things.  
'Twas rancour, envy, mere revenge and spite,  
That made ye thus against fanatics fight;  
And the dear dread of losing all ye had,  
That first engaged your malice on our side,  
To plead the Royal Cause, and to promote  
The King's Concern, and for Succession vote;  
When could ye any other way have kept  
The Saddle, and in ease and safety slept,  
The King might have been banished, hanged or drowned,  
ere Succour or Relief from you have found.  
But matters and affairs as yet are not  
To such a difficult Conjuncture brought,  
But that an handsome fetch may bring ye off  
With Honour and Security enough:  
One gentle turn will all the business do,  
Advance your Livings and secure them too;  
Safe ye shall lie from all Fanatic harms,  
Encircled in your Mother-Churches Arms,  
From which ye've strayed so long, and now to whom  
Ye ought in duty and respect to come.  
The mournful Levite strait pricked up his Ears,  
As glad that things were better than his fears,  
And joyful heard what means the Priest had found,  
That might for his dear Benefice compound,  
Composed his Band, and wiped his blubbered Cheeks,  
Stood up again, and thus demurely speaks.  
The Proverb to my case I may apply,  
Winners may justly laugh, and losers cry:  
For when I thought my Livelihood was gone,  
It was no wonder that I so took on;  
As 'tis none now, Smiles should my gladness show,  
For these good tidings I receive from you;  
Therefore, dear Sir, let us our Hearts combine,  
And both in league against Dissenters join.  
Myself I under your tuition place,  
For Management and Method in the case,  
How to proceed— The Cloak, who all this while,  
Had unprovok'd and unconcerned sat still,  
And wisely what they'd both be at he guest,  
Stood up to speak and to complete the Jest:  
But glowing Anger had so now prevailed,  
That in the first attempt he stopped and failed;  
And when he found his Tongue to be confined,  
He made his active Hands declare his Mind.  
The one engaged the Levite on the place,  
And with the Directory smote his Face.  
Confounded with the Struck he staggered round,  
And falling in his wrath tore up the Ground.  
Tother he laid directly o'er the Chest,  
Sent Echoes from the hollow Breast of Priest,  
Who stumbling as he went to take his flight,  
Fell prostrate o'er his new made Proselyte.  
On both their bodies mounts the nimble Cloak,  
And this his Epicinium manly spoke:  
Dejected Wretches, there together lie,  
Unpitied, unbewailed by every Eye;  
May after-Ages your cursed Names deride,  
As we your damned Hypocrisies and Pride;  
No mark remain to know what ye have been,  
But the remembrance of your Curse and Sin;  
Which shall down time's continual Tide descend,  
To propagate your fatal shame and end.  
So may they fall, and all they that design,  
Whoever in league against the truth combine,  
By an unarmed defenceless hand like mine.  
Pleased with the Conquest of victorious Cloak,  
I laughed aloud methought, and so awoke.   

An Epitaph upon Felton, who was hanged in Chains for Murdering the Old Duke of Buckingham:  Written by the late Duke of Buckingham. 
HEre uninterred suspends, though not to save  
Surviving Friends th' Expenses of a Grave,  
Felton's dead Earth; which to the World will be  
Its own sad Monument, his Elegy:  
As large as Fame, which whether Bad or Good  
I say not; by himself 'twas wrote in Blood;  
For which his Body is entombed in Air,  
Arched over with Heaven, set with a thousand fair,  
And glorious Stars; a noble Sepulchre,  
Which time itself can't ruinate; and where  
Th' impartial Worm (that is not bribed to spare  
Princes corrupt in Marble) cannot share  
His Flesh; which oft the charitable Skies  
Imbalm with Tears; daining those Obsequies  
Belong to Men shall last, till pitying Fowl  
Contend to reach his Body to his Soul.   

An Answer to Mr. Waller's Poem on Oliver's Death, called the Storm:  Written by Sir W— G— n. 
'TIS well he's gone (O had he never been)  
Hurried in Storms loud as his crying Sin;  
The Pines and Oaks fell prostrate at his Urn;  
That with his Soul his Body too might burn:  
Winds pluck up Roots, and fixed Cedars move,  
Roaring for Vengeance to the Heavens above.  
From Theft, like his, Great Romulus did grow,  
And such a Wind did at his Ruin blow,  
Strange that the lofty Trees themselves should fallen  
Without the Axe; so Orpheus went to Hell:  
At whose descent the stoutest Rocks were cleft,  
And the whole Wood its wont station left.  
In Battle Hercules wore the Lion's Skin;  
But our fierce Nero wore the Beast within:  
Whose Heart was brutish more than Face or Eyes,  
And in the shape of Man was in Disguise:  
wherever Men, wherever Pillage lies,  
Like ravenous Vultures our winged Navy flies:  
Under the Tropic we are understood,  
And bring home Rapine through a purple Flood:  
New Circulations found our Blood is hurled,  
As round the lesser to the greater World.  
In civil Broils he did us first engage,  
And made Three Kingdoms subject to his Rage.  
One fatal Stroke slew Justice and the Cause  
Of Truth, Religion, and our Sacred Laws.  
So fell Achilles by the Trojan Band,  
Though he still fought with Heaven its self in's hand:  
Nor would Domestic Spoil confine his Mind,  
No Limits to his Fury but Mankind.  
The British Youths in Foreign Courts are sent,  
Towns to destroy, but more to Banishment;  
Who since they cannot in this Isle abide,  
Are confined Prisoners to the World beside.  
No wonder then if we no Tears allow  
To him that gave us Wars and Ruin too:  
Tyrants that loved him, grieved, concerned to see,  
There must be Punishment for Cruelty.  
Nature herself rejoiced at his Death,  
And on the Waters sung with such a Breath,  
As made the Sea dance higher than before,  
While here glad Waves came dancing to the Shore.   

