THE Loyal and Impartial SATIRIST: CONTAINING Eight Miscellany Poems, VIZ.  

I. The Ghost of an English Jesus addressing himself to the Royal Cabal in France. To the Honourable, T. C.  
II. Looking on Father Petre's Picture. To his Honoured Friend, Sir T. W. Kt.  
III. Ecebolius Britannicus, Or Memento to the Jacobites of the Higher Order. To the Truly Orthodox Critic and Poet, J. D— n Esq  
IU. The Grand Decision, to the Memory of Cranmer. To his Magnanimus Friend Mr. H—ll, of H— y.  
V To an Old Factious Miser, who wept at the Loss of a Bag of Gold. To his Generous and Ingenious Friend Capt. B— w.  
VI The True Christian Philosopher, written to his much Honoured Friend, W. B. Esq  
VII. The Refuge, written to the Honourable, Sir R. F. Baronet.  
VIII. The Comical Cabal; or Humours of the Mobile.  
To the Truly Honourable and Ingenious, Sir P. D. Bar.   
Jamque I●ae patuere Deum, manifestaque belli  
Signa dedit Mundus.  Lucan. lib. 2. — Dabit Deus his quoque finem, Virg. Aeneid. lib. 1. 
LONDON, Printed for Richard Baldwin, and Sold by the Booksellers of London and Westminster, 1694.   

TO My much Honoured Friend, GEORGE LUCY, Esq  
Honoured Sir,  
BEING under some Obligation to communicate these following Essays to the World, and being myself sufficiently satisfied with the good meaning and tendency of 'em; I am thereby induced in a peculiar manner to recommend 'em to your Perusal a●d Acceptance: And in you (I am sure) I at once Honour a Gentility becoming the Politest Age, and a Wisdom that adorn that Ancient and much celebrated Family, of which you are now the principal surviving part, and to which I must ever own myself most particularly obliged.  
I have here presented you as a trial of your kind and wont Constructions with some slight and unaccurate productions of a little leisure; and which at first I designedly formed in some hurry of thoughts, for my own satisfaction and ease; but have now ventured to Publish in times of more Public and Universal Danger. For tho' I was never much surprised and alarmed with popular or artificial Fears and Jealousies; (which will perhaps make a noise, even in the most promising Seasons, as long as the World endures) yet when Matter of Fact is notoriously plain and evident; when Tyrannical, Base, and Undermining Principles are seconded with Power, Revenge, and successful Issues; 'Tis a weak piece of bravery merely to defy Danger, and Rank Folly and Stupidity not to be Nationally concerned.  
The Politics of France are now fairly legible in Speeches and Bravadoes, in Actions and Menaces, and many Self-evident Tokens of a designed Usurpation: And we are not only to expect the same Burning Effects from the same Damning Cause; but have also too just and apparent reason to fear, that we shall be graduated up, through all the dectnt forms of Ingenious Cruelty, and the several Stages of Torture to a more Solemn and Ceremonious Death, if ever Popery lift up its Head in England.  
Perhaps the more dull and half-witted Priests may content themselves with a short Fiery Trial; with the Plain and Old-fashioned way of Sacrificing Heretics to the Roman Idol: And I have Charity to believe there are many kind and good-natured Romanists amongst us, who are so much our Friends, as to shrink and tremble even at the thoughts of such Barbarities as these: But all their good wishes must prove but vain and plausible Nothings, when the Insolent Jesuit has once 〈◊〉 Ascendant, and is roaring up and down with Racks, Wheels, and Damnation in his Mouth, and all the Terrors of the Ten Persecutions: And what will a not swearing, or, who would have thought it, signify, when our Gates are set open to that Royal Thunderer, who has been so far influenced by his Beloved Oracles, an the Omnipotent Charms of Canonical Executioners, as to give no rest either to the World or himself; and whose magnified Conduct bears a near resemblance to that Awful sort of Majesty, which Mr. D— n presents us with, in his notable Description of a Bull after this manner, 
While Monarchlike he ranged the listed Field,  
Some tossed, some gored, some trampling down he killed.   
I would here take occasion (had I a Commission so to do) to entertain the Courteous and Benevolent ●eader with some obliging Prophecy, or comfortable Revelation about Futurities and Events: But at present I must own myself not sufficiently skilled in Astrological Inquiries, Synchronistical Schemes, and other ingenious Whimsies, which sound but immusically to a Judicious Ear, and rather amuse, than improve the Rational Faculties. If I can compose or allay an ill-natured Passion, or gratify a good one, by perusing the Books of Homer, I am not much concerned with Didymus the Grammarian, where he was certainly born; or with others, which were first written, the Iliads or Odysseys. So long as I can enjoy the Benefits of the Reformation occasionally begun by Luther; I need not anxiously inquire, what his Name seems to import in the Muscovitish Style, or High Dutch. And if I could but see my Native Country in a Triumphant Condition (of which I do not despair) I care not whether Albion take its Name ab Albis Rupibus, from Olbion, or the Son of Neptune.  
Be pleased to accept of what I have written, as a Testimony of my Zeal and Love for Old England, and Honour for yourself: I am,  
Honoured Sir, Your Humble Servant, S. S.   


THE GHOST OF AN English Jesuit, Addressing himself to The Royal Cabal IN FRANCE.  

