Rabshakeh Vapulans: OR, AN ANSWER TO THE Tribe of Levi; IN VINDICATION OF THE CLERGY. A POEM. WITH A PREFACE, Reflecting on the Wit and Civility of that famous Poem, and some late Pamphlets of the same Nature. LONDON Printed, and are to be sold by Randal tailor, near Stationers-Hall. MDCXCI. THE PREFACE. WERE there not a certain Charm in Doggrell, which never fails pleasing those whose Capacities can rise no higher; one would wonder how the Tribe of Levi, and some other Pieces of that Nature, should have lately met with so much Applause from some sort of People. I wish the Reader no better Diversion( if it does not raise his Indignation too) than I myself have had, in seeing a fat Fellow hold his Sides, and half burst himself over a Dish of Coffee; as if he had seen Merry-Andrew eating a Custard, at those Two Familiar Lines of this Author in page. the 9th. Ah William— had I but thy Sceptre Royal, By heaven, I'd beat the Dogs till they were Loyal. And what if the Ass should happen to get the Lyon's Skin on? Now am I so far from thinking he would be such a dreadful roaring Creature as he makes us believe, that I fancy he'd, like his Brother Beggar, only swing upon a Gate all Day long, without doing any mortal Creature any Mischief. But whether or no this be true, 'tis certain, that you'd venture having your Head broken in more places than one near the Change, should you dare affirm any two Lines in Cowley or Dryden were equal to this incomparable Distich. But to let pass all the Elegant For to's and does, and all the ancient Family of the So that's and Eds, and the rest of the kind Crutches to a crippled Muse, which seem the peculiar affencted Flowers of the Author, 'twere to be wished he had brought nothing worse with him from Ireland; for▪ had he been only Ridiculous, the Humour of the Country might have excused him; but, when he's Mischievous too, his Apish Tricks and Gambols ought no more to save him from the Lash than his Brother Animal in the like Circumstances. I won't so much abuse the Reader's Patience to examine particularly into the sense and Poetry of this famed Piece, the first half page. is enough to give any one, but a Car-man, his bellyful. Never was poor Ballad or Song-Book in such a Condition as his would be, should we go to uncase it, and make Prose on't. Let's try for once, but by no means to make a practise on't, what can be done with the very first four Lines. " Since Plagues were ordered for a Scourge to Men, " And egypt was chastiz—ed with her Ten; " No greater Plague did any State molest, " Than the severe, the worst of Plagues, a Priest. That is to say, in plain Prose, Since Plagues were ordered to plague Men, and egypt was plagued with Ten Plagues, there was never any Plague greater than the worst of Plagues.— And 'twould be very hard if there should, in my judgement. But not content with nonsense, he won't so much as afford us true English in the last Line of the same page., nor true Verses almost all through his Book; his Zeal for the Matter, we may charitably suppose, making him now and then run a little too fast, and Scan Two Fingers instead of One. But these are not the main Things in controversy between us. Dullness is the fault of a Natural, not an acquired Habit, and therefore involuntary, he having as much Liberty to Print dull Things as I, or any Man else. And he should even have writ on till he had tired himself or his Admirers, had not that intolerable Insolence( the very characteristic of his Nature, and which not improbably he derives from that parcel of French-Blood which flows in his Veins) made him fall foul on what has been ever esteemed most Sacred in this World; sparing not so much as one single Priest to propagate the Kind, but letting drive at all, without Fear, or Wit, or good Manners, and concluding, Hanging's the fittest Death for 'em without exception, one and all, not so much as leaving room to creep out at for his own Father, were he yet alive to see what a Viper he has been the occasion of bringing into the World. But I must have a care of imitating him; railing, as well as all the Plagues he reckons up, is a very infectious Disease: Nor is't an to Matter to red all his Book over, without being a little tinged with such bad Company. For which reason I have endeavoured to avoid it, and made choice of a way of Writing quiter contrary, though at the hazard of not pleasing as much as my Antagonist. Those who are Judges will find I have at least aimed at Horace's easy sort of satire; nor is't any Disgrace to come vastly short of so great an Original. And this way I the more willingly choose, lest the other should have hurried me into an Extreme of the same Nature with the Occasion on't, and given Temptation to fall foul on any Party besides that which is an avowed Enemy to the Government, or Religion, on which 'tis founded. On the contrary, I am not ashamed to aclowledge, that I have revised the following Piece with some Care, lest any thing of that Nature should pass in