Clarindon's House-Warming: Printed formerly with the Directions to a Painter. Writ by an unknown hand.  

WHen Clarindon had discerned before hand  
(As the Cause can easily foretell the Effect)  
At once three Deluges threatening our Land;  
'Twas the season he thought to turn Architect.   

Us Mars, and Apollo, and Vulcan consume;  
While he the Betrayer of England and Flander,  
Like the Kings-fisher chooseth to build in the Broom,  
And nestles in flames like the Salamander.   

But observing that Mortals run often behind,  
(So unreasonable are the rates they buy-at)  
His Omnipotence therefore much rather designed  
How he might create a house with a Fiat.   

He had read of Rhodope, a Lady of Thrace,  
Who was digged up so often e'er she did marry;  
And wished that his Daughter had had as much grace  
To erect him a Pyramid out of her Quarry.   

But then recollecting how the Harper Amphyon  
Made Thebes dance aloft while he fiddled and sung,  
He thought (as an Instrument he was most free on)  
To build with the Jews-Trump of his own Tongue.   

Yet a Precedent fitter in Virgil he found,  
Of African Poultney, and Tyrian Died,  
That he begged for a Palace so much of his ground,  
As might carry the measure and name of an Hide.   

Thus daily his Gouty Inventions he pained,  
And all for to save the expenses of Brickbat,  
That Engine so fatal, which Denham had brained,  
And too much resembled his Wife's Chocolat.   

But while these devices he all doth compare,  
None solid enough seemed for his strong Castor;  
He himself would not dwell in a Castle of Air,  
Though he had built full many a one for his Master.   

Already he had got all our Money and Cattle,  
To buy us for Slaves, and purchase our Lands,  
What Joseph by Famine, he wrought by Sea Battle,  
Nay scarce the Priest's Portion could scape from his hands.   

And hence like Pharaoh that Israel pressed  
To make Mortar and Brick, yet allowed them no straw,  
He cared not though Egypt's ten Plagues us distressed,  
So he could to build but make Policy Law.   

The Scotch Forts and Dunkirk, but that they were sold,  
He would have demolished to raise up his Walls;  
Nay even from Tangier have sent back for the mould,  
But that he had nearer the Stones of St. Paul's.   

His Wood would come in at the easier rate,  
So long as the Yards had a Deal or a Spar:  
His Friend in the Navy would not be ingrate,  
To grudge him some Timber who framed him the War.   

To proceed in the Model he called in his Allons,  
The two Allons when jovial, who ply him with gallons.  
The two Allons who serve his blind Justice for balance,  
The two Allons who serve his Injustice for Talons.   

They approve it thus far, and said it was fine;  
Yet his Lordship to finish it would be unable;  
Unless all abroad he divulged the design,  
For his house then would grow like a Vegetable.   

His Rent would no more in arrear run to Worster;  
He should dwell more noble, and cheap too at home,  
While into a Fabric the Presents would muster;  
As by hook and by crook the World clustered of Atom.   

He liked the advice, and then soon it assayed,  
And Presents crowd headlong, to give good example:  
So the Bribes overlaid her that Rome once betrayed;  
The Tribes ne'er contributed so to the Temple.   

Strait Judges, Priest, Bishops, true Sons of the Seal,  
Sinners, Governors, Farmers, Bankers, Patentees,  
Bring in the whole Mite of a year at a meal,  
As the Chedder Clubs Dairy to the incorporate Cheese.   

Bulteales, Beak'ns, Morley, Wrens fingers with telling  
Were shriveled, and Clutterbuck, Eagers' and Kips;  
Since the Act of Oblivion was never such selling,  
As at this Benevolence out of the Snips.   

'Twas then that the Chimney-Contractors he smoked,  
Nor would take his beloved Canary in kind:  
But he swore that the Patent should ne'er be revoked,  
No, would the whole Parliament kiss him behind.   