BRavely performed my Friends! and who can tell  
But this rare Change may add new Life to Hell?  
It shall; Success shall all your Fears confute,  
And bring the Devil again into Repute.  
In spite of Heaven your Fame shall wider spread,  
And stamp a Terror both on Quick and Dead:  
The Northern Heresy shall now go down,  
That has so long outbraved the  Throne;  
And Heaven itself shall with new blushes glow  
At th● dire Ills which you transact below.  
O Britain! thy Fate rides on apace,  
And Rome shall punish thy accursed Race:  
The Leaguing Powers of Hell and Earth combine  
With cruel Martyrdoms to make thee shine,  
And nobly to revenge my fall by Thine.  
I thought that Monarch for whose sake I sell,  
And Headlong went before my Time to Hell;  
Would have atoned my Fate with active speed,  
When Time should plant the Crown upon his Head:  
Had he done so and showed true Roman Skill,  
I could have owned him for my Master still;  
Had he but marked each Week or Day with Blood,  
Begun with his own Vile, Apostate Brood;  
Had he thought Mary's Reign too soft and good,  
And scorned t'have been b'a Woman thus outdone;  
Had he from London Tower lanced Thunder down  
When like a Trojan Horse it faced the Town;  
Had he inverted Seasons, forced a Day  
With blazing Bishop, showed the foulest play  
That Rome could Act, or Hell itself can Name,  
Till he by poaching had destroyed the Game:  
Nay had he been the second of his time,  
Blest with a Genius for some lower Crime;  
Had he taught Heretic Tiburns steps to climb,  
Mowed 'em down thick, and left no work for time;  
Trod on their Necks with true Ignatian Pride,  
And braved 'em with the Gospel on their side;  
Had he done this, and more he should have done;  
Rome might have owned him for her Trueborn Son:  
But he alas! was Innocent and Tame;  
Too much o'th' Brother's Metal in his frame  
Checked all the Praise that hope did  create,  
And stopped those Glories which on slaughter wait:  
But I forget— Th' Infernal Council sat,  
And much was said about Affairs of State;  
At length the Unanimous Sages have decreed,  
You should their Glory raise with generous speed  
Hail Mighty Monarch! who alone art fit  
To mix with Hell in Council, and to sit  
Commissioner of the Infernal State,  
The Destinies of Kingdoms to debate:  
To thy wise Conduct, and famed Policy  
Satan with all the Royal Progeny  
Submits a weighty and important Cause;  
Which if well managed will subvert all Laws  
Divine and Humane, those of Nature too;  
And therefore only fit for such as you:  
Nor can I doubt thy gallant helping hand,  
For tho' thy Arms were lately at a stand;  
Tho' sprightly Rage run out of breath gave ground,  
And thy sunk Cause felt an inglorious Wound;  
Yet these last Triumphs do all Fears control,  
And now brave Thoughts gild thy enligtened Soul:  
Despair is gone, that Lethargy o'th' mind,  
Which did thy stagg'ering Vassal's Spirits bind;  
The drowsy Spell's dissolved; th' Enchantment's gone;  
Fear's now deposed, and Vengeance sits ' th' Throne;  
Commands all Faculties, and rules alone.  
Hell soon perceived, when first this Change began;  
Through th' horrid Vale the rising Rumour ran:  
Fame through the deep-sunk-Vault did Echoing bound,  
While thick'ning Shades snatched and devoured the sound:  
With sudden Rapture winged, they did resort  
To th' place of Rendezvouz, with Antic Sport,  
And a long Jubilee gracing the Report.  
Great Loyola's Ghost did seem to quit his pains  
Strutted in Bonds, and Triumphed in his Chains:  
He laid aside his Rage, and made a pause;  
With envious Joy he muttered your Applause:  
And I methinks, in sweet disorder tossed  
Am in a Labyrinth of Wonder lost,  
While my illuminated Eyes behold  
Tyranny flushed, and Execution bold:  
How is my Soul imparadi'st, to see  
These nice Black Arts so well improved, which I  
So slowly did push on? By Hell I'm glad  
To see the Charm survive, tho' the Magitian's dead.  
Advance Great Potentate with bold Alarms,  
And make the World pay Homage to thy Arms:  
Advance, till raised above all sense of Good  
Thou dost in Jolly and Triumphant Mood,  
Upon poor bleeding Europe's Ruins stand,  
And with thy Armies Thunder-shake the Land.  
Sin on to such a brave Transcendent pitch,  
Till hardened like some Covenanting Witch,  
Ages as yet unborn may call thee cursed,  
And think thee by some Bear, or She Wolf nursed;  
Hatched in a Storm, and in some D●sart bred,  
And Mithridates-like with Poison fed:  
May pious Wretches, and Seraphic Fools  
That sneakingly pretend to Holy Rules,  
The Annals of thy Reign with Horror read,  
And fear thy Rising Ghost, when thou art Dead.  
May Matrons faint when e'er thy Name they hear,  
And suffer Pangs greater than Women bear:  
May Virgins which ne'er knew unchaste desires,  
While sleeping Dream they feel thy Lustful Fires,  
May they shriek, sob, and cry, and long complain  
To the proud Ravisher of their Joys in vain.   

Thou needest not Caesar-like thy Deeds proclaim,  
Which have already filled the Mouth of Fame;  
Ambitious Villains nothing read but thee,  
The Godly put thee in their Litany:  
The Brave accost thee with a generous flame;  
Even England in distress invokes thy Name.  
And when the wretched World must lose its Lord,  
Such as Fate never shall again afford,  
Nature shall feel the Change; th' Infernal Rout  
Shall shake the Earth's Foundations with a shout;  
A Pompous Train of Sprights shall upwards go  
To meet thy Mighty Shade;  
They shall conduct thee in, and crown thy Ghost below  
Legions of Fiends shall be at thy Command;  
E'vn Lucifer himself shall proudly stand,  
And place thee in a Throne on his Right Hand:  
Surviving Sinners shall thy Shade implore,  
If they but see thy Picture they'll Adore;  
They will rise up and say,  
Lo this is the True Stamp of Majesty,  
This is the Mighty Lewis, this was he  
That Hectored Heaven, chaste Monarches up and down,  
And made all Powers alike stoop to his own;  
While he like Jove, and as secure from Crime,  
'Twixt Lust and Thunder did divide his time.   