the Crowd; which if there be, I declare it is against my Intention and Knowledge. There are enough to recriminate besides, who perhaps mayn't love their Country better, and may yet get more by it than I by this. None can be so dull an Observer of Things, but may easily take notice, That the Road to Preferment lies the same way now it has ever done, by espousing one Faction hearty, and railing at all the rest: But I take this at present to be just as wise a method as quarreling in a Powder-Room, and firing a Pistol there at One that has trod upon my Toes, or broken my Shins. In a word, I scorn to be Great at my Country's Cost, though I think there's no great Danger on't. What I 'm concerned for, is the Cause of common Christianity; nay of Natural Religion itself, both of which perhaps are in greater Danger than is commonly thought; such things as these tending directly to sap their very Foundation, aiming not against the Abuse, but very Use of Things, and the Destruction of the very Character of Priesthood, instead of reforming those who are of it. On which account I should think no Priest, of whatever Opinion, could esteem or commend this Author's Work, unless they love to have themselves abused, and of the same Temper with the Man in the Fable, who would willingly pluck out One of his own Eyes, that his Enemy might lose Both. I have only this more to say in respect of the GENTLEMAN, my Antagonist; That, though others may think my satire too tame and languid, I hope he won't blame me for that Error. That he will not think himself a much better Man than some of those whom he himself has endeavoured to Expose to the World, and therefore not think strange he meets with the same Fate. That his own History being not sufficiently known, I expect he should not only pardon me, but thank me for publishing some of the most Remarkable Passages of his Life. That in the mean time he is extremely obliged to me( considering how he has treated others) for my Civility, in not naming him; and that he may quickly know, I can be much severer, if he thinks fit to make the Experiment. There's another famous Spark about Town, whom for the likeness of the Argument I have linked with him in many Places of this satire, and who will without question m●ke the best Company in the World. 'Tis a certain kind of a Second Rate Ballad-singer, alias Moralist, alias Mouse-trap-maker, alias Weesil-monger, who having lately contracted a particular Acquaintance with the King's Most Excellent Rat-Catcher, and managing besides a small Intrigue with a Corn-Chandler's Wife's Cousin-German, has very luckily improved the hints he met with from both those places, and turned all the Priests he comes near into the most dreadful Four legg'd Beasts that ever were shown for Monsters. He's very angry with a certain Reverend Doctor, because he can't understand him.— Poor wretch, if it has no Notion of sense, what can help it besides Bedlam? However, if he be such a dreadful satirist as he makes us believe in the Postscript to his Moralist, he'll find somewhat here to exercise his Talent, and perhaps let the Doctor take breath, while he's employed about other Business. I'll neither trouble the Readers nor Authors any more, but, till we next meet again, bid 'em farewell altogether. RABSHAKEH VAPULANS: OR, AN ANSWER TO THE Tribe of Levi. I'Admire, my Friend! what madness has possessed The Brain-sick World; in what wild posture dressed! Like Beasts by Gad-Flies stung, they frisk about An antic, giddy, and disordered Rout: How few there are who steer by Reasons rules; How over-stock'd the pestered Age with Fools. And Fools we have of every Shape and Size, Of all Professions, Ranks and Qualities; But most the Wou'd-be-Wits, and wou'd-be-Wise. The witty Fool must have the foremost place, Or else, slap-dash, he has ye over the Face; And lugs ye into his next dull Lampoon, The sport and ridicule of all the Town: Sets up an Author, and a Man of Parts, In spite of Nature's self, and all good Arts; Then shows lewd 'vice triumphant on the Stage, To tickle a debauched, a thoughtless Age: Where all the Sport is spoiled, unless there be Some poor Sir John or Smirk, for Nokes or Lee: The very Salt and flamme o'th' comedy. never fear't, it takes, so you but swinge the PRIEST; What needs there more? the very Word's a Jest. Plot, sense, true Wit, good Humour, all, 'tis stuff: even spare this pains, your person is enough. writ but his single part to th' Life, and well, Your Third day's Gains sufficiently 'twill swell, And render the success infallible. Mufti, or Priest, or Bishop 'tis the same, 'Twill save your Play; such magic's in the Name, Tho' all the Club of Wits resolved to damn. This Art was at the first found out by BAYS; The surest Rules in all his wise Essays: He lead the Dance. Nor was't in him so strange, inspired by Interest, Madness and Revenge: possessed with Pride, and hurried by Despair, At his approach whipped from the House of Prayer, Nor must such unclean Beasts be offered