Like Jove under Aetna o'erwhelming the Giant,  
For foundation the Bristol sunk in the Earth's bowel;  
And St. John must now for the Leads be compliant,  
Or his right hand shall also be cut off with a Trowel.   

For surveying the building, Prat did the seat;  
But for the expense he relied upon Worstenholm,  
Who sat heretofore at the King's Receipt;  
But received now and paid the Chancellor's custom.   

By Subsidies thus both Clerick and Laic,  
And with matter profane, cemented with holy:  
He finished at last his Palace Mosaic,  
By a Model more excellent than Lesly's Folly.   

And upon the Tarrus to consummate all,  
A Lantern, like Fauxes surveys the burnt Town,  
And shows on the top by the Regal guilt Ball,  
Where you are to expect the Sceptre and Crown.   

Fond City, its Rubbish and Ruins that builds,  
Like vain Chemists, a flower from its ashes returning,  
Your Metropolis House is in St. James' Fields,  
And till there you remove, you shall never leave burning.   

This Temple, of War and of Peace is the Shrine;  
Where this Idol of State sits adored and accursed,  
And to handsel his Altar and Nostrils Divine,  
Great Buckingham's Sacrifice must be the first.   

Now some (as all Builders must censure abide)  
Throw dust in its Front, and blame situation:  
And others as much reprehend his Backside,  
As too narrow by far for his expatiation.   

But do not consider how in process of times,  
That for Name sake he may with Hyde-Park it enlarge,  
And with that convenience he soon for his Crimes,  
At Tyburn may land, and spare the Tower-Barge.   

Or rather how wisely his Stall was built near,  
Lest with driving too far his Tallow impair:  
When like the good Ox, for public good cheer,  
He comes to be roasted next St. James' Fair.    

Upon his House.  
HEre lies the sacred Bones,  
Of Paul beguiled of his Stones:  
Here lie Golden Briberies,  
The price of ruin'd Families:  
The Cavaliers Debenter Wall,  
Fixed on an Eccentrick Basis;  
Here's Dunkirk-Town and Tangier-Hall,  
The Queen's Marriage and all;  
The Dutch-man's Templum Pacis.   

Royal Resolutions:  By A. marvel, Esq. 

1.  
WHen Plate was at Pawn, and Fob at an Ebb,  
And Spider might wove in Bowels its Web,  
And Stomach as empty as Brain:   

2.  
Then C— without Acre,  
Did swear by his Maker,  
If e'er I see England again,   

3.  
I'll have a Religion all of my own,  
Whether Popish or Protestant it shall not be known;  
And if it prove troublesome I will have none.   

4.  
I'll have a long Parliament always to Friend,  
And furnish my Treasure as fast as I spend,  
And if they will not, they shall have an end.   

5.  
I'll have a Council shall sit always still,  
And give me a licence to do what I will;  
And two Secretaries shall piss through a Quill.   

6.  
My insolent Brother shall bear all the Sway,  
If Parliaments murmur, I'll send him away,  
And call him again as soon as I may.   

7.  
I'll have a rare Son in marrying tho' marred,  
Shall govern (if not my Kingdom) my Guard,  
And shall be Successor to me or Gerrard.   

8.  
I'll have a new London instead of the old,  
With wide Streets and uniform to my own Mould,  
But if they build too fast, I'll bid 'em hold.   

9  
The ancient Nobility I will lay by,  
And new ones create their Rooms to supply,  
And they shall raise Fortunes for my own Fry.   

10.  
Some one I'll advance from a common Descent  
So high, that he shall hector the Parliament,  
And all wholesome Laws for the Public prevent.   

11.  
And I will assert him to such a Degree,  
That all his foul Treasons tho' daring and high,  
Under my Hand and Seal shall have Indemnity.   

12.  
And what-e'er it cost me, I'll have a French Whore,  
As bold as Alice Pierce, and as fair as Jane Shore.  
And when I'm weary of her, I will have more,   

13.  
Which if any bold Commoner dare to oppose,  
I'll order my Bravoes to cut off his Nose,  
Tho' fort I a branch of Prerogative lose.   

14.  
My Pimp shall be my Minister Premier,  
My Bawds shall Ambassadors far and near,  
And my Wench shall dispose of Congee d'lire.   

15.  
I'll wholly abandon all public Affairs,  
And pass all my time with Buffoons and Players,  
And santer to Nelly when I should be at Prayers,   

16.  
I'll have a fine Pond with a pretty Decoy,  
Where many strange Fowl shall feed and enjoy,  
And still in their Language, quake Vive le Roy.    