And you My Lords and Friends, that are thought fit  
In Bloody Council with your Prince to sit;  
You, who by being his Slaves far greater are,  
Than other Puny-monarches do appear,  
Act equal to the Character you bear.  
Let no Sex, Age, or Innocence be free  
From your quick All-Attoning Cruelty,  
By an Herodian Provident Act Destroy  
Young Sprawling Heretics, blast the blooming Joy:  
Let 'em in Mother's Tears Baptised be,  
And Martyred the next Moment, and when she  
Has seen and felt her Tender Infants die,  
With one kind Thrust let her away be hurled,  
T' Attend her Darling Brats i'th' other World.  
Snatch Blushing Females from the Nuptial Bed,  
And on their suffering Honour boldly tread,  
Seize 'em all Pale and Panting in Despair,  
With Tattered Veil, and Wild Dishreveled Hair;  
And then with Sacred Knife for Death make room,  
And turn their Bridal-Bed into a Tomb.   

Lastly in Sport, and at your Leisure slay  
Tame Aged Heretics: 'Twill be rare play  
To Thaw their Frozen Blood, and make 'em feel  
The Brisk Devouring Fire, or Broaching Steel.  
O 'tis a Ravishing Sound!  
More sweet and Charming than the Voice of Fame,  
To hear th' Old Martyrs crackle in the Flame.   

Like Hills on Mountains piled, heap Perjury  
On Common Lies, and Old Hypocrisy;  
Let Faith be banished, with it Nature too:  
Dull and Fantastic things, bid 'em adieu:  
Compassion's Cowardice, and overthrows that State,  
Which might subsist by Violence and hate:  
Patience is Dullness, Goodness, Lethargy,  
Mercy's a Pompous Name for Foolery:  
'Tis just whatever hurts you to destroy;  
Besides in Injury there's a Secret Joy.  
Well acted Fury is a generous Fire,  
And conquering Arms a Reverence inspire:  
The Voice of Cannon best proclaims a King;  
The Law o'th' Sword does the best Title bring;  
And hired Dragoons will better plead your Cause,  
Than if you bribed an Oracle o'th' Laws.   

The Jesuits Glory now is past the Full,  
Priests in the Trade of sinning are grown dull:  
And daily cancel all that Fame and Praise,  
Which their Illustrious Ancestors did raise:  
'Tis time the World out of its Sleep should rise,  
'Tis time new flaming Orders to devise;  
Which may refine gross sin to such a strain,  
That Men may fear some Angels fallen again,  
Struck from some Loftier Orb for their disdain;  
And in the way to Hell by Heaven designed  
To visit Mortals, and blast Humane-kind.  
To Common Lust and Murderbid Adieu;  
Such puny Toys Rome's Infant Greatness knew;  
Such Jewels in her Cradle she did wear,  
Let now some Manly Wickedness appear.  
Invent new Tortures, such as pointed Wheel,  
The gnawing Vulture, or Ignatian steel  
Did ne'er inflict, or a forced Conscience feel;  
Worse than Domitian e'er designed to act,  
When with soft Words he did men's Dooms protract,  
Or what is still more cruel and unkind,  
Than Kings by their fair Edicts e'er designed.  
To this add things obscene, and in one day  
More foul and brutal Scenes of Lust display,  
Than Priest or Bawd e'er by Example taught,  
Than Popes by their Indulgences e'er wrought  
i'th' ' Three Hot Months,  
Or Nuns confined in their whole Life  thought;  
Such as were never equalled in Romance,  
Or formed by A'ry Poet in a Trance:  
Such as great Jove could ne'er act to the full,  
Even when he turned himself into a Bull.   

Let no base cowardly disaster slain  
The matchless Triumphs of your sinful Reign;  
Those Heroes only do true Honour share,  
That sin without a Blush, without a Tear.  
Not all the Odours o'th' Arabian Fields,  
Nor the choice Scents the Indian Climate yields,  
Nor luscious Gales, nor balmy Springs that meet  
In Paradise, are so profusely sweet  
As groans of Heretics, and the Nid'rous Flood  
That comes from streams of their hot fuming Blood:  
Fill up some Hugonots Skull with Reeking Gore;  
And thus a Blessing on your Cause implore;  
Begin a Health; (no fit Sacrament  
To back your Zeal and Villainous intent)  
To Lucifer; round let it freely go  
To all your Grim Confederates below:  
Thus strengthened with an Oath, and fixed with Zeal,  
Revenge in Privy Ambuscade conceal  
No longer, but with proud adventurous Force  
Great Britain's Royal Officer unhorsed.  
Begin with him, who has your Councils Awed,  
Were he the Son of some bold Thundering God:  
'Tis gallant Sport to hunt a Monarch down,  
And having don't, to scramble for a Crown;  
Nor can your Wit invent a Nobler Game,  
To be the Basis of your Rising Fame:  
What Snivelling Dioclesian ne'er could do,  
Destroy your Enemies, and their Bibles too:  
Thus a new War 'gainst Heaven will be begun:  
What spite you show this way, to Heaven is done.  
Then quickly your Avenging Flames display;  
And what at Sea you felt, with Interest re-pay.   

