SEJANUS: OR THE Popular Favourite, Now in his Solitude, and Sufferings.  
Written for the Consolation of E. S. the Famous Bromigen Protestant, in Bonds, and Imprisonment, for the Good Old Cause, and the Truth's sake.  By TIMOTHY TORY. 
— Facit indignatio versus.  
Difficile est hîc Satyram non scribere.  Juv. 

IS this thy Glory now? is this thy Pride,  
Of sticking to the Saints, and Godly side?  
Religious Bugbear words that fright from hence,  
From Subject, all their Loyalty to Prince,  
Make black Rebellion, seem white Innocence;  
Entitle Heaven, to the vilest Crimes,  
Make Deity, like Rabble, blame the Times.  
Mad Zealots! so Atheistically civil,  
Blaspheme the Gods, to Compliment the Devil.  
The mightiest of these inspired Saints, is come  
To Crown himself with fancied Martyrdom:  
Geneva Whig, that still cries out at Rome,  
But raises still Domestic Broils at home.  
How quietly Great Charles might end his Reign,  
Which all in Troubles the poor Prince began,  
Now vexed by Ghost, mere shadow of a Man:  
The cunning Hypocrite, that still can spy  
The smallest Mote in his kind Prince's eye,  
By Zeal, and Nature, made so double blind,  
That in his own the Beam he cannot find:  
Some say but one vast Luminary stands  
In's furrowed brow, and watches all the Land;  
But sunk into its hole, crept out of sight,  
As if it were afraid to see the Light,  
His Skull's too narrow Circle can't contain  
His Towering thought, and vast Gygantick brain;  
Blinded again with hopes of Reformation,  
Poor little Polyphemus of the Nation;  
That mighty Monster braved the rising Flood,  
And this can wade through a whole Sea of Blood.  
How hath this wretched Isle been changed, and cursed,  
Since thou wert born, and since it knew thee first!  
How did its Tributary Rivers pay  
A bloody, dreadful Homage to the Sea!  
Whilst on the Purpled Ocean thou didst ride,  
And Tack about still with the Wind and Tide:  
This floating Bark, he now again would Steer,  
Ah! treacherous Pilot, and false Mariner;  
The Kingdom's yet scarce mended Hulk to save,  
Would launch again into the Purple wave:  
Religious Bully! that can cheat a Nation,  
And make it perish, working out Salvation.  
Three Kingdoms he o'erlooks, and soon can count  
The Tories all, from Barwick, to the Mount:  
Sifts Cities, Shires, to find what each afford;  
Calls this Tantivy, that Protesting Lord:  
Sees what grave Noddle's for Caballing fit,  
And who are Bromigens of Sense and Wit.  
These are the Faculties of Soul and Mind,  
And here his Body as complete you find;  
From's liquid Corp, distils a fleeting gore,  
And the whole Carcase, makes one putrid Sore.  
The better to emit this flowing Sap,  
His Belly carries still a Silver Tap,  
Through which black Treason, all its Dregs doth strain  
At once, both Excrements, of Guts, and Brain;  
But some will have his clear, thin Body pass,  
For a refined sort of Optick-glass:  
Some make the polished Fabric of his Bone  
A glittering Skeleton of Specular Stone.  
Old Ovid's Muse from hence may take her flights,  
Her Argus only had an hundred sights;  
This little Monstrous Corpse, is Eye all o'er,  
And the whole Body sees at every Poor;  
Sees hatching Thought, meet Embryo of a Plot,  
Nay sees it oft before it be begot.  
But to say truth, his Optics are but two,  
Yet more than Ovid's Centinel can do  
With hundred Eyes, that many things could view;  
But this sees many hundred ways with two:  
So quick, so nimble, and such rolling Eyes,  
They watch each other, like two cunning Spies,  
Lest this declare for King, and that for People,  
For 
* The Citizens have made a great clutter of late about their Monument, as if their Inscriptions there would keep out Popery better than all the Writings of the Churchmen.  City's Pyramid, or Church's Steeple.  
Poor turning, winding, weathercock of State,  
Set on the doubtful Pinnacle of Fate,  
And now will turn again, if not too late.  
If well corrected for his Insolence,  
The little Spaniel fawns upon his Prince;  
But once escaped the Axe, or fatal Loops,  
Strait to the dull unthinking Rabble stoops,  
Puffed up with the vain blast of Vulgar breath,  
Thus small State-Urchins hurry to their death:  
So the kind Air with an officious blast,  
Tosses poor Bubbles, to the Clouds, at last;  
Dances the little Globe about the Sky,  
Then breaks the glittering Ball it fanned so high.  
So Rome's famed 
* Sejanus.  Darling once that governed all,  
With the inconstant Rout did stand or fall;  
Th' obliged Camp, their General did crown,  
Then dragged his ragged Carcase through the Town.  
Weak Fools! that think they may securely flee  
On the lose wings of wild Inconstancy,  
Or on its Metaphor, the Mobile.   