On the Lord Chancellor H— is Disgrace and Banishment,  by King Charles II. 
PRide, Lust, Ambition, and the People's Hate,  
The Kingdom's Broker, ruin of the State;  
Dunkirk's sad Loss, Divider of the Fleet,  
Tangier's Compounder for a barren Sheet:  
This Shrub of Gentry, married to the Crown,  
His Daughter to the Heir, is tumbled down;  
The grand Impostor of the Nobles lies  
groveling in Dust, as a just sacrifice;  
To appease the injured King and abused Nation,  
Who would believe this sudden Alteration:  
God will revenge too for the Stones he took  
From aged Pawles to make a nest for Rooks;  
All Cormorants of State as well as he,  
We now may hope in the same plight to see.  
Go on, great Prince, thy People do rejoice,  
Methinks I hear the Nation's total Voice,  
Applauding this day's action to be such,  
As roasting of the Rump, or beating of the Dutch:  
Now look upon the valiant Cavaliers,  
Who for rewards have nothing had but Tears;  
Thanks to this Wiltshire Hog, Son of the spital,  
Had they been looked on he had had but little.  
Break up the Coffers of this hoarded Thief,  
There Millions will be found to make him Chief.  
Of Sacrilege, Ambition, Lust and Pride,  
All comprehended in the Name of Hyde;  
For which his due rewards I'd almost said,  
The Nation may most justly claim his Head.   

The Parallel, 1682.  
AS when proud Lucifer aimed at a Throne,  
To have usurped it and made Heaven his own;  
Blasphemous damned Design: but soon he fell,  
Guarded with dreadful Lightnings down to Hell:  
Or as when Nimrod lofty Babel built,  
A Structure as eternal as his guilt:  
Let us, said he, raise the proud Tower so high,  
As may amaze the Gods and kiss their Sky:  
He spoke, but the success was different found,  
Heaven's angry Thunder crushed it to the ground;  
So Lucifer and so proud Babel fell,  
And 'tis a cursed fall from Heaven to Hell:  
So falls our Courtier now to pride a Prey,  
And falls too with as much Reproach as they,  
And justly—  
That with his nauseous Courtship durst defile,  
The sweetest choicest Beauty of our Isle;  
That he was proud, we knew, but now we see,  
(Like Janus looking at Eternity)  
Both what he was and what he meant to be.  
Stern was his Look, and sturdy was his Gate,  
He walked and talked, and would have in State;  
Disdain and Scorn sat Perching on his Brow;  
But (Presto) where is all that greatness now?  
Why vanished, fled, dissolved to empty Air,  
Fine Ornaments indeed to cheat the Fair;  
And which is yet the strangest thing of all,  
He has not got a Friend to mourn his fall;  
But 'tis but just that he who still maintained,  
Disdain to all should be by all disdained:  
Had not the lazy Drone been quite as blind,  
Equally dim both in his Eye and Mind:  
He might have plainly seen—  
For the Example's visible to all,  
How strangely low, ingrateful Pride may fall.  
Presumptuous Wretch! but that's too kind a Name,  
For one so careless of his Master's fame;  
For as the Serpent did by Fraud deceive,  
Th' unwary Soul of our first Parent Eve;  
So he as impudently strove to inspire  
The Royal Maid with his delusive Fire;  
But Heaven be praised not with the same Success,  
For though his Pride's as great, his Cunning's less.   