Then tho' Death Revel in a Thousand Forms,  
In Scaffolds, Gibbets, Racks, Wheels, Fire and Storms;  
Tho' Myriad mount up to their Native Sky,  
Tho' King and Subject undistinguished lie;  
Yet may you set, when Armed with Lawless Power,  
The vast Expense of Blood on England's Score.  
Rebellion shall Eclipse the Tyrant's shame,  
And Heresy soften the lewd Murderer's Name.   

Had Hell ungrateful been, you justly might  
Turn Tame and Canting Cowards out of Spite:  
But well, and to its cost, the World does know,  
How much to our Dread Sovereign here you own:  
By him your Rising Glory first began,  
And o'er the World in gay Procession ran:  
By him the Lordly Boniface did prevail,  
And on his Successors did Blood entail:  
By him th' Immortal Harry did advance,  
And lay the Model of Aspiring France.  
By him poor Charles the boasted Martyr, fell;  
And died deservedly for acting well:  
The Fame of which shook the round Dusky Ball;  
And distant Nations trembled at his Fall.  
Thus Hell kept pace with your Ambitious Will,  
Blest all your Wishes with Success; and still  
For all past Service Gratitude does pay,  
But chides your late past Dullness and Delay.  
Therefore Redeem the Time, consider well  
What you have lost, how much you own to Hell:  
Antaeus like you should Misfortunes make  
Your Spoils; and from your Foils fresh Courage take:  
Valour 'twixt Two Extremes confined and penned,  
Swells like a Torrent struggling for a vent.  
What, tho' repulsed by Men and Seas Unkind!  
The next Decision you may happier find;  
Even Fate it  soon varies with the Wind.  
've lost a Battle! So did Caesar too:  
Let not such trifling Thoughts your minds pursue:  
Remember what 've acted, what 've won;  
And scorn to be by one poor loss undone.  
Think with what Awful Pride, and Brave Disdain,  
You Road before Triumphant on the Main:  
While England's Fortune to your Arms gave way,  
And Dutch, like filth, were shoveled into th' Sea:  
Death flew about in black and hideous Forms;  
While Top-Masts fell, like Oaks and Pines, in Storms:  
English at distance gazed, as Men do creep  
On Rocks, to view the Wonders of the deep:  
Let such Incitements animate your Spleen;  
Let no vain Airy Terror step between,  
To crush Aspiring Hope: Go on, and may  
Those Stars, that Slaughter guide, point out your way.  
Old Time, methinks, stalks on with lazy feet;  
Methinks 'tis long before my Lords I meet  
With your grim Forces walled in glittering Arms,  
Stunning the Nations rounds with fierce Alarms:  
This do: Drive on unwilling Destiny;  
And to your Arms let Victory reply.  
Or, if you fail, may you full Vengeance share:  
May those Twine-Devils, Cruelty and Fear,  
Which once possessed you, plague you every where.  
O that I were Omnipotent in Ill!  
Or that my power ran equal to my Will!  
I'd soon Anticipate the World's last Fire;  
At every blast whole Kingdoms should expire:  
Born on the Wings of Pride I'd upwards fly,  
Pierce through the Clouds, those Bubbles of the Sky;  
Hunt all the Guardian Spies from Sphere to Sphere,  
And the Black Daemon should outbrave the Fair.    

Looking upon Father PETRE's Picture.  

BEhold True Petre here! that Highflown Saint  
Has ever been mere Masquerade and Paint.  
Religion was his Pimp; The Name of Just  
Was Glorious Pander to his Pride and Lust:  
View well that Leer, which looks as if 'twere meant  
A Libel on Our King and Parliament.  
His Stormy Visage, and Erected Head  
Look Fierce and Proud, like Catiline when Dead.   

There's more Confusion in his Printed Looks,  
Than in all Bellarmine's Enchanting Books:  
Fate's Book can scarce more terrible appear  
To a departing Lover in despair,  
Than this to me, raw damps my Spirits seize;  
No Common Murderer's Ghost could so surprise.  
The very Picture like Medusa's Head,  
Does with dire Horror Tender Hearts invade;  
There's rank Confusion in his very Shade.  
Vile Image of a Steeled Apostate, Go,  
And sink down to thy Brethren Shades below:  
For sure thy mere Effigies should be  
Sentenc't-for Witchcraft, burnt for Heresy.   

Caligula did childishly complain  
That no Misfortunes dignified his Reign:  
He feared calm times his Memory would blot;  
And his blurred Name would quickly be forgot.  
How blessed had the Conceited Tyrant been,  
Had he but known thy Luscious Arts of Sin?  
Had he like thee, with one Envenomed Breath,  
Raised, and Entailed strange Famines, Storms, and Death?  
In vain would Monarches, like the Sun, disperse  
Their vigorous Warmth throughout the Universe,  
While Priests like a Black Cloud, or Northern Wind,  
Stifle those Beams which are so warm and kind.  
How are the Mighty fallen from their High Seat,  
And sunk down from their Precipice of State?  
How soon are Kings to swift Destruction hurled?  
'Tis Priests and Women that undo the World.    

Ecebolius Britannicus, OR, A Memento to the Jacobites of the Higher Order.  