there: But there are higher Provocations yet; Poor withered Bays— For the Rehearsal can't a Priest forget, Since one of that dull Plodding witless Fry, That harmless stingless Hive, if famed not lie, Had at the least a Finger in the Pie: This treasured deep remains upon the score, For this the Bard a heavy Vengeance swore, And with the Gown proclaimed eternal War; Which must henceforward passively submit To th' Fury of his Dullness and his Wit. * stewed Prunes and Snush he'll now no longer use With this; if she the generous Race refuse, Vid. Rehearsal. He spurs his jaded unperforming Muse. Priests on the Stage for the same Reason come, As in the Pulpit the prolonging Hum: As what comes next, to mend a Breach is brought, These serve to fill the empty Gaps of Thought; Whilst the young Todpole Wits applaud and smile Around this doting Homer of our Isle: And all those ●auseous Streams which daily pour From his soul entrails, greedily devour. With his stolen Poison, and their own they swell, And with hoarse Notes disturb the Sacred Well; With noisome Slime pollute that silver Spring, And croak as loud as Father Bays could sing. In some odd Hole let's throw neglected Bays, As Greens and Hollys are at Candlemas. But among all the rest that tease the Town, Spruce Poet Pricket has my Vote alone; Or if he ere should fall, in my Esteem, 'Tis only Saffold must out-rival him. The Court and Stage may ene do what they please, Our City-Bays are sure to One of these, Author of the Tribe of Levi, who formerly stood for the City Poet's Place. ( Unless on them the Man of War * should seize.) Their Spirit the same, to the same heights they climb; Their Art the same, both tag their Bills with Rhyme. And very near akin their Occupation, Both live o'th' Sins and Follies of the Nation. Momus Ridens. * This by his Pills, that by his weekly Print, * With Cartloads of dull Doggrell railing in't. Tedious, Friend Elkanah! as yours or mine, Heavy as Nahum: since he drinks no Wine, Incarnate dullness reigns in every Line. But let's not wrong the Wretch, when pains he'll take: He'll very tolerable Ballads make. To Thought, it's true, he never made pretence, His care is Notes and Words, find you the sense. How shall the pestered Warehouse then get clear? What must be done to save the Stationer? 'Tis true, the Friars at the worst are near; But that's the last, the desperate Cure, we know Not to be used, till the Disease is so. He has it, right or wrong the Priest comes in, T'atone his Dullness, and the Peoples Sin. The Tune be what it will, He all along, He only is the Burden of the Song. Be the Report of Lap-dog, Miss, or Spark, Or French, or Turk, still Priest is the Remark. Has Lady in fair Qu— late miscarried? Then thank the Priest who her and C— married. Has Priest been robbed? he'll openly profess, The Villains could in Conscience do no less. Are the Turks beat? These Priests undo the PORT, And, if they're wise, they'll hang the Mufti for't. Or, has the Emperor lately lost Belgrade? No doubt 'twas long of some o'th' self-same Trade! The German Priests that Powder Treason made, Hired with French Luidores, pray mark the Jest! They even blew up themselves, and all the rest. This oft, when the grave Dons of Business come, And find poor Momus in the Coffee-Room, This from expecting Flames has him reprieved, Who, when condemned, by's Anti-Clergy lived. Him Sage Sir Pol, on plodding Elbow stayed, Has oft with his Four Eyes and Mouth surveyed His Tea, and that with equal Gust he drinks, And by his Looks would have you think he thinks. " Well— on my Faith, he feagues these Black-coat Sparks; " A pretty witty Thing, and shrowd Remarks! But what's all this you'll tell me to the Text, The Tribe of Levi? Patience! that comes next. The Anti-Chamber sure must first be past: We to the Presence shall arrive at last. Author of the Tribe of Levi lately come from Ireland. These all are Lackeys to that Author's b famed, Who from the Land of Wit and Valour came; And dares in both so large a portion claim. So Civil, so gentle, so Clean, and Neat His Merit, yet his Modesty so great, As never will be matched, nor has been yet. Through all his Works this Truth appears so plain, Through all his Life there runs so pure a Vein, He need not writ himself a c He usually Subscribes his Works thus, By J.T. Gentleman. Gentleman. His Country's Glory and its Nymphs delight, Dreaded in Mars's as in Venus fight, And till the danger comes, A Man of Might. d That thought is his own. Vid. pag. 2. Say not the ill-bred bide defiles his Nest, When now and then he gently rubs the Priest; Or that he is to his own Blood unjust, Who was a Priest. And rudely tramples on his Father's Dust; But rather blame his Memory's neglect: Great Wits we know can never far reflect. At worst it argues his Design was good, When thus he spares not his own F●esh and Blood; Vid. pag. 5. " But to unsettle Church as 'twas before, " Will beat his Dad, and call his Mother Whore. Say not his Bride, of lovely Mind and