The Perfect Enjoyment:  By the E— of R—. 
SInce now my Sylvia is as kind as fair,  
Let endless Joy succeed a long Despair.  
Oh what a Night of Pleasure was the last!  
A full Reward for all my Troubles past:  
And on my Head if future mischiefs fall,  
This happy Night will make amends for all.  
Nay tho' my Sylvia's love should turn to hate,  
I'd think on this, and dying kiss my fate.  
Twelve was the lucky minute when we met,  
And on her Bed we're close together set:  
Tho' listening Spies might be perhaps too near.  
Love filled our Hearts there was no room for fear.  
And whilst I strove her melting heart to move,  
With all the powerful Eloquence of Love,  
In her fair Face I saw the colour rise,  
And an unusual softness in her Eyes:  
Gently they look, and I with joy adore  
That only Charm they never had before.  
What she forbids Love doth by signs command,  
Languishing Looks and squeezing of the Hand,  
Love's cipher is not hard to understand:  
Whilst I transported too with amorous rage,  
And fierce with expectation to engage:  
But fas● she holds her Hands, and close her Thighs▪  
And what she longs to do, with Frowns denies.  
A strange Effect in foolish Woman wrought,  
Bred in Disguises, and by Custom taught:  
Custom, which often Wisdom overrules,  
And only serves for Reason to the Fools.  
Taught by this method of her foolish Sex,  
She's forced a while me and herself to vex:  
But when at length we had been striving long,  
Her Limbs grown weak, and her desires strong,  
Who then can hold to let the Hero inn,  
When he assaults and Love betrays within?  
At last her hand to hide her blushes leave  
The Fort ungarded, willing to receive  
My fierce assault, mad with a Lover's haste,  
Like Lightning piercing and as quickly passed:  
Some little pain might check her kind desire,  
But not enough to make her once retire:  
Maids wounds for pleasure bear as Men for praise,  
Here Honour heals, there Love the smart allays.  
Now she her well contented thoughts employs,  
On her past Fears and on her present Joys,  
Whose Harbinger did freely all remove  
To make fit room for great luxurious Love:  
Fond of the welcome Guest, her Arms embrace  
My Body, and her hand a better place:  
Which with one touch so pleasing proud did grow,  
It swelled beyond the grasp that made it so.  
Confinement scorns in any closer walls  
Than those of Love, where it contented falls.  
Tho' twice o'erthrown it more inflamed does rise,  
And will to the last drop fight out Loves prize.  
She like some Amazon in Story proves,  
That overcomes the Hero who she loves.  
In the close strifes he took so much delight,  
She then would think on nothing but the fight.  
With joy she laid me panting at her feet,  
But with more joy does his recovery meet:  
Her trembling hand first gently raised his head,  
She almost dies for fear lest he is dead:  
Then does support him with a busy hand,  
And with that Balm enables him to stand:  
Till by her Charms she conquers him once more,  
And wounds him deeper than she did before:  
Now fallen from the top of pleasure's hill,  
With longing Eyes we look up thither still;  
Still thither our unwearied wishes tend,  
Till we that height of happiness ascend;  
By gentle steps th' ascent itself exceeds  
All Joys but that alone to which it leads.  
First then so long and lovingly we kiss,  
As if like Doves we knew no other bliss:  
Still in one mouth our Tongues together play,  
Whilst groping hands are pleased no less than they.  
Thus clinged together now awhile we rest,  
Breathing our Souls into each others Breast:  
Then give a general kiss of all our parts,  
Whilst this blessed way we make exchange of hearts▪  
Here would my praise as well as pleasure dwell,  
Enjoyments self I scarcely like so well:  
What little this comes short of rage and strength  
Is largely recompensed with endless length.  
This is a Joy if we could last and stay,  
But Love's too eager to admit delay,  
And hurries us along so smooth a way.  
Now wanton with Delight we nimbly move  
Our pliant Limbs in all the shapes of Love:  
Our motion's not like those of idle fools,  
Whose active Bodies show their heavy Souls,  
But sports of Love in which the willing mind  
Makes us as able as our Souls are kind:  
At length all languishing and out of breath,  
Panting as in the agonies of Death  
We lie entranced, till one provoking kiss  
Transports our ravished Souls to Paradise.  
Oh heaven of Love! thou moment of Delight!  
Wronged by my words, my fancy does the right.  
Methinks I lie all melting in her Charms,  
And fast locked up within her Legs and Arms.  
Bend are our minds and all our thoughts on fire,  
Still striving in the pangs of hot desire;  
At once like Misers wallowing in their store  
Of full possession yet desiring more.  
Thus with repeated pleasures do we wast  
Our happy hours, which like short minutes past.  
To such a sum of Bliss our Joys amount,  
The number now becomes too great to count;  
And Nature now denying farther force,  
From Deeds (alas) we fall into Discourse:  
A fall which each of us in vain bemoans,  
A greater fall than that of Kings from Thrones.  
The tide of pleasure flowing now no more,  
We lie like Fishes gasping on the shore.  
And now as after fight wounds appear,  
Which we in heat did neither feel nor fear,  
She for my sake entreats me to give o'er,  
And yet confessed she'd gladly suffer more.  
Her words are coy, while all her motions woo;  
And when she asked if that it pleased me too,  
I raged to show how well, but could not do.  
Thus does fond Man run himself out of breath,  
And seeking rest would find it soon in death,  
Did not kind Nature with a double force,  
Restrain its strength and stop its headlong course.  
Indulgently severe she well does spare,  
This Child for hers that most deserves her care.   

