State-Poems; CONTINUED From the time of O. Cromwell, to this present Year 1697. WRITTEN ●y the Greatest WITS of the Age, viz. ●he Lord Rochester, ●he Lord D— t, ●he Lord V— n, ●he Hon. Mr. M—ue, 〈◊〉 F. S— d, Mr. Milton, Mr. Prior, Mr. Stepney, Mr. Ayloffe, etc. WITH several POEMS in Praise of Oliver Cromwell, in Latin and English, by D. South, D. Locke, Sir W. G— n, D. Crew, Mr. Busbie, etc. also some Miscellany POEMS by the same, never before Printed. Now carefully Examined with the Originals, and Published without any Castration. Printed in the Year MDCXCVII. The PREFACE. PRefaces being generally to prepossess the Reader of a good Opinion of the Performance, how trifling soever; and commonly, Mountebank like, the meaner the Book the more Encomiums in the Preface; which you will be deceived of here, for I shall only give you matter of Fact, how this Book came to be published. About four months ago I sent into the World a Collection of Poems on Affairs of State, from the time of Oliver Cromwell, to the time of King James II. Written by the greatest Wits of the Age, viz. The Duke of Buckingham, Lord Rochester, Lord B—st, Mr. Milton, And. marvel Esquire, Mr. Sprat, Mr. Dryden, Mr. Waller, etc. which being found to be genuine, met with good Acceptance; Since that Book came out, a great many excellent Poems have been sent me from very good hands, pressing to have a Continuation thereof made, which at last I resolved to do, upon the receiving some Copies of Verses printed at Oxford, 1654. in praise of Oliver Cromwell, on his making Peace with the Dutch; finding several Persons, who now make the greatest figure in the Commonwealth of Learning to be concerned therein, I thought the World would be willing to see what such Great Men as Dr. South, Mr. Locke, etc. said on such an extraordinary Occasion, I have printed their own Latin, and kept strictly to their Sense in the Translation, and those they wrote in English are also published, this begins the Book. Then follow several excellent Poems, written by the Lord Rochester, Esquire marvel, etc. during the Reign of King Charles II. omitted in the former Collection: As also those writ in the Reign of King James II. by the Lord D— t. Sir F. S—, Mr. Prior, Mr. Stepney, Mr. Rymer, etc. and particularly those incomparable Pieces of the Hind and Panther transversed to the Story of the City-Mouse and Country-Mouse, and the Man of Honour, written by the Honourable Mr. M—ue. And since the Revolution, you have several Copies, writ by the Lord Cutts, Mr. Tate, Mr. Shadwell, Mr. Ayloffe, etc. Lastly▪ some Miscellany Poems, by the same Great Men, never before Printed. And in this Collection Names are not made use of to countenance spurious Pieces, but the Poems themselves speak the Greatness of their Authors, if no Name had been thereto. In short the said State-Poems, and this Continuation thereof, make a Complete Collection of all that are valuable in that nature, for these forty years; and is the best Secret History of our late Reigns, as being writ by such great Persons as were near the Helm, knew the Transactions, and were above being bribed to flatter, or afraid to speak truth. And so I leave them to the Reader. INDEX. Select Poems out of Musarum Oxoniensium in Oliv. Protect. etc. 1654. A Poem in Latin, by Nath. Crew Page 1 The same in English 1 — In Latin, by M. Mew 3 Translated into English 3 — in Latin, by W. Godolphin 4 — translated into English 5 In Latin, by Rob. South 7 Translated into English 7 In Latin, by J. Locke 8 Translated into English 8 In Latin, by J. Busbie 9 Translated into English 19 In Latin by, J. Vaughan 11 Translated into English 12 A Poem on the same Subject, written in English by J. Locke 13 Another on the same Subject, by W. Godolphin 13 On K. Charles' Return, by the L. Rochester 16 A young Gentleman desiring to be a Minister of State, thus qualifies himself 16 On the King's Voyage to Chatham, to make Bulwarks against the Dutch, and the Queen's Miscarriage thereon, 17 A Charge to the Grand Inquest of England 1674. 19 The Giants Wars out of a Greek Fragment 1682. 23 On the Statute at Stock-market▪ 30 A satire, by the Lord R— r 32 Another by the same 33 A satire 35 The Royal Buss 41 Windsor, by the Lord Rochester 43 The second Advice to a Painter, by the Author of the first 45 Stafford's Ghost 48 On the Duchess of Portsmouths' Picture 51 Hownslow-Heath, 1686. 51 The Dissenters Thanksgiving for the late Declaration 56 The Dispute by the Lord R— r 57 Julii Mazarini Cardinalis Epitaphium 58 satire unmuzled 60 The Hind and Panther, transversed to the Story of the Country Mouse and City Mouse 65 The Man of Honour, by the Honourable Mr. Montague 111 The Man of no Honour 115 The Vision 119 The Converts 122 The humble Address of your Majesty's Poet-Laureat, and other your Catholic and Protestant Dissenting-Rhimers, with the rest of the Fraternity of Minor Poets, inferior Versifiers and Sonetteers of your Majesty's ancient Corporation of Parnassus 126 The Laureate 128 On the Bishop's Confinement 132 Advice to the Prince of Orange, and the Pacquet-Boat returned 133 A Stanza lately put upon Tyburn 135 Harry Cares last Will and Testament 135 A new Catch in praise of the Reverend Bishops 137 Protestanism revived, or the persecuted Church triumphing 138 The Council 140 The Audience 141 An Epistle to Mr. Dryden 143 The Dream 146 Over the Lord Dover's Door 1686. 149 Over the Lord Salisbury's Door 1686. 150 To the speaking Head ibid. An Essay writ over his Door on an Instittuion and Induction 151 The Fable of the Pot and the Kettle, as it was told by Coll. Titus, the Night before he kissed the King's Hand 152 An Epitaph on Henry Care 153 A Lenten Prologue refused by the Players 1682. 154 A Paper fixed on the King's Chapel Door on Easter-Day 1687. 156 On King James' Pistolling a Mastiff-Dog at Banbury, in his last Progress 157 The Metamorphosis 159 Caesar's Ghost 162 The Fourth satire of Boileau, by W. K. 1687. 171 A Congratulatory Poem on his Highness the Prince of Orange's coming into England, by Mr. Tho. Shadwell 174 — on Queen Mary's Arrival in England▪ by Tho. Shadwell 178 The Observator 180 A Miracle, how the Duchess of Modena (being in Heaven) prayed to the Blessed Virgin, that the Queen might have a Son; and how our Lady sent the Angel Gabriel with her Smock, upon which the Queen was with Child 184 The Dialogue 186 On the University of Cambridg's burning the Duke of Monmouth's Picture 1685. who was formerly their Chancellor, by Mr. Stepney 189 On the Commencement at Cambridg, by Mr. Ayloffe 192 To Mr. Fleet Shepperd, by Mr. P— r 193 An Explanation of King James' Declaration 195 On the Death of the Queen, by the Lord Cutts 199 Tunbrigialia, or the Pleasures of Tunbridg, in a Letter to a Friend, by P. Causton, Merchant 202 An Essay on Writing, and the Art and Mystery of Printing 212 Prologue by the E. of R— r 218 On the melting down the Plate, or the Pisspot's Farewell 215 On Content 216 Tunbridg-wells, by the Earl of R— r 218 In memory of Jos. Washington, Esq late of the Middle Temple, an Elegy written by N. Tate 223 Friendship 226 The Wish 227 The Deliverance 228 A Song ex Tempore 229 Of Solitude 229 A satire against Brandy 263 A Prologue, by Mr. Montfort 238 On the Infanta of Portugal 238 A Pindaric, by the Lord R— r 239 On the Return of King Charles II. 241 On the Invention of the new Lights 244 On the Invention of the Penny-Post by Mr. Dockwra 246 State-Poems CONTINUED. Select POEMS out of Musarum Oxoniensium 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉. Sive, Ob Foedera, Auspiciis Serenissimi Oliveri Reipubls. Angl. Scot & Hibern. Domini Protectoris, Inter Rempubls. Britannicam & Ordines Foederatos Belgii foeliciter Stabilita, Gentis togatae ad vada Isidis Celeusma metricum. SAnguineis nescit miles se mergere rivis: Navigat in portu, cui modo Sanguis, Aqua. Nil laudis Neptune petas, nil Aeole; solus Protector propriâ haec perficit acta manu. Nath. Crew, è Coll. Line. Com. Thus rendered into English. THE Soldier now forgets the Sanguine Seas, He rides in Harbour, and enjoys his Ease. No thanks to Gods of Sea or Wind we owe, These Blessings from our great Protector flow, His happy Hands alone, the welcome Boon bestow. Nath. Crew, è Coll. Lin. Com. REgnis minatur multa Regentium Mutatus ordo: Scilicet arduos Casusque fatalesque genti Saepe ferunt nova sceptra pests. Ast, ecce, nullis obruta viribus Pugnas cruentas inter, & horridas Lites & irarum procellas, Anglia, firma manens, triumphant. Vis nempe belli nulla nec exteri Illam movebat, neve domestici: Sed pressa, palmae par virenti, Ponderibus melius resurgit. Hic quip, sacro numine prosperam Major potestas protegit Angliam, Illique primas jure grates Incolumes tribuant Britanni. Quaecunque virtus convenit integro, Quaecunque fama, aut gloria Principi, Te, Summe, laudarunt, Tibique Conspicuum peperere nomen. Tantus fuisse & Victor, & Hostium Fudisse tantas robore copias, Nunquamque devinci, relinquis Perpetuae monumenta Famae Heroas armis pristina gens novem Claros recenset, nos tamen addimus, Tantamque virtutem colemus, Teque decem numeramus, orto. Vis magna belli, magna potentia Tantam nequibat perdere gloriam: Nec contra Achilleos furores Hectoreae valuêre vires. Nostri triumphi Tu decus unicum, Nostrae salutis Tu caput unicum, Partâque nos, per Te salute Ecce hilares remanemus Angli. Matth. Mew, C. C. C. Scholar Thus rendered into English. WHen with the rolling Tides of Fate New Governors assume the state, The Change a strong Convulsion makes And all the trembling Nation shakes: New Mischiefs follow Counsels new, As Death's destructive Shafts the spreading Plague pursue. Yet still unshocked Britannia stands, And angry Fate itself commands. Tho ravaged with intestine Jars, And battered oft with foreign Wars, As Palms beneath their Burdens rise, And when oppressed the most shoot strongest towered the Skies. A greater Numen guards us now, To whom our grateful Britons bow. Thee, mighty Prince, Thy Virtue's crown, Thy Regal Fame, thy vast Renown, Thy happy Slaves in Peace proclaim With Triumphs loudly spread as thy Immortal Name. To Conquer always to confound The best, the bravest Armies round, Are Honours all reserved for Thee. We now another Worthy see, A Captain for the former Nine, With more auspicious Stars and Courage more divine. Dutch Arms were vain, and vain their Force To stop thy Fates victorious Course, Hector himself, the brave must yield When great Achilles takes the Field. Thy Honours all our Triumphs grace. In Thee we all our Safety place, And by thy Shade secured, thy sacred Trunk embrace. Matth. Mew, C. C. C. Scholar SIC civil Chaos dum Bellum gessit & una Massa, Aer, Tellus, Aequor & Ignis erant. Deformi Congressa prius Certamine, tandem Semina concordi Foedere junxit Amor. Et modò quae latuere suis Elementa tenebris, Clarior, amotis litibus, Orbis erant. Pace ligant simili vicinas Foedera gentes, cum daret Antiquum Vis inimica Chaos. Accensae madidis concurrunt Ignibus Undae, Usta in Aquis fuerant Corpora, Mersa Focis. Fulmineo Balista mihi par visa Tonanti, Explosos quoties projicit illa Globos: Talia Sanguineos fecere Tonitrua Nimbos, Dum tota effuso Membra cruore pluunt. Quisque sibi fuit Aequor; in imo pectore volvit Fluctus; Irato saevior usque Freto, Quis Deus has tollit, quae tanta potentia Lites? Numina Confusum quae secuere Chaos? Haec Dextrâ praestas, Haec Mente (Britannice Caesar) Multa foràs tibi sunt, plura Trophaea domi. Pectora vicisti nostra, Invictissime Princeps, Nos Idem Batavis, & Tibi junxit Amor. Tormentis Belgae sternuntur & Ensibus; Anglos Quae superant, Animi sunt ea Tela Tui. Quae Martem, Pontic minas compescuit, ipsum Quae vicit Bellum, Pax ea Vestra fuit. Nascentem è Pelago Venerem reticete (Poetae) Pulchrior è nostro Gurgite surgit Amor. Guil. Godolphin, ex Aede Christi. Thus Translated. WHen Civil War through all the Chaos reigned, And Air and Earth with Floods and Flames maintained An uncouth Contest. Love at last disclosed Its Force, and all th' Atomic Broils composed. And the late darksome Elements in one, A brighter World with nobler Beauty's shown. So Peace unites the Nations long abused. With Jealousies and envious Arts confused. Wet Flames the Peace with burning Waters broke, Men blazed in Waters, and were drowned in Smoke. Not jove o'eraws the World with Thunders more Than wide-mouthed Canons with their dismal Roar, Their hideous Notes presaged a Storm of Blood, And scattered Limbs unsluced the crimson Flood: Each Tar a Sea within his Breast contained, And loudest there the noisy Tempest reigned. What Power, what God the dreadful War could lay, Or through Confusion shoot a peaceful Day? Thy Hand and Head, Great Caesar, made them cease, And crowned thy Brows with Wreaths of lasting Peace. Love shot from Thee our easy Souls subdued, And made one Band the Dutch and Us conclude; Force tamed the Dutch, to Love the English yield, And to thy Politics resign the Field. Love, Sir, at your Command rough Mars expelled, Hushed angry Storms, and warlike Furies quelled. No more ye Bards of Sea-born Venus sing. Fair Love could only from our British Ocean spring. Guil. Godolphin, ex Aede Christi. INtulerant miseranda duae sibi bella Sorores, Utraque fatales, utraque Parca sibi. Sic in sanguineam mare commutatur Arenam, Quae gladiatorum bella, necesque videt. Has fluctus, illas rapiunt incendia naves Et miscent aestus flamma fretumque suos. Quaeque mori solita est flammis exhorruit undas, Ne mediis Phoenix mersa periret aquis; Belligeros quot pugna deuces, quot sustulit unda? Sic tamen ipsa solent astra subire fretum. Sic mare Caeruleum est: sed sicut Caerulea Vena, Quae tumet incluso sanguine plena fluens. Non nostrae Batavus submisit Carbasa Classi, Nec quamvis habuit vela, modestus erat. At sic deposuit tandem Leo Belgicus iras, Securam ut ducat per mare Phryxus ovem. Caetera bella licet pugnasque Elementa sequantur, Sola tamen pacis foedera servat Aqua. At Tu Dux pariter Terrae Domitorque profundi, Componunt laudes Cuncta Elementa Tuas. Cui Mens alta subest pelagoque profundior ipso, Cujus fama sonat, quam procul unde sonat. Si currum ascendas domito poene Orbe triumphans In currus aderunt Axis uterque Tuos: Inclusam populi Tua fert vagina salutem, Ut Lateri hinc possis semper adesse Tuo. Tu poteras solus motos componere fluctus, Solus Neptunum sub tua vincla dare. Magna simul Fortis vicisti, & multa: Trophaeis Ut mare sic pariter, cedit Arena tuis. Nomine Pacifico gestas insignia Pacis, Blandaque per titulos serpit Oliva tuos. Seston Abydos amat: Batavas colit Anglia Terras, Insula Te Tanto facta Beata Deuce. Insula quam Pelagus, simul & Victoria cingit, Quaeque (quod his praestat) cingitur Ense Tuo. Rob. South, ex Aede Christi. Thus Translated. A Fatal War two angry Sisters waged, And to each others sure Destruction raged; The Theatre the neighbouring Seas were made, Where bloody Prizes surly Swordmen played. The shattered Fleets the Seas and Flames divide, Each rolling in with an impetuous Tide. The Phoenix once in spicy Flames expired, But now with horror from the Floods retired, Brave Souls their Fates in purple Waters met: As falling Stars beneath the Ocean set. The Seas all Azure showed, like azure Veins When the small Rills the crimson Humour stains. The Dutch to England scorned to strike the Sail, Seemed to be modest, but refused to veil. But now the Belgic Lion leaves to roar, And Golden Flocks float safe towered the Shore. While other Elements embroiled remain, The Seas alone a peaceful League maintain. Sir, at your Feet, whom Seas and Lands obey, The Elements submissive Garlands lay. Seas are less deep than your capacious Soul, Your Fame sounds far as noisy Water's roll. Should you in Triumph o'er the World appear, Your Chariot Wheels the groaning Poles would bear. Your Sword laid by, the Scabbard's filled with Peace, And girds your happy Side with awful Ease. You only could the swelling Waves restrain, And lay your Fetters on the conquered Main. The Seas, the Shores their Trophies yield to you, Who could the Many and the Great subdue. Your happy Name their peaceful Emblems grace, And Olive Wreaths your Regal Arms embrace. England the Hand to pleased Batavia gives, And happy in her great Commander lives, By Conquests guarded and by Seas inur'd, But more by your Victorious Arm secured. Rob. South, ex Aede Christi. PAX Regit Augusti, quem vicit Julius, Orbem: Ille sago factus clarior, ille togâ. Hos sua Roma vocat magnos, & numina credit, Hic quod sit mundi Victor, & ille Quies. Tu bellum ut pacem populis das, unus utrisque Major es: Ipse orbem vincis, & ipse regis. Non hominem è Coelo missum Te credimus; unus Sic poteras binos qui superare Deos! J. Lock, ex. Aede Christi. Thus Translated. A Peaceful Sway the great Augustus bore O'er what great julius gained by Arms before. julius was all with Martial Trophies crowned. Augustus for his peaceful Arts renowned. Rome calls 'em Great, and makes 'em Deities, That for his Valour, this his Policies. You, mighty Prince, than both are greater far, Who rule in Peace that World you gained by War. You sure from Heaven a finished Hero fell, Who thus alone two Pagan Gods excel. J. Lock, ex Aede Christi. PAX peregrina diu binas nunc uniet oras, Surget ab armato funere viva salus: Undique laerantes animant●● foedere Belgae E sano Anglorum corpore corpus habent: Unde sumus medici & simul medicamina, vulnus Quod bellum inflixit sanat amica quies: Dum nimium gustant de salso flumine Belgae, Dicunt, plus aloes quam salis aequor habet. Ad PROTECTOREM. Magne Leo, qui Marte potes; Germania vires, At placidam victrix Anglia sentit opem: Victorum Princeps, arctoque volumine victos Cingis; Tu centrum, circulus orbis erit. Una catena duas gentes complectitur, ipsam Et terram & pontum continet una manus: Sedata est populi rabies nec Belgica classis, Nec loquitur pelagi saevior ira minas: Place silent hosts, bello, formidine languent, Solicitat mentes terror amorque suas: Quid faciat secura Tuae fiducia Plebis, Si Te victorem diligat ipse timor? J. Busbie, A. M. ex Aede Christi. Thus Translated. PEace, absent long two States to Union brings, So Life and Love from dying Fury springs. The merry Dutch ensouled with Peace revive, Their State by English Substance kept alive. So we both Physic and Physicians prove, And heal the Wounds of War with Balms of Love. The Dutch too oft drenched in the brackish Main, Yet most of Bitter, not of Salt complain. To the PROTECTOR. Lion of War, whose Roar the Dutch dismayed, While conquering England felt your gentler Aid; Great Prince, to whom the greatest Conquerors bow, Whose binding Force the vassaled World allow, That World the Circle, but the Centre thou▪ One Chain two Nations can at once enclose. One Hand the Sea and Land in Peace compose. The Mole grows quiet, and we now can meet No Fears from Sea, nor from the Belgic Fleet. Hushed in a Peace, and faint with Fears in War, Terrors and Love our joint Commanders are, What then could your confiding Subjects do If through their Fears, their Loves your conquering Arms pursue. J. Busbie, A. M. ex Aede Christi. DIscolor excutitur vultus, turbataque rerum Difflatur facies, & nova forma redit. Eclipsin memini sic olim Lampada coeli Quae patitur tenebris exiluisse suis. Quaeque sui vindex (nuper licet alta jaceret Mersa umbris,) fruitur liberiore polo. Quas tibi pro tanto dignas persolvere grates Munere, nostra (Ducum Maxim) musa valet; Qui res restituis, rupro velut ordine quassas, Ausus es & populos asseruisse tuos. Non te deflexit vario Fortuna tumultu, Nec quâ turba ruit, praecipitasse libet. Qui stabili Tamesin junxisti foedere Rheno, Arte pari Batayûm Corda fretumque domas. Auspiciis (Cromwelle) tuis tria Sceptra triumphant, Teque senes, pueri, sexus & omnis amant. Ind, quòd Armorum Proceres legumque potentes Patriciis sese cinctibus induerint. Auspice te, duris fas impallescere Chartis: Auspice te, vati vena secunda fluit. De Jove Creta suo quicquid vel Apolline Delos Dixit & Alcidi gloria si qua fuit; In te mixta fluunt, alios quae sparsa coronant. Fixisti nutu qui tria Regna tuo. In tua transmisit Neptunus Sceptra tridentem; Nec minus Herculeo robore transtra quatis▪ Consiliis & ment vales, moderaminis Artes Doctior, aut nodos texere nemo potest. Nunc pro te Camber, pro te quoque litigat Anglus, Ille suum jactat, jactat & ille suum: Perge precor. Regnis faustumque sit Omine tanto: Crescat honos: geminâ Pallade cinctus eas. J. Vaughan, A. M. è Coll. jesu. Thus Translated. NOW with a better Face Affairs appear, And smother Looks the cheerful Nations wear. So have I seen the Sun eclipsed a while, But quickly with recovering Lustre smile. What thanks, great Prince, can our weak Muse repay For all the Blessings of this glorious day? Your prudent Hand our shattered State repairs, And bravely dares assert our lost Affairs. No Change of Fortune e'er could bend your Soul, No headstrong Rout your Politics control. You make the Rhine to Royal Thames be true, And both the Seas and Belgic Hearts subdue. Three Realms by your auspicious Stars are blest You of all Age and Sex's Hearts possessed. By you we safely to our Books retire, Your gallant Acts the Muse's Sons inspire, Crete boasts of jove, her Phoebus Delos sings, And great Alcides tunes the lofty Strings. In you their scattered Glories all combine Whose Nod could make three mighty Realms resign. Neptune to you his Royal Trident sends. The groaning Oar your wondrous Vigour bends. None rules with greater Art, nor can we find An Arm more fatal nor a larger Mind. The Welsh and English for your Birth contend. And for that Glory both with Zeal pretend. Go on, the Realms with happy Omens guide While Fame attends you with a swelling Tide, And they like twin Minerva's guard your side. J. Vaughan, A. M. è Coll. jesu. IF Greece with so much Mirth did entertain Her Argo coming laden home again: With what loud Mirth and Triumph shall we greet The wished Approaches of our welcome Fleet: When of that Prize our Ships do us possess, Whereof their Fleece was but an Emblem, Peace? Whose welcome Voice sounds sweeter in our Ears, Then the loud Music of the warbling Spheres. And ravishing more than those, doth plainly show That sweetest Harmony we to Discord ow. Each Sea-man's Voice pronouncing Peace doth charm, And seems a Syren's, but that 't has less Harm And danger in't, and yet like theirs doth please Above all other, and make us love the Seas. W'have Heaven in this Peace, like Souls above, W'have nought to do now but admire and love. Glory of War is Victory, but here Both glorious be 'cause neither's Conqueror. 'T had been less Honour if it might be said They fought with those that could be conquered. Our reunited Seas, like Streams that grow Into one River, do the smother flow: Where Ships no longer grapple but like those, The loving Seamen in Embraces close. We need no Fireships now, a nobler Flame Of Love doth us protect, whereby our Name Shall shine more glorious, a Flame as pure As those of Heaven, and shall as long endure: This shall direct our Ships, and he that steers, Shall not consult Heaven's Fires, but those he bears In his own Breast. Let Lilly threaten Wars: Whilst this Conjunction lasts we'll fear no Stars. Our Ships are now most beneficial grown, Since they bring home no Spoils but what's their own. Unto these branchless Pines our forward Spring Owes better Fruit, than Autumn's wont to bring: Which give not only Gems and Indian Ore, But add at once whole Nations to our store: Nay, if to make a World's but to compose The Difference of things and make them close In mutual Amity, and cause Peace to creep Out of the jarring Chaos of the Deep: Our Ships do this so that whilst others take Their Course about the World, ours a World make. J. Lock, Student of Ch. Ch. AS when two Streams divided gently glide, The lofty Banks their humble Powers decide. The Husbandmen divert them where they list, Nor can those weaker Floods their Dams resist. But if they join, and to one Torrent grow, Swelling they rage, and no Restraint will know; Over th' adjoining Fields dilate their Wings, Hatching that Plenty: which the Summer brings. Such the Events have been, and such the Fates Of our disjoined and reunited States. Who, while asunder from each other torn By cruel War, became their Neighbour's scorn. But since that * The Lord Protector. Power which now informs our Age, Hath reconciled the Strength, and quelled the Rage Of the disturbed Sea, the Fire, the Wind, And (what is more) the Tempests of our Mind. Far now our Ships their Canvas Wings shall stretch, And the World's wealth to richer England fetch. Till greater Treasures overspread our Coast Than Tagus or Pactolus Sands can boast. With this Design our busy Vessels range About, to make our Isle the World's Exchange. Others in Times of Brass and Iron live, Nought but our Pines the Golden Age can give: Which felled bear better Fruit than when they stood The Branching Glories of the Fruitful Wood No foreign Navy shall impeach their Course, Circling the Globe with uncontrolled Force. While, with the Sun, they round the World, their Might Becomes as Universal as his Light. Making those Bounds which bind the farthest Land, The Limits, Cromwell, of thy large Command. Cromwell! the Name which made a greater Noise Among his Foes than Waves or Canon's Voice. 'Tis he that conquers when he please, and he That makes Greek Fables English History. Tell me, Astrologers, th' Event; and make From this Conjunction a new Almanac. Storms oft enrich the Soil: and since our Peace Proceeds from War, we hope for more Increase. So Bones which have been broke become more sound, And Hydra stronger from its fruitful Wound. Than War nought could our States have closer tied, They're joined by Kind who are by Blood allied. Such our Agreement is, as when one Flame Meeting another, both become the same. Hermophroditus so and Salmacis (Whose Bodies joined in a perpetual Kiss) With our two States received like Union; Went Two into the Stream, returned but One. W. Godolphin, St. Ch. Ch. The End of the Poems on Oliver Cromwell, and his making a Peace with the Dutch. To King CHARLES' the Second, on his Return. virtue's Triumphant Shrine; who dost engage At once three Kingdoms in a Pilgrimage, Which in Extatic Duty strive to come Out of themselves, as well as from their Home. Whilst England grows one Camp, and London is Itself the Nation, not Metropolis; And Loyal Kent renews its Arts again, Fencing her Ways with moving Groves of Men. Forgive this distant Homage, which doth meet Your blessed Approach on sedentary Feet. And though my Youth, not patient yet to bear The weight of Arms, denies me to appear In Steel before you; yet, Great Sir, approve My manly Wishes, and more vigorous Love. In whom a cold Respect were Treason to A Father's Ashes, greater than to you. Whose one Ambition 'tis, for to be known By Daring Loyalty your Wilmots Son. Rochester, Wadh. Coll. A young Gentleman desirous to be a Minister of State, thus pretends to qualify himself. TO make myself for this Employment fit I'll learn as much as ever I can get Of the Honourable Grace of Ru— n's Wit.. In Constancy and sincere Loyalty, I'll imitate the grateful Shaftsbury. And that we may assume the Church's Weal, And all Disorder in Religion heal, I will espouse Lord Hall— x's Zeal. To pay respect to sacred Revelation, To scorn th'affected Wit of Profanation, And rout Impiety out of the Nation. To suppress Vice, and Scandal to prevent, Buckingham's Life shall be my Precedent, That living Model of good Government. To dive into the Depth of statesmen's Craft, To search the Secrets of the subtlest Heart, To hide my own Designs with prudent Art. To make each Man my Property become, To frustrate all the Plots of France or Rome, None can so well instruct as my Lord Moon. For moral Honesty in Deed and Word, Lord W— r Example will afford, That and his Courage too are on record. Upon the King's Voyage to Chatham to make Bulwarks against the Dutch, and the Queen's Miscarriage thereupon. WHen james, our great Monarch, so wise and discreet, Was gone with three Barges to face the Dutch Fleet, Our young Prince of Wales, by Inheritance stout, Was going to aid him, and peeped his Head out. But seeing his Father, without Ships or Men, Commit the Defence of us all to a Chain, Taffy was frighted and skulked in again. Nor thought, while the Dutch domineered in our Road It was safe to come further and venture abroad. Not Walgrave, or th' Epistle of Seigneur le Duke Made her Majesty sick, and her Royal Womb puke; But the Dutchmen picqueering at Dover and Harwich, Gave the Ministers agues and the Queen a miscarriage, And to see the poor King stand of Ships in such need, Made the Catholics quake, and her Majesty bleed. I wish the sad Accident doubt spoil the young Prince, Take off all his Manhood, and make him a Wench. But the Hero, his Father, no Courage did lack, Who was sorry on such a pretext to come back. He marked out his Ground, and mounted a Gun, And 'tis thought, without such a pretence he had run. For his Army and Navy were said to increase, As appears (when we have no occasion) in Peace. Nay, if the Dutch come, we despise them so much Our Navy incognito will leave them i'th' lurch; And to their eternal Disgrace we are able To beat 'em by way of a Post and a Cable. Why was this Sir, left out of the wise Declaration That flattered with hopes of more Forces the Nation, 'Twould have done us great Good to have said you intended The Strength of the Nation, the Chain should be mended. Tho we thank you for passing so kindly your word, (Which ne'er yet was broke) that you'd rule by the Sword, A Charge to the Grand Inquest of England, 1674. ROom for the Bedlam C—ns, Hell and Fury! Room for the Gentlemen of our Grand Iury. Led by no conjuring Bailiff with white Wand, But stately Mace in stalking Giant's hand. Call them over, Cryer, swear them every Man, And let an Oath fetter 'em if it can. The Foreman first, preferred before the rest, 'Cause he has learned the Art of Prating best. Then Howard, powel, Garaway and Meers, Temple and S— (who yet wears his Ears) Candish the Fop, Whorwood that Senior Soph, Some fresh come on, some lately taken off. When these have kissed the Book, swear all the rest The numerous swarm of this too Grand Inquest. Five hundred strong, a formidable Crew; Would you could say of half, good Men and true. Stand close together, Sirs, and hear your Charge, In brief, which Lawyers use to give at large. Imprimis, as to Treason, let that pass, Since to talk Treason boldly, long since was A Privilege of your House, and shortly you Will privileged be to plot and act it too. For Sacrilege, Thefts, Robberies and Rapes, Murders, Cheats, Perjuries, with such petty Scapes; Of which yourselves you too well guilty know: Transmit these Trifles to the Courts below. But if a Member chance to get a Scar, For the Cause, or by fortune de la Guerr, You of the Inquest strictly must implore Whether the wound were given by Rogue or Whore; Vote it a Breach of Privilege, then pass An Act Sir John's Nose is as whole as ' 'twas. If a blunt Porter justle from the wall, Or knavish Boy at Football give a fall, To one O' your House; let Boys and Porters be Sent to the Tower, or brought upon their Knee. But above all beat boldly every where For your just Rights and Privileges here, Find them out all, and more than ever were. Search the Repositories of the Tower, And your own Brains to stretch your lawless Power, Ransack your Writers Selden, Needham, Pryn, Rather than fail bring the sly Jesuit in. Then swollen with Pride and Poison sucked from these, Vote your own Privilege, is what you please. Thus fortified, each Member is supreme. What Court of Justice dares touch one of them. The King disdains not to submit his Cause, To the known Course and Trial of the Laws. Each Subject may his King with safety sue But King nor Subject can have Right from you, Who are Lawgivers, Judge, and Party too. With what distempered Counsels are we fed, When such Convulsions are on England bred? The very Arse is hoist o'er the Head. Well may you sit in Love, with all your hearts It is a Posture proper to those Parts. Humble as Spiders while they crawl below, Despised, afraid of every Spurn and Blow, Crept in your Hole once, you imperious grow. Spread Laws, Oaths, Snares for other Men to fall, And you yourselves may trample on them all. From Privilege of sovereign Parliament, (If you have any Breath and Time unspent) In the next place to Grievances proceed, Such Grievances as make the Subject bleed. What we named last before, may here stand first, For of all Plagues, with which this Nation's cursed, The Privilege of Parliament is worst. Then with full Throats and empty Brains let fly Against the Rise and Growth of Popery, Power Arbitrary, and the Prerogative Royal, Monopolies and Imprisonments illegal, Offices set to sale, and scarce a Clause Well executed of the Cobweb Laws, But, (though corrupt enough) touch not th' Arcana Of your dread Idol, (Law) your great Diana. 