Digusted by the Rout, this cunning Wight  
Runs cringeing to his injured Monarch strait,  
Whose goodness is too ready to forgive,  
Faulty alone in suffering him to live.  
Advanced to follow Mace, and wear a Gown,  
The Tony then saw Mutineers in Town,  
But now they all True Protestants are grown.  
Whilst he unto its Chambers can resort,  
There's nought, alas, of Popery at Court;  
Clap the Prophetic Soul but in the Tower,  
It strait Divines of Arbitrary Power.  
Now leaves the Rout, and then as soon as able,  
Leaves his good Prince, just as he left the Rabble.  
Who e'er before saw such a Little thing  
Contend with Monarch, grapple with a King!  
Of Giants oft we read, that fought the Skies,  
Cufft back the Thunder of the Deities;  
But ne'er of Pigmy Lord that did the same,  
A Lord that's only fit to fight with Crane.  

* The Green-Ribband Club described, of which he is made the Head.  This busy Noddle of the Factious Crew,  
Not now distinguished by th' old Northern Blue,  
(The Badge of upstart Whigs must still be new)  
With his Green bob in this new Senate sits,  
And round him all those Liv'ry-men of wits;  
Some raze a name, and some insert a clause,  
Order their Bills themselves, and Vote them Laws:  
With awful care some Scribblers penning be  
A Speech for 
* Reported spoken by E. S.  Sister Scotland's Liberty,  
'Gainst L— dale's unbounded Tyranny.  
There a young Scribe is copying out a Cant,  
Next morn for to be spoke in Parliament:  
Upstarts an Hector, swears upon a Book,  

* The Oath common to one of the Club.  Gad you shall see we will exclude the Duke.  
This brings a Bill 'gainst Arbitrary Power,  
And that will send a Member to the Tower;  
One Votes him to be Censured on his Knees,  
This cries Discharge, that Let him pay his Fees:  
And in the little Club you fairly see,  
Of the Great Senate an Epitome.  
But now the Mouth of this Young Rump is gone,  
The dissolved Members scatter in the Town;  
Poor Tony's now confined, and like to write  
All that fierce Indignation can indite;  
His second Volume quickly will appear,  
The 
* He writ a Pamphlet when last there.  Tower always made him Scribbler.   

As we below on some bright Meteor gaze,  
Poor Panic Fools, admire a Little blaze,  
Which once dropped down, regardless we pass by,  
As too vile object for our scornful Eye.  
The gazing Crowd thus him in Lustre view,  
Caress, admire, and adore him too;  
But once Eclipsed, or shaded in a Cloud,  
Away runs all the silly buzzing Crowd.  
All thy past shifts will serve thee now no more,  
Or there is scarce another left in store:  
The Tempter his old Sore'ress doth forsake,  
When once he hath brought the withered Hag to Stake:  
When the glib 
* Proteus taken by Aristaeus.  changing Monster once was ta'en,  
And fettered in the cunning Shepherd's chain,  
With all its wiles he never could escape,  
Though changed to Fish, to Dragon, and to Ape,  
And every minute put on other shape.   

Our sad distracted Albion gazed around,  
She saw no Foe, but still she felt a wound:  
The bleeding Deer thus trembling stands at Bay,  
But can't find where the close hid Archer lay.  
As on the winding Banks, and watery Maze,  
Where famed Meander cuts his crooked ways,  
The lost, confounded Traveller doth gaze,  
At last kind Fate, or Providence doth bring  
The poor despairing Soul unto the Spring:  
So some kind Angel, Genius of this Isle,  
Where Peace, alas! with thee could never smile,  
Hath taught us now to make her flourish still,  
Shown us the hidden Source of all her iii.  
Reason the Plummet, Wit the Line shall be,  
Both stretched to fathom, and to measure thee:  
Led through the Labyrinth of all thy Tricks,  
All the wild Mazes of thy Politics.  
FINIS.    

LONDON: Printed for Smith, Curtiss, Janeway, Baldwin, all True-Ptotestant-Booksellers, near the sign of the Three-legged Brand-Iron, called Tyburn.