Face, received her Life from one of Levi's Race. By Marriage Bonds a piece of him she's grown, Torn from her Stock she's grafted in his own. What if 'tis urged he was himself a Priest, Or else a puny Deacon at the least: A kind well-willer to the Desk or Tub, At Sam's or Joe's a Member of the Club. conned Baxter, till his Study's all in Flames, a Ask him the meaning on't. Dogs-ear'd and thumb'd Wallebius, Charnock, Ames. But did he not forsake that Threadbare Trade, And in good time his Abjuration made? No Turk so trusty as a Renegade. Since when, without respect he mawls the Priest, To prove the apostasy was not in Jest; If all, his Tutor too among the rest: Forgets the Debt, as Nero his, nor spares His sense, his virtue, or his Silver-Hairs. Were One excepted, we might doubt a Bribe, Or that he's still inclined to Levi's Tribe. Hang all's the word; nor can he, it's confessed, Forget it soon; he learned it in the West: For grant him Priest, he scorned the Passive Cant, And ever was a Parson-Militant. Whatever Joshua made for a Buffoon, Take T— h for a Spiritual Dragoon. P. 15. l. 8. Say all ye conscious Hedges, did he fly, Or sneak behind to shun the Enemy? Or say each Western Ditch, to which he fled ( Since 'tis Almanzors only can make Head Against whole Armies) did he quake for fear, Or by the Smell invite his Hunters near? Or was not he, say Envy what it can; Say, was not he the Man, the more than Man; Whom even the Western Hangman could not quail, Proof against Jeffreys, Halter, Whip and jail. Nay beat him clear in Brow, his Match in sense, And even at his own Weapon— Impudence. ( Such force in Modesty and Innocence!) Heav'ns! how the tiger yell'd that fatal Day, revenged at large upon the weaker Prey; Tho' on this sturdier Beast his hopes were crost, And worse than all, his Reputation lost. The restive Thing th' appointed Knot refused, He hung an Arse, nor would be tamely noos'd. The Lordly Butcher struts, and fumes, and raves; And swears in vain, and works, and sweats, and slaves, And did at last, with much ado invent A pretty conscionable Punishment: For since no Blood he to his Brow could draw, He'd on his Back inscribe fierce Draco's Law. Poor Jack, like wandring Jew, was doomed to stray In a long Pilgrimage each Market Day; And worse than all, do Penance a He was condemned to be whipped through all the Market-Towns in Dorsetshire once a Year during Life; on which he petitioned to have the Favour of being hanged, and so got off from both. all the way. No wonder at this Sentence he repines, And a Petition for a Halter signs: " b Vid. Tribe of Levi, pag. 11. lin. 18. Hanging's the fittest Death for Such Divines. ( Old Grandfire Sternhold's Psalter he may spare, And his own doleful Psalms make use of there.) Besides, since some o●●s Kin the way did try, He thought by a Disease 'twas best to die Hereditary to his Family. The Humour's good enough, tho' pushed too far. Enjoy't your Race! but I should think the Air An odd Tartarian sort of Sepulchre. What if one Unkle took that Road, and t'other Rides whip and spur to overtake his Brother? All Priests are not so fond of these Extremes, Nor fancy to be hanged for either James. a York or Monmouth. But after all this dull malicious stuff, You needs must own the Poem's sharp enough. There's your true stroke! How much to th' Life he writes? How through and through his angry satire bites? Here's trusty Fangs— they never quit their hold: Is not the Cur well worth his weight in Gold? He runs at all, and none that across him spared, He scorns to fly at less than the whole Herd. Yes— 'tis confessed he's Sharp, at such a rate As are that Club of Wits at Billingsgate; Where one, when t'other sold her Fish before, I lately heard how wittily she swore, Bid her be hanged, and called her Jade and Whore. Gently, good Sir, we own these Words a Crime, And scurrilous and lewd when out of Rhyme: If in plain Prose pronounced in Street or School, They're richly worth the Lash or Ducking-stool. The Commons soon, and P— d's Reverend Court, Would get the Author in and swinge him for't. But sure a Poem is excepted still: No Laws touch that; where, like a Chancery Bill, Invention, Truth, and Reason both supplies; Nor must we answer for Abuse and lies. But put the Case at worst, who'd not submit To one sound Lashing to be thought a Wit? And were not now the Reign of Jeff'ry's over, His Sentence can't be worse than 'twas before; While still he's in reserve his ancient Trick, Can for his Back compound and yield his Neck. Poor feeble satirist? and is this all The weak effect of thy enervate gull? So soft each Stab, so harmless every Jest, The World will think thee half a Priest at least. Unrein thy Thunders rather, and let fly Thy sharpest pointed Lightnings round the Sky, Then like Jove's bide aim at the destined Head, Shoot from the scattering Clouds and strike him dead. No— still I must th' unequal War refuse; Ah! too below the vengeance of my Muse, Who like Alcides, with her Infant hands Could