'Twill make the Nation, full of Lawyers, rave, With Tongue and Pen, Nonsense and Noise; who have By this false Oracle heaped up more Gold, Than e'er that Goddesses Highpriest of old. 'Twould kindle amongst yourselves a Civil War, For those Gallants, though not the greatest are Of your whole House, the loudest half by far. If ten or twelve create us such Vexation, What do ten thousand of them in the Nation. But pass not o'er the Grievances before You have, with all your might, knocked down once more A Grievance your Design may ruinate, As a Welsh Knight gravely observed of late. Resolved the Boys and Footmen shall no more Attend their Lordships at the Lobby-door: For should the Commons pass some wholesome Vote, In their own house, to cut their Lordship's Throats, Those Rascals might, with their short Clubs and Swords Dare impudently to protect their Lords, And, by endeavouring their Preservation, Highly oppose the Safety of the Nation, Then thunder out against Supplies misspent, The Customs wasted through ill management; Curse the Commissioners to the Pit of Hell, Till some of you creep in, than all is well. Impeachment on Impeachment next renew With impudent Redress against all who Have better Heads or truer Hearts than you. On numerous Articles let each Charge run, But, when it comes to th' upshot, prove not one. In the last place, though least of all you mind it, (Yet you must pull a Crow where e'er you find it,) With seeming Diligence, bravely take in hand The Strength, Defence, and Honour of the Land. But then in this be sure you do no more Than just spoil what was well begun before. Your fatal Policy too well does show, Those lofty Cares do not belong to you. When the proud Belgic Lion stood at bay, At once the easier and the nobler Prey, When he for Fear more than for Rage did roar, His Arse to lash as it ne'er was before. When such a Friend by chance kind Fortune threw, No more expected than deserved by you. Who but a Parliament could slight it, when We might have drowned that Lion in his Den, Or beat him to a fawning Whelp again. You kindly spared your Money and your Foe, ere you much older or much wiser grow, You may expect with Interest from these The timely Fruits of your untimely Peace. Let the French proudly brave us on the Main, The Dutch our Trade, the Seas and Indies gain. Let all the World appear concerned so far, As to be Party in this general War. Tho loud our Honour as our interest calls, You'll have no Swords drawn but within your Walls. When thus, to your no little Shame at last, You have many Months in doing nothing past; As Curs have shown their Teeth, but durst not bite; As Fops have drawn their Swords, but dare not fight. A private Bill or two, rather than none, Get passed, then bravely vote a Session. Thus when your Power, though not your Pride, abates Your Purses grown as empty as your Pates, 'Tis time to send you home to your Estates, And to your Wives, who (may be understood T' have been more active for the public Good. In their lower Sphere than you) to crown the Plot, Present you pretty Babes you ne'er begot The GIANTS WARS. 1682. Some Passages preceding the Giant's War, translated out of a Greek Fragment. — Voes exemplaria Graeca Nocturna versate mane, versate diurnam. jovis omnia plena.— By Dr. B— THis Rumour entering angry Titon's Ears, His horrid Heartstrings with new Gall besmears, In rage he Saturn by the Codpiece took, And scared him so with wrathful hideous Look, Within the Flesh, that his long Shin bones shook. Brother, said he, Brother, what Curses strange Did from your Mouth, and Oaths in Volleys range? How much you swore by Stygian Powers? you swore, All Hell consenting with united Roar; On Earth nought in upon my Hopes should break, Nor from your Loins degenerate Bantling sneak. Yet now of jove the Woods and Valleys ring, Jove's health all drink, of jove all say and sing; jove fills the Court, the Country and the Town, All call him Saturn's Son, and rightful Heir of the Crown. Saturn aghast, sinks down into a Couch, (In other points might for his Manhood vouch) Long meager Face with foreign Muslin wipes, Then speaks to Titon with protesting lips, What have I left unsaid, what left undone, To make you next Successor on the Throne? If my Seed lives, it was not Saturn's fault, I gave all over to the Summer Salt. Bet if disloyal Pity swayed my Wife, Or out of Crossness she have saved a Life, Her and her Brat I will renounce this hour, Declare him Bastard and his Mother Whore. At this the Giant half contented grins, His festered Soul to cooler mood inclines. The wont Tempest from his brow retreats, And Rage more hostile through his Nostrils beats. Saturn, long lost, and from his Senses ta'en, Now finds, and feels, and shows himself again. And straight does to his fair Messina send. From the Isthmus to the Promonthory's end. To those the large Trisenian Valleys till That Poelion climb, that by Cytherea dwell, And, void of wrath Dordonian Timber fell; That Pydna round the Polydea plough, And Lelia where amorous Pigeons coo; Ceon under Hill, jolius in the Clay, Hemapolis, Daulis, Oeclelia, Where Minstrels strange the Muses did provoke, And Dorion, where they Roger's Fiddle broke. Who Trophian Fields, and Appian let to farm, And Calydon, which lovely Lasses warm. Who from Caphareus view the Ocean wide, The ruddy Squires o'er Northern World's that ride. In Beef-land who keep house, and on the Coast Eubaeum, where the noblest Sirloins roast. Who Hebras drink, who in Asopus soak, And who with melted Corn Acheloian Horns provoke. Who chase the foaming Boar o'er brake and burn, And glad at night Erymanthian Rashers turn. These and his other Barons far and near, And Bishops that with Hecatombs make cheer, Are by that Mouth all summoned to appear. Said he, these since I cannot single strive, Shall joint Advice in Panionian give. You call (quoth Titon mad, and like to burst) The Panionian— 's B— d you shall call the Pan-Daemonian first, Hell, Acheron, and Styx, by which you swore, Give their Advice, what Counsel needs there more? Shall common Breath our Royal Wills debate? What we, what you and I resolve is Fate. In secret, only 'twixt ourselves you vowed, You swore to me, does that concern the Crowd? Then rouse, and act as the Affair enjoins, And seize the vile Pretender to your Loins. Then answered Saturn, with a Visage mild, Brother, wouldst have me, I will eat my Child, Be Caterer you, and lay him in my dish. Said like a King, quoth Titon, but I wish, You had more early mouthed him, whilst a Chick, For now perhaps he in your Fangs may stick, And find us both a cross damned Bone to pick. Half mad half Prophet thus the Giant raved, When to the teeth a fresh alarm him braved. Fame, strong and thick, his obstinate Ears invades. Says High and Low, white Staves with humble Spades. From Hall and Cottage, from both Town and Grange, From Heath and Ham, and Jove's Retirement range. Nor this by stealth or nightly caution done But in broad Day, and open to the Sun. Now Titon into downright Rage flies out, He picks his nose, and stamps, and flings about. Here gripes, there cuffs, then swings his barbarous Steel, But Saturn's Stones his first dire Vengeance feel. Then musters he all that in Cellars sculk, Cry Boo in Entries, or that snore on Bulk, In Alleys sneak, Suburban Garrets cram, Tories of double Form, and triple Name; From Gaols escaped, from Pillories unpinned, And from high Pad completely disciplined; Skip-kennels, Roisters, Ruffians all profane, And Buggers too, a foul ungodly Train Those who from Loughs, their tainted Seed had drawn, Monsters of Orks, and Bogs ungracious Spawn. Say, Muse, who did in chief that Crew command, And in the front, against Jove's Thunder stand. Rhoetus did head a bold blasphemous Rout, Gyges did there with hundred Elbows strut, And no less terrible japetus, Aegean, Briareus, Enceladus, Aloud Typheus' God and Nature cursed, Typheus' 'twas that shouldered Pelion first, And sure he Pelion had on Ossa thrown, But Nature vexed compelled him set it down. Lordalius every Limb did Monster bode, The furthest Thules groan beneath his Load, His Tongue a thousand Serpents did unfold, When out at length it thirty furlongs rolled, Drawn back, and furled, and doubled up again, And scarce contained within the spacious Den; A thousand Dogs all kenneled in his Paunch, On murdered Greeks they did insatiate scranch, They drank, they wallowed there in humane Gore, Yet at his Arse still snarl and bark for more You'd think unmuzzled Corbin kept the door; The Mastiffs round his Sister Cylla's Womb, That in the Ocean with such fury foam, Are tied up short, and worry not from home: But nauseous are Lordalius foisting Rooms, Makes Dog's meat all and Carrion where he comes. Camp must have Trull, great wickedness will stick, Unless male Strength has aid from female Trick; These had Permethe, who in fatal hour, Was hither wafted from the Celtic shore. What Giant durst have plotted to remove The Crown from Saturn, or Saturnian jove, But for this Sorceress, ever on the watch, At easy hours, and in her Night's Debauch; So that where Threats and open Forces failed, Her filthy and obscene Devices held. Then prostituted Hand, and Lips, and Tongue On his soft Part mysterious Fazzels hung, And empty Nerves with false deceiving Vigour stung. Not all the Juice from deadly Hemlock pressed, All the benumbing Opium of the East, ere was on wretched Indian Prince imposed Could, like her Charms, have Saturn's Senses dozed. With midnight Murmur, with unhallowed Spell, And magic Lory Circe in her Cell, Transformed him Beast who ever came to hand, An Ass, a Hog, or Dog, at her command; But never Dog with Tail to Bottle wed, Never was Hog in Mire plunged over head, Never was Ass, when he by Hunger tired, Mumbling a Thistle, his broad Lips bestirred, Deformed, ridiculous, despicable made, As thou, O Saturn, by this Hag betrayed. She turns him into all and every thing, To any Shape but that of Man and King. Sometimes so far from Man and King undone, You see him lose among the Spaniels run, Sometimes like Bird, unto the Ducks he flies, And flutters there, as goodly and as wise. Sometimes when she would have him great appear, She does his Form into a Stallion reat, Bridle in mouth, she whisks him to the wall, Astride she goes, St. Dennis have at all; Whips him o'er Hedge and Ditch, o'er Dirt and Mire, Bramble and Bogs, thro' Water and thro' Fire; Till ridden Blind, like Bayard in the Mill, About he comes, about she brings him still, The Circle she, be Centre where it will. 'Twas in this Figure prancing Saturn scorned His first dear Joys, and holy Hymen spurned. Thus Titon's Host with Rogues and Ribbalds filled, Olympus' ward, in wild presumption ruled. An awkward thing there was of monstrows growth, All over indefatigable Mouth, This Monster with a Mouth for Drum supplied And Trumpet, and all Din of War beside, Hell not so black, nor opened e'er so wide. He having the Battalions squinted over, These words did to the gaping Rabble roar, That jove his Bastard Saturn had declared, And who dare disbelieve his Royal word. Now, against Titon you fanatics say, His Altar stands the Babylonish way. Howe'er it stands, he does not stand at all. We must with Royal Titon stand or fall. Nor may his mode of sacrificing scan, Tho he should sacrifice both God and Man, We'll have him King, and Kings may what they can. Now his blue Eyeballs turn, he makes a pause, And gathers round the Hum and high applause. Which the grim Scoundrels bellow out amain Then Tongue unsheathed thus brandishes again, Brave Brother Giants, though against the Law And Heaven we fight, that sticks not in our maw; When we once conquer, all the World's our own, Rich Land in Country, and fine House in Town; But should their goodly worships win the Fight, And beat us, what the Devil get they by't? Will those that loll in Silks be mewed in Straw, Or leave their Roast-meat, to feed here on Raw, The Strength is ours, the Courage and the odds, But conquer them, and we shall be the Gods. With these last accents Mouth expecting stands, Till every Giant claps his hundred Hands. The Gods, the Gods all cry with horrid yell, High Heaven they shook, and almost frighted Hell, Whilst Echo does in Rocks, the God's repeal. The Gods, by Ossa bandied o'er the Plain, Olympus trembling tossed it back again; The dangerous Deep and Caverns under ground, With hoarser Groan, the Gods, the Gods resound. Shepherd's aloof that viewed the grisly Rout, Fainted and said the Gods must go to pot. Some peeping from their holes did see (or feared They saw) to Heaven, long scaling Ladders reared; Nimble as Bears, the ugly Giants climb, And every God they met tear limb from limb; The Skies all broken down, no Age they spare, From holy House to the old one in the chair, One thought he saw a graceless, great, unshaved, Unshapely, shabby Giant eat a God; Another spied a raw Gigantic Youth, Soaring with an Immortal in his Mouth Who sprawled and sprawled, but could not spare one tooth. One pities Heaven, and of strange havoc dreams, How on the floor spilt Aqua Vita swims; With gay attire torn, tumbled and defaced, There Wig, there Cravat, there embroidered Vest. The simple Clowns thus fancied, but Heaven safe Did at their Care, and rustic Folly laugh. Yet gaping Priest gulped the Tradition down. And all his Creed to after Ages owned. But say not, you profane, Heaven had no share In that days toil, Heaven's Champion jove was there, Heaven's darling jove, and now immediate Care. — Titania pubes Fulmina dejecti fundo volvuntur in imo. Virgil. On the Statue at Stocks Market. AS Citizens that to their Conquerors yield, Do at their own charge their own Citadel build, So Sir Robert advanced the King's Statue, in token Of a Broker defeated, and a Lumbard-street broken. Some thought it a mighty and gracious Deed, Obliging the City with a King on a Steed. When with Honour he might from his word have gone back, He that waits for a Calm is absolved by a Wreck. By all it appears from the first to the last To be a Revenge, and as Malice forecast, Upon the King's Birthday to set up a thing That shows him a Monkey more like than a King. When each one that passes finds fault with the Horse, Yet all do assure that the King is much worse; And some by its likeness Sir Robert suspect, That he did for the King his own Statue erect. To see him so disguised the Herbwomen chide, Who upon their Panniers more decently ride. So lose are his Feet that all Men agree, Sir William Peak sits much faster than he. But a Market, as some say, doth fit the King well, Who oft Parliaments buys and Revenues doth sell: And others to make the similitude hold, Say his Majesty himself is oft bought and sold. Sure this Statue is more dangerous far, Than all the Dutch Pictures that caused the War. And what the Exchequer for that took on trust, May henceforth be confiscate for Reasons most just. But Sir Robert, to take the Scandal away, Does the fault upon the Artificer lay; And alleges the thing is none of his own, For he counterfeits only in Gold, not in Stone. But Sir Robert of the Vine, how camed in your thought, That when to the scaffold your Liege you had brought, With Canvas and Deals you e'er since do him cloud, As if you had meant it his Coffin and shroud? Hath Blood him away as his Crown he conveyed? Or is he to Clayton gone in masquerade? Or is he now in his Cabal closely set? Or have you to the Compter removed him for debt? Methinks by the equipage of this vile Scene, To change him into a jack-pudding you mean. Or else thus expose him to popular flour. As though we'd as good have a King of a Clout. Or do you his Errors out of Modesty veil, With three shattered Planks and the rags of a Sail? To expose how his Navy was shattered and torn, The same day that he was restored and born. If the Judges and Parliament dont him enrich, You will scarcely afford him a Rag to his Breech. Sir Robert affirms they do him much Wrong, 'Tis the Graver at work to reform him so long. But alas he will never arrive at his End, For 'tis such a King no Chisel can mend. But with all his faults pray give us our King, As ever you hope for December or Spring. For though the whole World cannot show such another, We had better have him than his bigoted Brother. satire. By the Lord Ro— r. MUst I with patience ever silent sit, Perplexed with Fools who will believe they've wit. Must I find every place by Coxcombs seized, Hear their affected Nonsense, and seem pleased. Must I meet Hen.— m where e'er I go, Arp Arran, Villain F—, nay Poultney too. Shall He— 't— pertly crawl from place to place, And scabby Vill—s for a Beauty pass. Shall H— and B— n Politicians prove, And S— presume to be in Love. Who can abstain from satire in this age? What Nature wants I find supplied by Rage. Some do for Pimping some for Treach'ry rise, But none's made great for being Good or Wise. Deserve a Dungeon if you would be great, Rogues always are our Ministers of State Mean prostrate Bitch's, for a Bridewell fit, With England's wretched Queen must equal sit. Run— g and fearful M— are preferred, virtue's commended, but ne'er meets Reward. Who'd be a Monarch to endure the prating Of N— l and saucy Ogle— p in waiting. Who would S— s driuling Cuckold be? Who would be G— and bear his Infamy? What wretch would be Green's ill begotten Son? Who would be james out-witted and undone? Who would be S— a cringing Knave? Like Hallifax wise, like Bearish Pembroke brave? What Drudge would be in Dryden's cudgelled skin? Or who'd be safe and senseless like Tom. T— A satire. By the same Hand. Nobilitas sola atque unica Virtus est. NOT Rome, in all her Splendour, could compare With those great Blessings happy Britain's share. Vainly they boast their Kings of heavenly Race, A G— incarnate England's Throne does grace. Chaste in his Pleasures, in Devotion grave, To his Friends constant, to his Foes he's brave; His Justice is through all the world admired, His Word held sacred, and his Sceptre feared. No Tumults do about his Palace move, Freed from Rebellion by his People's Love▪ Nor do we less in Counsels wise prevail, As all our late Transactions plainly tell. Not only Prorogations good create; But th' adjourned Playhouse is a Corpse d' Estate. So Learned Chemists, when they long have tried For Secrets thrifty Nature fain would hide, In basest Matters often Spirits find, Which Providence for greater Use designed. But who can wonder at such vast Success, Our Cato S— never promised less. Abroad in Embassies he first was famed, Where he so strictly England's Rights maintained. At home an humble Creature to her Grace, And Mrs. W— preferred him to the place. Then for Commanders both by Sea and Land, Heaven has bestowed them with a liberal hand. Y— k, who thrice changed his Ships through warlike Rage, And M—, who's the Scipio of the age. The first long Admiral, but more renowned For P— x and Popery than public Wound. This is the Man whose Vice each satire feeds, And for whom no one Virtue intercedes. Destined for England's plague, from infant time, Cursed with a Person f— than all Crime. But mightier Knights than these do still remain, Plymouth, who lately showed upon the Plain, And did by Hewit's Fall immortal Honour gain. So Mouse and Frog came gravely to the field, Both feared to fight, and yet both scorned to yield. Their famous Billets Deux and Duel prove Them both as fit for Combat as for Love. Amongst all these 'twere not amiss to name P—ney, to whom St. Omers siege gave fame. Nor do Wits less our polished Court adorn, Than Men of Prowess, for Achievements born. Romantic M— t, who in empty lines His happier Rival tediously defines; They well knew how to value painted Toys, And left the Tartar to be catched by Boys; But his chief Talon is in Histories, Which of himself he tells and always lies. Daincourt would fain be thought both Wit and Bully; But Punk-rid R— not a greater Cully, Nor tawdry Isham, intimately known To all poxed Whores and famous Rooks in town. No Ladies my respectful Muse will name, She thinks it Blasphemy to touch their Fame. Safe may they live who faithful are and kind, But may lewd Scourers no Redemption find. May young and old incessantly give thanks For that blessed Nursery of Intrigue Mil-banks. May Leicester fields repair their Matrons fall. But still subscribe in Feasts of Love to th' Mall, And Mrs. Strafford yield to B— Hall. A satire. Barbara Pyramidum sileat miracula Memphis. OF all the Wonders since the World began, Since Man's Creation, and the Fall of Man, There's none so unaccountable to me As the most common things we daily see. Which way soever I look methinks I view, Something that is extravagantly new; That entertains my all admiring Eyes With various unexpected Prodigies. And all I gaze upon, appears to me, Like any thing but what it ought to be. Find out the Man that you would think most fit For blustering Bully, he's the Man of Wit, And noisily does bear the Bays away, Speaking what common Sense would blush to say. Show me another, Body Soul and all Framed to cut Capers, he's a General; And when his warlike Arm has time to rest, Turns Buffoon Statesman, to make up the Jest, A third by Nature for the Bays designed, With awkward Body, and distorted Mind. Supported by his nauseous Impudence, Proves an eternal Plague to Men of sense: And though scarce fit to make the Rabble sport, Sets up for tawny Darling of the Court. Another guilty of a worse mistake, Poor Man's in danger of Narcissus fate, Dotes on his Person, thinks himself designed For the relief of Longing Womankind; Fancies his squinting Eye and clumsy Shape, On every Female Heart commits a Rape; Presumes too with that Face the prize to win, Fit only for Lent-Preachers threatening Sin. I mean the Warrior, famous far and near For Dr— n wit, but for no borrowed Fear; Wisely he uses his Friend's Head to write With more success than his own Arm to fight; Yet without wonder we look down and see Heroic Blue adorn his trembling Knee. Ulysses with stout Ajax did contend, And by his crafty Cunning gained his end; But 'twas thought strange, that in the bloody Field, He should obtain the famed Achilles' Shield. But here's the Prize of Honour stole away By one who ne'er yet saw a Scarlet Day, But represented in some Tragic Play. Yet every Collar Feast he struts along, With Courage squinting on the gazing Throng. He pleads, and says Ulysses ne'er did more, He has deceived, betrayed, and falsely swore. What if a Friend for Interest he expose, 'Tis dull to gain a Regiment by Blows. In his designs upon frail Womankind, His ill Success has humbled so his mind, That like Cameleon living on the Air, He's satisfied with Noise, and if the Fair Be thought his Prey, his Coachman's Wife supplies The absent vainly wished for Deities. Such unregarded blindly we pass by, And yet admire what's less a Prodigy. Do we not daily crowd with longing mind, To see a Beast of an unusual kind, Some odd uncommon Creature, that the jade Its Mother has brought forth in Masquerade. Whilst the Chief Monster Man unminded goes, Tho, of the two, the fitter for the Shows. He's the most strange, and should the most surprise, Who will be so, yet can be otherwise. Whose all mistaken Talents spur him on To lead a Life in contradiction. This brings to mind a Knight of mighty Fame, Fairly in public he plays out his Game, Betimes bespeaks Balconies for I know He'll teach you how to handle angry Foe. In Cheapside next he'll deal most deadly Blows, If not prevented by a scratch on's Nose. Of what I've said, I this Example bring, This contradicting, proud, vain, nauseous thing. Swarthy his Skin, a hanging Look on's Brows, His Head with Whimsies filled, and mad as How's; His Sword like Pen he handles writing fair, Quivering makes dashes in the wounded Air; Yet the vain Fool expects the Women all Should breathless at his feet admiring fall. Queen Sheba would have travelled twice as far, Could she for Solomon have met Sir Car. How do these Twins in all things but Estate, Rail at themselves, whilst they each other hate. Each on his Dunghill proudly does insult, But Conscience rules, and Peace is the result. Plutarch ne'er met two to compare so fit, Blind in their Eyes alike, as in their Wit, Equally vain, they love with like Success, Their Wrongs with equal Fortune they redress. Each, though a naked Sword does make him start, Looks big, admiring his own martial Heart. The one too scribbles, but in Lines as dull, As those of our new made Governor of Hull. For Prowess, Wit, Good-nature, Honesty, Religion, Honour and Humility, One only Hero dares with these contend, The brave Lord Og— 's Paramour and Friend. His Ancestors were men of mighty Fame, France felt an Earthquake at the very Name; But he whose Soul can no harsh thought admit, Takes care to cure it of its Ague fit; His tender Heart, in softer Breast enshrined, For gentler use by Nature was designed. A just Revenge admittance seeks in vain, To his converted Soul where Peace does reign. What tho' his Father's bloody Murderer live, His Charity compels him to forgive. But now from railing let us rest a while, Some few have Merit in our wretched Isle. Those whom our honest Poet discommends, Because they've been his Patrons and his Friends. We may conclude 'tis Interest guides the Pen, And ranges Fools with wise deserving Men; Since in the front of our kept laureate's Plays, Long Dedications speak a Booby's Praise; And Women of the highest Rank appear, As chaste, nay chaster than Lucretia there. I write not for Applause, nor do I strain For Money a dull mercenary Brain, Measure not Verse as Ribbon by the Ell, My stock of Wit's not good enough to sell, Nor yet so poor as that my needy Pen Should rail, for want of matter at good Men. I will not, where no fault is to be found, Slander the Dead, for Lies dig under ground; Nor to be thought a brisk aspiring Wit, Rail at a Monarch for my Praises fit, Censure, if to unbend his head from Care, He with his Subjects in some Pleasure share; A blessed Lot we to our Sovereign give, Permit him only as our Drudge to live; Excess of Goodness, which I own his Crime, Factious Petitioners will cure in time; Then like the Frogs in Aesop we may grieve, When foolishly we hoping to relieve By changing our imaginary Smarts, Find 'tis that Change that breaks our stubborn hearts. I'll not complain Honours bestowed on him Who for his Country ventured that same Limb That's now adorned, whose generous Courage too, Aiding our Neighbours, to the Frenchman woe, Showed 'em what English Swords were used to do. Nor empty Paradoxes will maintain, Lift a malicious Arm, but all in vain, Striking at him the Ball rebounds and hurts, 'Tis not like fight Duels in our shirts; 'Tis trying to pierce Armour with a Sword, Calling him Fool, who when he speaks the word, Loudly proclaims the Liar; but 'tis fine To swear the Sun and Moon did never shine. I may mistake, but think my Nature good, Yet some Temptations cannot be withstood. I cannot always with Heracleus weep, Nor in a drowsy Silence ever sleep, Faith I must laugh, seeing the Letter drop, Given the pert Dame, by disappointed Fop; Nor can I stifle my surprise, when I Follow Lord All-Pride, in his train espy, One who before did him no Injury, Crowning his Brows with deserved Infamy, But since his Wife he publicly called Whore, So much obliged he now can rail no more, 'Twas what himself had often done before. His strict attendance Gratitude does show, How comes our Metal'd-man to stoop so low. Yet of all Frantic Fools none seems to me So vainly proud of his own Infamy, As he, who pleased to head the factious Rout, Of gaping Boors, and lead the Fools about. Forfeits his Loyalty, his Friends and Fame, And all to crown the Author of his shame; Yet in good humour pleased to be allowed The most notorious Cuckold in the Crowd. The Deeds of mighty Heroes I rehearse, Crowd not four harmless Fools into one Verse: 'Tis not a scabby Chin can raise my Spleen, Nor Rival to the Moor of Mazarine. My soaring Muse flies with a nimble wing From such low Objects, scorns of such to sing; Should she at every humble Quarry stoop, And range each puny growring Fop with S— 'Twould make those Shrubs of Folly hope to prove Equal to that tall Cedar of the Grove. YE expect some sentence now e'er I conclude, I'm tired, excuse me therefore if I'm rude, And take my leave abruptly, faith 'tis time, When all Fools write, to think no more of Rhyme, The ROYAL-BUSS. AS in the days of yore were odds Betwixt the Giants and the Gods, So now is rife a fearful Brawl Between the Parliament and Whitehal; But, blessed be jove, these Gods of ours Are greater in their Gild than Powers. Tho then the Heathens were such Fools, Yet they made Gods of better Tools. No Altars then to Plackets were, Nor Majesty by Buss would swear. They'd hang a Tippet at his Door, Should break a Parliament to please a Whore; And further to oblige him to it, Would swear by Portsm— hs C— t he'd do it, And by Contents of th' Oath he had took, Kneeled down in zeal and kissed the Book. They'd think the Faith too much amiss That such Defenders had as this, And that Religion looked too poor, Whose Head of th' Church kissed A—se of W—re. But this he did, much good may't do him, And then the Quean held forth unto him. The Devil take her for a Whore: Would he had kissed ten years before, Before our City had been burned, And all our Wealth to Plagues had turned; Before she had ruined (pox upon her) Our English Name, Blood, Wealth and Honor. Whilst Parliaments too flippant gave, And Courtiers would but ask and have. Whilst they are making English, French, And Money vote to keep the Wench, And the Buffoons and Pimps to pay, The devil a bit prorogued were they. The kiss of T— t, instead had stood, And might have done three Nations good. But when the Commons would no more Raise Taxes to maintain the Whore. When they would not abide the Aw Of standing Force instead of Law. Then Law, Religion Property They'd force against Will and Popery. When they provide that all shall be From Slavery and Oppession free. That a Writ of Habeas Corpus come, And none in Prison be undone. That English men should not, like Beast, To war by Sea or Land be pressed. That Peace with Holland should be made, When War had spoiled our Men and Trade. That Treason it should be for any, Without a Parliament to raise a Penny. That no Courtier should be sent To sit and vote in Parliament. That when an end to this was gave, A yearly Parliament we should have, According to the ancient Law, That mighty Knaves might live in awe. That King nor Council should commit An English man for wealth or wit. Prerogative being tied thus tied, That it could neither scratch nor bite. When Whores began to be afeard, Like Armies, they should be cashiered. Then Portsm— th', the incestous Punk, Made our most gracious sovereign drunk. And drunk she made him give that Buss That all the Kingdom's bound to curse, And so red hot with Wine and Whore, He kicked the Commons out of door. WINDSOR. By the Lord R— r. MEthinks I see our mighty Monarch stand, His pliant Angle trembling in his hand, Pleased with the sport, good man, nor does he know, His easy Sceptre bends and trembles so. Fine Representative indeed of God, Whose Sceptre's dwindled to a Fishing rod. Such was Domitian in his Romans Eyes, When his great God ship stooped to catching Flies, Bless us! what pretty Sport have Deities. But see he now does up from Dotchel come, Laden with spoils of slaughtered Gudgeons home. Nor is he warned, by their unhappy fate, But greedily he swallows every bait, A Prey to every King-fisher of state. For how he Gudgeons takes, you have been taught Then listen now how he himself is caught, So well alas, the fatal Bait is known, Which R— does so greedily take down, And however weak and slender be the String, Bait it with Whore and it will hold a King. Almighty Power of Women! oh, how vain Are Salic Laws, for you will ever reign. Yet Lawson, thou whose arbitrary Sway Our King must, more than we do him obey, Who shortly shalt of easy Charles' Breast And of his Empire be at once possessed. Tho it indeed appear a glorious thing, To command Power, and to enslave a King; Yet e'er the false Appearance has betrayed, A soft, believing, unexperienced Maid, O, yet consider, e'er it be too late, How near you stand upon the brink of Fate. Think who they are who would for you procure This great Preferment, to be made a Whore; Two Reverend Aunts, renowned in British story, For Lust and Drunkenness, with Nell and L—. These, these are they your Fame would sacrifice, Your Honour sell, and you shall hear the Price. My Lady Mary nothing can design, But feed her Lust with what she gets for thine, Old Richm— d making thee a glorious Punk, Shall twice a day with Brandy now be drunk. Her Brother Buck—m shall be restored, Nelly a Countess, L— be a Lord. And sure all Honours should on him be thrown, Both for his Father's merit and his own: For Dunkirk first was sold by Clarendon, And now Tangier is selling by the Son. A barren Queen the Father brought us over, To make way for the Son to bring a Whore. The Second Advice to a PAINTER. By the Author of the first. NOW Painter try if thy skilled hand can draw, The horrid'st Scene the trembling World e'er saw. Wipe all your Pencils that the former drew, In dismal colours dip them all anew; Colours that may in lively parts express The plotted Fall of Monarches; in a Dress May fright the World: Crimes which we can't atone With our best Blood, and Christians blush to own. But let me first advise you, e'er you take This work in hand, a small Reflection make, Of all that's heinous, Murders, Treasons, Fires, Perjuries, Incests, Rapines, hot Desires Of murdering Kings, I tremble to rehearse, A tottering World and sinking Universe. Think well on these, e'er you begin the part, 'Twill heighten Fancy, and affect your Heart. In the upper part of all the Canvas paint His Holiness the Pope, that mighty Saint, Old Satan his Associate too must stand Behind his Chair, to guide his heart and hand. Draw him stuck round with all the Toys that come, From the grand Mint of Lies, old foppish Rome. Bulls, Dispensations, Pardons all the baits He lays for the dull Crowd; the Book of Rates Will be convenient too, that of every Sin The value may be known, pray cram them in Draw him dispersing with a bounteous hand, For horrid Ends, the Treasures of his land: Dispensing with false Oaths, o● any thing. So that they'll murder Charles, Great-Britain's King. Poor Fool! to think the Guardian of his Throne Is grown so dull, and senseless as his own, No, proud Imposture, no, thy Hand's too short To reach his Head, or make his fall thy sport. Next draw proud France, and his ambitious hope Of being mighty cringing to the Pope, 'Tis not his Zeal to him, or to his Laws, That cheats the World, this his Affection draws. 