YOU, whom Religion sits so lose about,  
That you want Charity to fill it out;  
You that can't swear (that might consist with Love)  
Yet Curse and Damn like the Great Lateran Jove;  
Remember him who lately seemed to say,  
What is Religion but a Solemn Play?  
We do but Act a while, and then give over;  
And when we quit this Stage, we are no more.  
In vain Men hope th' Alyss of Light to see,  
No Spirits wait in hollow Trees beneath,  
Nor is there any bellowing after Death,  
'Tis all but vain and senseless Poetry:  
Death shuts the Comic Scene; when parted hence  
None ever cried, What am I, or from whence?  
No Daemons walk, no glaring Eyeballs roll,  
But horrid stillness than invades the Soul.  
Great Souls discern not when the Leaps too wide;  
Heroes will ever be for changing Sides:  
And since Religion's vary like the Wind,  
Who would to one be cursedly confined?  
He that can servilely creep after one,  
Is safe, but ne'er shall reach Promotion.  
Sell Plays for Legends (that's the way to prosper)  
I'll part with Scenes for a more costly Shrine,  
Phillis for Bridget, or Saint Katherine,  
Bizarre and Escapade for Pater Noster;  
My Maximin for Lewis; and I hope  
To find a New Almanzer in the Pope.   

Rome's Church, tho' once a Whore, now cannot be;  
She must be chaste, because she's loved by me.  
How Dear is Mother-Church, how Charming Fair,  
To a Distressed Sinner in Despair?  
The World shall see I'll turn, because I dare.   

As once Empedocles to get a Name,  
Winged with Ambition to be thought a God,  
O'er unfrequented Hills, and Peaks untrod,  
Passed into scorching AEtna's Liquid Flame:  
So to be dubbed a Saint, and fill a Story,  
From Fairy Lands, and dark Enchanted Isle,  
From Mountains of the Moon, and Head of Nile  
Immortal Bays will pass to Purgatory.   

2.  
But ha'! What strange new Project is here shown,  
So long kept secret, and so lately known?  
As if our Old Plot modestly withdrew,  
And here in Private were brought forth anew.  
New Almanacs foretell some Change at hand,  
When Bear-skined Men in Floating Castles land;  
And all our hopes, like Old men's Children, be  
Blasted and withered in their Infancy.  
Parsons and Curates careless of their Charge,  
And safe in Holy Ease now live at large;  
Unguarded leave their Posts, away they fly:  
And all dissolved in New Allegiance lie.   

The Prelates are protected by the Bar,  
Dull Heroes fatten still with Spoils of War;  
Ah why should a worse Fortune be designed  
For him that wrote the Panther and the Hind?   

Is this the State his Holiness has given?  
Is this our Cape of Hope, and promised Hav'n?  
This Province my Unhappy Change has got,  
This Portion is the losing Converts Lot.  
This Region my false wand'ring steps have found,  
And Fortune flies me like Enchanted Ground.  
Best take th' occasion, and this Clime forsake,  
While Time is given; Ho, Brother Teague awake,  
If thou art he; but ah! How sunk in Tone?  
How changed from proud Bullero to O Hone?  
How faded all thy Laurels are? I see  
My Fate too soon, and my own Change in thee.  
Into what wild Distraction am I brought?  
I'm lost, and caught in my own Web of Thought:  
I burn, I'm all on fire, I more than burn:  
Stand off, I have not leisure yet to turn.  
What have these Bears, these Boars, and Dirty Swine,  
These Heretic Dogs, to do with me or mine?  
I'll ne'er repent of such a Gallant Crime:  
When Wits are down, Dull Fops will watch their Time.   

Our Fame is hushed, as Hope itself lay dead,  
And Rome gins to Nod her Drooping Head:  
The little Teagues in Dreams their howls repeat,  
And weeping Laurels with the Night-Dew sweat:  
Panthers are now at rest, but Fear denies  
Sleep to my Hind, and to her Poet's Eyes.    

The Grand Decision. To the Memory of CRANMER.  

WHEN Heaven no longer could suspend its hate,  
Stop its winged Vengeance, or adjourn our Fate;  
When England's Sins t' a Monstrous growth did swell,  
And we, the Darkest Nation next to Hell,  
Had Armed God's Wrath against ourselves, and given  
Proud and Insulting Challenges to Heaven:  
Then Mighty Cranmer, after Gods own Heart,  
Was singled out to act his Mournful part,  
With Sacred Blood heavens Wrath to Countermand,  
And to Convert anew th' Apostate Land.   

Methinks I see th' Illustrious Criminal  
Hurried from Prison to a Judgment-Hall,  
Where he met Devils in the shape of Men,  
And 'twas the Noblest Triumph he could gain;  
Heaven had decreed that he should downwards tend,  
And visit Hell, before he could ascend.  
Methinks I see the busy Tempter stand,  
Crying, Hold back, Cranmer Hold back thy hand;  
While he urged on by Zeal, and Glorious shame,  
Plunged his Immortal Hand into the Flame.  
The Blazing Pile could not his Soul affright,  
But Halo like did play before his sight,  
And served to light the Martyr on his way  
To Blessed Canaan, and Eternal-Day:  
So when God's Chosen Favourites were to go  
From Aegypt's Bondage, and a Land of Woe;  
Th' obsequious Waters did their rage suspend,  
And tho' they seemed to threaten, did befriend:  
As Adam's Fortunate Offence made way  
For a more Happy and Triumphant Day,  
So Cranmer by's Officious Erring-hand  
Brought Prouder Trophies to his Native Land,  
And conquered, though his Soul was at a stand:  
For tho' He gave back in a tempting hour,  
Yet soon he rallied with a vaster Power;  
And by his leading Arm the Laurel won,  
Had he not erred, how little had he done?  
Had Our Cause, backed but with an equal Power,  
Been balanced in Uncertainty before;  
His Hand had turned the Scale of the Dispute,  
This Act did all Rome's Miracles confute:  
By this alone it amply did appear,  
What Romish Rage can Act, what Flesh inspired can bear.  
Call't not his Death, but Coronation:  
'Twas but the Earnest of a Braver sway,  
'Twas not his Dying, but Ascension-Day,  
The Stage seemed not his Funeral Pile, but Throne:  
Brave to the last he faced his Destiny,  
When it was somewhat more than Death to see.  
With blissful thoughts he did past Toils recount,  
And seemed Transfigured on the Fatal Mount:  
With Port Divine, and with Atoning Breath,  
He pardoned, prayed, and blessed i'th' hour of Death.  
He prayed and upward looked to th' opening Skies;  
Then blest again with lifted Hands and Eyes,  
And as his Body Fell, his Soul did Rise:  
It flew cloft upon the Wings o'th' Wind,  
The Prophet upward soared, his Mantle fell behind.    