crush that Viper in her swaddling Bands, But would not wish so weak a Foe Disgrace, Where even the Conquest had at best been base Tho' I the meanest of the tuneful Race. Ah! would for once blind Fortune, as the Whore Has done for many a Fool and Knave before, Wou'd she but make the Blockhead great and high, And find some time to dress him ere he die, In all the World's fantastic Bravery: Were he but high enough to value famed, Or could he fall, scarce WILLIAM's sacred Name, Which next the unutterable I revere, Scarce WILLIAM's sacred Name should guard him there, till when if public Justice find him not, Let him remain neglected or forgot, His Name and Works alike, together rot! And wont you then, when his true Face is shown, Wipe off those heaps of Scandal he has thrown On all he finds less ugly than his own? Or he, or those who their weak Forces join, And with the same success pursue the same design, And in some lofty parabolick strain, Old England's Worthies celebrate again. What need, dear Friend, of what's so much in vain, scandals, when at exalted Virtue cast, They reach it not, beyond their reach 'tis placed, But on the Authors Heads return at last. If Water on the Milk-white Swan we fling, It shakes it off, nor wets its Silver wing. But in good earnest would you have me look Each Verse or Chapter in the Pentateuch, And hunt for parallels in every Book? Murder Chronology, as he before, konrah and all his company restore When burnt to dust, nay kindly hast 'em over With valiant Joshua and his faithful Band, Thro' Jordan's wondering Waves to Canaan's blissful Land? Or what if we a little lower fall To thy unhappy Fate, rejected Saul! Who God forsaking, didst to Endor run, And wert undone least thou shouldst be undone; Or sing his brave, his loved, his envied Son; (a) David his Son-in Law. How Shimei cursed, how Sheba did rebel, Or proud Philistian Hosts before him fell, And right or wrong make out the parallel; Were not the World with this already tired, A deeper thought, a Genius are required; But strokes and colours every where to give, And make a work of such a Nature live. Howe'er, to oblige you, Sir, for once I'll tell, The naked Truth, without a Parable; Naked, or dressed in honest Country Grey, Nor rudely base, nor too profusely gay; I think I'm right, and what I think I'll say. Those who all Heylen and Mercator scan, Show me a place from London to Japan, From California, down to Magelan, Where the wild Natives don't with Reverence treat, Whoever on their Gods and Altars wait? If universal Custom gives us Rules More sure than all the Jargon of the Schools, And with unconquered Demonstration shows, What Truth and Reason untaught Nature knows, As all the World confess; we need not fear, The Argument will hold as strongly here: If he's no Man a God disowns, at least He who maliciously affronts his Priest, By the same Rule must pass for half a Beast. He who through vast Tartarian deserts runs, His journey almost equal with the Suns, Nor any other Right but Conquest owns; Who to his Sword his Life like Esau owes, All his rich Neighbours, justly thought his Foes, Asks his Priest's Benediction e're he goes; And vows he in the Booty shall partake, If a good road and safe retreat he make. The European Tartars, who reside, Far greater Plagues upon the Western side, And on the Rhine far greater mischief do, Than t'other on the Volga or Danow, These and their Sultan Lewis( far above Galga and his) pretend their Priests to love, Without their Prayers never expect to thrive, And are in Truth, the godliest Thieves alive: Thus Cannibals themselves, tho' nursed in War, And blood for milk their Infant Lips besmear, Tho' they each other eat, their Priests will spare. But what's all this, crys one, to th' Case in hand, Knaves will not, and Fools cannot understand Their Christian Liberty, to abuse the Priest, And treat the Tribe of Levi how they list? Or if weed know the bounds of just and true What did the brave, the ancient Romans do, E're Priestly Craft was formed into a Trade, And clergies Yoke on easy Nations laid: Well, to be Friends, we'll give ye that and more, Both Rome, and those who flourished long before, Thought it their highest Crime against their State, Their Churches ancient Rites to Violate; Your Master Hobbs has taught you what to say: They're Heathens all, would you be worse than they? Yet nigher to the Fountain let's repair, And this bright Truth will still be clearer there; Where Monarchies from Families did spring, A Patriarch was both Father, Priest or King, Tho' of the three, a Priest the highest place, A Prince then thought the Title no disgrace; The wondrous King of ancient Salem's Town, Whethe● from heaven itself he first came down, The same who did long after leave the Skies, A God in frail Humanity's disguise: Or whether he deduced from Mortal Stem; The Sacred Priesthood he did not contemn, But joined the Mitre to his Diadem. Nor did the Conquering Hebrew him disdain, But paid him Tithes in Saveh's royal Plain. I thought at last you would be forced to fly To your old shift, Infallibility; And tho' a while you reason may pretend, Trump up a Text or two, and there's an end. But why so eager? not so fast my Friend; Have we not proved the Question in suspense, That Priests all times, all places reverence; That whether Heathen, Christian, Turk, or Jew, They all have more civility than you? I thought what Arguments, a Spark replies, These Priests could bring to back their Trick and Lies; Sense, Reason, Custom, they in vain pretend, Damn ' em! 