'Tis Interest, mighty Interest bears the sway, He dare not, though he's willing, disobey. Base Prince, and foolish too, yourself you cheat, When on such Terms as these you would be great. You feast your senses, at such costly Rates, That nothing else can serve but Delicates, Dipped in the Blood of Princes, Death of Kings, In your Opinion, are but vulgar things; If thirst of Empire swayed a generous Soul, These base low tricks could never sure control; But when a Mind's so firm on mischief bend, No thoughts of Honour can its Crimes prevent. In meanest Actions Princes should be true, And act on principles of Honour too. Then they are sacred to the World and aught To be adored, than Disrespects a Fault. But when both base, degenerate they're grown, The Vulgar hurl them headlong from the Throne. Go on, vile Prince, in all these Arts and try How soon your Crown will fade, your Empire die. By your Example your own Subjects teach, To strike at Empire, and at Sceptres reach; And may their first attempt be on thy Head, Dethrone thee first of all, then strike thee dead. Now Painter, to our Subject, dip thy Pen In black, in horrid black, yet once again. For when a Subject from a King revolts, Conspires his Death, and thinks these things no faults. The Scene must needs be horrid, first begin, With Bel— s his foul ungrateful sin; Draw him a Monster in as foul a dress, As e'er your heart can think or hand express. Long did he in his Prince's bosom lie, One would have thought, void of all Treachery; For what base Man but he, could e'er conspire To set that house wherein he lives on fire; Who would such Treason's harbour in his breast, Against th' best of Princes, and to him the best. The other Lords must on the stage be led, Draw out each Man with Halter on his head, And Dagger in his heart, with which in vain They often strove to stab their Sovereign. Base Rascals, do you thus your Prince reward? Have you no Honour left? or no Regard To Clemency? which some of you I know Have tasted, or y'had died for't long ago; Had he been cruel, or Tyrannic grown, You'd had more reason to usurp his Throne; But to a gracious, and obliging Prince, 'Tis past all hopes of pardon or defence. Now Painter, draw me Hell in all its heat, Let sulphurous Flames and dismal Darkness meet; Draw S—ley, Col— n, and the Jesuits, And in the hottest place as best befits; Let them endure the flaming Brimstones Rage, These bloody traitorous Miscreants of our Age. These were the Men designed (oh bloody Act) Nay were resolved on to commit the fact. Base Rebels, don't you know that Heaven's high hand Has ever kept the Monarch of our Land, And could you think to move our Scene, and do What Heaven's high Lord had ne'er consented to. Burn on vile Wretches, think well on these things, What Treason is, what 'tis to murder Kings. Now draw, in all his Majesty and State, Our Sovereign Prince, just rising from his Fate. Pray paint him laughing at the Follies done, By th' Pope and France, his most unchristian Son. Prithee, old Fellow, prithee tell me why Old England should so much disturb thy Eye? Is it because we do not dote on you? And worship all your Saints, we never knew? If these, Old Man, your Aggravations be, Know we defy thy Malice, Imps and Thee. Stafford 's Ghost. February 1682. IS this the Heavenly Crown? Are these the Joys Which bellowing Priests did promise with such noise? Charming my Fears with such lewd Words as these, A Saint, a Martyr, Bliss, Eternal Ease? Such promised Glories were for meaner Deeds, He's trebly blest by whom our Monarch bleeds. Cursed Priests did me with other Fools delude, Bribed with their Gifts of the Beatitude. Had I that Life so unadvis'dly lost, 'Tis not your fawning Jesuitish Host Should e'er prevail on my misguided sense, To smother Gild with Vows of Innocence: Nor thou, false Friend, as false to me or more, Than all thy Oaths for Coleman's Life before; With thy true Catholic protesting Breath, Shouldst e'er betray me to a perjured Death. Blinded with Zeal, what did we once admire A sulphurous Soul, by Jesuits set on fire; A headstrong, stupid, rash, bigoted Prince, Declared the open Enemy to Sense▪ Weak are the sacred Ties that should attend, The Name of sovereign, Brother, and of Friend; This pious Samson would with Joy overthrow The Universe, and perish by the blow; His Plots, though known, yet he will ne'er give over, But still Intrigues with his dear Babel Whore; So much infected by that Fatal Bitch, He's all broke out in scabby Zeal and Itch. Could we distinctly view his tainted Soul; That all the Relics of S— were small, Compared with th' Scars of his P spiritual: 'Tis not the powerful Force of Iordan's Streams, Nor his dear Purgatories cleansing Flames, Can e'er remove from his polluted Soul The least remains of a Disease so foul: You'll say 'tis hard that such a one as he Should be deprived of Naaman's Remedy; But there's Distinction to be made, I hope, 'Twixt those that worship Rimmon and the Pope. Amends for my intended Crimes I make, If Charles from his Lethargic Sleep I wake, But such a Dose of Opiates they have given, To rouse him were a Miracle for Heaven; I hope, though when he hears what I can tell, Success may crown my Embassy from Hell. I'll boldly name those that pursue his Life, And amongst his Subjects fester endless Strife; Their Friends and their Advisers I'll reveal▪ Those Holy Men that, touched with pious Zeal, Are such Wellwishers to the Common Weal. York's most beloved and boldest Friend is he, Who knows he must succeed by Gadbury; Yet some with Wonder are surprised to find, That in the Loyal Ague of his Mind, His hot fit comes in such a proper time, Whose cold one thought the Covenant no Crime. The next a Slave to his Ambitious Pride, Must be the chief, though of the falling Side. This Hot-brained Machiavelli once vainly strove, For what he ne'er can hope the People's Love. But foiled he flies for Refuge to the Throne, Trusting to th' Bladders of his Wit alone, Without one honest thought to fix them on. The third a Wreck of the divided Chits. Better than jilting Whore he counterfeits; But not his treacherous Eyes dissolved in tears, Nor the false Vizard his Ambition wears, Can blind the World, or hide what must be seen. His Practices with I— and Mazarine. Vote on poor Fools, ye Commons vent your spleen, Sure France and York are a sufficient Screen: A Tax at home's a Project old and dull, He'll find new ways to keep his Coffers full. The French shall some of our fled Gold restore, They suck like Leeches, but they ruin more, When they spew back part of th' infected Ore: 'Tis his Contrivance too, by Change of Air, To ease our Monarch of his Fears and Care. They jointly toil to make thy Burden light, Knowing that Quiet is thy chief Delight, They therefore haste and hurry thee to fight. No matter C—, thy Enemies they'll fright, One stamps, one talks, one weeps thy Foes to flight. I come (dread Lord) from the dark Shades below To give thee timely notice of the Blow, Which thou may'st yet prevent; think well of those Whom now (mistaken) you believe your Foes. They who against your will would fix your Crown, Giving you Riches, Happiness, Renown; Which Metamorphose should accepted be, Because redeemed from Want and Infamy▪ (Observe poor Wanderer, how thou walkest alone, Might is the Atlas that supports thy Throne) Haste to comply, defer it not too long, Thou canst not stem a Current that's so strong. Trust to th' Affections of thy Britain's bold, Give them but leave thy Honour to uphold; Tho Bessus, yet a Caesar thou may'st be, Oppressed with Trophies of their Victory. On the Duchess of Portsmouth's Picture. September, 1682. WHO can on this Picture look, And not straight be wonder struck, That such a peaking dowdy thing Should make a Beggar of a King? Three happy Nations turn to Tears, And all their former Love to Fears? Ruin the Great, and raise the Small, Yet will by turns betray them all. Lowly born, and meanly bred, Yet of this Nation is the Head: For half Whitehall make her their Court, Tho th'other half make her their sport. Monmouth's Tamer, Ieffery's Advance, Foe to England, Spy to France, False and foolish, proud and bold, Ugly as you see, and Old. In a word, her mighty Grace Is Whore in all things but her Face. HOUNSLOW-HEATH. 1686. Upon this Place are to be seen Many Brave Sights. God save the Queen. NEar Hampton Court there lies a Common, Unknown to neither Man nor Woman; The Heath of Hounslow it is styled: Which never was with blood defiled, Tho it has been of War the Seat, Now three Campains almost complete. Here you may see Great JAMES the Second, (The greatest of our Kings he's reckoned!) A Hero of such high Renown, Whole Nations tremble at his Frown: And, when he Smiles, Men die away In Transports of excessive Joy. A Prince of admirable Learning! Quick Wit! of Judgement most discerning! His Knowledge in all Arts is such, No Monarch ever knew so much. Not that old blustering King of Pontus, Whom Men call learned to affront us, With all his Tongues and Dialects, Could equal him in all respects; His two and twenty Languages Were Trifles, if compared to His, jargons', which we esteem but small, English and French are worth 'em all. What though he had some skill in Physic, Could cure the Dropsy or the Physic; Perhaps was able to advise one To scape the danger of rank Poison, And could prepare an Antidote Should carry't off, though down your Throat? These are but poor Mechanic Arts, Inferior to Great james his Parts: Shall he be set in the same Rank, With a Pedantic Mountebank? He's Master of such Eloquence, Well chosen Words, and weighty Sense; That he near parts his lovely Lips, But out a Trope or Figure slips: And, when he moves his fluent Tongue, Is sure to ravish all the Throng; And every Mortal that can hear, Is held fast Prisoner by the Ear. His other Gifts we need but name, They are so spread abroad by Fame, His Faith, his Zeal, his Constancy, Aversion to all Bigotry! His firm adhering to the Laws, By which he judges every Cause, And deals to all impartial Justice, In which the Subjects greatest trust is! His constant keeping of his Word, As well to Peasant as to Lord; Which he no more would violate, Than he would quit his Regal State! Who has not his least promise broke, Nor contradicted what he spoke! His governing the brutal Passions, With far more Rigour than his Nations: Would not be swayed by's Appetite, Were he to gain an Empire by't! From hence does flow that Chastity, Temperance, Love, Sincerity, And unaffected Piety, That just abhorrence of Ambition, Idolatry, and Superstition, Which through his Life have shined so bright, That nought could dazzle their clear Light! These Qualities we'll not insist on, Because they all are Duties Christian; But haste to celebrate his Courage, Which is the Prodigy of our Age: A Spirit which exceeds relation; And were too great for any Nation, Did not those Virtues named before Confine it to its native Shore, Restrain it from the thirst of Blood, And only exerciseed in Good! The tedious Mithridatick War, (The Noise whereof is spread so far) Was nothing to what's practised here; Tho carried on for forty year, Against Pompey, Sylla, and Lucullus, High-sounding Names, brought in to gull us: In which the Romans lost more Men Than one age could repair again; Who perished not by Sword or Bullet, But melted Gold poured down the Gullet. Heroes of old were only famed For having Millions killed or maimed; For being th' Instrument of Fate, In making Nations desolate; For wading to the Chin i'th' Blood Of those that in their passage stood: And thought the Point they had not gained, While any Foe alive remained. Our Monarch, by more gentle Rules, Has proved the Ancients arrant Fools: He only studies and contrives Not to destroy, but save Men's Lives; Shows all the Military skill, Without committing aught that's ill. He'll teach his Men in Warlike Sport, How to defend, or storm a Fort; And, in Heroic Interlude, Will act the dreadful scene of Bude: Here Lorraine storms, the Visier dies▪ And Brandenburg routs the Supplies; Bavaria there blows up their Train And all the Turks are took, or slain. All this performed, with no more harm Than Loss of simple Gunner's Arm: And surely 'tis a greater Good To teach Men War, than shed their Blood. Now pause, and view the Army Royal, Composed of valiant Souls and loyal; Not raised (as ill Men say) to hurt ye, But to defend, or to convert ye: For that's the Method now in Use, The Faith Tridentine to diffuse. Time was, the Word was powerful; But now, 'tis thought remiss and dull: Has not that Energy and Force, Which is in well-armed Foot and Horse. Thus, when the Faith has had mutation, We change its way of Propagation: So Mahomet, with arms and terrors, Spread over half the World his Errors. Here daily swarm Prodigious Wights, And strange variety of Sights, As Ladies lewd, and foppish Knights, Priests, Poets, Pimps, and Parasites; Which now we'll 〈◊〉, and only mention, The hungry B●rd that writes for Pension; Old Squab, (who's sometimes here, I'm told) That oft has with his Prince made bold, Called the late King a Sant'ring Cully, To magnify the gallic Bully; Who lately put a senseless Banter Upon the World, with Hind and Panther, Making the Beasts and Birds o'th' Wood Debate what he ne'er understood, Deep Secrets in Philosophy, And Mysteries in Theology, All sung in wretched Poetry; Which rambling Piece, is as much Farce all, As his true Mirror, the Rehearsal; For which he has been sound banged, But han't his just Reward till hanged. Now you have seen all that is here, Have Patience till another Year. The Dissenters Thanksgiving for the Late Declaration. 1685. FOR this Additional Declaration, This double Grace of Dispensation, For Liberty and Toleration; Against Antichristian Violation. Whatever Zeal misguided Passion, Persuades the Sons of Reformation: 'Tis but a sly Insinuation, To work a Popish Inundation, We of the new Regeneration; The well affected of the Nation, That will be useful in our Station. Do offer up our due Oblation; And make our humble Supplication, While Test and Penals are in fashion; We be not brought in tribulation By the next Synod of the Nation. The DISPUTE. By the E. of R— BEtwixt Father Patrick and his Highness of late, There happened a strong and a weighty Debate: Religion was the Theme. 'Tis strange that they two, Should dispute about that which neither of 'em know. When I dare boldly say, if the Truth were but known, The Weakness of Patrick, and Strength of his own; He'd have called it a Madness, and much like a Curse, To have changed from a good one, to that which is worse; But the reasons which made most his Highness to yield, And so willingly quit to S. Patrick the Field, Were— First, Sir, they cheat you, and leave you i'th' Lurch, Who tell you there can be any more than one Church. And, next unto that he averred for a certain; No Footsteps of ours could be found before Martin. At which two Reasons, so deep and profound, His Highness had like to have fallen in a Swoon; But at length he cried out, Father Patrick, I find By the sudden Conversion, and Change of my mind, It is not your Reason, nor Wit can afford Such Strength to your Cause; 'tis the Finger o'th'Lord, For now I remember he somewhere has said, That by Babes and Sucklings his Truth is conveyed. Thus ends the dispute 'twixt the Priest and the Knight, In which, to say truth, and to do 'em both right, He managed the Cause, as he did the Sea-fight. julii Mazarini Cardinalis Epitaphium. HIC jacet Julius Mazarinus Galliae Rex Italicus Ecclesiae praesul Laicus Europae praedo purpuratus Fortunam omnem ambiit, omnem corrupit, Erarium administravit & exhausit, Civile Bellum compressit, sed commovit, Regni jura tuitus est & invasit, Beneficia possedit & vendidit, Pacem dedit aliquando, diu distulit, Hostes cladibus cives oneribus afflixit, Arrisit paucis, irrisit plurimos Omnibus nocuit. Negotiator in templo, Tyrannus in Regno, Praedo in ministerio, Vulpes in concilio, Grassator in bello, Solus nobis in pace hostis. Fortunam olim adversam, aut elusit aut vicit; Et nostro saeculo vidimus Adorari fugitivum, Imperare civibus exulem, Regnare proscriptum. Quid deinde egerit, rogas? Paucis accipe, Lusit, fefellit, rapuit, Ferreum nobis induxit, saeculum sibi Ex auro nostro, aureum fecit. Quorundam Capiti nullius fortunis peperit, Homo crudeliter clemens. Pluribus tandem morbis elanguit, Plures ei coelo mortes virogate, Cui Senatus olim unam tantum decreverat Vincemini se arcibus inclusit moriturus, Et quidem apte Quaesivit Carcerem. Diu cedentem animam retinuit aegre reddidit, Sic retinere omnia dedicerat, Nihil suâ sponte reddere. Constanter tamen visus est mori quid mirum Ut vixit sic obiit dissimulans, Ne morbum quidem novere qui curabant, Hac una fraude nobis profuit, Fefellit Medicos. Mortuus est tamen infallimur, & moriens, Regem regno, regnum regi restituit. Reliquit Praesulibus pessima exempla, Aulicis infida consilia, Adoptiva amplissima spolia, Paupertatem populis, Successoribus suis omnes praedandi artes, Sed Praedam nullam, Immensas tamen opes licet profuderit, Id unum tantum habuit ex suo quod daret, Nomen suum. Pectus ejus post mortem apertum est, Tum primum patuit vafrum Cor MAZARINI, Quod nec precibꝰ, nec lacrymis, nec injuriis moveretur. Diu quaesivimus invenire Medici Cor Lapideum, Quod mortuus omnia adhuc moveat & administret ne mireris, Stipendia in hunc annum accepit, Nec fraudat post mortem Vir bonae fidei, Quo tandem evaserit forsitan rogitas? Coelum si rapitur tenet, si datur meritis longe abest. Sed abi, Viator, & cave, Nam hic tumulus Est Specus Latronis. satire Unmuzzled. Who'd be the Man lewd Libels to indite, Yet fears to own what he ne'er fears to write. And meanly sneak his Lampoons into th' World, Which are i'th' Streets by Porters dropped and hurled, Or else by julian 'mong the Bullies spread, That and his Pimping brings him in his bread? Who'd be the Wretch to hear himself abused, By some Men censured, and by some accused, For libelling the Town, with his sharp Pen, And they with Cudgels lampoon him again? To name great Men is Malice grossly shown, As if they could not by their Crimes be known: For what Fool knew not, when you named a Bear, Without a Comment Pembroke was not there. When we say Fool, than all Men must agree, V— to name would be Tautology. Who to the Sin of Pride does lay most claim, Need we say T—Arp— or Heningham. With these before the Wits have had a bout, I'll pick out some the Poets have left out; And yet not name the Men, but swinge their Faults, For so wise satire makes his best Assaults. One played at Dice all night, at Lockets door, Quarrelled and cuffed till he was Blood all o'er; Nex day he sat at the wise Green-cloth board, And with great Gravity said ne'er a word, There fell asleep, then waked with angry Face, And swore G— damn him his throw was Ams-ace, So swept the Money that o'th' Green-cloth lay, And vowed he dreamt he won it all at play. To cheat the King he has left off being brave, From Captain turned a formal Green-cloth Knave. Next comes a Wretch whom all Mankind does hate, Cursed by his Servants for his Pride and State, Keeps Bawds, and has his Banco for the Gout, Which is a modest Word for Pox, no doubt; No Lampoon ever thought him worthy yet, Having not matter to afford them Wit. Lewdly his outside, as his Soul within, One that deserves to be, for his proud Sin, Tossed up to Heaven, to tumble down again. Famed for his Virtue and good Nature too, Yet both concealed, and never came in view, His Office shows the Devil and he are Twins, Being Privy-Purse to all the Privy-Sins. Search the whole Court, in all that blessed Race, Not one Man's planted in his proper place; Scarce one Man just or faithful found to be, Only Frank N— Henry K—w, Why did I name 'em since ye all well know When we say faithful, it implies them two; Once faulty Men, but now as just are known, They mortgage Oaths, and lay their Honour down To every Footman lends them half a Crown. Now for a Brute whose Species is unknown, Like Man, but Hell best knows he is not one. Full as destructive as the Wind North-east, And much more ominous to Man and Beast. Swelled like a Toad, his Soul just specled so, And poisons all things, where he does but blow; Whose crooked Nature forces so much evil, 'T has changed his Species from Mankind to Devil. 'Tis not the Form, but the brave noble Mind, That makes us worthy to be called Mankind. He left a Conquest that the Duke had gained, A greater Blemish England ne'er sustained. No more of that, let's sleep out all the Rest, For Silence in this case is safe and best. He's Cofferer now, in great Esteem and grace, But Sledge and Tyburn is his proper place. Our late Secretary fell into Disgrace And Ignoramus stepped into his place. By our great jilt-royal he had his Fall, She that commands the Court, the Devil and all, To us who know these things, 'tis no great wonder, For Court and Devil ne'er live far asunder. She that to th' Eye of State is such a film, Who sits in Pomp to guide and steer the Helm, And will in time the tall Ship over-whelm. The Fool of Honour, like a nimble Eel, Has wriggled through the Mud to Fortune's wheel, Slipped into Place improperly by Fate, Whose Parts were ne'er cut out to serve the State, But fawning well on Madam did the feat, She's a great Bubble to a cringing Cheat. One thing I wonder at, and shall do still, To see a Fool act wise Achitophel. Could Booby think you'd e'er be in a Plot, Whose stock of Brains would lie upon a Groat, But that was not his but the King's great Fault. Had he for Murders hanged him, in all reason We may believe he'd ne'er committed Treason. Thou weak Achitophel, to undertake By thy wise Counsels a false King to make. But thou and Absalon thy weaker Friend, Your damned Ambition now is at an end; Go, get thy Living with thy old Man Thomas, That lusty Drudge will prove thy best Mandamus. Now for a She-Buffoon, who, as 'tis said, Crawled into th' World, without a Maidenhead; It is most sure 'twas never had by Man, Nor can she say where it was lost or when, We must conclude she never had one then. Her Mother grieved in muddy Ale and Sack, To think her Child should ever prove a Crack; When she was drunk she always fell asleep, And when full Maudlin than the Whore would weep. Her Tears were Brandy, Mundungus her Breath, Bawd was her Life, and Common shore her Death. To see the Daughter mourn for such a Beast, Is like her Life, which make up but one Jest, Of all her Jokes this Mourning is the best. As Jews, descended from the High-Priests Race, Were thought the fittest to supply that place, So she best satisfies lustful Amours, Whose Line from Adam have been Bawds and Whores. Now will I speak of all those foolish Duns, Who trust the Goths, the Vandals, and the Huns. Such as do run on every Tradesman's Score, Nay basely tick with every little Whore, And still tick on, till they can tick no more. When Dun comes each Man asks what he'd be at, And swears and rants at the old Vandal rate, Then pays his Score off with a broken Pate. Bilks the poor Coach man, wretched Linkboy cheats, And brags next day of his Heroic Feats. Such mean base things the Goatish Gentry do, The English keep their Fame and Honour too. Most highly scandalous are all the rest, And proud, gay Fool and Fop includes the best. All Golden Out sides with false Tinsel Hearts, They only make a show of worthy Parts; The Name of Gentleman's grown odious now, It is become great Honour's Overthrow. Full as reproachful to the Men we find, As Common Whore is to all Womankind. Here the whole Race of Gentry lies at stake, The guiltless suffers for the guilty's sake. Pity it is that Men of noble Fame, Should lose their Honour merely for the Name. 'Cause Tom's a Knave, must every Tom be so. Must we, Draw-Can-Sir like, slay Friend and Foe. No general Rule without Exception is, Those few unblemished are not meant in this. THE HIND AND PANTHER TRANSVERSED To the Story of The Country-Mouse and the City-Mouse. Much Malice mingled with a little Wit. Hind. Pan. Nec vult Panthera domari. Quae Genus. PREFACE. THE Favourers of the Hind and Panther will be apt to say in its Defence, That the best things are capable of being turned to Ridicule; that Homer has been Burlesqued, and Virgil Travested without suffering any thing in their Reputation from that Buffonery; and that in like manner, the Hind and the Panther may be an Exact Poem, though 'tis the Subject of our Raillery: But there is this difference, That those Authors are wrested from their true Sense, and This naturally falls into Ridicule; there is nothing Represented here as monstrous and unnatural, which is not equally so in the Original. First as to the General Design, Is it not as easy to imagine two Mice bilking Coachmen, and supping at the Devil, as to suppose a Hind entertaining the Panther at a Hermit's Cell, discussing the greatest Mysteries of Religion, and telling you▪ her Son Rodriguez writ very good Spanish? What can be more improbable and contradictory to the Rules and Examples of all Fables, and to the very design and use of them? They were first begun and raised to the highest Perfection in the Eastern Countries; where they wrote in Signs, and spoke in Parables, and delivered the most useful Precepts in delightful Stories; which for their Aptness were entertaining to the most judicious, and led the Vulgar into understanding by surprising them with their Novelty, and fixing their Attention. All their Fables carry a double meaning; the Story is one and entire; the Characters the same throughout, not broken or changed, and always conformable to the Nature of the Creatures they introduce. They never tell you that the Dog which snapped at a Shadow, lost his Troop of Horse, That would be unintelligible; a piece of Flesh is proper for him to drop, and the Reader will apply it to Mankind; they would not say that the Daw, who was so proud of her borrowed Plumes, looked very ridiculous when Rodriguez came and took away all the Book but the 17th, 24th, and 25th Chapters, which she stole from him: But this is his new way of telling a Story, and confounding the Moral and the Fable together. Before the Word was written, said the Hind, Our Saviour Preached the Faith to all Mankind. What relation has the Hind to our Saviour? Or what notion have we of a Panther's Bible? If you say he means the Church, how does the Church feed on Lawns, or range in the Forest? Let it be always a Church, or always the clovenfooted Beast, for we cannot bear his shifting the Scene every Line. If it is absurd in Comedies to make a Peasant talk in the strain of a Hero, or a Country Wench use the Language of the Court; how monstrous is it to make a Priest of a Hind, and a Parson of a Panther? To bring 'em in disputing with all the Formalities and Terms of the School? Though as to the Arguments themselves, those, we confess, are suited to the Capacity of the Beasts; and if we would suppose a Hind expressing herself about these Matters, she would talk at that Rate. As to the Absurdity of his Expressions, there is nothing wrested to make 'em ridiculous, the terms are sometimes altered to make the Blunder more visible; Knowledge misunderstood is not at all better sense than Understanding misunderstood, though 'tis confessed the Author can play with words so well, that this and twenty such will pass off at a slight reading. There are other mistakes which could not be brought in, for they were too gross for Bays himself to commit. 