TO AN Old Factious Miser Who Wept at the Loss of A Bag of GOLD.  

DOST thou, who canst behold without a groan  
An Envied Nation, and a Shaken Throne,  
Afflicted Heroes, and a bleeding Main,  
At the poor Loss of Puny Gold complain?  
For shame, thou vilest of the Whining Herd!  
Thou Everlasting Scandal to a Beard,  
Correct thy blubbered Eyes, and sob no more;  
What, dost thou think to weep a Golden Shower?  
Judas, who for a Bag his Lord betrayed,  
For loss of it had not been thus dismayed:  
No Irishman for puling famed e'er howled  
Over the Hearse of his Departed Gold.  
Thy Bags, which thou esteemest thy Sacred Shrine,  
Are not thy Goods, but a dull useless Mine;  
And he that of one part did thee beguile,  
No Robber was; 'twas not a Theft but Spoil:  
He only took from the Rich Massy Throng,  
What to the Public did before belong.  
He only did redeem the Captive Store;  
Thou art the Thief; the Bag was stolen before.   

Take heed grey Crim'nal, and in time Repent:  
Think not to make thy Chest thy Monument.  
Thy Bags by Plunder and acquaint Knav'ry gained,  
Should now to Pious Uses be Restrained,  
Let thy poor Naked Friend thy Liv'ry wear,  
And feed not Lazarus with an Empty Prayer.  
Part with thy Golden Gods, and give what's due  
To Caesar, and the Starveling Vicar too.  
If thou canst give thy Thoughts this Glorious Range,  
'Twill not Commence a Loss, but Wise Exchange.  
Ith' Rolls o'th' Just thou shalt Recorded stand,  
And find a fair Estate i'th' Promised Land.   

Of all th' Idolatries, by Heaven accursed,  
This creeping Zeal for Mammon is the worst.  
They that have Worshipped Malefactors Bones,  
Cats, Dogs, Leeks, Onions, hallowed Stocks and Stones;  
Still strained their Worship and Affections higher;  
To a more Noble Object did Aspire.  
〈◊〉 Miser has no taste of things Divine;  
〈◊〉 highest thoughts still terminate in Coin:  
Wealth 〈◊〉 Principle, not Property:  
〈◊〉 ta●●is tender Conscience does annoy,  
A●●●ll his Christian Liberty destroy.  
〈…〉 his Temple where his Bags are laid;  
〈…〉 his Altar, where his Vows are paid:  
●ne may but his Darling Idol serve,  
〈…〉 suit flourish, and Three Kingdom starve.  
He rowls in sordid Mire like grunting Hog;  
He's Tyrant that would thus enslave his Dog.  
He brood's o'er Bags, sits poring on his Pelf,  
Usurps on Public Justice, wracks himself:  
Drudges and Toils; like a Thin Meager Hack,  
With a fierce Dunning Tradesman on his back.  
With him compared a Monkey is discreet,  
And the Grave, Long-eared, Solid Beast a Wit.   

With Eyes turned up towards Heaven, th' unthinking Clod  
Knelt but in Sport, and Compliments his God.  
With knackish Prayer he does the Poor undo;  
So Cain could Sacrifice and Murder too.  
'Twixt him and Fiend there is this odds alone,  
The one wears Flesh and Blood, and tother none.  
And sure that Wretch too justly is undone,  
Tho' in the Name of God his Will may run,  
Who has no Mercy, at the last dark hour,  
Not one Atoning Item for the Poor.    

THE TRUE Christian Philosopher.  
To My Much Honoured Friend, W. B. Esquire.  

I.  
WHile War and Rumours through the World do blow,  
And Om'nous Clouds on Common Brows do sit;  
How Happy in a Gay Retirement you,  
Blest with Philosophy and Sacred Wit?   

II.  
You seem to stand above the Shock of Time;  
Wisdom from you does unaffected flow:  
Your Speech is like our Poet's Hill Sublime,  
Or Sweet and Pleasant like the Plains below.   

III.  
While th' Universe groans, in you, methinks, I see  
All Elements Calm, and Nature's self at Rest:  
In your fair Bosom the Loved Graces play,  
The Sirens sing, and Halcyons build their Nest.   

iv  
In you Socratic Wisdom does survive,  
And flow with purer percolated streams;  
The Sages of Old Rome and Athens live,  
And Ancient Lights shine with United Beams.   

V  
With Innocence Armed the Globe you boldly tread,  
And through a boist'sous World securely steer:  
While meaner Mortals by low Maxims led,  
Are tossed betwixt Alternate Hope and Fear.   

VI  
So trim Mock-Warriours trip away, and run,  
When Saucy Danger bids 'em stand their ground;  
The busy Trumpet, and impert'nent Gun,  
With rude, unmannerly Noise their Spirits wound.   