'tis a Cheat from end to end: That all the World respects 'em, we deny, The wise see through it, or of those wise am I: What Man of sense, which of the Beaux Esprits, That in our Club has taken his Degree, Who laudibly can drink, or whore, or swear, ( The World's a cipher, we the Figures are) In those fine Arts a great Proficient grown, Which of us all who can't a Priest run down, The silliest, pertest, dullest thing in Town? Thus would he talk till night, might he run on, For he talks well in his dear self's Esteem, even leave him, for you'll nothing get by him. Agreed, to save my Ears, but first let's go, A little walk, some half the Globe, or so, Where some of his fair Kindred him we'll show; Strangely alike in humour, sense and shape, The wise, the blessed Inhabitants o'th' scape. (a) The Inhabitants of the scape of Good Hope, the most Barbarous People ever yet discovered who own no God, nor good Manners; use raw Guts for their Food and Ornament, &c. See the late Accounts of those People. Renowned Hottamtots, they dance they sing, Nor fear, nor care, for any future thing; On whose free Necks no politicians road, Who trouble not themselves with Priest or God: Content with Food, which hasty Nature gave, They neither Wash, nor boil, nor Scrape nor Save, Their gaudy Guts they from their Necks displace, And eat, but pay no Tithes, nor say no Grace. Why is he mute, and why that scornful smile? does not this Instance our Induction spoil? As much as his 'tis granted, for indeed Those who will own no God, no Priests will need: Sir, we're no atheists, we would have ye know, We own a God, and if you doubt it, you Shall hear us Swear, perhaps Blaspheme him too: Nay, if you please us, we'll some Priests allow, If they'll be civil, and their betters know, Praying and Preaching Cant, they must forsake, And onely sing those Hymns which we shall make: ( Ye blessed ones, if for Priapus meant,) But Sir, 'tis this that makes us malcontent, Their Barns are all too full, too large their store, And you'd reform 'em, just as those before, With their Fat Lands keep some lean Hounds or Whore: But they're abusive, saucy,— you know when, We were no better then Jack Gentlemen (a) See Marvel's Rehearsal transposed What would you have this humble Creature do? Or hold his Worships Horse, or clean his show. Mayn't I to what's my own make just pretence, Must Priest be blamed, because his Lord wants sense? Or must the Order spoil Gentility, Fatal as the across Bar in Heraldry, If the dull Patron, as he first was whelped, Unlick't remains, can the poor Chaplain helped? For those who've sense or wit, are wise or brave, They'll make the Priest their Friend and not their Slave; Nor take delight in cursed Canaans sport, To make him drunk, and then despise him for't. But farther all their Sermon's are so dry, One Play will more than twenty Edify: — Both much alike as you dispose the matter, In one you sleep, in 'tother laugh and chatter; Your judgement, too, your observations fit, How dull are R—, and St— Yes florid words indeed, but give me sense! And need enough on your own Evidence, Step in for once, and tarry till they've done, What think you of St— o, Sc— t, or Till— n They red their Lectures moderately well, But that's not Preaching, where's the Life and Zeal, In this you own, that others beat you clear, That, that's the thing,— B— t, or H— ck hear! Some rave and roar, and split the very Stones, With apish Gestures and incondite Groans; Are there no Priests in Town but D—d J— s. Well, what provokes me most, to tell you true, Is their lewd Lives— can they be worse than you? They should be better— if they are not so, Pity but you should even together go; A Priest no Angel; none from faults are free, As long as clogged with frail Mortality: Besides, if when but twelve our Saviour choose There was one perjured traitor mixed with those, If one in Twelve did villainy contrive Is't strange we've one( or two) in twenty five? Are there no more?