'Tis hard to conceive how any Man could censure the Turks for Gluttony; a People that debauch in Coffee, are voluptuous in a mess of Rice, and keep the strictest Lent, without the Pleasures of a Carnival to encourage them. But 'tis almost impossible to think that any Man who had not renounced his Senses, should read Duncomb for Allen: He had been told that Mr. Allen had written a Discourse of Humility; Difference betwixt a Protestant and Socinian, p. 62. to which he wisely answers, That that magnified Piece of Duncomb's was Translated from the Spanish of Rodriguez; and to set it beyond dispute, Page 92. makes the infallible Guide affirm the same thing. There are few mistakes, but one may imagine how a Man fell into them, and at lest what he aimed at; but what likeness is there between Duncomb and Allen? do they so much as Rhyme? We may have this comfort under the severity of his satire, to see his Abilities equally lessened with his Opinion of us; and that he could not be a fit Champion against the Panther till he had laid aside all his judgement. But we must applaud his Obedience to his new Mother Hind; Page 90. she Disciplined him severely, she commanded him, it seems, to Sacrifice his darling Fame, and to do it effectually he published this learned Piece. This is the favourable Construction we would put on his Faults, though he takes care to inform us, that it was done from no Imposition, Pref. but out of a natural Propensity he has to Malice, and a particular Inclination of doing Mischief. What else could provoke him to Libel the Court, Page 8●. Blaspheme Kings, abuse the whole Scotch Nation, rail at the greatest Part of his own, and lay all the Indignities imaginable on the only Established Religion? And we must now Congratulate him this Felicity▪ That there is no Sect or Denomination of Christians, whom he has not abused. Thus far his Arms have with Success been crowned. Let Turks, Jews, and Infidels lock to themselves, he has already begun the War upon them. When once a Conqueror grows thus dreadful, 'tis the Interest of all his Neighbours to oppose him, for there is no Alliance to be made with one that will face about, and destroy his Friends, and like a second Almanzor, change sides merely to keep his hand in ure. This Heroic Temper of his, has created him some Enemies, that did by no means affect Hostility; and he may observe this Candour in the Management, that none of his Works are concerned in these Papers, but his last Piece; and I believe he is sensible this is a favour. I was not ambitious of Laughing at any Persuasion, or making Religion the Subject of such a Trifle; so that no man is here concerned, but the Author himself, and nothing ridiculed but his way of arguing. But, Gentlemen, if you won't take it so, you must grant my Excuse is more reasonable than our Author's to the Dissenters. THE HIND AND THE PANTHER TRANSVERSED To the Story of the Country and the City-Mouse. Bays, johnson, Smith. johnson. HAH! my old friend Mr. Bayes, what lucky chance has thrown me upon you? Dear Rogue, let me embrace thee. Bays. Hold, at your peril, Sir, stand off and come not within my Sword's point, for if you are not come over to the Royal Party, Pref. p. 1. I expect neither fair War, nor fair Quarter from you. john's. How, draw upon your friend! and assault your old Acquaintance! O' my conscience my intentions were Honourable. Bays. Conscience! Ay, ay, I know the deceit of that word well enough; let me have the marks of your Conscience before I trust it, Pref. ib. for if it be not of the same stamp with mine, Gad I may be knocked down for all your fair promises. Smith. Nay, prithee Bays, what damned Villainy hast thou been about, that thou'rt under these apprehensions? Upon my Honour I'm thy friend; yet thou lookest as sneaking and frighted as a Dog that has been worrying Sheep. Bays. Ay Sir, Pref. ib. The Nation is in too high a ferment for me to expect any mercy, or egad, to trust any body. Smith. But why this to us, my old Friend, who you know never trouble our heads with National concerns till the third Bottle has taught us as much of Politics, as the next does of Religion? Bays. Ah Gentlemen, leave this profaneness, I am altered since you saw me, and cannot bear this loose talk now; Mr. johnson, you are a Man of Parts, let me desire you to read the Guide of Controversy; and Mr. Smith, I would recommend to you the Considerations on the Council of Trent; Page 5. and so Gentlemen your humble Servant.— Good life be now my Task. john's. Nay Faith, we want part so: believe us, we are both your Friends; let us step to the Rose for one quarter of an hour, and talk over old Stories. Bays. I ever took you to be men of Honour, and for your sakes I will transgress as far as one Pint. john's. Well, Mr. Bayes, many a merry bout have we had in this House, and shall have again, I hope: Come, what Wine are you for? Bays. Gentlemen, do you as you please, for my part he shall bring me a single Pint of any thing. Smith. How so, Mr. Bayes, have you lost your palate? you have been more curious. Bays. True, I have so, but Senses must be starved, Page 21. that the Soul may be gratified. Men of your Kidney make the Senses the Supreme judge, and therefore bribe 'em high; but we have laid both the use and pleasure of 'em aside. Smith. What, is not there good eating and drinking on both sides? you make the separation greater than I thought it. Bays. No, Ibid. no, whenever you see a fat Rosy-coloured Fellow, take it from me, he is either a Protestant, or a Turk. john's. At that rate, Mr. Bayes, one might suspect your Conversion; methinks thou hast as much the face of an Heretic as ever I saw. Bays. Such was I, Page 5. such by nature still I am. But I hope ere long I shall have drawn this pampered Paunch fitter for the straight Gate. Smith. Sure, Sir, you are in ill hands, your Confessor gives you more severe Rules than he practices; for not long ago a Fat Friar was thought a true Character. Bays. Things were misrepresented to me: I confess I have been unfortunate in some of my Writings: but since you have put me upon that Subject, I'll show you a thing I have in my Pocket shall wipe off all that, or I am mistaken. Smith. Come, now thou art like thyself again. Here's the King's Health to thee— Communicate. Bays. Well, Gentlemen, here it is, and I'll be bold to say, the exactest Piece the World ever saw, a Non Pareillo I'faith. But I must bespeak your pardons if it reflects any thing upon your Persuasion. john's. Use your Liberty, Sir, you know we are no Bigots. Bays. Why then you shall see me lay the Reformation on its back, egad, and justify our Religion by way of Fable. john's. An apt contrivance indeed! what, do you make a Fable of your Religion? Bays. Ay egad, and without Morals too; for I tread in no man's steps; and to show you how far I can outdo any thing that ever was writ in this kind, I have taken Horace's design, but egad, have so outdone him, you shall be ashamed for your old Friend. You remember in him the Story of the Country-Mouse, and the City-Mouse; what a plain simple thing it is, it has no more Life and Spirit in it, egad, than a Hobby-horse; and his Mice talk so meanly, such common stuff, so like mere Mice, that I wonder it has pleased the World so long. But now will I undeceive Mankind, and teach 'em to heighten, and elevate a Fable. I'll bring you in the very same Mice disputing the depth of Philosophy, searching into the Fundamentals of Religion, quoting Texts, Fathers, Councils, and all that, egad, as you shall see either of 'em could easily make an Ass of a Country Vicar. Now whereas Horace keeps to the dry naked Story, I have more copiousness than to do that, egad. Here I draw you general Characters, and describe all the Beasts of the Creation; there, I launch out into long Digressions, and leave my Mice for twenty Pages together; then I fall into Raptures, and make the finest Soliloquies, as would ravish you. Won't this do, think you? john's. Faith, Sir, I don't well conceive you; All this about two Mice? Bays. Ay, why not? is it not Great and Heroical? But come, you'll understand it better when you hear it; and pray be as severe as you can, egad I defy all Critics. Thus it begins. A milk-white Mouse immortal and unchanged, Page 1. Fed on soft Cheese, and o'er the Dairy ranged; Without, unspotted; innocent within, She feared no danger, for she knew no Ginn. john's. Methinks, Mr. Bayes, soft Cheese is a little too corpse Diet for an immortal Mouse; were there any necessity for her eating, you should have consulted Homer for some Celestial Provision. Bays. Faith, Gentlemen, I did so; but indeed I have not the Latin one, which I have marked by me, and could not readily find it in the Original. Page 1. Yet had She oft been scared by bloody Claws Of winged Owls, and stern Grimalkins Paws Page 2. Aimed at her destined Head, which made her fly, Tho She was doomed to Death, and fated not to die. Smith. How came She that feared no danger in the line before, to be scared in this, Mr. Bayes? Bays. Why then you may have it chased if you will; for I hope a Man may run away without being afraid; mayn't he? john's. But pray give me leave; how was She doomed to Death, if She was fated not to die; are not doom and fate, much the same thing? Bays. Nay Gentlemen, if you question my skill in the Language, I'm your humble Servant; the Rogues the Critics▪ that will allow me nothing else, give me that; sure I that made the Word, know best what I meant by it: I assure you, doomed and fated, are quite different things. Smith. Faith, Mr. Bayes, if you were doomed to be hanged, whatever you were fated to, 'twould give you but small comfort. Bays. Never trouble your head with that, Mr. Smith, mind the business in hand. Not so her young; Page 2. their Linsy-woolsy Line, Was Hero's make, half Humane, half Divine. Smith. Certainly these Hero's, half Humane, half Divine, have very little of the Mouse their Mother. Bays. Gadsokers! Mr. johnson, does your Friend think I mean nothing but a Mouse, by all this? I tell thee, Man, I mean a Church, and these young Gentlemen her Sons, signify Priests, Martyrs, and Confessors, that were hanged in Oat's Plot. There's an excellent Latin Sentence, which I had a mind to bring in, Sanguis Martyrum semen Ecclesiae, and I think I have not wronged it in the Translation. Of these a slaughtered Army lay in Blood, Whose sanguine Seed increased the sacred Brood; Page 2. She multiplied by these, now ranged alone, And wandered in the Kingdoms once her own. Page 3. Smith. Was she alone when the sacred Brood was increased? Bays. Why thy Head's running on the Mouse again; but I hope a Church may be alone, though the Members be increased, mayn't it? john's. Certainly, Mr. Bayes, a Church, which is a diffusive Body of Men, can much less be said to be alone. Bays. But are you really of that Opinion? Take it from me, Mr. johnson, you are wrong; however to oblige you, I'll clap in some Simile or other, about the Children of Israel, and it shall do. Smith. Will you pardon me one word more, Mr. Bayes? What could the Mouse (for I suppose you mean her now) do more than range in the Kingdoms, when they were her own? Bays. Do, why She reigned; had a Diadem, Sceptre, and Ball, till they deposed her. Smith. Now her Sons are so increased, She may try t'other pull for't. Bays. egad, and so She may before I have done with Her; it has cost me some pains to clear Her Title. Well, but Mum for that, Mr. Smith. The common Hunt, She timorously passed by, Page 3. For they made tame, disdained Her company; They grinned, She in a fright tripped o'er the Green, For She was loved, wherever She was seen. john's. Well said little Bays, I'faith the Critic must have a great deal of leisure, that attacks those Verses. Bays. egad, I'll warrant him who e'er he is, offendet solido; but I go on. The Independent Beast. Page 3. — Smith. Who is that, Mr. Bayes? Bays. Why a Bear: Pox, is not that obvious enough? — In groans Her hate expressed. Which egad, is very natural to that Animal. Well! there's for the Independent: Now the Quaker; what do you think I call him? Smith. Why, A Bull, for aught I know. Bays. A Bull! O Lord! A Bull! no, no, a Hare, a quaking Hare.— Armarillis, because She wears Armour, 'tis the same Figure; and I am proud to say it, Mr. johnson, no Man knows how to pun in Heroics but myself. Well, you shall hear; She thought, Page 3. and reason good, the quaking Hare Her cruel Foe, because She would not swear, And had professed Neutrality. john's. A shrewd Reason that, Mr. Bays; but what Wars were there? Bays. Wars! why there had been bloody Wars, though they were pretty well reconciled now. Yet to bring in two or three such fine things as these, I don't tell you the Lion's Peace was proclaimed till fifty Pages after, though 'twas really done before I had finished my Poem. Page 3. Next Her, the Buffoon Ape his body bend, And paid at Church a Courtier's Compliment. That gaul's somewhere; egad I can't leave it off, though I were cudgeled every day for it. Page 4. The bristled Baptist Boar, impure as he. Smith. As who? Bays. As the Courtier, let 'em even take it as they will, egad, I seldom come amongst amongst. Page 10. Was whitened with the Foam of Sanctity. The Wolf with Belly-gaunt his rough Crest rears, And pricks up— Now in one word will I abuse the whole Party most damnably— and pricks up— egad, I am sure you'll Laugh— his predestinating Ears. Prithee, Mr. johnson, remember little Bays, when next you see a Presbyterian, and take notice if he has not Predestination in the shape of his Ear: I have studied Men so long, I'll undertake to know an Arminian, by the setting of his Wig. His predestinating Ears. egad there's ne'er a Presbyterian shall dare to show his Head without a Border: I'll put 'em to that expense. Smith. Pray, Mr. Bayes, if any of 'em should come over to the Royal Party, would their Ears alter? Bays. Would they? Ay, egad, they would shed their Fanatical Lugs, and have just such well-turned Ears as I have; mind this Ear, this is a true Roman Ear, mine are much changed for the better within this two years. Smith. Then if ever the Party should chance to fail, you might lose 'em, for what may change, may fall. Bays. Mind, mind— These fiery Zuinglius, Page 11. meager Calvin bred. Smith. Those I suppose are some Outlandish Beasts, Mr. Bayes. Bays. Beasts, a good Mistake! Why they were the chief Reformers, but here I put 'em in so bad Company because they were Enemies to my Mouse, and anon when I am warmed, Page 39 egad you shall hear me call 'em Doctors, Captains, Horses, and Horsemen, in the very same Breath. You shall hear how I go on now, Or else reforming Corah spawned this Class, Page 11. When opening Earth made way for all to pass. john's. For all, Mr. Bayes? Bays. Yes, They were all lost there, but some of 'em were thrown up again at the Leman-Lake: as a Catholic Queen sunk at Charing-Cross, and rose again at Queenhithe. The Fox and he came shuffled in the dark, Page 11. If ever they were stowed in Noah's Ark. Here I put a Quaere, Whether there were any Socinians before the Flood, which I'm not very well satisfied in? I have been lately apt to believe that the World was drowned for that Heresy; which among Friends made me leave it. Page 12. Quickened with Fire below, these Monsters breed In Fenny Holland, and in Fruitful Tweed. Now to write something new and out of the way, to elevate and surprise, and all that, I fetch, you see, this Quickening Fire from the Bottom of Boggs and Rivers. john's. Why, Faith, that's as ingenious a Contrivance as the Virtuoso's making a Burning-Glass of Ice. Bays. Why was there ever any such thing? Let me perish if ever I heard of it. The Fancy was sheer new to me; and I thought no Man had reconciled those Elements but myself. Well Gentlemen! Thus far I have followed Antiquity, and as Homer has numbered his Ships, so I have ranged my Beasts. Here is my Boar, and my Bear, and my Fox, and my Wolf, and the rest of 'em all against my poor Mouse. Now what do you think I do with all these? Smith. Faith I don't know, I suppose you make 'em fight. Bays. Fight! egad I'd as soon make 'em Dance. No, I do no earthly thing with 'em, nothing at all, I'gad: I think they have played their Parts sufficiently already; I have walked 'em out, showed 'em to the Company, and raised your Expectation. And now whilst you hope to see 'em bated, and are dreaming of Blood and Battles, they sculk off, and you hear no more of 'em. Smith. Why, Faith, Mr. Bayes, now you have been at such expense in setting forth their Characters, it had been too much to have gone through with 'em. Bays. egad so it had: And then I'll tell you another thing, 'tis not every one that reads a Poem through. And therefore I fill the first part with Flowers, Figures, Fine-Language, and all that; and then egad sink by degrees, till at last I write but little better than other People. And whereas most Authors creep servilely after the Old Fellows, and strive to grow upon their Readers; I take another Course, I bring in all my Characters together, and let 'em see I could go on with 'em; but egad, I won't. john's. Could go on with 'em, Mr. Bayes! there's no Body doubts that; You have a most particular Genius that way. Bays. Oh! Dear Sir, You are mighty obliging: But I must needs say at a Fable or an Emblem I think no Man comes near me, indeed I have studied it more than any Man. Did you ever take notice, Mr. johnson, of a little thing that has taken mightily about Town, a Cat with a Top-knot? john's. Faith, Sir, 'tis mighty pretty, I saw it at the Coffee-house. Bays. 'Tis a Trifle hardly worth owning; I was t'other Day at Will's throwing out something of that Nature; and egad, the hint was taken, and out came that Picture; indeed the poor Fellow was so civil to present me with a dozen of 'em for my Friends, I think I have one here in my Pocket; would you please to accept it Mr. johnson? john's. Really 'tis very ingenious. Bays. Oh Lord! Nothing at all, I could design twenty of 'em in an Hour, if I had but witty Fellows about me to draw 'em. I was proffered a Pension to go into Holland, and contrive their Emblems. But hang 'em, they are dull Rogues, and would spoil my Invention. But come, gentlemans, let us return to our Business, and here I'll give you a delicate description of a Man. Smith. But how does that come in? Bays. Come in? very naturally. I was talking of a Wolf, and that supposes a Wood, and then I clap an Epithet to't, and call it a Celtic Wood: Now when I was there, I could not help thinking of the French Persecution, and egad from all these Thoughts I took occasion to rail at the French King, and show that he was not of the same make with other Men, which thus I prove. The Divine Blacksmith in th' Abyss of Light, Page 15. Yawning and lolling with a careless beat, Struck out the mute Creation at a Heat. But he worked hard to Hammer out our Souls, He blew the Bellows, and stirred up the Coals; Long time he thought, and could not on a sudden Knead up with unskimed Milk this reasoning Pudding: Page 16. Tender and mild within its Bag it lay, Confessing still the softness of its Clay, And kind as Milkmaids on their Wedding-day. Till Pride of Empire, Lust, and hot Desire Did over-boil him, like too great a Fire, And understanding grown, misunderstood, Burned him to th' Pot, and soured his curdled Blood. john's. But sure this is a little profane, Mr. Bayes. Bays. Not at all: does not Virgil bring in his God Vulcan working at the Anvil? john's. Ay Sir, but never thought his Hands the fittest to make a Pudding. Bays. Why do you imagine Him an Earthly dirty Blacksmith? Gad you make it profane indeed. I'll tell you there's as much difference betwixt 'em, egad as betwixt my Man and Milton's. But now, Gentlemen, the Plot thickens, here comes my t'other Mouse, the City-Mouse. Page 19 A spotted Mouse, the prettiest next the White, Ah! were her Spots washed out, as pretty quite, Page 23. With Phylacteries on her Forehead spread, Page 22. Crozier in Hand, and Mitre on her Head. Page 84. Three Steeples Argent on her Sable Shield, Lived in the City, and disdained the Field. john's. This is a glorious Mouse indeed! but as you have dressed her, we don't know whether she be jew, Papist, or Protestant. Bays. Let me embrace you, Mr. johnson, for that; you take it right. She is a mere Babel of Religions, and therefore she's a spotted Mouse here, and will be a Mule presently. But to go on. This Princess— Smith. What Princess, Mr. Bayes? Bays. Why this Mouse, for I forgot to tell you, an Old Lion made a Left Hand Marriage with her Mother, Page 20. and begot on her Body Elizabeth Schism, who was married to Timothy Sacrilege, and had Issue Graceless Heresy. Who all give the same Coat with their Mother, Three Steeples Argent, as I told you before. This Princess, though estranged from what was best, Was least Deformed, Page 23. because Reformed the least. There's De and Re as good egad as ever was. She in a Masquerade of Mirth and Love, Page 22. Mistook the Bliss of Heaven for Bacchinals above, And grubbed the Thorns beneath our tender Feet, To make the Paths of Paradise more sweet. There's a Jolly Mouse for you, let me see any Body else that can show you such another. Here now have I one damnable severe reflecting Line, but I want a Rhyme to it, can you help me Mr. johnson? She— Humbly content to be despised at Home, john. Which is too narrow Infamy for some. Bays. Sir, I thank you, now I can go on with it. Whose Merits are diffused from Pole to Pole, Page 63. Where Winds can carry, and where Waves can roll. john. But does not this reflect upon some of your Friends, Mr. Bays? Bays. 'Tis no matter for that, let me alone to bring myself off. I'll tell you, lately I writ a damned Libel on a whole Party, sheer Point and satire all through, egad. Called 'em Rogues, Dogs, and all the Names I could think of, but with an exceeding deal of Wit; that I must needs say. Now it happened before I could finish this Piece, the Scheme of Affairs was altered, and those People were no longer Beasts: Here was a Plunge now: Should I lose my Labour, or Libel my Friend? 'Tis not every Body's Talon to find a Salvo for this: But what do me I but write a smooth delicate Preface, wherein I tell them, that the satire was not intended to them, and this did the Business. Smith. But if it was not intended to them against whom it was writ, certainly it had no meaning at all. Bays. Poh! There's the Trick on't. Poor Fools, they took it, and were satisfied: And yet it mauled 'em damnably egad. Smith. Why Faith, Mr. Bays, there's this very Contrivance in the Preface to Dear joys jests. Bays. What a Devil do you think that I'd steal from such an Author? Or ever read it? Smith. I can't tell, but you sometimes read as bad. I have heard you quote Reynard the Fox. Bays. Why there's it now; take it from me, Mr. Smith, there is as good Morality, and as sound Precepts, in the delectable History of Reynard the Fox, as in any Book I know, except Seneca. Pray tell me where in any other Author could I have found so pretty a Name for a Wolf as Isgrim? But prithee, Mr. Smith, give me no more trouble, and let me go on with my Mouse. One Evening, Page 29. when she went away from Court. Levees and Couchees passed without resort. There's Court Language for you; nothing gives a Verse so fine a turn, as an Air of good Breeding. Smith. But methinks the Levees and Couchees of a Mouse are too great, especially when she is walking from Court to the cooler Shades. Bays. egad now have you forgot what I told you, that she was a Princess. But pray mind; here the two Mice meet. She met the Country Mouse, Page 16. whose fearful Face Beheld from far the common watering Place, Nor durst approach— Smith. Methinks, Mr. Bayes, this Mouse is strangely altered, since she feared no Danger. Bays. Godsookers! Why no more she does not yet fear either Man or Beast: But, poor Creature, she's afraid of the Water, for she could not swim, as you see by this. Page 30. Nor durst approach, till with an awful Roar The Sovereign Lion bade her fear no more. But besides, 'tis above thirty Pages off that I told you she feared no Danger; and egad if you will have no variation of the Character, you must have the same thing over and over again; 'tis the Beauty of Writing to strike you still with something new. Well, but to proceed: Page 30. But when she had this sweetest Mouse in view, Good Lord, how she admired her Heavenly Hue! Here now to show you I am Master of all Styles, I let myself down from the Majesty of Virgil, to the Sweetness of Ovid. Good Lord, how she admired her Heavenly Hue! What more easy and familiar! I writ this Line for the Ladies: The little Rogues will be so fond of me to find I can yet be so tender. I hate such a rough unhew'n Fellow as Milton, that a Man must sweat to read Him; egad you may run over this, and be almost asleep. Th' Immortal Mouse who saw the Viceroy come So far to see Her, did invite her Home. There's a pretty Name now for the Spotted Mouse, the Viceroy! Smith. But pray why d'ye call her so? Bays. Why! Because it sounds prettily: I'll call her the Crown-General presently if I've a mind to it. Page 55. Well, — did invite her Home To smoak a Pipe, and o'er a sober Pot Discourse of Oats and Bedloe, Page 31. and the Plot. She made a Courtesy, like a Civil Dame, And, Page 32. being much a Gentlewoman, came. Well, Gentlemen, here's my First part finished, and I think I have kept my Word with you, and given it the Majestic turn of Heroic Poesy. The rest being matter of Dispute, I had not such frequent occasion for the magnificence of Verse, though egad they speak very well. And I have heard Men, and considerable Men too, talk the very same things, a great deal worse. john. Nay, without doubt, Mr. Bayes, they have received no small advantage from the smoothness of your numbers. Bays. Ay, ay, I can do't, if I list: Tho you must not think I have been so dull as to mind these things myself, but 'tis the advantage of our Coffee-house, that from their talk one may write a very good polemical Discourse, without ever troubling one's head with the Books of Controversy. For I can take the slightest of their Arguments, and clap 'em pertly into four Verses, which shall stare any London Divine in the face. Indeed your knotty Reasonings with a long train of Majors and Minors, and the Devil and all, are too barbarous for my style; but egad I can flourish better with one of these twinkling Arguments, than the best of 'em can fight with t'other. But we return to our Mouse, and now I've brought 'em together, let 'em ' en speak for themselves, which they will do extremely well, or I'm mistaken: And pray observe, Gentlemen, if in one you don't find all the delicacy of a luxurious City-Mouse, and in the other all the plain simplicity of a sober serious Matron. Page 32. Dame, said the Lady of the Spotted Muff, Methinks your Tiff is sour, your Cates mere stuff. There, did not I tell you she'd be nice? Your Pipe's so foul, that I disdain to smoke; And the Weed worse than e'er Tom I— s took. Smith. I did not hear she had a Spotted Muff before. Bays. Why no more she has not now: But she has a Skin that might make a Spotted Muff. There's a pretty Figure now, unknown to the Ancients. Leave, leave ( † Poeta Loquitur. she's earnest you see) this hoary Shed, and lonely Hills, And eat with me at Groleau's, smoke at Will's. What Wretch would nibble on a Hanging-shelf, When at Pontack's he may Regale himself? Or to the House of cleanly Rhenish go; Or that at Charing-Cross, or that in Channel-Row? Do you mark me now, I would by this represent the vanity of a Town-Fop, who pretends to be acquainted at all those good Houses, though perhaps he ne'er was in 'em. But hark! she goes on. Come, at a Crown a Head ourselves we'll treat, Champain our Liquor, and Ragousts our Meat. Then hand in hand we'll go to Court, dear Cousin, To visit Bishop Martin, and King Buz. With Evening Wheels we'll drive about the Park, Finish at Locket's, and reel home i'th' Dark. Break clattering Windows, and demolish Doors, Page 63. Of English Manufactures— Pimps, and Whores. john's. Methinks a Pimp or a Whore is an odd sort of a Manufacture, Mr. Bayes. Bays. I call 'em so, to give the Parliament a hint not to suffer so many of 'em to be exported, to the decay of Trade at home. With these Allurements Spotted did invite From Hermit's Cell, the Female Proselyte. Oh! with what ease we follow such a Guide, Where Souls are starved, and Senses gratified! Now would not you think she's going? but egad, you're mistaken; you shall hear a long Argument about Infallibility, before she stirs yet. Page 69. But here the White, by observation wise, Who long on Heaven had fixed her prying Eyes, With thoughtful Countenance, and grave Remark, Said, or my Judgement fails me, or 'tis dark. Lest therefore we should stray, and not go right, Through the brown horror of the starless Night. Page 37. Hast thou Infallibility, that Wight? Sternly the Savage grinned, and thus replied: That Mice may err, was never yet denied. That I deny, said the immortal Dame, There is a Guide— gad I've forgot his Name, Page 37. Who lives in Heaven or Rome, the Lord knows where, Had we but him, Sweetheart, we could not err. But hark you, Sister, this is but a Whim; Spotted Mouse Loquitur. For still we want a Guide to find out Him. Here you see I don't trouble myself to keep on the Narration, but write white Speaks, or dapple Speaks, by the Side. But when I get any noble thought which I envy a Mouse should say, I clap it down in my own Person with a Poeta Loquitur; Page 69. which, take notice, is a surer sign of a fine thing in my Writings, than a Hand in the Margin anywhere else. Well now says White, What need we find Him, we have certain proof That he is somewhere, Dame, and that's enough: For if there is a Guide that knows the way, Although we know not him, we cannot stray. That's true, egad: Well said White. You see her Adversary has nothing to say for herself, and therefore to confirm the Victory, she shall make a Simile. Smith. Why then I find Similes are as good after Victory, as after a Surprise. Bays. Every Jot, egad, or rather better. Well, she can ●o it two ways▪ either about Emission or Reception of Light, Page 37. or else about Epsom-waters, but I think the last is most familiar; therefore speak, my pretty one. As though 'tis controverted in the School, If Waters pass by Urine or by Stool. Shall we who are Philosophers, thence gather From this dissension that they work by neither. And egad, she's in the right on't; but mind now, she comes upon her swop! All this I did, your Arguments to try. And egad, if they had been never so good, this next Line confutes 'em. Page 54. Hear, and be dumb, thou Wretch, that Guide am I. There's a Surprise for you now! How sneakingly t'other looks? Was not that pretty now, to make her ask for a Guide first, and then tell her she was one? Who could have thought that this little Mouse had the Pope and a whole General Council in her Belly? Now Dapple had nothing to say to this; and therefore you'll see she grows peevish. Come leave your Cracking tricks, and as they say, Use not that Barber that trims time, Page 101. delay Which egad is new, and my own. I've Eyes as well as you to find the way. Then on they jogged, and since an hour of talk Might cut a Banter on the tedious walk; As I remember said the sober Mouse, I've heard much talk of the Wit's Coffeehouse. Thither says Brindle, thou shalt go, and see Priests sipping Coffee, Sparks and Poets Tea; Here rugged Frieze, there Quality well dressed, These baffling the Grand Signior; those the Test. And here shrewd guesses made, and reasons given, That humane Laws were never made in Heaven. Page 111. But above all, what shall oblige thy sight, And fill thy Eyeballs with a vast delight; Is the Poetic judge of sacred Wit, Who does i'th' Darkness of his Glory sit. And as the Moon who first receives the light, Page 28. With which she makes these nether Regions bright; So does he shine, reflecting from afar, The Rays he borrowed from a better Star: For Rules which from Corneille and Rapine flow, Admired by all the scribbling Herd below. From French Tradition while he does dispense Unerring Truths, 'tis Schism, a damned offence, To question his, or trust your private sense. Ha! Is not that right, Mr. johnson? gad forgive me he is fast asleep! Oh the damned stupidity of this Age! asleep! Well, Sir, Since you're so drowsy, your humble Servant. john's. Nay, Pray Mr. Bayes, Faith I heard you all the while. The white Mouse. Bays. The white Mouse! ay, ay, I thought how you heard me. Your Servant, Sir, your