A satire against Marriage, by the same.  
Husband's, thou dull unpitied Miscreant,  
Wedded to noise, to misery and want:  
Sold an eternal Vassal for thy Life,  
Obliged to cherish and to hate thy Wife.  
Drudge on till Fifty at thy own expense,  
Breathe out thy Life in one Impertinence.  
Repeat thy loathed Embraces every night,  
Prompted to act by duty not delight.  
christian thy forward Bantling once a year,  
And carefully thy spurious Issue rear.  
Go once a week to see the Brat at nurse,  
And let the young Impostor drain thy Purse.  
Hedge-Sparrow like what Cuckoos have begot,  
Do thou maintain, incorrigible Sot.  
Oh I could curse the Pimp, (who could do less?)  
He's beneath pity, and beyond redress.  
Pox on him let him go, what can I say?  
Anathema's on him are but thrown away:  
The wretch is married, and hath known the worst;  
And his great'st Blessing is, he can't be cursed.  
Marriage! Oh hell and furies name it not!  
Hence, hence ye holy Cheats, a Plot, a Plot:  
Marriage, 'tis but a licenced way to Sin,  
A Noose to catch Religious Woodcocks in:  
Or the Nickname of Love's malicious Fiend,  
Begot in Hell to persecute Mankind.  
'Tis the destroyer of our peace and health,  
Mispender of our time, our strength and wealth.  
The Enemy of Valour, Wit, Mirth, all  
That we can virtuous, good, or pleasant call.  
By Day 'tis nothing but a needless noise,  
By Night the echo of forgotten Joys:  
Abroad the sport and wonder of the crowd,  
At home the hourly breach of what they vowed.  
In Youth 'tis Opium to our lustful rage,  
Which sleeps awhile, but wakes again in Age.  
It heaps on all men much, but useless care,  
For with more trouble they less happy are.  
Ye Gods! that Man by his own slavish Law  
Should on himself such inconvenience draw.  
If he would wiser Nature's Laws obey,  
Those chalk him out a far more pleasant way.  
When lusty Youth and flagrant Wine conspire,  
To fan the blood into a generous fire,  
We must not think the Gallant will endure  
The puissant Issue of his Calenture:  
Nor always in his single pleasures burn,  
Tho' Nature's handmaid sometimes serves the turn.  
No, he must have a sprightful, youthful Wench,  
In equal floods of Love his flames to quench:  
One that will hold him in her clasping Arms,  
And in that circle all his Spirits charms,  
That with new motion and unpractised art,  
Can raise his Soul and re-insnare his Heart.  
Hence spring the noble, fortunate and great,  
Always begot in passion and in heat:  
But the dull Offspring of the Marriagebed,  
What is it but a humane lump of lead?  
A sottish lump, engendered of all ills,  
Begot like Ca●s against their Father's wills.  
If it be basterdized, 'tis doubly spoiled,  
The Mother's fears entailed upon the Child.  
Thus whether illegitimate or not,  
Cowards and Fools in Wedlock are begot.  
Let no ennobled Soul himself debase  
By lawful means to basterdize his race:  
But if he must pay Nature's debt in kind,  
To check his eager Passion let him find  
Some willing Female out; what though she be  
The very dregs and scum of infamy?  
Though she be Linsey-woolsey Bawd and Whore,  
Close-stool to Venus, Nature's common shore,  
Impudent, foolish, bawdy, and disease,  
The Sunday Crack of Suburb Prentices,  
What then she's better than a Wife by half,  
And if thou'rt still unmarried thou art safe.  
With Whores thou canst but venture: what thou'st lost,  
May be redeemed again with care and cost;  
But a damned Wife by inevitable fate,  
Destroys Soul, Body, Credit and Estate.   
FINIS.   

ADDENDA.  

In Opposition to Mr. Dryden's Essay on satire. 1680.  