VII.  
But England's Hero fortunately lives;  
The grimmest prospect Fame or Conquest yields;  
Through sparkling Deaths, and splendid Wounds he drives,  
Secure as Caesar in Pharsalian Fields.   

VIII.  
Great Souls are still resigned, serene, and gay;  
Each place to them a sweet Arcadia proves,  
And he that ne'er from Virtue's Path does stray,  
Walks in Elysian Fields, and Golden Groves.   

IX.  
Tho' placed on Aetna's Top, or in the Vale  
Of scorched Vesuvius, he'll a shelter find;  
No Storms without his Gallant Mind Assail,  
While in his Breast the Seasons fair and kind.    

The Refuge.  
To The Honourable, Sir R. F. Baronet.  

TO you, kind Sir, this bold Address is due,  
Who are my Worthy Friend, and Patron too:  
For he's my generous Friend, my Patron kind,  
That gives me Knowledge to enrich my Mind.  
I've found, I'd almost said in you alone,  
A Varro and Maecenas both in one.  
In you the Court and Academy join,  
The Christian and Philosopher Combine:  
The Favours which you willingly display  
Exact more thanks than I have power to na●  
Each Ornament I view, each moving Grace  
Is a vast Theme, and would Engross my Praise.   

In vain do Mortals wantonly Aspire,  
When the best thing i'th' World is to retire  
In vain on Greatness their Devotion fix,  
And think to fly to Heaven with Coach and Six:  
Unhappy, while they lay down restless Head  
On a soft Pillow in a gilded Bed;  
And want those peaceful slumbers which caress  
The Peasant's Soul, and lull his Thoughts with ease:  
The Prophet slept, and dined in greater State,  
When his kind Angel did upon him wait  
Under a Tree, and bid him rise and eat.  
There's a more cheap Compendious way to Bliss;  
A safe and brighter path to happiness:  
Friendship to true Aspiring Souls is given,  
As the best Emblem of the Joys of Heaven.   

The choicest Wits, that Ancient Rome e'er bred,  
Ne'er cared on lofty Pinnacles to tread:  
But with Romantic Scenes of Grandeur tired,  
Or else with pure Philosophy inspired,  
Forsook the Banquets o'th' Imperial Court,  
(Where Fortune's Golden Minions did resort)  
And sought for Refuge in some Country Town,  
Where they might call their Time and Friends their own:  
A Friend with his gay Looks, and kind Embrace,  
Gilds every Walk, and Consecrates each Place:  
A Cheerful Friend that knows no horrid Crimes,  
Is a deliverer in the worst of Times:  
His Mouth's an Oracle can Doubts appease,  
His Tongue's all Harmony, his Looks all Peace.  
In gloomy Days; when in our Breasts the Sky  
Looks foul; when Vapours crowd and upward fly:  
When Spirits in disordered measures roll,  
And every Thought shoots Poison through the Soul:  
Our groaning sad Companions that condole,  
Appear like Ghosts, and seem to shriek and howl;  
But a dear cheerful Friend soon drives away  
Black forms, and busy Spectrums of the day;  
Or, like an Angel, does the Pain allay.  
One touch from his soft charitable hand  
Strikes Joy: Each glance a Care can countermand:  
His Words are Balm, his Smiles a Cordial prove,  
And Wit and Mirth th' incumbent ill remove.  
Each blissful Minute does fresh Sweets display;  
Care fly●●, like Time, insensibly away:  
Raw Damps, Cold Shades, and Pestilential Air  
Depart, and the whole Man looks bright and fair.  
I'd rather sit with Friend without control,  
Than live a softly, tame, obsequious Tool  
At Great Man's Ellbow, with a straitlaced Soul;  
Visit that House, where Wit or Love prevails,  
Than view Loretto's Shrines, or proud Versails.  
Or were I Monk; your Friendship to partake,  
I'd quit my Cell, and Sweetest Nuns forsake.   

'Tis pleasant too, when Friend is gone, to fly  
To th' Sacred Muses, and Philosophy.  
With these Wise Seneca made some amends,  
When banished, and sequestered from his Friends:  
And Caesar took a Muse, 'midst Civil Broils,  
To ease his Labours, and divert his Toils.  
One Happy Thought a brighter Treasure Coins,  
Than what is gained by strength of Lungs, or Loins:  
One 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 all sensual Toys excels,  
While the flushed Soul with lasting Rapture swells:  
An Ode of Horace, Rapine, Casimere,  
Transcends the softest Airs that charm the Ear.  
Sweet Virgil! Thy blessed Fate I'd rather choose,  
Thy Sacred Walks, and thy Immortal Muse;  
Than proudly climb the much famed Emperor's Seat;  
'Twas thy brave Pen that made Augustus Great.  
With thee and Plato I've been pleased abroad,  
At Home, Alone, and in a Senseless Crowd:  
I've supped with thee, when at a Great Man's Feast,  
Where 'twas a breach of Law to vent one Jest.  
In Bed I've been with thy Fair Dido blest,  
And in the dark by Anna too caressed.  
There are more sprightly, and enticing Charms  
In Ovid's Poesy, than Corinna's Arms:  
The Sweet-tongued Sidney's Wit did far excel  
All the famed Wealth o'th' Land wherein he fell.  
One Golden Leaf of Cowley writ with Art and Flame  
Outweighs a Miser's Store, or Bank of Amsterdam.    