Servant. john. Nay, Dear Bays, Faith, I beg thy Pardon, I was up late last Night, Prithee lend me a little Snuff, and go on. Bays. Go on! Pox I dont know where I was; well I'll begin. Here, mind, now they are both come to Town. But now at Piccadille they arrive, And taking Coach, towards Temple-Bar they drive; But at St. Clement's Church, eat out the Back; And slipping through the Palsgrave, bilked poor Hack. There's the Utile which ought to be in all Poetry, Many a young Templar will save his shilling by this Stratagem of my Mice. Smith. Why, will any young Templar eat out the back of a Coach? Bays. No, egad, but you'll grant it is mighty natural for a Mouse. Thence to the Devil, and asked if Chanticleer, Of Clergy kind, Page 133. or Counsellor Chough was there; Or Mr. Dove, Page 126. a Pigeon of Renown, By his high crop, and corny Gizzard known, Or Sister Partlet, Page 130. with the Hooded head; No, Sir, She's hooted hence, said Will, and fled. Why so? Because she would not pray a-bed. john's. aside. ' 'Sdeath! Who can keep awake at such stuff? Pray, Mr. Bayes, lend me your Box again. Bays. Mr. johnson, How d'ye like that Box? Pray take notice of it, 'twas given me by a person of Honour for looking over a Paper of Verses; and indeed I put in all the lines that were worth any thing in the whole Poem. Well, but where were we? Oh! Here they are, just going up stairs into the Apollo; from whence my White takes occasion to talk very well of Tradition. Thus to the place where johnson sat, we climb, Leaning on the same Rail that guided him; And whilst we thus on equal helps rely, Our Wit must be as true, our Thoughts as high. Page 45. For as an Author happily compares Tradition to a well-fixt pair of Stairs; So this the Scala Sancta we believe, By which his Traditive Genius we receive. Thus every step I take, my Spirits soar, And I grow more a Wit, and more, and more. There's humour! Is not that the liveliest Image in the World of a Mouse's going up a pair of Stairs? More a Wit, and more and more. Smith. Mr. Bays, I beg your Pardon heartily, I must be rude, I have a particular Engagement at this time, and I see you are not near an end yet. Bays. Godsokers! Sure you won't serve me so: All my finest Descriptions and best Discourse is yet to come. Smith. Troth, Sir, if 'twere not an Extraordinary Concern, I could not leave you. Bays. Well; but you shall take a little more, and here I'll pass over two dainty Episodes of Swallows, Swifts, Chickens, and Buzzards. john's. I know not why they should come in, except to make yours the longest Fable that ever was told. Bays. Why, the Excellence of a Fable is in the length of it. Aesop indeed, like a Slave as he was, made little, short, simple Stories, with a dry Moral at the end of 'em; and could not form any noble Design. But here I give you Fable upon Fable; and after you are satisfied with Beasts in the first Course, serve you up a delicate Dish of Fowl for the Second; now I was at all this pains to abuse one particular Person; for egad I'll tell you what a trick he served me. I was once translating a very good French Author, Varillas. but being something long about it, as you know a Man is not always in the Humour; What does this jack do, but puts out an Answer to my Friend before I had half finished the Translation: So there was three whole Months lost upon his Account. But I think I have my revenge on him sufficiently, for I let all the World know, Page 137. that he is a tall, broad-backed, lusty Fellow, of a brown Complexion, fair Behaviour, a Fluent Tongue, and taking amongst the Women; and to top it all, that he's much a Scholar, more a Wit, and owns but two Sacraments. Don't you think this Fellow will hang himself? But besides, I have so nicked his Character in a Name, as will make you split. I call him— egad I want tell you, unless you remember what I said of him. Smith. Why that he was much a Scholar, and more a Wit— Bays. Right; and his name is Buzzard, Ha! ha! ha. john's. Very proper indeed, Sir. Bays. Nay, I have a farther fetch in it yet than perhaps you imagine; for his true name begins with a B, which makes me slily contrive him this, to begin with the same Letter: There's a pretty device, Mr. johnson; I learned it, I must needs confess, from that ingenious Sport, I love my Love with an A, because she's Amiable; and if you could but get a knot of merry Fellows together, you should see how little Bays would top 'em all at it, egad. Smith. Well, but good Faith, Mr. Bays, I must leave you, I am half an hour past my time. Bays. Well, I've done, I've done. Here are Eight hundred Verses upon a rainy Night, and a Bird's-Nest; and here's Three hundred more, translated from two Paris Gazettes, in which the Spotted Mouse gives an account of the Treaty of Peace between the Czars of Muscovy, and the Emperor, which is a piece of News White does not believe, and this is her Answer. I am resolved you shall hear it, for in it I have taken occasion to prove Oral Tradition better than Scripture. Now you must know, 'tis sincerely my Opinion, that it had been better for the World, if we ne'er had any Bibles at all. ere that Gazette was printed, said the White, Our Robin told another story quite; This Oral Truth more safely I believed; My Ears cannot, your Eyes may be deceived. By word of Mouth unerring Maxims flow, And Preaching's best, if understood, or no. Words I confess bound by, Page 3. and trip so light, We have not time to take a steady sight; Yet fleeting thus are plainer than when Writ, To long Examination they submit. Hard things— Mr. Smith, if these two lines don't recompense your stay, ne'er trust john Bays again. Hard things at the first Blush are clear and full, God mends on second thoughts, Page 15. but Man grows dull. egad I judge of all Men by myself, 'tis so with me, I never strove to be very exact in any thing, but I spoiled it. Smith. But allowing your Character to be true, is it not a little too severe? Bays. 'Tis no matter for that, these general Reflections are daring, and savour most of a noble Genius, that spares neither Friend nor Foe. john's. Are you never afraid of a drubbing for that daring of your noble Genius? Bays. Afraid! Why Lord you make so much of a beating, egad 'tis no more to me than a Flea-biting. No, no, if I can but be witty upon 'em, let 'em even lay on, i'faith, I'll ne'er balk my fancy to save my Carcase. Well, but we must dispatch, Mr. Smith. Thus did they merrily carouse all day, And like the gaudy fly their Wings display; And sip the sweets, and bask in great Apollo's ray. Well, there's an end of the Entertainment; and Mr. Smith, if your affairs would have permitted, you would have heard the best Bill of Fare that ever was served up in Heroics: but here follows a dispute shall recommend itself, I'll say nothing for it. For Dapple, who you must know was a Protestant, all this while trusts her own Judgement, and foolishly dislikes the Wine; upon which our Innocent does so run her down, that she has not one word to say for herself, but what I put in her Mouth, and egad, you may imagine they won't be very good ones, for she has disobliged me, like an Ingrate. Sirrah, says Brindle, Thou hast brought us Wine, Sour to my taste, and to my Eyes unfine. Says Will, All Gentlemen like it; Ah! says White, What is approved by them, must needs be right. 'Tis true, Page 38. I thought it bad, but if the House Commend it, I submit, a private Mouse. Mind that, mind the Decorum, and Deference, which our Mouse pays to the Company. Nor to their Catholic consent oppose My erring Judgement, and reforming Nose. Ah! ah! there she has nicked her, that's up to the Hilts, egad, and you shall see Dapple resents it. Why, what a Devil shan't I trust my Eyes? Must I drink Stum because the Rascal lies? And Palms upon us Catholic consent, To give sophisticated Brewing vent? Says White, Page 5. What ancient Evidence can sway, If you must Argue thus, and not obey? Drawer's must be trusted, through whose hands conveyed, You take the Liquor, or you spoil the Trade. For sure those Honest Fellows have no knack Of putting off stumed Claret for Pontack. How long, alas! would the poor Vintner last, If all that drink must judge, and every Guest Be allowed to have an understanding Taste? Thus she: Nor could the Panther well enlarge, With weak defence, against so strong a Charge. There I call her a Panther, because she's spotted, which is such a blot to the Reformation, as I warrant 'em they will never claw off, egad. But with a weary Yawn that showed her pride, Said, Spotless was a Villain, and she lied. White saw her cankered Malice at that word, And said her Prayers, and drew her Delphic Sword. Tother cried Murder, and her Rage restrained: And thus her passive Character maintained. But now alas— Mr. johnson, pray mind me this; Mr. Smith, I'll ask you to stay no longer, for this that follows is so engaging; hear me but two Lines, egad, and go away afterwards if you can. But now, alas, I grieve, I grieve to tell What sad mischance these pretty things befell, These Birds of Beasts.— There's a tender Expression, Birds of Beasts: 'tis the greatest Affront that you can put upon any Bird, Page 129. to call it Beast of a Bird: and a Beast is so fond of being called a Bird, as you can't imagine. These Birds of Beasts, these learned reasoning Mice, Were separated, banished in a trice. Who would be learned for their sakes, who wise? Ay, who indeed? There's a Pathos, egad, Gentlemen, if that won't move you, nothing will, I can assure you: But here's the sad thing I was afraid of. The Constable alarmed by this noise, Entered the Room, directed by the Voice, And speaking to the Watch, Page 135. with head aside, Said, Desperate Cures must be to desperate Ills applied. These Gentlemen, for so their Fate decrees, Can ne'er enjoy at once the But and Peace. Page 115. When each have separate Interests of their own, Page 144. Two Mice are one too many for a Town. By Schism they are torn; and therefore, Brother, Look you to one, and I'll secure the tother. Now whether Dapple did to Bridewell go, Or in the Stocks all Night her Finger's blow, Page 98. Or in the Compter lay, concerns not us to know. But the immortal Matron, spotless White, Forgetting Dapple's Rudeness, Malice, Spite, Looked kindly back, and wept, and said, Good Night. Page 145. Ten thousand Watchmen waited on this Mouse, With Bills and Halberds, to her Countryhouse. This last Contrivance I had from a judicious Author, that makes Ten thousand Angels wait upon his Hind, and she asleep too, egad.— john's. Come, let's see what we have to pay. Bays. What a Pox, are you in such haste? You han't told me how you like it. john's. Oh, extremely well. Here, Drawer. State Poems Continued. The Man of HONOUR. Written by the Honourable Mr. Montague. Occasioned by a Postscript of Pen's Letter. NOT all the Threats or Favours of a Crown, A Prince's Whisper, or a Tyrant's Frown, Can awe the Spirit, or allure the Mind Of him, who to strict Honour is inclined; Though all the Pomp and Pleasure that does wait On public Places, and Affairs of State, Should fond court him to be base and great. With even Passions, and with settled Face, He would remove the Harlot's false Embrace. Tho' all the Storms and Tempests should arise, That Church-Magicians in their Cells devise, And from their settled Basis Nations tear, He would unmoved the mighty Ruin bear; Secure in Innocence contemn 'em all, And decently arrayed in Honours, fall. For this brave Shrewsbury and Lumly's Name, Shall stand the foremost in the List of Fame; Who first with steady Minds the Current broke, And to the suppliant Monarch boldly spoke. Great Sir, renowned for Constancy, how just Have we obeyed the Crown, and served our Trust, Espoused your Cause and Interest in distress, Yourself must witness, and our Foes confess! Permit us then ill Fortune to accuse, That you at last unhappy Councils use, And ask the only thing we must refuse. Our Lives and Fortunes freely we'll expose, Honour alone we cannot, must not lose: Honour, that Spark of the Celestial Fire, That above Nature makes Mankind aspire; Ennobles the rude Passions of our Frame, With thirst of Glory, and desire of Fame; The richest Treasure of a generous Breast, That gives the Stamp and Standard to the rest. Wit, Strength and Courage, are wild dangerous force, Unless this softens and directs their Course; And would you rob us of the noblest part, Accept a Sacrifice without a Heart? 'Tis much beneath the greatness of a Throne, To take the Casket when the Jewel's gone: Debauch our Principles, corrupt our Race, and teach the Nobles to be False and Base; What Confidence can you in them repose, Who, ere they serve you, all their value lose? Who once enslave their Conscience to their Lust, Have lost the Reins, and can no more be Iust. Of Honour, Men at first, like Women Nice, Raise Maiden-Scruples at unpractised Vice; Their modest Nature curbs the struggling Flame, And stifles what they wish to act, with Shame. But once this Fence thrown down, when they perceive That they may taste forbidden Fruit and live; They stop not here their Course, but safely in, Grow Strong, Luxuriant, and bold in Sin; True to no Principles, press forward still, And only bound by appetite their Will: Now fawn and flatter, while this Tide prevails, But shift with every veering blast their Sails. Mark those that meanly truckle to your Power, They once deserted, and changed sides before, And would to morrow Mahomet adore! On higher Springs true Men of Honour move, Free is their Service, and unbought their Love: When Danger calls, and Honour leads the way, With Joy they follow, and with Pride obey: When the Rebellious Foe came rolling on, And shook with gathering Multitudes the Throne, Where were the Minions then? What Arms, what Force, Could they oppose to stop the Torrent's Course? Then Pembroke, than the Nobles firmly stood, Free of their Lives, and lavish of their Blood; But when your Orders to mean Ends decline, With the same Constancy they all resign. Thus spoke the Youth, who opened first the way, And was the Phosphorus to th' dawning Day; Followed by a more glorious splendid Host, Than any Age, or any Realm can boast: So great their Fame, so numerous their Train, To name were endless, and to praise in vain; But Herbert, and great Oxford merit more, Bold is their flight, and more sublime they soar; So high, their Virtue as yet wants a name, Exceeding Wonder, and surpassing Fame: Rise, glorious Church, erect thy Radiant Head, The Storm is past, th' Impending Tempest fled: Had Fate decreed thy Ruin or Disgrace, It had not given such Sons, so brave a Race. When for Destruction Heaven a Realm designs, The Symptoms first appear in slavish Minds: These Men would prop a sinking Nations weight, Stop falling Vengeance, and Reverse even Fate. Let other Nations boast their fruitful Soil, Their fragrant Spices, their rich Wine and Oil; In breathing Colours, and in living Paint Let them excel, their Mastery we grant. But to instruct the Mind, to arm the Soul With Virtue, which no dangers can control; Exalt the thought, a speedy Courage lend That Horror cannot shake, or Pleasure bend: These are the English Arts, these we profess To be the same in Mis'ry and Success; To teach Oppressor's Law, assist the Good, Relieve the Wretched, and subdue the Proud: Such are our Souls: But what doth Worth avail, When Kings commit to hungry Priests the Scale? All Merit's light when they dispose the weight, Who either would embroil, or Rule the State; Defame those Heroes who their Yoke refuse, And blast that Honesty they cannot use; The strength and safety of the Crown destroy, And the King's Power against himself employ: Affront his Friends, deprive him of the Brave; Bereft of these, he must become their Slave. Men, like our Money, come the most in play For being base, and of a corpse allay. The richest Medals, and the purest Gold, Of native Value, and exactest Mould, By worth concealed, in private Closets shine, For vulgar use too precious and too fine; Whilst Tin and Copper with new stamping bright, Coin of base Metal, counterfeit and light, Do all the Business of the Nation's turn, Raised in Contempt, used and employed in Scorn: So shining Virtues are for Courts too bright, Whose guilty Actions fly their searching Light; Rich in themselves, disdaining to aspire, Great without Pomp they willingly retire: Give place to Fools, whose rash misjudging Sense Increases the weak measures of their Prince; Prone to admire, and flatter him in ease, They study not his good, but how to please; They blindly and implicitly run on, Nor see those dangers which the other shun: Who slow to act, each business duly weigh, Advise with Freedom, and with Care obey; With Wisdom fatal to their Interest strive To make their Monarch loved, and Nation thrive; Such have no place where Priests and Women Reign, Who love fierce Drivers, and a loser Rein. The Man of no Honour. AS the late Character of Godlike Men, (Given, as it ought, by a Diviner Pen) Will make the Race of chose I write appear Low as to Glorious Valour, wretched Fear; So the smooth Lines in which those truths are told, (Lines justly happy as they're Nobly bold) With Right from humble Muses bold Esteem, And show my Verse as distant as my Theme. Forgive me, you Betrayers of your Land, If I do scourge you with a wanting Hand; My Will is good to give you all your due, The Pope will pardon want of Power in you. Your Aid, my Muse, this once I humbly ask; Exposing Villany's a Noble Task; Assist my Story with such ample Phrase, It may find leave to live and see good Days. Stamp an Eternal Value on the Brave, By drawing to the Life a sneaking Knave; Show him how justly he's exposed by all, And show him time may come when he may fall; Show him on what Foundation now he stands; Show him, instead of Rocks, mistaken Lands; Show him it lately failed believing Man, And will do so when time shall serve again. When Oxford Prophecies were come to pass, And many a squeamish Churchman proved an Ass, Then blockish Honesty was made give ground, And foolish Knaves were much more useful found; A search throughout the Senate passed for such, (Since Fools would do, to find no more 'twas much) Vile Interest was opposed to Men of Sense, And many from that hour did Rogues commence. Besides, with Gold the despicable Slaves, Were willingly thought Fools; they might be Knaves. Of these the Chief a Consultation call, Where they shall stop, or whether stop at all. Some faint Resistance Conscience would have made, And Honour would have spoke, but was forbade; Interest with Impudence assumed the Chair, And thus addressed to each Plebeian Fool was there: Of all Philosophers that plagued the World, And curious Brains in various Labyrinths hurled, None fared so ill, and yet so justly fared, As those Preached Virtue for its own Reward; More useful Doctrines sprung from wiser Schools, They heard their Morals, and resolved them Fools. Mark those who strive the Multitude to please, Nice of their Honour, lavish of their Ease: How in the gazing Crowd they humbly stand, With their perplexing Honesty at hand, They dare not use the strength they may command. They prove their Grandeur from their humble Soul, But he is great who can and dare control; You'll soar above, exhaled by Princely Rays, And with contempt look down on rotten Praise; Laugh at dull Notions of a Glorious Name, When Beggeries the Basis of its Frame. More useful Honour shall attend your Fate, You serve a Power can make you Rich and Great, Who scorns the Nations Love shall live above their Hate. Permit no Bugbear thoughts against your Cause, The loss of your Religion and the Laws, Trifles to those who dare their God defy, And can with copious Consciences comply. Contemn the foolish Threats of distant Time, 'Tis plain that Honesty is yet a Crime; If things hereafter turn another way, You'll still be right, for still you can obey: ne'er fear the Brand of Knave will hurt you much, The best of Courts will stand in need of such; Fools oft grow useless, and are laid aside, But Knaves of Conduct always will abide: Old Honesty some poor Employ may get, But he that sticks at nothing shall be great, The Villain wisely thrives in every State. Thus Interest spoke, and merits just Applause, The Judges first declared against the Laws; Of Levi's Tribe not many went astray, (Much wondered at, since they procured this Day) But Men of Conscience oft in Judgement fail, Mistaken Loyalty did once prevail, But such Diseases now no more they ail. Become good Christians by Affliction's Rod, Their King they Honour, but they fear their God. Of those that brand their Country with Disgrace, Noble in Title as in Practice base, Give underhand Pre-eminence of place, The snivelling Representer of the rest, Who in their Names the Monarch thus addressed: Most Glorious Prince, in whom all Virtues shine, Where every Worth in one great Soul combine! You for your Gracious Deeds we come to bless, But most of all your Constancy confess; Safe by your Word, in Peace your People sleep, Your sacred Word which you so nicely keep; That Word so much throughout your Land renowned, In which Equivocation ne'er was found. On this it is so firmly we rely, You cannot ask the thing we can deny; As Heaven has taught the Soul of Men to know, What e'er it pleaseth to dispense below, Shall to advantage of Believers tend, And bless their blind Obedience in the end; So we such awful Thoughts of you receive, What e'er you'll do, we for our good believe; Our grand Ambition is our King to please; We ne'er can want Repose while he's at Ease. When by Obedience we have given you rest, And blasted even the frightful Name of Test, But smile upon us, and your Slaves are blest. Thus spoke the fawning Minister of State, Poor in Esteem, and despicably Great; The Monarch blest the Priesthood skill, Forsakes his Reason to perform his Will, Deserts his Noble Friends for flattering Knaves, Neglects his Subjects while he favours Slaves. Rise up, brave Prince, attend your Nature's Course; We know that's Noble, when exempt from force; Spread your relenting Arms, embrace your Friends, They'll help you to attain more Noble Ends; You know their Love, the Rebels know their Force, Serve God with speed, annul th' unjust Divorce, Then shall you stand great in your People's Love, A lively Emblem of the Mighty jove. Then shall your haughty Rival cease to soar, And tremble at the Neighbouring British Shore; The Senate's Bounty shall preserve you still, With cheerful Tribute all your Coffers fill. All Kings shall gaze with Envy on your Throne, Then with Contempt look down upon their own; To gain your Smiles shall be their utmost Pride, And happy he who nearest is allied. Beloved by God and Men you shall remain, Great without War, and undisturbed your Reign. Then when the Remnant of your days are done, The Thread of Glorious Life at length is spun, Sincere in Grief your People all shall mourn, Some goodly Fabric shall your Grave adorn With this Inscription, for Eternal Praise, Here lies the only Prince who left all Evil Ways. The VISION. 'TWas at an hour when busy Nature lay Dissolved in slumbers from the noisy Day, When gloomy shades and dusky Atoms spread A darkness o'er the Universal Bed, And all the gaudy beams of Light were fled; My fluttering fancy 'midst the silent peace, Careless of sleep, and unconcerned with ease, Drew to my wand'ring thoughts an Object near, Strange in its form, and in appearance rare. Methought (yet sure it could not be a Dream, So real all its Imperfections seem) With Princely Port a stately Monarch came, Airy his Mien, and Noble was his Frame: A sullen sorrow brooded on his Brow; He seemed beneath some weighty Fate to bow; Distrust and Grief upon his Eyelids rest, And show the struggling troubles of his Breast. Upon his Head a nodding Crown he wore, And in his Hand a yielding Sceptre bore; Forlorn and careless did his strokes appear, And every motion spoke a wild Despair. This mournful Scene did all my Passions move, And challenged both my pity and my love; And yet I thought him by the ruins made Above my pity, and beyond my aid; Long did he in a pensive silence stand, For sure his thoughts could not his words command: Too big for speech— Till sullen murmurs from his Bosom flew, And thus a draught of his Disorders drew. Almighty Powers! By whose consent alone Ordained, I did ascend the Regal Throne, Led by your dark Decrees, and Conduct there, ay, as your great Vicegerent, did appear Beneath my Charge, whilst crowding Nations sat, And bowed and did admire my rising Fate: 'Twas then my Laurels fresh and blooming grew, And a loud Fame of all my Glories flew; My willing Subjects bless and clap the Day; The bravest and the best were all my Friends, Whilst Faction in Confusion sneaked away; At distance grinned, but could not reach their ends. Such Faith unto my Promises were shown, My Word they took, for Oaths were useless grown: My very Word composed their Hopes and Fears, Sacred 'twas held, and all Serene appears: Until my Fate reversed did backwards reel, Blurred all my Fame, and altered Fortune's Wheel; Ye Gods! Why did ye thus unconstant prove? Was I the Envy of th' Abodes above? Or was this stately Majesty but given To be the Cheat and Flattery even of Heaven? Can ne'er a Saint implore Celestial Aid? Nor yet the Virgin Goddess intercede? 'Twas for her Cause engaged I suffering lie; 'Twas to advance her just Divinity: Yes, I avow, the Quarrel and the Cause, 'Twas for my Faith, and to out-cope the Laws. I'd rather be forsaken and alone, Than sit a craving Monarch on a Throne: Let all my cringing Slaves at distance stand, Fawn on th' Invading Foe, and kiss his Hand; Leave me their Prince, forsaken and forlorn, Exposed to all their Slights and public Scorn. Let after Ages judge the mighty Test, Judge the Magnific Grandeur of my Breast. I saw my great Forefather yet afore Seal all his Sacred Vows with Martyred gore; His Royal Issue branded with Disgrace, Saw all th' Efforts they used t' Exclude the Race: And yet these Terrors all I dare invade, Thus Conscience, thus Religion does persuade. I'll stand or fall by both those Tenets still, And be the second Martyr to my Will: And then he stopped; his fiery Eyeballs move, And thus with his resisting Fate he strove, And stood, like Capaneus defying jove. When strait a noise, from whence it came unknown, Was heard to answer in an angry tone; Dye then unpitied, Prince, for thus thy Fate Long since, by its Decrees, did antedate: To such perverseness, what regard is shown? What Merit couldst thou plead to mount a Throne? To thy repeated Wishes Heaven was kind, And pleased the wild Ambition of thy Mind; It put a Sceptre in thy eager Hand, Yet not t' oppose the Genius of the Land; If Reason could not sway thy Actions here, Heaven's not obliged by Wonders to appear. See how thy Creatures at a distance stand, Sculk from thy Troubles to a safer Land; Those who their Being's to thy Bounty own, Forsake their fawning Cheats, and now are gone. Those who were Friends to thee and to thy Cause, Bold for their Rights, and for their Country's Laws, Thou, from thy darker Counsels didst remove, And want their aid, now they refuse their love. Some more imperfect Sounds did reach my Ear, But Sense returned, and Daylight did appear. The CONVERTS. I Did intend in Rhimes Heroic To write of Converts Apostolic Describe their Persons, and their Shames, And leave the World to guests their Names: But soon I thought the scoundrel Theme Was for Heroic Song too mean; Their Characters we'll then rehearse In Burlesque, or in Doggerel Verse; Of Earls, of Lords, of Knights I'll sing, That changed their Faith to please their King. The first an Antiquated Lord, A walking Mummy in a word, Moves clothed in Plasters Aromatic, And Flannel, by the help of a Stick, And like a grave and noble Peer, Outlives his Sense by Sixty year; And what an honest Man would anger, Outlives the Fort he built at Tanger; By Pox and Whores long since undone, Yet loves it still, and fumbles on: Why he's a Favourite few can guests, Some say it's for his Ugliness▪ For often Monsters (being rare) Are valued equal to the Fair: For in his Mistresses, kind james Loves ugliness in its extremes; But others say it's plainly seen, 'Tis for the choice he made ' o'th' Queen; When he the King and Nation blest With Offspring of the House of Este; A Dame whose Affability Equals her Generosity: Oh! Well-matched Pair, who frugally are bend To live without the Aids of Parliament. All this and more the Peer performed, Then to complete his Virtues turned; But 'twas not Conscience, or Devotion, The hopes of Riches or Promotion, That made his Lordship first to vary, But 'twas to please his Daughter Mary; And she to make retaliation, Is full as lewd in her Vocation. The next a Caravanish Thief, A lazy Mass of damned Rump Beef; Prodigious Guts, no Brains at all, But very Rhynocerical, Was Married ere the Cub was licked, And now not worthy to be kicked; By Jockeys bubbled, forced to fly, To save his Coat, to Italy, Where Hains and he, that Virtuous Youth, Equal in Honour, Sense, and Truth; By Reason and pure Conscience urged, Past Sins by Abjuration purged: But 'tis believed both Rogue and Peer, More worldly Motives had to veer; The Scoundrel Plebeian's swerving Was to secure himself from starving; And that which made the Peer a Starter, Was hope of a long-wished-for Garter. Next comes a Peer who sits at Helm, And long has steered the giddy Realm With tailor's Motion, Mien, and Grace, But a right Statesman in Grimace; The Sneer, the Cringe, and then by turns, The dully Grave, the Frowns, and Scorns, Promises all, but nought performs: But however great he's in Promotion, He's very humble in Devotion; With Taper Light, and Feet all bare, He to the Temple did repair, And knocking softly at the Portal, Cried, Pity (Fathers) a poor Mortal, And for a Sinner make some room, A Prodigal returned home. Some say that in that very hour, Convert Mall Megs arrived at Door; So both with penitent Grimace, Statesman and Bawd with humble pace Entered and were received to grace. The next a Knight of high Command 'Twixt London-bridge and Dover Sand; A Man of strict and holy Life, Taking example from his Wife; He to a Nunnery sent her packing, Lest they should take each other napping. Some say L'E— did him beget, But that he wants his Chin and Wit; Good-natured, as you may observe, Letting his Tit'lar Father starve; A Man of Sense and Parts, we know it, But dares as well be damned as show it; Bribed by himself, his trusty Servant At Kings-Bench-Bar appeared most fervent Against his Honour for the Test, To him 'twas Gain, to all Mankind a Jest. Blue-Bonnet Lords a numerous store, Whose best Example is they're poor, Merely drawn in, in hopes of Gains, And reap the scandal for their pains; Half-starved at Court with expectation, Forced to return to their Sootch Station, Despised and scorned by every Nation. A paltry Knight not worth a mention, Renounced his Faith for piteous pension; After upon true Protestant Whore, H'had spent a large Estate before. A thick short Colonel next does come, With straddling Legs and massy Bum: With many more of shameful Note, Whose Honour ne'er was worth a Groat. If these be Pillars of the Church, 'Tis feared they'll leave her in the lurch; If abler Men do not support her Weight, All quickly will return to Forty Eight. The humble Address of your Majesty's Poet Laureate, and others your Catholic and Protestant dissenting Rhymers, with the rest of the Fraternity of Minor Poets, Inferior Versifiers and Sonetteers of Your Majesty's Ancient Corporation of Parnassus. Humbly showeth, THat we your Majesty's poor slaves, Your merry Beggars, witty knaves, Being highly sensible how long And dull dry Prose addressing Throng, Have daily vexed your Royal Ears With fulsome speeches, canting Prayers, Unanimously think it better T' address your Majesty in Meeter. Great Sir, your healing Declaration Has cured a base distempered Nation; The Godly hug it for the ease It gives to squeamish Consciences; And by the Mammonists, 'tis made The grand encouragement of Trade; But we must reckon it (in our sense) A gracious Poetic Licence. 