NOW the Reformer of the Court and Stage,  
The common Beadle of this wilful Age,  
Has with impartial Hand whipped Sovereign Sin,  
In me it is but manners to begin.  
To correct Vice keen satire may prevail  
Beyond the Law, when preaching Blockheads fail:  
For Law and satire from one Fountain flow:  
Were not men vicious there would be no Law.  
But to cry up his saucy Cant and Rule,  
For lawful satire, proves the Wit or Fool.  
To rail at States, and Monarches ill entreat,  
Then cry 'tis Good because the Subject's Great:  
As Man were only placed in Paradise,  
To nibble on the Fruit on which he dies.  
Can Owls and Woodcocks with the Eagle play,  
And not in danger to become a Prey?  
What is't to lash the King and Council-Table,  
When I myself am kicked by the Town Rabble?  
For me to labour in a lower sphere  
I think too much, yet it is safest there:  
Nor do I covet matter to my Rhymes  
The greatest Person, but the greatest Crimes.  
What is't to me, who keeps a Miss, who's Wed,  
Or who got Carwell's costly Maidenhead:  
Who got the better on't, the Peer or Knight;  
What Lord was drunk, or Lady— last night.  
These are the crying Crimes; yet one may do  
All this, and be an honest Subject too.  
But to supplant the Government, to cry  
Allegiance down, and raze out Monarchy;  
To make Cabals, and by a bold Petition  
Imbrue the Nation in a new Sedition;  
To souse Rebellion, lay up Plots in pickle,  
And make each Tavern-bar a Conventicle;  
This would become a Muse's Excellence,  
To whi● the Club into Allegiance.  
Who'd not be as affected as Sir Carr?  
As proud as M—ve, as dull as D—ar?  
drunk as Fish, who lost himself and Prince  
〈…〉 Debauch, and ne'er was sober since;  
〈…〉 than that insatiate Beast of prey,  
〈…〉 Flock, to make himself away.  
〈…〉 cloyed with Blood of Lambs and Ewes,  
〈…〉 the Shepherd's Noose.  
〈…〉 Men find a more safe abode,  
〈…〉 Paths to keep the Road.  
〈…〉 humane wisdom ever should  
〈…〉 pretence of doing good:  
〈…〉 Men, that would prescribe us Rules  
〈…〉, prove either Knaves or Fools.  
〈◊〉 the catiline that left Whitehall,  
To be made Precedent of the Cabal:  
So h●'s in play, (provided there's no blows)  
It matters not the New, or the Old Cause.  
Has on all points of Government ran his rounds,  
As Gore the Compass did with Blood and Zounds.  
But sooner may you fix the Northern wind,  
Than hope the Weathercock will be confined.  
Nature made him a perverse Wight, whose Nose  
Extracts the Essence of his Gouty Toes.  
Double with head to tail he crawls apart;  
His Body's Emblem of his double Heart.  
In the Court's Sun he riggles like a Snail;  
Touch but his Horns he shrinks into his Shell.  
Rolled like a Hedgehog up, he shows his Snout,  
And at the Council-table makes a rout.  
'Gainst King and the Succession domineers;  
If ought oppose him, he has Forks and Spears.  
Like a vile Scholar he abjures the Realm,  
And sinks the Barge 'cause he's not chief at Helm.  
Then cries all hands to pump a leak i'th' Keel,  
And stops it up with Julian's Conger-Eel.  
And when a shot pierced the broadside, even then  
Clapped in the hole, and saved Sir Edward's Men.  
The way's to keep him there, if he get through,  
Secures himself, he drowns the Ship and Crew.  
If to the Ocean back again he's bend,  
With Rabble, he's in his own Element.  
There let him plot and ne'er behold the Sun,  
Till he has through all scenes of Folly run,  
Under pretext of Wit to be undone.  
As the late Duke who for a glorious Bully,  
Retired from Court to be the City's Cully;  
The City's Minion, now their scorn and sport,  
There more despised than once adored at Court:  
Who did his Fall so cunningly contrive,  
In acquaint Disguise, to Riot, Rant, and S—ve,  
And when he lifts himself in Infamy,  
Reviles the State, and rails at Monarchy.  
The only means true Glory to pursue;  
And must the best way be because 'tis new.  
Would any Hewson from the Throne retreat  
To th' Stall under disguise of being Great:  
And only for to merit vulgar praise,  
Rather than not be popular, be base.  
So once an Emperor, as Stories say,  
Exchanged his Sceptre for a Ferula;  
And only proud to prove himself a Fool,  
Did quit the Throne to keep a Petty School.  
Yet this was great; while only for the noise  
Of Sovereign sway he lords it over Boys.  
Look to it York, the Nation first shall bleed,  
Or the two Kings of Brandford shall succeed.  
H— for an Empire has as great an itch,  
As ever Dog had for his salt swollen Bitch.  
High on ambitious plumes aloft he flies,  
And to be something melts them in the Skies;  
While th' humble wretch at home lies prostrate down  
To all the barking Beagles in the Town.  
Young D— too does in the Club intrude,  
To be applauded by the multitude:  
With zeal to King and Country he abounds;  
Keeps with the Hare, and opens with the Hounds:  
Now of the Court, now of the Country free,  
Mistakes Prerogative for Liberty.  
How well a Regiment would him become,  
If the loud Commons did but beat the Drum.  
My Masters vote it (Sir) a Prohibition;  
I can't in Conscience brook with your Commission.  
To levy Forces, and assign Commanders,  
Is Treason in the King to France, or Flanders.  
But if the House command me though I starve,  
I'll quit Wine, Whores, Allegiance too, to serve.  
G— better far might slight his Sovereign's bounty;  
He had a Regiment within his County:  
And poor enough to back his tattered Cause,  
Woven R— venture but a broken Nose.  
Appease this mouthing Cerberus with a bone;  
Honour's a dainty Crust to pick upon;  
While his dear Doxy makes a shift to rub  
The business out with M— at the Club.  
And Rolleston leads the Van while they combine,  
And humbly beg their Sovereign to resign.  
How Faction and the quenchless thirst of Rule  
Hurries to ruin the ambitious Fool,  
Whose haughty Soul puffed up with Sovereign sway,  
Will never scarce be humbled to obey.  
The pious Earl had such a spacious poop,  
As swallowed up N— B— n and his Troop:  
Who lately Lord Lieutenant of a Realm,  
Seemed a good Pilot while he sat at Helm;  
But when he was deposed, he overthrew  
His Master's Cause and sided with the Crew.  
Now B— d he had much the worst o'th' lay,  
Having more Wit or honesty than they,  
Sneaked off and left the Club, his Game to play.  
Who after he had led them to the Porch,  
Like Buckingham, he left them in the lurch:  
At such a juncture of a time as oddly,  
As Peyton for his Highness left the Godly;  
Or Escrick Howard to become a bawler,  
Withdrew from Court to cry up active Waller.  
These are the Men who all the bustle make,  
And Empire check merely for Empire sake.  
They lay their stamp on the revolting Darling,  
And in the Club make Treason pass for Sterling.  
There are some other Beagles in this pack,  
That make a noise the Royal Chase to back;  
But when a Mastiff opens in the dark,  
The little Dogs will shake their tails and bark:  
And though the foremost Hound but start the Hare,  
The rest will mouth it as they claimed a share:  
Who follow by the scent, and scarce have sense  
To judge 'twixt Treason and Allegiance;  
As Fops meet in a Pit to damn a Play,  
Not as they know, but by what others say.  
Unmeaning Fools, who something to be at,  
Follow the leading Cuckoo, like the Bat;  
And justly merit as they are despised,  
Rather to be rejected than chastised.  
So bawling H— n and K— the mute,  
With Noise and Nonsense fill up the Dispute;  
And while the Club proclaims the lawless strife,  
One is the Drum, and t'other is the Fife.  
What shall we say of Fa— ge, Br— oer,  
Or C—ry, or dull D—gh shall I flatter;  
Who in the Synod drudge like Galleyslaves,  
And buy the Stock to make a Gleek of Knaves.  
Like Beasts insensible of wrong they stray,  
And find a Pound quitting the King's Highway.  
And now behold in triumph to their Follies,  
In Noll's old Coach of State comes sneaking H— s.  
Who sold the Father by an old Commission,  
And purchases the Son with a Petition.  
Now whether has the better on't, the Club,  
Or the Five Members in the Royal Job?  
This is the Baker's Dozen makes the Rump,  
And little Wa— r's leaven to the lump;  
When B—rd civilly had made his leg,  
The Club engendered and brought forth an Egg;  
Which like Grand Cairo for a quick dispatch,  
Hot Monsieur Parliament must set and Hatch.  
R—ly began to puff and shake his Noddle,  
And told them in plain terms the Brood was addle;  
That to a Rump he never more would give  
Away his Birthright, or Prerogative.  
Then like a God, which from his breath did leap,  
Dissolved the Chaos of confused heap.  
Bravely he spoke, and wisely he performed,  
While still the Club against the Council stormed:  
Who rather than from Faction would be free,  
Or touch no more of the forbidden Tree,  
Would damn themselves and their posterity.   