— be you the Oracle yourself, a Halter take if you can tell, If not, a Whip will serve the turn as well. All this will never make the Party good, Since for the generality they're lewd: Have you told Noses Sir, or would you be The Author of a second Century, (c) Of scandalous Ministers. O Golden time! O blessed Reforming Age! The Pulpits 'vice is preached at by the Stage. However none for foolish pity spare, But from White-Chappel look to Westminster, How many like yourself, d'ye light on there? Nay further, search the Universal round, And still rail on when you have better found: Troth there you're right, I think they're all alike, Now the Mask's off and at the root you strike. Well, interest is their God what e'er they say, Pray which sells best, a Sermon or a Play? " If Interest 'tis to live contemned and poor, " The hungry Wolf still barking at the door; " If Interest 'tis like Tantalus to stay " Still gaping, envying even a Carter's pay " Who earns at least his hard Half-Crown a day: " If interest 'tis to starve till Forty's nigh " Then get perhaps some Country hole and die, " Then I'll not contradict you in the least, " 'Tis interest makes, 'tis interest sways the Priest: " These are his Gains and this his portion is " A weary Life in hopes of future bliss. " Ah! that's the thing alone that sweetens this. You cry, I've preached enough and bid me mind To answer the Objections yet behind: Let's hear 'em then! What need of all this stir? Mayn't we Be saved without a Priest? Yes, doubtless Sir! You cannot miss the Road; but there are few ( Consider that) of equal sense with you; Men of Morality and Principles; (a) Vid. the Moralist. Besides a hundred pretty Fancies else; And for the Rabble of the world ye know We safely may allow a Priest or two. For as a learned Knight (b) Sir Jo●● did the last Age With Christianity itself engage; An● taught if any thing besides pretence, 'Twas only fit for men of vulgar sense, While such as he say Priests what e're they can Were saved by ways more like a Gentleman; So our sage Author wisely does esteem The Cassock Doctors useless unto him. Himself he'l preach and pray the charge to save, Nay the poor Sexton rob, and dig his Grave, person and clerk, Good wives and Bearers cheat, And bury himself alive like Charles the Great. But how should they on men of sense prevail Who change each Hour, and what may change may fail. The patient Finger-watches are content To be turned round by every Government. Those Church chameleons, fed on Glories Air Still take that Colour which at Court they wear. He who this hour for Loyalty declaims The very next forsakes his Idol-James. How do each honest mind abominate These shuffling Arts, these Tricks of Church and State, Just Rage once roused in vengeance I'll persist, And make 'em feel an angry satirist (a) Vid. Postscript to Morali●t. Poor harmless thing! Thou canst not angry be: A bristling Louse has more of Soul than thee. But to the point in Question quickly tell, In changing did the Clergy ill or well? If Ill thou saidst they did, thy Vizard's lost, And thou mayst find it at the Whipping Post: If well, thou richly dost deserve the same, Who what thyself approvest, thyself do Sir, neither Horn of your dilemmas stron● For they should still stand firm; what! right o● But how should we our Faith and duty know, When not the same that 'twas 3 years ago? (b) Vid. s●pra. You much alike did mind it, then and ● Pray which of the Commandments is struck out? Which Article o'th' Creed is called in doubt, Unless by heretics, or such as you, Who neither will aright believe or do. would you speak plain, as to confiding Friend, And had you rather had 'em break than bend? Since some for Faith have Courted Martyrdom, should others do it for the Devil and Rome? 'Tis very kind and civil we must own, But is not this a Contradiction? What Quarter has he found who thus has done? ( Tho all he merits) did your satire bite Less close, or with less gull and vengeance writ? State-Butcher styled, and reverend Hypocrite (a) Moralist, p. 14. . But 'tis in vain, all reas'ning is mis-spent Where men resolve they ne're will be content; When like great Generals they prolong the War, Only to show their skill and keep their power. Had Priests stood out, the Nation they'd betrayed, And Sacrifices had been justly made. Did they come in, this turns to their confusion. 'Tis Reservation all and mere Collusion. The Wor●● no more will let 'em now deceive ' em. They've changed their Faith & King, & who'l believe em? That men of sense, ne're fear't, will ever do While what they teach is evident and true, While no implicit notions they impose, Nor like Rome's Priests would led us by the Nose, whilst Life and Pulpit both discourage sin, whilst Reason they can talk, both out and in. Such are those Worthies now the Croziers bear Who with such Grace adorn the Robes they wear. If others with impunity abuse, Much more may we their Names with reverence use, And without leave so fair a subject choose. For ne're could malice find a worse pretence Ne're stood it more in need of Impudence Than in the present Age, each Sacred See With so much Learning filled and Piety. To Flatter whom I'd scorn as much as they to look on me. 