'Tis your peculiar excellency, T' indulge Religion to a frenzy; And our Religion is our fancy: For which, we judge 'twould be a crime, Not to present our thanks in Rhyme; We, with all Subjects of our mind, To pay, like us, their deuce in kind: That jealous Protestants would greet With Tests and Laws your Royal Feet; That all would sacrifice in course Their stubborn Consciences to yours; That th' Academies would oppose On no pretence your Royal Cause, But quit their Oaths and Founders Laws That Corporations yield their Charters, And no more grudge your Soldiers Quarters; That Borough-Towns would choose such Men, As you shan't need send home again; That all right Members take their stations, Such as Sir R— and Sir P— That your new Friends stand every where, Of which we recommend one pair, Honest Will Pen and Harry Care. Dissenters will with all their hearta Vote for a Gospel Magna Carta; Your Judges too will over-awe The poor dead letter of the Law; Your High Commissioners, from whom The obstinate receive their doom, For trusty Catholics make room. Only one resty part o'th' Nation, Would bond your power of dispensation; For which we'll bait the Rogues again, With second part of Hind and Pan: We'll Rhyme 'em into better manners, And make them lower their Paper-Banners; Nor is this all that we will do, No, Sir, we'll pray like Poets too. May our great God Apollo bless you, May juno help your budding issue; May you attempt no enemies To skirmish with but Butterflies: Nor exercise Your Martial Arms, But in Mock-sieges, false alarms. May you have long and peaceful days, And may we live to sing your Praise; And after all, may you inherit The overplus of the Saints merit. The LAUREATE. Jack Squabb, his History in little drawn, Down to his Evening, from his early dawn. APpear thou mighty Bard, to open view; Which yet we must confess you need not do: The labour to expose thee we may save, Thou standest upon thy own Records, a Knave; Condemned to live in thy Apostate Rhimes, The Curse of out'ts, and Scoff of Future Times. Still tacking round with every turn of State Reverse to Sh—ry thy cursed Fate Is always at a change to come too late: To keep his Plots from Coxcombs was his Care, His Policy was masked, and thine is bare: Wise Men alone could guests at his Design, And could but guests, the Thread was spun so fine: But every purblind Fool may see through thine. Had Dick still kept the Regal Diadem, Thou hadst been Poet Laureate to him, And, long e'er now, in Lofty Verse proclaimed His high Extraction, among Princes Famed; Diffused his Glorious Deeds from Pole to Pole, Where Winds can carry, and where Waves can roll. Nay, had our Charles, by heavens severe Decree, Been found, and Murdered in the Royal Tree, Even thou hadst praised the Fact; his Father slain, Thou called'st but gently breathing of a Vein: Impious and Villainous! to bless the blow That laid at once three lofty Nations low, And gave the Royal Cause a fatal Overthrow. What after this could we expect from thee? What could we hope for, but just what we see? Scandal to all Religions, New and Old; Scandal to thine, where Pardon's bought and sold, And Mortgaged Happiness redeemed for Gold: Tell me, for 'tis a Truth you must allow; Who ever changed more in one Moon, than thou? Even thy own Zimri was more steadfast known? He had but one Religion, or had none: What Sect of Christians is't thou hast not known, And at one time or other made thy own? A Bristled Baptist bred; and then thy Strain Immaculate, was free from sinful Stain. No Songs in those blessed times thou didst produce To brand and shame good Manners out of use: The Ladies than had not one Bawdy Bob, Nor thou the Courtly Name of Poet Squab. Next thy dull Muse, an Independent Jade, On sacred Tyranny five Stanza's made, Praised Noll, who even to both extremes did run, To kill the Father, and dethrone the Son. When Charles came in, thou didst a Convert grow, More by thy Interest, than thy Nature so. Under his livening Beams thy Laurels spread; He first did place that Wreath about thy Head; Kindly relieved thy wants, and gave thee Bread. Here 'twas thou mad'st the Bells of Fancy Chime, And choked the Town with suffocating Rhyme. Till Heroes formed by thy Creating Pen, Were grown as Cheap, and Dull, as other Men. Flushed with Success, full Gallery, and Pit, Thou bravest all Mankind with want of Wit. Nay, in short time, were't grown so proud a Ninny, As scarce t'allow that Ben himself had any. But when the Men of Sense thy Error saw, They checked thy Muse, and kept the Termagant in awe. To satire next thy Talon was Addressed, Fell foul on all, thy Friends among the rest: Those who the oft'nest did thy wants supply, Abused, Traduced, without a reason why. Nay, even thy Royal Patron was not spared, But an obscene, a santring Wretch declared. Thy Loyal Libel we can still produce, Beyond Example, and beyond Excuse. O strange return, to a forgiving King! But the warmed Viper wears the greatest Sting. Thy Pension lost, and justly without doubt, When Servants snarl, we ought to kick 'em out; They that disdain their Benefactors Bread, No longer ought by Bounty to be fed. That lost, the Vizor changed, you turn about, And straight a True-blue Protestant crept out; The Friar now was writ; and some will say They smell a Malcontent through all the Play. The Papist too was damned, unfit for Trust, Called Treacherous, Shameless, Profligate, Unjust, And Kingly Power thought Arbitrary Lust. This lasted till thou didst thy Pension gain, And that changed both thy Morals, and thy Strain. If to write Contradictions, Nonsense be, Who has more Nonsense in their Works than thee? We'll mention but thy Layman's Faith, and Hind, Who'd think both these (such clashing do we find) Could be the product of one single Mind: Here thou wouldst Charitable fain appear, Findest fault that Athanasius was severe; Thy Pity strait to Cruelty is raised, And even the pious Inquisition praised, And recommended to the present Reign: " O happy Countries, Italy and Spain! Have we not Cause, in thy own Words, to say, Let none believe what varies every day, That never was, nor will be at a stay. Once, Heathens might be saved, you did allow; But not, it seems, we greater Heathens now: The Loyal Church, that buoys the Kingly Line, Damned with a Breath, but 'tis such Breath as thine: What credit to thy Party can it be, T' have gained so lewd a Profligate as thee? Strayed from our Fold, makes us but laugh, not weep; We have but lost what was disgrace to keep: By them Mistrusted, and to us a Scorn; For it is Weakness at the best to turn. True, hadst thou left us in the former Reign, T' have proved, it was not wholly done for Gain; Now, the Meridian Sun is not so plain. Gold is thy God, for a substantial Sum, Thou to the Turk wouldst run away from Rome, And sing his Holy Expedition against Christendom. But to conclude, blush with a lasting Red, (If thou'rt not moved with what's already said) To see thy Boars, Bears, Buzzards, Wolves, and Owls, And all thy other Beasts, and other Fowls, Routed by two poor Mice: (Unequal fight) But easy 'tis to Conquer in the Right. See there a Youth (a shame to thy grey Hairs) Make a mere Dunce of all thy threescore Years. What in that tedious Poem hast thou done, But crammed all Aesop's Fables into one. But why do I the precious Minutes spend On him, that would much rather hang, than mend. No, Wretch, continue still just as thou art, thou'rt now in this last Scene, that Crowns thy part; To purchase Favour, veer with every Gale, And against Interest never cease to Rail; Thomas thou'rt the only proof how Interest can prevail. On the Bishop's Confinement. WHere is there Faith and Justice to be found? Sure the World trembles, Nature's in a swound; To see her Pious Sons designed to fall A Victim to Religion; Truth, and all The Charms of Piety are no Defence Against the newfound Power, that can Dispense With Laws, to Murder Sacred Innocence: Surely, unless some pitying God look down, And stem this Torrent, it will shortly drown Divinity itself.— The Bishop's Prisoners! Can we tamely see Those Reverend Prelates bow the Knee To Antichrist? No, mighty Monarch, no, Though we must pay to Caesar what we owe, There is a Power Supreme, by which you live; Whose Arm is longer, and Prerogative Larger by far than yours; whose very Word Can blast your Hopes, and turn your two-edged Sword; Can make his Secular Vicegerent know, Virtue, like Palms depressed, do higher grow. Though Robbed in all the Grandeur of your State, Courtiers, like Radiant Stars, about you wait: 'Midst of your glorious Joys, when you put on That awful Presence which becomes a Throne; Belshazzar like, three Words upon the Wall Shall blast your Joys, and make your Glories fall. His Holiness, that Patriot of Strife, Though he can grant you Pardons, cannot Life. Arise then, Mighty Sir, in Godlike Mien, As of thy Valour, let thy Truth be seen; Free from Mistrust, let all your Words be clear; By Actions let your Promises appear: Protect that Church which brought you to the Crown; You know 'tis Great and Honourable to own A kindness done; but to reward with Death That happy Instrument that gave you Breath, Is mean, and might a Cath'lick's Conscience Sting, To cut the Hand off that Anoints you King. Advice to the Prince of Orange, and the Packet-Boat returned. Adu. THE year of Wonder now is come, A Jubilee proclaim at Rome; The Church has pregnant made the Womb. Pac. No more of the admired Year, No more of Jubilee declare; All Trees that blossom do not bear. Adu. Orange give o'er your hopes of Crowns, And yield to France the Belgic Towns; And keep your Fleet out of the Downs. Pac. We'll wait for Crowns, not Interest quit, Let Lewis take what he can get; And do not you proscribe our Fleet. Adu. Ye talk of Eighty Men of War, Well Rigged and Manned you say they are; 'Twas joyful News when it came here. Pac. Well may the sound of Eighty Sail, Make England's greatest Courage fail; When half the number will prevail. Adu. But we have some upon the Stocks, And others laid up in our Docks; Well fitted out, would match your Cocks. Pac. Talk not as if you'd match our Cocks, And Launch your few Ships on the Stocks; And if you can, secure your Docks. Adu. Besides, we've called our Subjects home, Which in your Fleet and Army room, But you, they say, won't let them come. Pac. Your Subjects, in our Camp and Fleet, Whom you with Proclamation greet, Will all obey when they think fit. Adu. Soldiers and Seamen both we need, Old England's quite out of the Breed; Feather and Scarf won't do the deed. Pac. Of Men and Arms never despair, The Civilised Wild Irish are Courageous even to Massacre. Adu. Now, if you'd be Victorious made. Like us, on Hounslow Masquerade; Advance your Honour, and your Trade. Pac. Then take this Counsel back again, Leave off to mimic in Campaign, And fight in earnest on the Main. Adu. Buda we stormed, and took't with ease; Do you the same upon the Seas, And then we'll meet you when you please. Pac. The storming Buda does declare, That you the glorious Offspring are Of them that made all Europe fear. Adu. Such Warlike Actions will at least Inspire each neighbouring Monarch's breast, Till Lewis shall complete the rest. Pac. Such Camp, such Siege, and such shame Shows, Make each small State your power oppose, And Lewis lead you by the Nose. A Stanza lately put upon Tyburn. HAil Reverend Tripos, Guardian of the Law; Sacred to Justice, Treason's greatest awe! Do thou decide the Nations weighty cause, And judge between the Judges and the Laws. So shall no guiltless Blood thy Timber ere pollute, But Righteous Laws shall vouch all thou shalt execute. Harry Cares last Will and Testament. NOT Hell itself, nor Gloomy Fate, can save The lewdest Sinner from his Destined Grave: But all the sooty Surges once must try, Old Charon's Boat's a certain Destiny. This Harry found, whose mouldering Corpse did call For Physick-props t'uphold the human Wall; Thinking himself to Ne plus ultra come, He thought of Winding Sheets, and of his Tomb: Summoned his glorious Kindred to appear, To see his last, and his last Will to hear; The Weeping Crowd the mournful Chambers fill, While he in dying Accents makes his Will. Imprimis, For my Soul (if such I have) I wish it buried with me in my Grave: For if what great Divines do preach and tell, Be real Verities of Heaven and Hell, Down to the gloomy Shores I surely go, The same I served above, must serve below. And next, for my dear Wife, who Weeps my fall, And is chief Mourner at my Funeral; My sole Executrix I do here make, And let her all my Goods and Chattels take: Besides, my Province too let her command, That undiscovered lies in Fairy-Land. To her my unsold Pamphlets I bequeath, To buy her Brandy and Tobacco with: And if she do a Male or Stallion take, I hope he'll use her kindly for my sake; With equal Strength the Marriage-Yoke she'll draw, If he but drench her well with Usquebagh. My Daughter next, the Offspring of my Bed, I pour a double Blessing on her Head; The only Legacy I can bestow, And more than Heaven gave me here below: May she the Irish Witness wed, and raise, A Race of Evidences for our Cause. And for those kinder Folks that propped my Pains, I freely leave them both my Pen and Brains: May they my little Artifices use, To raise up Factions, and the Crowd amuse, Till being doubly dipped in Infamy, Like me unpitied, and unenvied dye. Now to the numerous Crowd that does survive, I only can my dying-Counsel give: The Western Emissaries I approve, And even dying do declare my Love. I charge them to stand firm unto their Trust, Accounting what's their Interest, to be Just. The Females I commend to Brother Cox, Who if he cannot cure, can give the Pox; And may he still the vigorous warmth retain, T'impart to stroaling She in Street or Lane. I've nothing more to give to all the rest, But leave Ten Thousand Curses on the Test: And who do its Abolishing withstand, I leave upon them an Eternal Brand. And for the Penal Laws they like so well, I'll write for their Repeal when I'm in Hell; And if Damned Pluto's Laws are like to these, I'll quickly sue him out a Writ of Ease, I there will my Occurrence truly state, Whilst some Infernal Larkin Prints the Cheat; I Hell's black Tyrant will both sooth and praise, And even in Sulphurous Styx Sedition raise. A new Catch in praise of the Reverend Bishops. TRue Englishmen, drink a good Health to the Mitre. Let our Church ever Flourish tho' her Enemy's Spite Her: May their Cunning and Forces no longer prevail, And their Malice, as well as their Arguments, fail. Then remember the Seven which supported our Cause, As Stout as our Martyrs, and as Just as our Laws. Protestantism Revived: or the Persecuted Church Triumphing. IN Sable Weeds I saw a Matron clad, Whose Looks were grave, whose Countenance was sad; Pensive with care, she musing sat alone, Her State too, too unhappy to bemoan: Deep bitter pangs I saw her undergo, And pay the tributary drops of woe, So wept Deucalion when he saw the State And face of Nature changed and desolate. By this dumb Elegy a while sh'exprest The gloomy sorrows of her troubled breast. Then heaving up her head, she silence broke, And with a heavy sigh dejected spoke. Good God what grief surrounds my aged head! What new distracting woes I daily wed, Who am by spiteful Foes in triumph led! They pierce my side with wound, they break my rest, And snatch my sucking Children from my breast: My elder Sons inhumanly they treat, My weaker ones they bubble with Deceit. Thus they insult, thus put me to disgrace, And spit their frothy Venom in my face: My growing sorrows to complete the more, I'm flouted by a Babylonish Whore, Put me to death they can't, since Heaven decreed I must not die, though with my Saviour bleed, But humbly should in aftertimes succeed: What most my anxious Soul tormented hath, Is, he that should defend, betrays my Faith. Thus, thus abused, I'm to all Griefs betrayed, Thus my Delights are double Sorrows made. Who e'er was curbed by such a Concubine! Who so perplexed! Was ever grief like mine! Then she bowed down her head, and with her tears Bedewed the parched Earth: when strait appears A Comforter by pitying Heaven sent To raise her drooping Spirits almost spent: Who when he had respectful Homage paid, In terms obliging reverently said, Mother, I know the cause of all thy Grief, I'm sent thy Succour, and thy true Relief: Thy God has heard thy Sighs, thy faithful Prayers, And graciously received thy flowing Tears: I'll wipe them off, I'll rugged Grief expel, And usual Joy shall in thy Countenance dwell: I've made thy haughty Domineerers bow, And own their Lives they to my bounty owe: I've foiled them all, I have disarmed them quite; They have the power to bark, but not to bite. To ease your pain, by th' God of Heaven I'm sent, He acts, and I'm the Honoured Instrument. Then she arose, Joy smiling in her Eye, And with a cheerful Voice did thus reply: Thanks gracious God, thanks thou Victorious Son, By whom I have my wont Glory won: Rejoice my Sons, and Hallelujahs sing Unto our Saviour, our Triumphant King. For I an Anthem will compose, and then, We'll sweetly sound it to our God. Amen. The Council. To the Tune of, jamaica. I. TWO Toms and Nat, In Council fat, To rig out a Thanksgiving, And make a Prayer, For a thing in the Air, That's neither Dead nor Living. II. The Dame of East As 'tis Expressed, In her late acquaint Epistle, Did to our Eady, Bequeath the Baby, With Coral, Bells and Whistle. III. With this intent, she to her sent Her Gold and Diamond Bodkin, That to conceive, She might have leave; And is not this an odd thing? IV. Then a Pot of Ale, To the Prince of Wales, Tho' some are of Opinion, That when't comes out, A Double Clout Will cover his Dominion. The Audience. THE Critics that pretend to Sense, Do cavil at the Audience, As if his Grace were not as good, To bow to, as a piece of Wood Did not our Fathers heretofore Their senseless Deities adore? Did not Old Delphos all along Vent Oracles without a Tongue? And wisest Monarches did importune From the dumb God to know their Fortune, Did not the Speaking-Head of late, Of matters Learnedly Debate? And rendered without Tongue or Ears Wise answers to his whispering Peers? And shall we to a living Prince Deny the State of Audience? What tho' the Bantling cannot speak? Yet like the Blockhead he may squeak; Give Audience by Interpreter, The wisest Prince can do no more. Then enter with a Prince's Banner Sir Charles, after the usual manner. Great Sir, His Holiness from Rome Greets your high Birth. The Prince, cried Mum▪ The Consecrated Pilch and Clout, If you'll vouchsafe to hear me out, And many other Toys I'm come To lay them to your sacred Bum. So young, yet such a Godlike Ray! Phoebus, your Dad, was Priest Dad-a. Great Prince, I have no more to say. Conducted next, there comes, Great Sir, An Envoy from the Emperor, To Gratulate your lucky Fate, That gives to England's Throne new date; We joy that any thing should Reign, To baffle Orange and the Dane. The Youth, to see them thus beguiled, In token of his Favour smiled. But at the Spaniard laughed outright, As shamm'd again in Eighty Eight. Next, having passed the inward Sentry, The doubtful Monsieur made his entry: The King my Master, Sir, has sent Your Royal Birth to compliment; If you will make it but appear, That you are England's Lawful Heir. Here Lady Powis took him short, Have you a King? Thank Maz'rine for't! Fr. man] whoever the Father was, the Mother Was France's Q. (P— is) Who questions t'other? At this Reproof he pawned a Purse, And parting made his Peace with Nurse. The Dane, the Swede, with other Nations, Come in with loud Congratulations. Upon the Swede so famed for Battle, He cast a frown, and shook his Rattle. And for the Dane, who took the part Of good Prince George, he let a fart. This put him in a sullen fit, Nurse scarce could dance him out of it. When an Ambassador from Poland, Knocked at the Door, and Vel● from Holland, He crying sucked, and sucking cried, When Lady Governess replied Peace, Prince, peace, Prince, peace, pretty Prince, And let the States have Audience. Dutchman.] From Holland I am hither sent, To Challenge, not to Compliment. Prepare with speed your Twenty Sail, Your twice four thousand on the Nail; Which by your Senate was enacted, With Orange, when your Sire contracted. The Name of Holland did affright, And make th'young Hero scream outright. But, Orange named, the Royal Elf, The sweet, sweet Babe, beshit himself. Tyrconnel, who came o'er no less Than to be made his Governess, To take her leave, by luck came in, She sucked his Nose, and licked him clean. Last came the Lady H— from Play, Moved by Instinct he cried, Mamma, And posted to the Queen away. An Epistle to Mr. Dryden. DRyden, thy Wit has Catterwauled too long, Now Lero, Lero, is the only Song. What Singing, Dancing, Interludes of late, Stuff, and set off our goodly Farce of State? Not Albevil can turn a deep Intrigue, Till first well warmed with Bishop Talgol's Jig. W—m cannot sleep, or if a Nap he takes, His Dream some Old Tressilian Ballad breaks. But was e'er seen the like, in Prose or Metre, To this mad Play, or work of Father Petre? At Court no longer Punchionello takes, Each Scene, Part, Cue, misshapen to the Mac's. Such Plot, and the Catastrophe is such, We must be either Irish all, or Dutch. Our very Judges in Westminster-Hall, Like their Old Roof, were Irish Timber all. And (bless us!) Irish Wolves are brought to keep The Nation, grown now all such silly Sheep; Such errand Asses, errand Cattle made, Or to be yoked, or saddled, fleeced, or flayed. O Martyr's Son, thy Destiny is shown; Such props are for a Scaffold, not a Throne: So juno, in her impotence of rage, By Heaven denied, did Hell's black Powers engage; Yet sped the Hero: jove and Fate were strong; Religious care! He took his Gods along: But hark, O hark, the Belgic Lion roars, And shakes afar the French and British Shores: One Brandy drinks, one mad with Prophecies: Lord! what they tell us of some Prince from Freeze; Arms, and the Man they sing, no French finess, But hearty blows, and Brandenburg Address. Hence Vigour, and our Figure comes again, We rise, and walk, all true erected Men. The force of those Circaean Cups subdued And the wild Charms our new Armida brewed, The Witchcraft he (our true Rinaldo) broke, And g●ubs the base pretenders to his stock. But oh! what Spirit of deceit afar, Possessed our Pulpits, and bewitched the Bar! What Bane, what Mischief on poor Mortals shed By Vermin, from the Laws corruption bred. Tho to their Irish Roof no Cobwebs cleave, Below, what strife and endless toils they wove: Wanting brave strength to strangle men to death, What Frauds they hide! What Venom underneath! And when some shorter course to Murder's shown, Cry, O that (luscious) Point! they gained the Crown. Sons of the Pulpit the same measures keep, And of that same stummed Cup have drunk as deep. Agog for some odd Transubstantiate thing, Chimaera Reign, or Metaphysic King, Sublimed to School-Divinity extremes, Their Brains would crow with Patriarchal Dreams. So high from solid honest Wisdom blow n, They'd have some Hippo-Centaur on the Throne, Not Law ordained, but by some God appointed, Not Lay-elected, but by Priest anointed. Away this Goblin Witchcraft, Priestcraft Prince; Give us a King, Divine, by Law and Sense. Now Bar and Pulpit to Dragoons a sport, Their Cause is carried to the last Effort. Princes in more compendious method teach, Force is their way; let Old Apostles Preach. What's established Law, where standing Armies come, Or who'll talk Gospel to a Kettledrum? When God would hear, where Giants did oppress, The several Nations had their Hercules. So were the Horns of grizly Violence broke; So people freed from triple Geryon's Yoke. The various Snake in Lerna-Lough that bred; That lolled and hissed to Death, at every head, Nemaean Lion, Erymanthian Boar, In Bogs that wallow, and on Hills that roar: All by his Godlike Prowess done away, Their Lawless Rule, and that Gigantic sway. In vain whilst this high Virtue Nations sought, The Nassau-House were never yet without. Nor is confined to Provinces their care, Their generous labour neighbouring Kingdoms share. Here the foul Herd flee from his lifted hand, That long had made a Stable of the Land. The Monster of the Lough, new Lerna-Plague But scarce in head) the Bog-begotten Teague. The ravenous Kind, the Harpies sharp for prey, With Birds obscene, and uncouth to the day. No Den, no Ditch, no rousting for them more, Now, now is come our Hercules ashore. Vile Fraud dispelled, and superstitious Mists: He from our Temple drives all Knaves and Priests. Then warmer Wallop, in due Scarlet shown, To Coffee- Dick bequeathes his rusty Gown. Oh Dryden, if this Hercules were thine, How would his Club, and Atlas-shoulders shine: How wouldst thou all our Maids of Honour fright. With naughty Tale, of Fifty in a Night? However, no more let Xavier mar thy Pen, No Miracle to forty thousand men. When Law, and bald Divinity begins, Why then the marvel that a Poet sins. The DREAM. Wearied with Business, and with Cares oppressed, My Faculties were Dozed, and fond of rest, An unusual heaviness did on me creep, My Soul indulged it, yet I could not sleep. Dreams short and frightful vexed me all the Night, I found I was betrayed, and longed for Light; The first such Wonders brought within my view, And when I waked I almost thought them true. Methought I saw great julius sadly lie Bleeding from all his Wounds, and Brutus by. The ungrateful Brutus which he doted on, With Meager Cassius pleased with what he'ad done. Crying, the World and Brutus are my own. I nearer drew to view the Ghastly Trunk, But oh! the Scene was changed, Caesar was sunk; 'Twas Charles the Second, which lay mangled there, The Sacrificing Tribe too did appear, Brutus and Cassius, York and Petre were. Charles weeping, grasped his Brother by the hand, I heard him sighing say, Within my Land A faithful Pious Mother thou wilt command, Who in the utmost of Extremity, When all but her, and much upbraided I Would from the Crown have quite excluded thee, Preached up thy forfeit Title by our Laws, And in thy banishment maintain thy Cause; Passive Obedience thou hast much in store, But do not urge it to thy utmost power. james to preserve her most devoutly swore; Charles died, and james discharged his Oath next hour, I saw the Priests flock in: the Bishops out, Saw Petres cram the Wafer down his Throat, Tho' dead, it saved the Heretic no doubt. I saw him poorly buried in the Night, A wretched Train, and a more wretched sight; To me it seemed a Funeral in Disguise, For fear his Creditors should his Body seize. I saw him shown for two pence in a Chest, Like Monk, Old Harry, Mary, and the rest, And if the Figure answered its intent, In ten years' time 'twould buy a Monument. My Fancy brought me back again to Court, Where only Fools Advise, and Knaves Resort, Our Kingdoms Curse, and other Nations Sport. I heard the jesuits in a grand Cabal, Resolve to Root out Heresy, or fall, Each his particular Opinion gave; They cried, an Opportunity we have To fetter her, who kept us long her Slave. Immediately they pitched upon a Rule, How to suppress it by a forward Fool; A bawling blundering senseless Tool. Whose Mouthing at White-Chappel first began, Who regularly to his Greatness ran Through all the vile degrees of Treachery, And now Usurps the Court of Equity? He said, If you would bring the Clergy down, Erect a Court-Commission from the Crown, And for Dispencing Law let me alone. They hugged their bubble, and the deed was done. Petre grew Fat, and with Mandamus', Cankered the Worthy Universities. The seats of Learning Blockheads might command, Yet the King's Promise to the Church doth stand. Next, Liberty of Conscience was Ordained; The Bishops for Contempt were then Arraigned; The Nobles and the Commons Closeted, The Penal Laws must be Abolished: If you refuse, your Principles are base, Disloyal, and you lose our Royal Grace, And each that has Dependencies his Place. Rochester fell, the Loyal Herbert starved; Each that forsook his God, his Monarch served: Somerset lost his Troops, and Shrewsbury, Oxford was stripped. So Scarsdal, Lumbley; And many more too tedious to relate, By whom in safety, james, thou now dost sit. When thou perceiv'dst no comfort from this Wild, Thy Dame immediately was quick with Child; The Princess at the Bath when it was Born, The Bishops in the Tower, yet had he sworn The Church of England never should be wronged: Upon this News the Hot-brained Papists Thronged; I waked, and as I on my Dream Reflected, My reasonable Notions thus projected: O King, I cried, thy Measures run too fast, And thou wilt find the curse of it at last; Why dost thou wrong thy Country, shame thy life, To please false Priests, and an ungrateful Wife; A Wife, whose Character has always been A Fawning Duchess, and a Saucy Queen? How canst thou suffer Petre's Insolence, Who only makes a harvest of his Prince. A Slave, to Rule Three Kingdoms, Govern thee, Yet ne'er was Master of a Family? This Serpent envying thy Happiness, Has crept into thy Eve, whose wilfulness Has certainly betrayed thy Paradise; Discerning Hallifax thy Fall foresaw, And early did his slighted Faith withdraw; He needs no pardon for the Advice he gave, Which shows him honester than some that have. Under the Rose Men use their mind to tell, But now Myne-Heir 'tis under the Broad Seal; O Nassaw, with thy promised Succours come, And be to us like Anthony to Rome: Thy Wife shall young Octavia's place supply, And those that have betrayed our Country fly; Unless the King to prove the Prince his own, Shall to the Lion's Den present his Son; And if the Royal Brute do not destroy, The Infant, By Christ 'tis his none joy.. Over the Lord Dover's Door. 1686. UNhappier Age who'd saw, When Truth doth go for Treason; Every Blockhead's Will for Law, And Coxcomb's Sense for Reason. Religion's made a Bawd of State, To serve the Pimps and Panders, Our Liberty a Prison-Gate, And Irishmen Commanders. O Wretched is our Fate! What Dangers do we run! We must be wicked to be Great, And to be Just, undone. 'Tis thus our sovereign keeps his Word, And makes the Nation Great; To Irishmen he trusts the Sword, To jesuits the State. Over the Lord Salsbury's Door. 1686. IF Cecil the Wise, From his Grave should arise, And look the fat B— in the Face. He'd take him from Mass, And turn him to Grass, And swear he was none of his Race. To the Speaking-Head. I'm come my future Fate to seek, Speak then, Celestial Blockhead speak. Answer. Hadst thou not consulted with the Witch at Rome, Thou needest not thus, like Saul, to Endor come To seek out (Brother solid-head) thy Doom. The Hearts of all thy Friends are lost and gone; Gazing they stand, and grieving round thy Throne, And scarce believe thou art the Martyr's Son. Those whom thou favourest, merit not thy Grace, They, to their Interest, Sacrifice thy Peace, And will in sorrow make thee end thy days. Tempt not thy Fate too far, do not rely On force or fraud; Why shouldst thou, Monarch, why, Live unbeloved, and unlamented dye? Essay written over his Door upon an Institution and Induction. I. 