How vile a thing is Man! how sudden Fate  
Attends his frailty in the best Estate!  
When armed with Innocence and Virtue, all  
That makes him blest is subject then to fall:  
The great first bold Offender oft I chid,  
When I myself agreed to what he did:  
Had I been there, perhaps I had done worse,  
And on my Raze entailed a double curse:  
Even I who all this while exclaimed at Vice,  
And made to Loyalty a Sacrifice,  
May be deemed saucy, insolent and rude,  
And thought as guilty by the multitude.  
This Balm I'll save against the deepest Wounds,  
To keep my sharper Pen within its bounds;  
And lest my soaring Muse too meanly fall,  
Learn to write mannerly, or not at all.     

ADVERTISEMENT.  
STate Poems continued, from the Time of Oliver Cromwell, to this year, 1697, by the greatest Wits of the Age, viz. Lord Rochester, Lord D— t, Lord V— n, the Honourable Mr. M—ue, Sir F. Sh— d, Mr. Milton, Mr, Prior, Mr. Stepney, Mr. Ayloffe, etc. Among which, are several Poems in English and Latin, in Praise of Oliver Cromwell, by Dr. South, Mr. Lock, Sir W. G— n, Dr. Crew, Mr. Busbie, etc. On King Charles II'ds Return, by my Lord Rochester; Three Satyrs by the same, written between 1670 and 1680. A Charge to the Grand Inquest of England, 1674. The Royal Buss and Windsor, by the Lord Rochester. An Epitaph on Card. Mazarine; satire Unmusled; the Hind and Panther transverst to the story of the City-Mouse and Country-Mouse; the Man of Honour, by the Honourable Mr. M—ue. The Vision; the Converts; the Laureate; the Poets Address; the Audience; the Dream; Caesar's Ghost. On the University of Cambridge, burning the Duke of Monmouth's Picture, 1685, by Mr. Stepney; on the Commencement there, by Mr. Ayloffe; to Mr. F. Shepherd, by Mr. Prior; an Answer to King James' Declaration, by several Hands; on the Death of the Late Queen, by the Lord Cutts; on Tunbridge-Wells, by Mr. Causton; an Essay on Writing and Printing; a Prologue, by the Earl of Rochester; on melting down the Plate, 1697. On Tunbridge-Wells by the Lord Rochester. A satire against Brandy. On the Infanta of Portual. On the Return of King Charles, by Dr. South. With many other excellent Poems, never before Printed. Price 3 s. Sold by the Booksellers of London and Westminster.  
This First Part, with the Continuation above, makes a complete Collection of all that is valuable in this Nature, for these Forty Years.