THE Comical Cabal; OR, Humours of the Mobile.  
To the Truly Honourable and Ingenious Sir P. D. Baronet.— Hanc etiam, Maecenas, aspice partem. Virg.  

BEfore th' Allseeing Sun did rule the Day,  
Black Night with Pomp of Horror did display  
Her gloomy Wings, and covered all the Globe;  
The World was then one Universal Mob.  
Hail more than Princely Mob! whose Ancient sway  
Does only to Eternity give way:  
Hail thou, who dost derive thy Pedigree  
From a dark Line, and strange Antiquity  
From Mighty Nothing, and Immortal Anarchy.  
And here, behold, Mankind i'th' Lump appears  
A Gracious, Awful Rout of Thundering Seers,  
Staunch Pedlars, Damning Porters, and their Peers.  
Slaves, that are acted by the Power of Words,  
And swallow Notions down, as Daws do Curds.  
Their Peace of Soul consists in want of thinking,  
Their Wisdom's shown in solemn Nod, and winking;  
In waggish Leer, and a Judicious Shrug;  
You'd think they went to School to honest Pug:   

Have you not seen, at Christmas-Carnaval,  
Some Country Coridon's, in a 'Squire's Great Hall,  
Look shamefaced for a while, than duck and bow  
In Civil, Surly Fashion all a-row?  
And all for Master' Squire: As Dancing Mare  
Shows Tricks and Postures for the King at Fair.  
But when at length the jolly 'Squire puts on,  
Salutes with Gentleman each Nodding Clown,  
And cry's, what's in the House is all your own:  
Soon Noddles raised with Healthing and Alarms,  
Their Souls and Bodies both are up in Arms;  
Prepared to fight, and wield a Club or Fist  
'Gainst any thing called Whore, or Antichrist;  
Just so strong precious Nonsense will prevail,  
If you do but infuseed instead of Ale;  
Blind Zeal will soon Intoxicate, and Steer  
Their Souls like Christmas, or Election-Beer;  
The one a Kingdom fires, as t'other Town, or Shire.   

What is their Rage, whose Love's a dangerous thing?  
Their kind Embraces look like Duelling:  
With Civil shake o'th' hand they'll pinch and squeeze;  
And almost smother when they mean to kiss;  
Kick backwards when they think to Congee low,  
And break your Shins in making of a Bow:  
Like Cats, which Scratch and Mawl, even while they move  
To kindest Essays of Entrancing Love.   

Speak some Athenian Sage; instruct my Mind,  
And tell me what new Politic Charm can bind  
Our slipp'ry Mob:  
When Bedlam Wights, and a Prophetic Crew  
(What can't a Rabble joined with Providence do?)  
Do Stare and Damn in Conscientious fit,  
And, like mad Dog, all that oppose 'em by't:  
What bars of Art or Reason can oppose  
The sinewy force of such enlightened Foes,  
When Zeal with brawny Arms and Shoulders joins  
And Conscience mingles with the strength of Loins?  
Bright Lances are but Toys, where they Engage;  
And, like Waves 'gainst a Rock, but lose their Rage:  
Stones, Polished Timber, Adamantine Wall,  
The Weeping Marble, Brazen Pillars, all  
Submit; and scatter Ruin where they fall.  
True the poor Slaves, like the first Matter, still  
Are equally disposed to Good or Ill;  
At most 'tis but Chance-Medley, if they kill.  
Like Stone in Sling they're under a Command,  
Mere Implements in Politician's Hand:  
And if they're rightly set, or let alone;  
Like other parts of the Creation,  
In peaceful Order undisturbed they move,  
Like Sun, and Stars, or Elements above.  
But if they're joged from their allotted place,  
Where Nature fixed this dull and heavy Race;  
You may as soon, when 'tis on Wing recall  
A flying Dart, or a Laplanders Ball.  
Do but buoy up their Souls, framed to obey  
With Dreams and Fictions of Original sway;  
They're proud as Welshman on St. David's day:  
With Eyebrows they'll the Government run down,  
And with grave Folly dictate to the Throne.  
With Finger thrust forth wisely they'll Dispute,  
And by the dint of Back and Arms Confute;  
Put Cases in most wondrous solemn way,  
Like little Jerry Blackacre i'th' Play.  
And tho' they scarce can spell Poor Robin's Jests,  
Are far above a Statesman or a Priest.  
A General Council sits within their Skulls;  
And the least words they speak are Oracles,  
As firm as Fate, or any Papal Bulls.  
They drive and hurry on like Phaeton  
When he did mount the Chariot of the Sun:  
That which before did serve for use, does harm;  
Those flames now burn, which did refresh and warm:  
That Wind which gently fanned, now loud does blow,  
Swell big, and soon does to a Tempest grow.  
Those Waves which were confined, now know no shore;  
'Gainst King, Church, State they dash with law less power  
And fright Mankind with their unbounded roar.    
FINIS.   

ADVERTISEMENTS.  
COnversation in Heaven: Being Devotions, consisting of Meditations and Prayers, on several considerable Subjects in Practical Divinity. Written for the Raising the Decayed Spirit of Piety. By Laurence Smith, LL.D. Fellow of St. John's College in Oxford. Price Two Shillings.  
Lusus Amatorius: Sive Musaei Poema de Herone & Leandro, E Graec â in Latinam Linguam Translatum. Cui Alix (tres scilicêt) accedunt Nugae Poeticae. Authore C. B. è Coll. Di Jo. Bapt. Soc. Price 6d.  
An Anatomy of Atheism: A Poem by a Person of Quality, Price Six pence. All Three sold by Thomas Speed, at the Three Crowns, near the Royal Exchange in Cornhill.