'TIS a strange thing to think on, That old Tom of Lincoln, Who writ for the Reformation, Should so basely submit, Without Honour, or Wit, To the Reading the Declaration. II. Whoever takes Order From this Satan Recorder, And thinks to go out a Divine, Will find it a Folly To expect the Ghost Holy, 'Tis the Devil that enters the Swine. The Fable of the Pot and Kettle, as it was told by Colonel Titus the Night before he Kissed the King's Hand. AS down the Torrent of an angry Flood, An Earthen Pot, and a Brass Kettle flowed; The heavy Cauldron, sinking and distressed By his own Weight, and the fierce Waves oppressed, S●ily bespoke the lighter Vessel's Aid; And to the Earthen Pitcher friendly said, Come, Brother, why should we divided lose The strength of Union, and ourselves expose To the Insults of this poor paltry Stream, Which with United Forces we can stem? Tho' different heretofore have been our Parts, The Common Danger reconciles our Hearts; Here, lend me thy kind Arm to break the Flood. The Pitcher this New Friendship understood, And made this Answer; Tho' I wish for Ease And Safety, this Alliance does not please; Such different Natures never will agree, Your Constitution is too rough for me; If by the Waves I against you am tossed, Or you to me, I equally am lost; And fear more Mischief from your hardned-side, Than from the Shores, the Billows, or the Tide: ay calmer Days and ebbing Waves attend, Rather than buoy you up, and serve your end, To perish by the Rigour of my Friend. The Moral. LEarn hence (ye Whigs) and act no more like Fools, Nor trust their Friendship who would make you Tools; While empty Praises and smooth Flatt'ries serve; Pay with feigned Thanks, what their feigned smiles deserve: But let not the Alliance farther pass; For know that you are Clay, and they are Brass. Epitaph on Harry Care. A True Dissenter here does lie indeed, He ne'er with any or himself agreed; But rather than want subjects to his spite, Would snakelike turn, and his own Tail would bite. Sometime, 'tis true, he took the faster side; But when he came by suffering to be tried, The Craven soon betrayed his Fear and Pride: Thence, Settle-like, he to recanting fell Of all he wrote, or fancied to be well; Thus purged from good; and thus prepared by evil, He faced to Rome, and marched off to the Devil. A Lenten PROLOGUE refused by the Players, 1682. OUR Prologue-Wit grows flat: the Naps worn off; And howsoe'er We turn, and trim the Stuff, The Gloss is gone; that looked at first so gaudy; 'Tis now no Jest to hear young Girls talk Bawdy. But Plots, and Parties give new matter birth; And State Distractions serve you here for mirth! At England's cost Poets now purchase Fame, While Factious Heats destroy us, without Shame These wanton Nero's fiddle to the Flame. The Stage, like old Rump-Pulpits, is become The Scene of News, a furious Party's Drum. Here Poets beat their Brains for Volunteers, And take fast hold of Asses by their Ears. Their gingling Rhyme for Reason here you swallow; Like Orpheus' Music makes Beasts to follow. What an enlightening Grace is want of Bread? How it can change a libeler's heart, and clear a laureate's Head! Open his Eyes till the Mad Prophet see Medal. p. 41. Plots working in a future power to be. Traitors unformed to his Second Sight are clear; And Squadrons here, and Squadrons there appear; Rebellion is the Burden of the Seer. To Bays in Vision were of late revealed Whig Armies, Reher. Com. p. 31. that at Knightsbridge lay concealed. And though no mortal Eye could see't before The Battle was just entering at the Door! Rehears. Comedy p. 52. A dangerous Association— signed by None! The joiner's Plot to seize the King alone! Stephen with College made his Dire compact; The watchful Irish took 'em in the Fact— Of riding armed! Oh Traitorous Overt Act! With each of 'em an ancient Pistol sided; Against the Statute in that Case provided. But why was such an Host of Swearers pressed? Their Succour was ill Husbandry at best. Bays crowned Muse by Sovereign Right of satire, Without Desert can dub a Man a Traitor. And Tories, without troubling Law or Reason, By Loyal Instinct can find Plots and Treason. But here's our Comfort, though they never scan The Merits of the Cause, but of the Man, Our gracious Statesmen vow not to forsake Law— that is made by Judges whom they Make. Behind the Curtain, by Court-Wires, with ease They turn those Pliant Puppets as they please. With frequent Parliaments our hopes they feed, Such shall be sure to meet— but when there's Need. When a sick State, and sinking Church call for 'em, Then 'tis our Tories most of all abhor 'em. Then Prayer, that Christian Weapon of Defence Grateful to Heaven, at Court is an Offence, If it dare speak the untampered Nations sense. Nay, Paper's Tumult, when our Senates cease; And some men's Names alone can break the Peace. Petitioning disturbs the Kingdom's Quiet; As choosing honest Sheriffs makes a Riot. To punish Rascals, and bring France to Reason, Is to be hot, and press things out of Season; And to damn Popery, is Irish Treason. To love the King, and Knaves about him hate, Is a Fanatic Plot against the State. To Skreen his Person from a Popish Gun, Has all the mischief in't of Forty One. To save our Faith, and keep our Freedom's Charter, Is once again to make a Royal Martyr. This Logic is of Tory's deep inditing, The very best they have— but Oaths, and Fight. Let 'em then Chime it on, if 'twill oblige ye, And Roger vapour o'er us in Effigy. Let 'em in Ballads give their folly Vent, And sing up Nonsense to their Heart's content. If for the King (as All's pretended) they Do here drink Healths, and Curse, sure we may pray; Heaven once more keep him then for Healing Ends, Safe from old Foes— but most from his new Friends! Such Protestants as prop a Popish Cause, And Loyal Men, that break all Bounds of Laws! Whose Pride is with his Servants Salaries fed, And when they've scarce left him a Crust of Bread, Their corrupt Fathers foreign Steps to follow, Cheat even of Scraps, and that last Sop would swallow French Fetters may this Isle no more endure; Spite of Rome's Art stand England's Church secure, Not from such Brothers as desire to mend it, But false Sons, who designing worse to rend it, With lewd Lives and no Fortunes would defend it. On Easter-day 87. this was found fixed on the King's Chapel Door. WHEN God Almighty had his Palace framed, That Glorious shining Place he Heaven named; And when the first Rebellious Angels fell, He Doomed them to a certain place, called Hell. Here's Heaven and Hell confirmed by Sacred Story, But yet I ne'er could read of Purgatory, That cleansing-place which of late years is found, For sinning-Souls to Flux in till they're sound: The Priest formed that for the good Roman Race, Our Maker never thought of such a place. Oh Rome! we'll own thee for a Learned wise Nation, To add a place wanting in God's Creation. Upon K. J. Pistolling a Mastiff Dog at Banbury, in his last Progress. THE Poets tell us idle Tales to please us, Of mighty Perseus, Hercules, and Theseus; And several other gallant Heroes too, Who every one their several Monsters slew. The Minotaur did Theseus bravely Slaughter, And then as bravely sweet— d the King's own Daughter. Nemean Lion bold Hercules did choke, And of his Skin made him a lasting Cloak. The far-famed Perseus killed a mighty Whale, And all t' enjoy Andromeda's brown Tail. Historians all the Great St. George admire, For murdering horrid Dragon that spit Fire. But what concerns us yet far more to tell, One of these Heroes slew the Dog of Hell; Renowned Attempts (you'll all confess) if true, But our great I— s did more than this, (Morbleau): He who before, t' immortalize his Name, Lost dreaded England all her Naval Fame; He who returned from Belgic Lions Roar, When Sandwich sunk in sight of Southwold Shore; He who two Summers but of late sat down With all his Forces before Hounslow Town, And nothing else but bare Dishonour won; He, when he saw his Loving Friend assailed By furious Mastiff-Cur, Ear-sniped, bobtailed, Eyes darting Fire, and with his Boo-woo's fierce, Ready to seize the Lord-Lieutenant's Horse: 'Tis true, quoth he, to show that wondrous Might Which I have long concealed from Humane Sight: With furious Tone pursuing then his Speech, Fanatic Dog, forbear my Royal Breech, (He cried) For know thou art but bluntly pointed, Though sharp thy Fangs, to touch the Lord's Anointed. To which the Dog, who never Scripture read, And scorned to call an Earthly Monarch, Dread. I am no Dog (quoth he) to Fawn and Flatter, But I Address according to my Nature: However know I am a Dog of Sense, That's more than may be said of many a Prince. With this the mighty I— a Pistol drew, Discharged, and shot the Mastiff through and thro': Some say that, Vulcan-like, he rived his Brain, No matter which, the Dog received his Bane, By Royal Hand for fancy Language slain, And both got Honour, Dog and sovereign, The sovereign had the Honour Dog to kill; The Mastiff, that a Prince his Gore did spill; Now then, come down from Heaven (ye Cur) come down, Thou whom the sultry Summers so renown: Resign that Place of thine more justly due To this same Dog, whom God's Vicegerent slew: Surely a Dog so dignified in Story, Is th' only Dog with Constellations Glory. And▪ you, who in your Signs St. George advance, Trampling o'er Dragon's Jaws pierced through with Lance, Alter your painting, and set up in place, The bravest Hero of the Scotish Race, Discharging Thunder from his gaudy Saddle, And Mastiff prostrate in a gory Puddle: So shall you Truth advance o'er Fabulous Toys, And Dog and Monarch both Immortalize. The Metamorphosis. HAD the late famed Lord Rochester survived, We'd been informed who all our Plots contrived; Authors and Actors we had long since seen, In sharpest Satyrs they'd recorded been, Tho' Captain, Doctor, Lord, Duke, K— g, or Queen: His bold and daring Muse had soared on high, And brought down true Intelligence from the Sky. He oft the Court has of its Vices told, While Priests pretend they dare not be so bold; Tho they're heavens Messengers, it's Livery wear Receive it's bounteous Salary, yet they dare, Neglect their Duty, or for Gain or Fear, Connive at what's directly opposite, And e'er they'll give Offence, each turn a Proselyte: Witness the dismal Change that now is come, Long since expected by the Church of Rome. The Calves of Dan and Bethel bleat aloud, And jeroboam worships in the Crowd; Our upstart Statesmen turn with every Wind That blows from Rome, to Sense and Truth are blind. But yet, though ten of our twelve Tribes should fall, And worship Dagon, Ashtaroth, and Baal; A Remnant will remain, who firm will stand, To God, Religion, and their Native Land, Who will not bow themselves to th' Romish Yoke, Though they share Sydney's or brave russel's Stroke, Nor can this Egypt's Darkness long remain, A Star of jesse will once shine out again; Scotch Vermin, Irish Frogs, French Locusts; All That swarm both at St. James' and Whitehall; Though now advanced to all Trust, all Command, All Offices enjoy by Sea and Land, Shall, when this Sun doth set, no more appear Within the Confines of our Hemisphere. A Pincely Branch remains will on us smile, And spread its goodly Boughs quite o'er the Isle; Confirm our staggering Hopes, remove our Fears, And turn to Balm of Gilead all our Tears; The Church and State shall nourish as before, Just Judges to the needful Bench restore; And thoroughly purge the Judgment-Seat from those Who make the Laws themselves the Laws Oppose. For such there are, and in the highest Place, Who their Profession do so much disgrace; That many fear their Grievance to unfold, Where Law and Conscience both are bought and sold. Our Pulpits too shall be adorned with those Who turn not with each Blast of Wind that blows; Who dare teach Truth, and dare that Truth maintain, Not moved by threatenings, Frowns, Favour, or Gain; That dare declare against the Sins o'th' Nation, While others of that Tribe embrace the Fashion. Nor thenceforth shall those Black-Coat Vipers come, Who here are daily disembogued from Rome; Where Sins of all Kind's, and of all Degrees, (The Church Revenues, and the Office Fees Being Discharged) Religiously are done, Tho'ed be to murder Father, Brother, Son; Ravish a Sister, with a Daughter do What Nature has a just abhorrence to; For which, if Purgatory or Hell you'll shun, Fee the Priests largely, and your Work is done; They're Delegates to him that keeps the Keys, And can't admit one Soul without the Fees; For he, as God, in Heaven and Earth has Power To Crown and to Uncrown in the same Hour; Unmake and Make, Create and Uncreate, To Torments after Death can give a Date; From him proceeds inevitable Fate. These Imps do now in Crowds each other follow, And hope e'er long Churches and Bells to hollow; To teach you how to worship to the East, Prescribe us Fasts, while they themselves do Feast; Whole Loads of Relics they have got together, Ay, and Saint Peter's Shadow's gliding hither; In th'arsenal shortly will be kept a Fair, Where you may buy such consecrated Ware, As England has not seen this hundred Year. For 'tis not France, nor Italy, nor Spain, That can the thousandth Part of Saints contain; For Saints, by Canonising, do become, By an infallible Deception made at Rome, Not only Omnipresent, but beside, One into twenty thousand they divide: The like with other Relics they can do, Ioseph's old Coat, the Virgin Mary's Shoe; Saint Peter's Sword that cut off Malchus Ear; The Hoof's o'th' silly Ass which Christ did bear; The Right Eye of john Baptist, and the Apostle St. Thomas' Shoulder Blade-bone, with the Gristle; The Virgin Mary's Milk sold by the Quart; Nay, th'Blood and Water, which from Jesu's Heart Was by a Soldier let out with a Spear, By Miracle kept 'bove sixteen hundred year: Besides all this, more Nails to show there be, That fixed our Saviour Christ unto the Tree, Than twenty Smiths in a whole Day can make; Yet all these for the same the Church does take, Bless me, thought I, good Heaven! What does this mean? Such Trumpery by me shall ne'er be seen; No, nor the Monsters, that were named before, Although a Trumpet stood before the Door, And, after dismal Sound on Ludgate-Hill, Where Porcupine of you did cast his Quill; Where Crocodile, Rhinoceros, and Baboon, With other Prodigies are daily shown; Invite me in, I would not stir, I swear, To see those more Prodigious— there. Caesar's Ghost. 'tWas still low Ebb of Night, when not a Star Was twinkling in the muffled Hemisphere; But all around in horrid. Darkness mourned, As if old Chaos were again returned; When not one Gleam of the eternal Light Shot through the solid Darkness of the Night; In dismal Silence Nature seemed to sleep, And all the Winds were buried in the Deep; No whispering Zephyrus aloft did blow, Nor warring Boughs were murmuring below; No falling Waters dashed, no Rivers purled; But all conspired to hush the drowsy World. When on my Couch in thoughtless Slumbers wrapped, I lay reposed;— My very Soul too slept In peaceful Dulness, silent and serene, Till 'twas debauched and wakened into Dream. Methought I saw a dark and dismal Vault, Whose Horror cannot be conceived by Thought, And seemed by some Infernal Magic wrought: So vast and so perplexing intricate, As if the dreadful Court of Death and Fate; And yet of Kings the great Repositer, And only Royal Dust lies mouldering here. Amongst these Monuments of Sacred Fame, Great Caesar stood; Caesar, whose deathless Name▪ When Shrines decay, triumphant shall remain, While Sense, good Nature, Wit, and Love shall reign. While I with awful Fear and Trembling, paid Humble Oblations to the mighty Dead, Methought the sweeting Marble did unclose, And from Death's Mansion the dead Monarch rose; His Eyes o'er all scattered a sullen Light, Such as divides the breaking Day from Night; By whose faint Rays the Object I discerned All pale— with ghastly Majesty adorned. His stiffened Loins a purple Mantle bore, His Brows a Wreath of withered Laurels wore, Such as had flourished there in Life before. Now forth he stalks, silent as Shadows glide, Or Clouds that skim the Air while they divide; As quick as thought the faithless Town he passed, And towards the Camp of wondrous Fame does haste, While Midnight Fogs surround his awful Head, And down his Locks their baneful Poison shed; The wand'ring airy Daemons at the View, And all the Ignis Fatuus' withdrew; Hecate let fall her charm-preparing Weeds, Wondering what unknown Power Earth's Surface treads Which more than that which she invokes, she dreads. She flies all frighted with erected Hair, And scarce her Broomstaff bears her through the Air, From his dread Presence every Evil ran, Except that more-exalted Evil, Man: Not the first Race of less corrupted Fiends, Till taught by Man, knew half their new-coined Sins. Thrice with Majestic pace he walks the round, Surveying the Pavilions utmost bound, And useless Grandeur every where he found. Philippi, nor the famed Pharsalian Field, Did not more signs of Glorious Action yield; But this was all for show, not Terror made, 'Twas Hounslow Farce, a Siege in Masquerade. More near he views it yet, and found within, All the Degrees of Luxury and Sin; Alsatia's Sink into this Common-shore, Did all its vile and nasty Nuisance pour; Fat Sharpers, Broken Cuckolds, Gamesters, Cheats, What Newgate disembogues, find here Retrears; The Groom and Footman from their Liv'ry stripped, With Scarf, Gay Feather, and Command equipt. Promotion gives to Sauciness Pretence, And Greatness is mistake for Insolence; And to evince their Valour every Hour, Bamboo the Slaves that bow beneath their Power; Yet to the Country Ladies these appear So Novel, witty, Beau en Cavalier, That scarce a tender Heart is left behind, Pray God a Maidenhead you chance to find! The Phantom to that Quarter first resorts, Where the Illustrious Generals keep their Courts. I. Great Fever— the Foremost of the Crew, Whose Uncle Tur●in well could fight we know. He who so often does repeat the Jest How he subdued the Monarch of the West, (Or would have done had he not been undressed.) This rough stern Hero of the British War To Neighbouring Tents is always born in Chair, For fear of Incommodement from the Air. II. It wonders what did Chur— ll recommend, Who never did to Deeds of Arms pretend: Love, all his Active Youth, his business was, Love that best suits his handsome Shape and Face. But Armies are like Verse, whose Doggerel Lines Are here for Sense, and there for gingling Rhimes. (Here where Bellona lays her Armour by, And learns to be more charming Company, Where the ill-mannered God has nought to do:) Some few for fight are, but most for show; Where rich embroidered Cloaks a la Campagne So often shine, unless it chance to rain. Then Lord how the Sir M. will fret and fling! Undone, 'tis spoiled, e'er shown before the King; In perfumed Beds adorned they're basking laid, As fine as young Brides on Persian Carpets tread, That o'er the spacious Floor in wanton Pride are spread. Like Feasting God's luxurious, and, they say, As arrant Fornicators too as they. None come amiss when Lust their Fancies lead, Alcmene, nor the sweet-faced Ganymede; And, like those Gods, they all are given to Love, But none we hear e'er thundered but old jove. III. Here one the Hero acts in Lovit's Arms, And calls his Passions out in warlike Terms, Tells of soft Sieges, Batteries and Alarms; How the Artillery of her Eyes did wound, And how at the first Onset he gave ground: He who ne'er yet did to a Conqueror bow, Yet kisses and adores his Fetters now; While all the Batteries ever he assayed, Have been against some Female Fortless Maid; But Love-it, who has less of Love than Pride, Being with guilt Coach and Countryhouse supplied, Makes that atone for all Defects beside. IV. There lay a Youth of all his Wits bereft, Who this Campaign was by his Mistress left. A nauseous Strumpet, Insolent and Loud, False and Destructive, basely Born, an Proud. Oh bubbled Fool, thou that hadst seen the Fate Of Cully Basilius— she's quickly spent Estate: Collier undone, and forty Rake-hells more For an old common o'ergrown flabby Whore, Whose Bastard-Son may vie with thee for Age, A Trader twenty years upon the Stage: What from th' expensive Folly couldst thou see, But shameful Ruin, laught-at Infamy? Thy Eyes I know were opened long before, But still the Jilt betrayed thee to the Whore; Debased thy Noble Spirits to her Rule, And turned thy once fair Fame to Ridicule; Debauched thy Sense with Conversation base, Whores, Eating-Pimps, players, a numerous Race, While thou the treating Cully art despised, And Cuckold by the Slaves thou Gormandized. Return, thou Prodigal, from Husks and Swine, The Ruin of the first, was cause of thine: They say thou'rt brave, give us this Proof of it, And well believe thou canst be braver yet: Thou'st yet a Nobler Race of Life to run, Leave Her— d to her now to be undone: But her kind Keeper gone, his Flame will fade; Love cools when 'tis an Obligation made. V. Here an old battered Tangieren he beheld, More mawl'd by Love than e'er he was in Field; Yet wondrous Amorous still, and wondrous gay, Old january dizened up in May; His Zeals as Trophies of his Victory Graces, Coll. Sac— l. But all adorned with many Looking-glasses, In which he practices Bon Mien and Faces; How well to manage Ogling, and what Air He should maintain, when cock, when frisk his Hair; What Affectation best would Youth express, And lest the Ruins of his Age confess; Half-choaked with monstrous Crevat-string, Disputes What Colour best to his Complexion suits; And all in Middle Gallery to poor, And claim which is his Joy, some low-prized Whore. Vain self-admiring Fop, though every day Thou dost thy antiquated Form survey! But to be well deceived, cease playing the Ass Six hours each Morn before a Looking-glass, And trust the wiser Valet with thy Dress; For whilst thou dost not that aged Face behold, Thy Dress may flatter thee thou art not old. VI Chett, that Scoundrel, he whom Nature made An arrant Fool, although a Rogue by Trade, Which he industriously improved so well, He does in nicest Villainy excel, And from the Trumpet raised the Colonel; Yet lives a double Scandal in his Race, His Morals are as odious as his Face: Though Knave and Coward in his Front be writ, He has one Virtue recommends him yet; A Passive Valour that can kicking bear, A Caution that secured him in his Fear Behind the Canon in the Western War. And farther to this Honour has pretence, Can cheat his Men with matchless Impudence: But that's the gen'ral Cry, while no bold Tongue Is found to tell Augustus of their wrong. VII. Next a Grabesious Allonier, who sat Like Bacchus on his Tun in Drunken State, With all his mellow Gang encompassed round, In high Debauch of Wine and Bawdry drowned. VIII. That Monster G—dy of prodigious size, A Body fitted to his beastly Vice; A Face to all more formidable far Than Gorgon's Head, or to that Coward War; In Youth mean Cheats and Rooking was his Trade, Now (starving) got Command— for Drink— not Bread. IX. V— our new Troy's Hector, and its hope, Preferred from Tail of Coach to Head of Troop; 'Twas no true Valour got him first a Name, But some Welsh Fury did his Blood inflame, And sure he never fought when he was ta'en. No Brutal Coward Tyrant Algerine e'er healed Slaves so ill as his have been; As if to him Authority were new, It is but damn the Rascal, and a Blow. For they so oft false Musters we observe, Rather than follow him the Rogues will starve; And would, if e'er indeed there came a War, Be justly shot like wry-necked Chevalier, By some of his own Soldiers in the Rear. But V— n's not alone, more of his stamp, That better merit Tyburn, rule the Camp. X. Among this Crew M—ll that Fornicator, Encamped with Grandam Doxy and her Daughter; The good old Soul he loves because she's handy, Can Joque and Smoak, and hold him tack with Brandy; Full threescore Years in wise Experience bred, Preferred from drawing Aleto M— ll's Bed; She's old enough to Witch, and by her Art Has struck some crooked Pin quite through his Heart. Or has some damned Infirmity unseen, That makes him dote on such a riveled Queen. XI. Among this Drunken Club was Beau Sir Tom, Dubbed for his Brother's Merits, not his own; From drudging City-Prig advanced to be Right Worshipful, in Place of High Degree, But knew not how to manage Quality; And thought the nearest way was to be lewd, While all Degrees the Debauchee pursued; But like true Cit did always overdo, As well in Lewdness as in Fashions too; drink's his leading Vice, his darling Sin, That pumps his duller Inclination in; Then loud as Storms, encouraged for all Evil, Swears and invokes by Healths his Guardian Devil. By chance the Poet Elkanah was there To make 'em sport, for 'twas not yet the Fair; With many more too scandalous to name, Whose Talents are to Swear, Whore, Drink, and Game; At a large Table they were seated round, With Bottles, Snush, foul Pipes, and Glasses crowned, Boxes and Dice— but whether false or true, I leave it to the Fools that Night shall rue; For there was Country Squire and City Cully, That came to see the Show, looked to by Bully, Where bubbled of their Coin, they healed are A la Campagne,— that is, with Cheer entire: Dam, cries Grab, each Prig his Buttock bring, And let us forthwith fall to managing; When I am boozing, clear old Dudgeon's Drolish, Then let my Natural be a jump, a Polish, I sink her down— Then makes some nasty Jest, And Crowns it with a Bumper to the Best; (And calls for Linkboy, swears his Pego's nice, And therefore cannot deal in common Vice.) Then to the height of Lewdness they retire, And Venus must extinguish Bacchus' fire. Thus 'tis when Men forsake an honest Trade, How much a better Pedant thou hadst made; Or (bilking sharp) hadst bullied up and down, And scared the Trembling Mortals of the Town? This was thy Talon, this thy proper Sphere; Yet still this Part of thee remains while here, That thou canst Cheat, Oppress, and Domineer. Though thus much by thy Foes must be confessed, Of all thy roaring Tribe thou art the best. The rest such Coward's Sots, such hardened Rogues, Blasphemers, Villains, Rake-hells, Swine's, and Dogs, Have newer Sins than were to Sodom known, And if just Heaven should send his Vengeance down, There's not one Lot to save a sinking Town. But numberless and endless 'twere to tell All the rank Vice that fills this Local Hell. All which the Phantom does in haste survey, He scents the Morning-Air, and must away, And on the Eastern Hill he views the breaking Day. Yet ere he goes with a Remorse extreme, Looks back and Sighs o'er this jerusalem; Nor could depart till like the Prophet too, In whispering Our pronounced thrice— Woe, woe, woe; And then methought I heard a Hollow Sound, Like Echoes that from Caves and Rocks rebound; And thus it spoke— Full five and twenty Years I Reigned, without the Noise or Toil of Wars, Bore all th' Indignities of Factious Power, And saw my Life in danger every hour; Yet rather had resigned it up in Peace, Than owed my Safety to such Brutes as these; At best a Scarecrow Rebels to affright, Put them to Action, and scarce one will fight. Ah, great Augustus! thou deserv'st an Host Of Heroes, such as Ancient Rome produced; When each Commander should like Scipio be; Or rather like the yet more Godlike thee, Brave, Temperate, Prudent to the last degree. The common Rout all Sceva's in the Field, Who bore a thousand Arrows in his Shield. At least they should have Souls to be inspired, And by thy great Example to be fired; Thy Constancy and Valour imitate, And raise at once thy Glory and the State. This said, and parting with a pitying Look, Towards his Eternal Hope, his way he took, And blest his Fate he could again return To the blessed Confines of his peaceful Urn. The Fourth satire of Boileau to W. K. 1687. BElieve me, Will, that those who have least Sense, Think they to Wisdom have the sole Pretence; And that those Wretches who in Bethlem are, Deserve it less than those who put them there. The haughty Pedant, swollen with Frothy Name Of Learned Man, big with his Classic Fame; A thousand Books read o'er and o'er again, Does word for word most perfectly retain, Heaped in the Lumber-Office of his Brain; Yet this crammed Skull, this undigested Mass, Does very often prove an arrant Ass; Believes all Knowledge is to Books confined, That reading only can inform the Mind; That Sense must Err, and Reason ramble wide, If Sacred Aristotle bened their Guide. While, on the other hand, a Fluttering thing, With a full Roll, and three piled Crevat string, Whose Life's a Visit, who alone takes care To say fine things, write Songs, and count the Fair; Laughs at the musty Precepts of the School, Calls the Learned Writer an Authentic Fool; Swears that all Learning is a thing unfit A well-bred Person, or a Man of Wit; Names proper only to the Sparks o' th' Town, And damns his Scholar to his College Gown. The fierce Bigot, who vainly does believe His bantring Zeal can Heaven itself deceive; With Saintlike Looks the bleereyed Crowd does blind, And the Jilt Villain damns all Human kind. While the wild Libertine, that Beast of Prey, Who bears down all that stops him in his way, Ranges o'er all, and takes his savage fill In the wild Forest of a boundless Will: Swears that Heaven, Jove's, and Hell's Eternal Pain, Are the sick Dreams of a Distempered Brain, Tales fit for Children, a mere holy Jest, To starve the People, and to glut the Priest. The sharpest Satirist with Poetic Rage Strives to reform the Vices of the Age; Laughs at the Fool, and at the Villain rails; Yet Folly reigns, and Villainy prevails; While the cracked Skull shows all that has been said, Leaves Marks on nothing but the Poet's Head: For partial Man, tried by himself alone, Protesting every Sentence but his own; Severe to all Men, to himself too kind, Sees others Faults, but to his own is blind. The sordid Miser, a mere lump of Clay, Formed into Man e'er from its gross Alloy It was refined by the Soul's Heavenly Ray; Whose Thirst of Wealth increases with his Store, And to spend less, does covet to have more; Who Midas-like, to feed his Avarice, Starves in the enjoyment of a golden wish; Thinks himself wise, boasts of being provident, And downright Scraping calls good Management. The Love of Wealth is madness, and I hate The very trouble of a great Estate: 'Tis perfect Dirt, cries the vain Prodigal, Mad till 'tis gone, and when he has spent all, The beggared Fool calls himself Liberal. Now weigh them both, and tell me, if you can, Which of the two seems the most prudent Man: The Gamester swears both should in Bethlem be, That Fortune-monger, maddest of the three, Whose Life, whose Soul, whose very Heaven is Play, At which the Bubble throws them all away; Who every moment waits his Destiny From the uncertain running of a Die; And, if he chance to lose, then how he stairs! Then how the Fury, with his bristled Hairs, Curses his Fate, Earth, Hell, and Heaven defies, And with Oaths heaped on Oaths, he storms the Skies. I could name thousands more, but to draw all The Shapes of this false Reasoning Animal, Would be as hard, as to count all that die Each Spring and Fall by lower and Mercury: Or say, how oft th' impatient Heir, to have The Old Man's Wealth, has wished him in his Grave: A Drudgery so great my Pen declines, Content to sum up all in these four Lines. Greece boasts seven Sages, but the Story lies, For the whole World ne'er saw one truly Wise: All Men are Mad; and the sole Difference Lies in the More or the Less want of Sense. A Congratulatory Poem on his Highness the Prince of Orange his coming into England. Written by Mr. Thomas Shadwell. OUR Glorious Realm, o'er all the Earth Renowned, Once with the Noblest Government was Crowned; By which all Foreign Tyrannies were awed, Easie we were at home, and Terrible abroad. All our wise Laws of Empire were designed Not for the Lust of one, but good of all Mankind; The great Prerogative was understood A vast unbounded power of doing good: From doing ill, by Laws it was confined; If Sanctions, Pacts, or Oaths, could Princes bind, By Ancient Usages and Laws they swayed, Which both were by the choice of Subjects made. Old Customs grew to Laws by long Consent, And to each Written Law of Parliament, Freedom in Boroughs, and in Land Freehold, Gave all, who had them, Voices, uncontrolled: But few new Rights were by new Laws obtained, Only some ravished Liberties regained. Who had no Voices, yet alike were bound By the Protection, which from Laws they found; For every one in those had equal right, And no great Man could injure, or affright. Where Subjects in the Laws can claim no share, 'Twixt them and Cattle no distinctions are. This was the Constitution of our State, And true Religion flourished in its height: From lying Legends, false Traditions, free, From Monkish Ignorance, Schoolmens Frippery, From Idols, and from Papal Tyranny. Their building made of Stubble, and of Hay, Was by our Wise Reformers swept away; Thus we enjoyed a happy Union, Under the great Eliza, perfect grown, Hers and the People's interests, were thought one. She, and the Realm, with mutual kindness strove, Great its Obedience, and as great her Love; Long might such happiness have been enjoyed, Had it not been b' Ambitious Priests destroyed. Those haughty Priests could not contented be With what remained from Popish Dignity, But would their Hierarchy have greater made, With castoff Rights the Laity they invade, And call in Ius Divinum to their aid. With that invisible Commission armed Our Kings, with sovereign, and Inherent charmed, With Sacred Person, Power without a Bound, Prerogative unlimited, no ground Whereof is in our Constitution found. Thus they, by Ecclesiastic Flattery, Turned Kings to Tyrants, and to Slaves the free; These Furious Fools yet Wise Divines contemned, And their rash Doctrines, privately condemned; None dare in public say they were unsound, But Fines, and Pillories, and Brands, were found. For now Commissioned from above the Sky, Kings soon were deemed for Laws and Oaths too high; Hotly 'twas taught, they were not bound by Oaths, Because no Power above them to impose. 