'thas ever been the Greats unhappy Fate To bear the under-worlds esteem or hate; Them Friends and Foes so eagerly assail Which is the worst affront? To praise and rail. How e're, whom Virtue has to Glory raised, Why are they good if they would not be praised? Why grievous Lo— n! didst thou still perform Thy Duty in the last approaching Storm, When those who for the better ne're could change, Let loose on thee their festering Old reven●e? Who but a C— n such a Shock could b● He stemmed the first wild Tide, himself Say Envy, say did C— n then disgrace His former Trophies, or his noble Race● And when th' Oppressed Nations cry A loud Alarm to Orange and to Heav● When Europes Saviour did with us begin, And brought a kind, a friendly Army in, Who from fierce Wolves did snatch the Royal Prey, More Fell and Bloody, now they must away, Who did the precious Hostage thence convey? From falling Troy, the blessed Palladium bore, Which by her Presence Sacred was before? Shall Learned B— t ever be forgot: No, first let Malice burst and Envy rot? Verst in the Realms of dark Antiquity, Times Register knows hardly more than he Who reads like him, that could like him digest? He bears a living Bodley in his Breast. Which of the two shall we the most admire, His Gold in Ingots or drawn out in Wire. What Matchless Beauties in each period shine, How sweet a Harmony in every Line? What pleasing Motions all thy Writings raise? How few, Great Man! like thee know how to praise? Our Alexander needs no Homer wish, While matchless B— t his Historian is. B— t, who shared so long the Heroes Fate, Equa● virtuous and unfortunate. ( Tho he so many Foils to Fortune gave, She yields at last, and owns her self his Slave.) To distant Realms a glorious Exile sent; Thus Aristides bore his Banishment: In foreign Lands Carest, just honour shown His Merits there, tho' slighted by his own. How much in vain, what his mad Foes designed? As well the Sun they'd to one Climate bind. His Influence still as great, his Rays as clear, Absent he enlightened both and warmed us here. His Pen did the first timely help afford, And marked the way for his loved Hero's Sword. Say reverend A— ph! shall the Muse presume With trembling steps to approach thy Sacred room! With guilty Eyes and an ingenuous shane Lest rudely we again profane thy Name. So fair thy Life by malice thou'rt forgot (a) Not mentioned in the Tribe of Levi. Nor Envy's self can make or find a blot Bright Confessor in the most glorious Cause, Heav'ns own Religion, and thy Country's Laws? In all Divine and human Learning red, Acquainted well with all the mighty Dead. The Sun its self thou his mistakes couldst tell And by thy art set right his Chronicle, Where wandring Time has in blind mazes trod, Or did in its lost Guides Eclipses nod. The Gordian Knots of tough chronology, Which often cut, seldom untied will be, Familiar all and easy are to thee. Truth which so often has her self denied, Appears to thee disrobed from State and Pride, As thou thyself to all the world beside. " The Sun on infects shines as much as Kings, " The deeper no that sad reflection stings. " What's past is Fate, we Fate in vain deplore, " Yet Muse! sigh on! sigh deeper— Ah no more! Great W— r born a heavy Scourge to Rome, Nor didst thou oftener fight, than overcome. Not valiant Hannibal, so much her Fate, The Object of her Terror and her Hate! Which first shall we admire, thy massy sense, Thy Learnig deep, or flowing Eloquence? Thee unconern'd Posterity shall call In all a Miracle, thyself in all. Shall we go on, and all thoss virtues show From their bright Sees shine on the World below? A while with the Ingenious P— ck stay, Seraphs themselves from him might learn to Pray, With those who fill so well the sacred Seat, With those who are, or those who might be Great. There's one who yet commands our chiefest care What Muse, tho' low as mine is, can forbear, To raise her Voice that speaks of R— r. Thus looked the God of Wit, and thus he sung, When here, such music in his Face and Tongue: All smiling, even Beauteous, ever Young. Alike ●●eir Brows adorned with deathless Bays. Their Heads with Golden or with Silver Rays. Judge all ye Woods, and judge ye Sacred choir Which has the greater share of heavenly Fire? Which with more Art can touch the tuneful lyre? In him Religion like her self is dressed, even grinning Envy here has oft confessed, She finds no fault, the Altar has the best. How blessed those envied few, or loved by F●te, How more than Men divinely Fortunate, Who from the Worlds deceitful hurry free, Enjoy at once the sight of Heaven and Thee? With thee, loved Man perpetual Hymns rehearse And praise the Maker of the Universe: While Harps resound, and pealing Organs Blow, While Angels sing above and Saints below. Ah might I( but the saucy wish must die. He melts his Wi●gs who dares artempt so high), Still hear, still feel the Heavenly Harmony, Thither as constant as the day return, Near thy Immortal Cowley's sacred Urn, How greedily I'd this dull World forego, How gladly leave its Hopes, and Cares below, All that's without the choir with ease despise, All its sad Truths and flattering gilded lies? Mount on the beauteous Wings of Heavenly Love, And try if they had sweeter Songs above. FINIS.