'Twas now no Kingly Office, nor a Trust, No Laws to Rule by but their sovereign Lust; And all the Land for their Estate they owned, The Subjects were their Stock upon the Ground. At length, to rivet on the Chains we wore, Lewd Knaves in Quoifs yield the Dispensing Power, Which never Tyrant here had claimed before. The Scandals of the Bar must now be found To give the Government this mortal wound; Which at one blow took all its strength away, And down in pieces dashed, the Noble Structure lay. Ruin and Rubbish covered all the Ground, And no Remains were of the Building found. Monsters of Roman and Hibernian Race, With Fangs and Claws infect the wasted place: With one of British kind, who swallowed more Than any other Bloody Beast of Power; Fiercely he goggled, his Jaws opened wide, Louder he roared than all the Beasts beside. Some like jaccals, before him preyed for Blood, And to his Ravenous Maw brought all they could: Against the Rapine of these Beasts of Prey, First London's Noble Prelate stood at Bay; One fit t' atone for all the Clergy's Blots, For three vile English Bishops, and twelve Scots. Then Valiant Fairfax and brave Hough made head, But by these Monsters were discomfited; And now the trembling Church began to reel, And the effects of Nonresistance feel; Where Ius Divinum was not on their side; They strove to stop the fierce impetuous Tide; Seven Suffering Heroes gave it such a shock, It seemed to dash its Surges on a Rock; But Showrs of Locusts came with thickest Fogs, From Tyber's Marshes, and from Shanon's Bogs; Vast clouds of Vermin hasten to their aid, And intercepting light, thick darkness made; All clouded was our Sullen Hemisphere, But Lo! the Glorious Orange does appear! And by his Universal Influence, Does to our Drooping Land new Life dispense; His heat ferments that Lump was dead before, Which now in every part exerts its Power; To purge its self, that it may clean become, The Fermentation soon throws off the Scum. And every part does towards Perfection move, Towards Strength and Soundness, Harmony and Love. When Earth oppressed, with darkness overspread, From filthy Boggy Exhalations bred; The Sun with noiseless Marches of his light, Discusses Vapours, and dispels the Night: With equal silence in his glorious Race, Our noisome Fogs does the Brave Orange chase; Does all the Powers of Darkness put to flight, And the Infernal Ministers of Night; The Guilty Spirits shun th' approach of light. When undistinguished in the mighty Mass, And in Stagnation Universal Matter was; Huddled in heaps the differing Atoms lay Quiet, and had no Laws of Motion to obey: Th' Eternal Mover threw the Ferment in, The solid Atoms did their Course begin; The quickening Mass moves now in every part, And does its Plastic Faculties exert. The jarring Atoms move into a peace, And all Confusion and Disorders cease: The ugly undigested Lump became The perfect, glorious, and well-ordered Frame. Let there be Light, th' Almighty fiat run; No sooner 'twas pronounced, but it was done: Inspired by Heaven, thus the great Orange said, Let there be Liberty, and was obeyed. Vast Wonders heavens great Minister has wrought, From our dark Chaos, beauteous Order brought: H'invaded us with Force to make as free, And in another's Realm could meet no Enemy. Hail Great Asserter of the Greatest Cause, Man's Liberty, and the Almighty's Laws: Heaven greater Wonders has for Thee designed, Thou Glorious deliverer of Mankind! A Congratulatory Poem to the most Illustrious Queen Mary, upon her Arrival in England. By Thomas Shadwell. MADAM, Immured with Rocks of Ice no Wretches left Hopeless of Life, of Heat and Light bereft, Under the Influence of the rugged Bear, Where but one Day and Night is all the Year, With ne'er so much transporting joy could meet The dawning Day, as your Approach we greet: Your Beams revived us from the Belgian Shore: Which now our long-loved Princess does restore. What could make us so rich, or them so poor? The World nought equal to our joy can find, But the despairing Grief you left behind. We from the Mighty States have now gained more Than by our Aid they ever got before. When the Great Vere's and Sidney's won such Fame, That each of them immortalised his Name. Not Alva's Rage would have distressed them so As, MADAM, we have done, recalling You. Our adored Princess to Batavians lent, Is home to us with mighty Interest sent: For we, with her, have won the Great Nassau, Whose Sword shall keep the Papal World in awe. She comes, she comes, the Fair, the Good, the Wise, With loudest Acclamations rend the Skies; Rock all the Steeples, kindle every Street, Thunder ye Cannons from each Fort and Fleet. To all the neighbouring Lands sound out your joys, And let France shake at the Triumphant Noise. Blessed be the rising Waves, the murmuring Gales, Sustained the Mighty Cargo, swelled the Sails. Blessed be the Vessel, as that was which bore The Sacred Remnant, when there was no Shore. Not the returning Dove they welcomed so As we our MARY, who brings Olive too; That only promised safety to their Lives, This our lost Peace and Liberty revives. Blessed, blessed be his Invasion, which made way For this most happy and Illustrious Day. So brave an Action, so Renowned a Name, Was ne'er yet written in the Book of Fame. Let Parasites call Princes Wise, and Brave, Who bear inglorious Arms, but to enslave. Our Prince will break those Chains wherewith they bind: 'Tis his true Glory to enlarge Mankind. In any Land You would Dominion gain; And MADAM, in each Commonwealth would Reign. Wherever your Godlike PRINCE from us should go. They would, like us submit without a Blow. In his short Sway more▪ Wisdom He has shown, Than here before in Ages has been known. The Name of KING adds nothing to his Fame; But his great Virtues dignify that Name. What Land can boast of such a matchless Pair, Like Him so wise, so brave; like You so wise, so fair? Wherever so many sacred Virtues join, They to a Sceptre show a Right Divine. Who are approved so Valiant, Wise and Just, Have the best Titles to the highest Trust, Though from the Loins of greatest Kings derived, That Title's not so strong, nor so long-lived; For Princes more of solid Glory gain, Who are thought fit, than who are born to Reign. The OBSERVATOR, Or the History of Hodge, as reported by some; From his siding with Noll, and scribbling for Rome. STand forth thou grand Impostor of our time, The Nation's Scandal, Punishment and Crime; Unjust Usurper of illgotten Praise, Unmatched by all but thy lewd Brother Bays; How well have you your several Gallants chose, Damnably to plague the World in Verse and Prose. Like two Twin Comets: when you do appear, We justly may suspect some danger near. He lately did under Correction pass, Honoured by that great Hand that gave the Lash, A doom too glorious for that cursed Head, And unproportioned to the Life he lead; But you are to a viler Fate designed, To suffer by a vulgar hand like mine; We'll tear your Vizard, and unmask your Shame, And at each Corner Gibbet up your Name. Expose you to the Scorn of all you meet, As Dogs drag grinning Cats about the Street. Under Usurping Noll you first began To rear your Head, and show yourself a Man; Unpitying saw the Royal Party fall, And Danced and Fiddled to the Funeral; Disclaimed their Interest, and renounced their Side, And with the Independent strait complied; Officious in their Service, wrote for Hire; A brisk Crowdero in the Factious Choir: Your nimble Pen on all their Errands run; The Horoscope still opens to the Sun. There 'twas in those unhappy Days, You laid foundation for designed Praise; By disrespect ignobly purchased shame, And damned your Soul to scandalise your Name. When Charles at length by Providence came in, You faced about, and quickly changed the Scene; Turned to new Notes your mercenary Strings, Began to play Divinity of Kings: Your former Master straightway is forgot, Styled Villain, Rogue, Thief, Murderer, what not? Such recompense he doth deserve to have, Who for his Interest durst employ a Knave. Now 'twas a time you thought to take your ease, After such great Exploits performed as these: Applauding to yourself your own Deserts, You straight set up for a vain Ass of Parts; Resolving that the Ladies too should know, What other Tricks and Gambols you could do. Was there a skipping Whore about the Town, Or private Bawdy-house to you unknown? Here for a Stallion, there for a Pimp you went; To do both Drudgeries alike content. But ill success you had with Madam C— k, Whom in the Act her Husband took: Strong Bastinado o'er your shoulders laid, Made you awhile surcease that lecherous trade, Till growing old in customary Sin, You with a Chaster Lady did begin, Whom when you found she all Assaults refused, And would not yield herself to be abused; Down on your Knees you presently was laid, And thus (O Righteous Heaven) devoutly prayed: Since you disdain the kind Request to grant, Dear Madam, let me lay my hand upon't. This is the Man whose whole Discourse and Tone, Is Honour, Justice, Truth, Religion; Was such a Godly Rascal ever known? But now reformed by indigence of Gold. Your former wanton course grew slack and cold, For 'twas at first indeed too hot to hold. Now new expedients must employ your Brain, And other Methods for advance of Gain; Something contrived in private, touched the State, Which made you timely think of a retreat; Beyond Sea then the wretched Caitiff flies, A guilty Conscience has Quicksighted Eyes. When you returned you fell to work amain, And took up your old Scribbling Trade again; Some sorry Scandal on fanatics thrown, And viler Canting upon Forty one, You thought sufficient to oblige the Crown; Then who but you, the World was all your own. Now for the Church of England you declare, A witty Zealous Protestant appear; Your secret Spies and Emissaries use, To pay for false Intelligence and News: When named in two Diurnals you dispense Equally void of Reason, Truth, and Sense. Guineas now from every Quarter came To pay respect to your increasing Fame, While you at Sam's like a grave Doctor sat, Teaching the Minor Clergy how to prate; Who licked your spital up and then came down, And shed the nasty Drivel o'er the Town. Ay these were blessed Times and happy Days, When all the World conspired to your praise: He who refused and would no Token send, Must be traduced as the Dissenters Friend: And that your Greatness no regard might lack, You got a Knighthood chopped upon your Back. But something now has stopped that Rapid Stream, And you have nothing more to say for them▪ Your piercing Eye discovers from afar, The glittering Glory of some further Star. Which bids you pay your Adoration there. Inconstant Rover, whither dost thou tend? When will thy tedious Villainies have end? Whither at last dost thou intend to go? Of which Party wilt thou ere prove true, To Turk or Pope, to Protestant or jew? Should I here all thy Villainies recount, To what a mighty Sum do they amount? Thy Solemn Protestations, Oaths and Lies, Devices, sham's, Evasions, Perjuries; My Paper to a Volume would exceed, Of greater bulk than Holinshed and Speed. For thou art now so scandalously known, And so remarkable in Vice alone, That every one can find a Stone to throw At such a snarling pimping Cur as thou. But Wretch! if still thou art not past all Grace, And wholesome Counsel can with thee find place; If thou at last sincerely wouldst atone, And expiate thy former Mischiefs done, Like dying judas render back thy pelf, Recant thy Books, and then go hang thyself. The Miracle; How the Duchess of Modena (being in Heaven) prayed the B. Virgin that the Queen might have a Son, and how our Lady sent the Angel Gabriel with her Smock; upon which the Queen was with Child. To the Tune of O Youth, thou hadst better been starved at Nurse. In Bartholomew-Fair. I. YOU Catholic Statesmen and Churchmen rejoice, And praise Heaven's Goodness with Heart and with Voice; None greater on Earth, or in Heaven than she, Some say she's as good as the best of the Three. Her Miracles bold, Were Famous of Old, But a braver than this is was never yet told; 'Tis pity that every good Catholic living, Had not heard on't before the last day of Thanksgiving. II. In Lombardy-Land, great Modena's Duchess Was snatched from her Empire by Death's cruel Clutches; When to Heaven she came (for thither she went) Each Angel received her with Joy and Content. On her Knees she fell down, Before the bright Throne, And begged that God's Mother would grant her one Boon; Give England a Son (at this Critical Point) To put little Orange's Nose out of Joint. III. As soon as our Lady had heard her Petition, To Gabriel, the Angel, she strait gave Commission; She plucked off her Smock from her Shoulders Divine, And charged him to hasten to England's fair Queen. Go to the Royal Dame, To give her the same, And bid her for ever to praise my Great Name; For I, in her favour, will work such a Wonder, Shall keep the most Insolent Heretics under. IV. Tell james (my best Son) his part of the matter Must be with this only to cover my Daughter; Let him put it upon her with's own Royal Hand; Then let him go Travel to visit the Land; And the Spirit of Love, Shall come from above, Though not as before, in form of a Dove; Yet down he shall come in some likeness or other, (Perhaps like Count Dada) and make her a Mother. V. The Message with hearts full of Faith were received, And the next news we heard was Q. M. conceived; You great ones Converted, poor cheated Dissenters, Grave Judges, Lords, Bishops, and Commons, Consenters You Commissioners all, Ecclesiastical, From M— the Dutiful, to C— the Tall; Pray Heaven to strengthen Her Majesty's Placket, For if this Trick fail, beware of your Jacket. DIALOGUE. M. WHY am I daily thus perplexed? Why beyond Woman's patience vexed? Your Spurious Issue grow and thrive, While mine are dead e'er well alive. If they survive a nine days wonder, Suspicious Tongues aloud do Thunder; And strait accuse my Chastity, For your damned Insufficiency: You meet my Love with no desire, My Altar damps your feeble Fire: Though I have infinite more Charms Then all you e'er took to your Arms. The Priest at th' Altar bows to me; When I appear, he bends the Knee. His Eyes are on my Beauties fixed, His Prayers to Heaven and Me are mixed; Confusedly he tells his Beads, Is out both when he Prays and Reads. I travelled farther for your Love, Than Sheba's Queen; I'll fairly prove. She from the South, 'tis said, did room, And I as far from East did come. But here the difference does arise, Though equally we sought the Prize; What that great Queen desired she gained, But I soon found your Treasury drained, Your Veins corrupted in your Youth, 'Tis sad Experience tells this Truth: Though I had Caution long before Of that which I too late deplore. I. Pray, Madam, let me silence break, As I have you, now hear me speak. These Stories sure must please you well, You're apt so often them to tell. But, if you'll smooth your Brow a while, And turn that Pout into a Smile, I doubt not, but to make't appear, That you the great'st Aggressor are. I took you with an empty Purse, Which was to me no trivial Curse; No Dowry could your Parents give; They'd but a Competence to live. When you appeared, your Charming Eyes (As you relate) did me surprise With Wonder, not with Admiration; Astonishment, but no Temptation: Nor did I see in all your Frame, Aught could create an amorous Flame, Or raise the least Desire in me, Save only for Variety. I paid such Service as was due, Worthy myself, and worthy you: Caressed you far above the rate Both of your Birth, and your Estate. When soon I found your haughty mind Was unto Sovereignty inclined; And first you practised over me The heavy Yoke of Tyranny, While I your Property was made, And you, not I, was still obeyed: Nor durst I call my Soul my own, You managed me as if I'd none. I took such measures as you gave, All Day your Fool, all Night your Slave. Nor was Ambition bounded here, You still resolve your Course to steer: All that oppose you, you remove; 'Twas much you'd own the Powers above. Now several Stratagems you try, And I'm in all forced to comply: To Mother Church you take Recourse, She tells you 'tmust be done by force; And you, impatient of delay, Contrive and execute the way. When mounted to the place you sought, It no Contentment with it brought: One Tree within your Prospect stood Fairest and tallest of the Wood: Which to your prospect gave offence, And it must be removed from thence. In this you also are obeyed, While all the fault on me is laid. Now you was quiet for a while, As flattering Wether seems to smile, Till buzzing Beetles of the Night Had found fresh matter for your spite, And set to work your busy Brain, Which took Fire quickly from their Train. Some Wise, some Valiant, you remove, 'Cause they your Maxims don't approve; And in their stead such Creatures place, Which to th'Employments bring disgrace: While whatsoever you do I own, And still the dirt on me is thrown. Strait new Chimeras fill your Brain, The humming Beetles buzz again; A Goal-Delivery now must be, All tender Consciences set free; Not out of Zeal, but pure Design To make Dissenters with us join, To pull down Test and Penal Laws, The Bulwark of the Heretics Cause. The sly Dissenters laugh the while, They see where lurks the Serpent's guile; And rather than with us comply, Will on our Enemies rely. The Chieftains of the Protestant Cause, We did confine, though against the Laws: But soon was glad to set 'em free, Fearing the giddy Mobile. Now all is turning upsidedown, Loud Murmurings in every Town; We've Foes abroad, and Foes at home, Armies and Fleets against us come: The Protestants do laugh the while, And the Dissenters sneer and smile; But no assistance either sends; They're neither Enemies nor Friends. Now pray conclude what must be done, Consult your Oracle of ROME, For next fair Wind be sure they come. On the University of Cambridge's burning the D. of Monmouth's Picture, 1685. who was formerly their Chancellor.— In Answer to this question, In turba semper sequitur fortunam & odit damnatos. By Mr. Stepney. YES, fickle Cambridge, Perkins found this true Both from your Rabble, and your Doctors too, With what applause you once received his Grace, And begged a Copy of his Godlike Face; But when the sage Vicechancellor was sure The Original in Limbo lay secure, As greasy as himself he sends a Lictor To vent his Loyal Malice on the Picture. The Beadle's Wife endeavours all she can To save the Image of the tall young man, Which she so oft when pregnant did embrace, That with strong thoughts she might improve her race; But all in vain, since the wise House conspire To damn the Canvas Traitor to the Fire, Lest it, like Bones of Scanderbag, incite Scythemen next Harvest to renew the fight: Then in comes Mayor Eagle and does gravely allege, He'll subscribe (if he can) for a bundle of Sedge. But the man of Clareball that proffer refuses, 'Snigs, he'll be beholden to none but the Muses: And orders Ten Porters to bring the dull Reams On the Death of Good Charles, and Crowning of james: And swears he will borrow of the Provost more stuff On the Marriage of Ann, if that bened enough. The Heads lest he get all the profit to himself (Too greedy of honour, too lavish of pelf) This motion deny, and Vote that Ti●e Tillet Should gather from each noble Doctor a Billet. The Kindness was common, and so they'd return it, The Gift was to all, all therefore would burn it: Thus joining their Stocks for a Bonfire together, As they club for a Cheese in the Parish of Chedder; Confusedly crowd on the Sophs and the Doctors, The Hangman, the Townsmen, their Wives and the Proctors, While the Troops from each part of the Countries in all, Come to quaff his Confusion in Bumpers of stale. But Rosalin, never unkind to a Duke, Does by her absence their folly rebuke, The tender Creature could not see his fate, With whom she had danced a Minuet so late. The Heads who never could hope for such frames, Out of envy condemned Sixscore pounds to the flames, Then his Air was too proud, and his Features amiss, As if being a Traitor had altered his Phiz: So the Rabble of Rome, whose favour ne'er settles, Melt down their Sejanus to Pots and Brass Kettles. Nulla manere diu neque vivere carminant possum, que scribuntur aque notoribus. By Mr. Ayloffe. T. C. C. HE that first said it, knew the worth of Wit, Loved well his Glass, and as he drank he Writ; Vast was his Soul, and sparkling was the Wine, Which strangely did inspire each mighty Line. The wat'ry Springs of Helicon are Themes Fit for dull Freshmen, and dull Doctors Dreams; Not Flood of Cam, or Well of Aristotle, Yield half the pleasure of the charming Bottle; Poor Scribblers than that bread and water use, The slender diet of a Bridewell muse, As easily may Water Poets make, As Coffee Politicians does create, The Two Grand Whigs of Poetry and State. When Booths on Thames were built, and Oxen roasted, Poets the strength of waters might have boasted; And might have made their frozen Verse to pass, As well as he that put out Ice for Glass: Though our good Proctor otherwise does think, Our Mother Cambridge kindly bids us drink; She holds the Candle and the sacred Cup, And as the one wasteth, cries, Drink t'other up. 'Twas drinking got our Ancestors Renown, And Claret first that died the Scarlet Gown. As well may Dutchmen without Brandy sight, As English Poets without Claret write. Not moderate Learning, nor immoderate Fees Are of themselves sufficient for Degrees: Wine, and the Supper, must the Act complete; And he does best dispute who best does treat: 'Tis Carnival, and we'll the time enjoy, This day, and next, while Wine and wit run high. And the forty days Preachers in vain may bid the Court repent, But Poets sure did never write in Lent. Now in the name of Dulness and small-Beer Ye Northern Wits of famed St. john's appear, That scarce taste Wine, or Wit throughout the Year. Had she who by the powerful Charms of Wine Transformed Ulysses men to Gruntling Swine; Had she and you the Experiment tried again, By contrary effects ye had Poets been. Next the pert Fops by Title dignified, Wise to themselves, and Fools to all beside, Whom Company nor Drinking can refine, Blockish and dull beyond the power of Wine; Who after the first Bottle still the same, Can never higher rise than Anagram, Or at most quibble on their Dowdy's name. When Whig Religious, Trimmer Loyal turns, When Cambridge Wives, and Barnwel Whores turn Nuns, When Curate's Rich, and the fat Doctor's poor, When Scholars tick, and Townsmen cheat no more: When amorous Fops leave hunting handsome Faces, When craving Beadle begs no more for Places; Hopkins and Sternold with their paltry Rhimes, Shall please us now, and take with future Times: And Water-drinkers than shall famous grow Seile the Poet to my Lord-Mayor's Show Shall Dryden, Cowley, and our Duke outgo. To Mr. Fleetwood Shepherd. By Mr. P— r. WHen Crowding Folks, with strange ill Faces, Were making Legs, and begging Places; And some with Patents, some with Merit, Tired out my good Lord D—y's Spirit: Sneaking, I stood, among the Crew, Desiring much to Speak with You. I waited, while the Clock struck Thrice, And Footman brought out fifty Lies; Till Patience vexed, and Legs grown weary, I thought it was in vain to tarry: But did Opine it might be better, By Penny-post to send a Letter. Now, if you miss of this Epistle, I'm balked again, and may go Whistle. My business, Sir, you'll quickly guests, Is to desire some little Place: And fair Pretensions I have for't, Much Need, and very small Desert. When e'er I writ to you, I wanted; I always begged, you always granted. Now, as you took me up when little, Gave me my Learning, and my Victual Asked for me, from my Lord, Things fitting, Kind as I'd been your own begetting; Confirm what formerly you've given, Nor leave me now at Six and Seven As S— d has left Mun. St— n. No Family that takes a Whelp, When first he Laps and scarce can Yelp, Neglects or turns him out of Gate, When he's grown up to Dog's Estate: Nor Parish, if they once adopt The spurious Barns that Strowlers dropped, Leave 'em when grown up lusty Fellows, To the wide World, that is, the Gallows: No thank 'em for their Love, that's Worse, Than if they'd Throttled them at Nurse. My Uncle, rest his Soul, when Living, Might have contrived me ways of Thriving; Taught me with Cider to replenish My Fats, or ebbing Tide of Rhenish. So when for Hock I drew Pricked White-wine, Swear't had the flaver, and was right Wine: Or sent me with Ten Pounds to Furney- Vall's-Inn, to some good Rogue Attorney; Where now, by forging Deeds and Cheating, I'd had some handsome ways of getting. All this you made me quit to follow, That sneaking Whey-fast God Apollo. Sent me among a Fiddling Crew Of Folks, I'd never seen or Knew, Calliope, and God knows who. To add no more Invectives to it, You spoiled the Youth to make a Poet. In Common Justice, Sir, there's no Man That makes the Whore but keeps the Woman. Among all honest Christian People Who e'er breaks Limbs, maintains the Cripple. The Sum of all I have to say, Is, that you'd put me in some way And your Petitioner shall pray— There's one thing more I had almost slipped, But that may do as well in Postscript; My Friend C— s M— ue's preferred, Nor would I have it long observed, That one Mouse eats, while to'ther's starved. The true and genuine Explanation, Of one King James' Declaration. I. R. WHereas by misrepresentation (Of which Ourselves was the occasion) We lost our Royal Reputation, And much against Our Expectation, Laid the most Tragical Foundation Of vacant Throne, and Abdication: After Mature Deliberation We now Resolve to Shame the Nation Into another Restauration; Promising, in Our wont Fashion, Without the least Equivocation, To make an ample Reparation. And for Our Reinauguration We choose to owe the Obligation To Our kind Subjects Inclination; For whom we always showed a Passion. And when again they take occasion To want a King of Our persuasion, We'll soon appear to take Our Station, With the ensuing Declaration. All shall be safe from Rope and Fire, Or never more believe in I. R. I. R. WHen we Reflect what Desolation Our Absence causes to the Nation, We would not hold Ourselves exempted From any thing to be Attempted, Whereby Our Subjects, well Beguiled, May to Our Yoke be Reconciled. Be all Assured, both Whig and Tory, If for past Faults you can be sorry, You ne'er shall know what we'll do for you. For 'tis Our noble Resolution To do more for your Constitution, Than e'er we'll put in Execution. Tho' some before us made a pother, England had never such another, No not Our own Renowned, Dear Brother. We have it set before Our Eyes, That our main Interest wholly lies In managing with such Disguise, As leaves no room for Jealousies. And to Encourage Foes and Friends With Hearts and Hands to serve our Ends, We hereby Publish and Declare (And this we do because we Dare) That to Evince We are not sullen, We'll bury all past Faults in Woollen; By which you may perceive we draw Our wise Resolves from Statute-Law: And therefore by this Declaration We promise Pardon to the Nation, Excepting only whom We please, Whether they be on Land or Seas. And farther Bloodshed to prevent, We here Declare Ourselves content To heap as large Rewards on all That help to bring us to Whitehall, As ever did Our Brother Dear At his Return on Cavalier: Or we, to Our immortal Glory, Conferred on non-resisting Tory. Then be assured the first fair Wether We'll call a Parliament together, (Choose right or wrong no matter whether) Where with united Inclination We'll bring the Interest of the Nation Under our own Adjudication: With their Concurrence we'll Redress What we Ourselves think Grievances, All shall be firm as Words can make it, And if we promise, what can shake it? As for the Church, we'll still Defend it, Or if you please, the Pope shall mend it: Your Chapels, Colleges, and Schools Shall be supplied with your own Fools: But if we live another Summer, We'll then relieve them from St. Omer. Next for a Liberty of Conscience, With which We bit the Nation long since, We'll settle it as firm and steady, Perhaps as that you have already. We'll never violate the Test, Till 'tis Our Royal Interest, Or till we think it so at least, But there we must consult the Priest. And as for the Dispensing Power (Of Prince's Crown the sweetest Flower) That Parliament shall so Explain it, As we in Peace may still maintain it. If other Acts shall be Presented, We'll Pass 'em all, and be contented. Let H H —y, W— k, and old C— s Draw Bills enough to load three Barges, We'll give them thanks, and bear their Charges: Whether they be for Partial Trial, Dull Judges Pride, or Self-denial, For Royal Mines, or Triennial. What ever Laws received their Fashion Under the present Usurpation Shall have Our Gracious Confirmation, Provided still We see Occasion. Our Brother's Irish Settling Act, (Which we 'tis true Repealed in Fact) We'll be contented to Restore, If you'll provide for Teague before; For you yourselves shall have the Glory, To re-establish wand'ring Tory. But now you have so fair a Bidder, 'Tis more than time you should consider What Fonds are proper to supply Us For that, and what your Hearths save by Us; Therefore consult your Polyhymne To find another Rhyme to Chimney, Or if I Bleed the Devil's in Me. And lest a Project in its prime Should be destroyed for want of time, We'll soon refer the whole Amount To your Commission of Account. Thus having tortured Our Invention, To frame a Draught of Our Intention, By the Advice of H—ton, Wise Ely, Fenwick, and Tom D— And, of all Ranks, some Fifty One, Who have Adjusted for Our coming All Gimcracks sit for such a mumming, And 'tis their business, to persuade you We come to succour, not Invade you. But after this we think it Nonsense (Besides it is against our Conscience) To trouble you with a Relation Of Tyranny, and Violation, Or Burdens that oppress the Nation, Since you can make the best Construction Of what may turn to your Destruction. But since our Enemies would fright you, Telling our Debt to France is mighty, As positively we assure you, As if we were before a Jury, That he expects no Compensation For helping in our Restoration, But what he gains in Reputation: And all must own that know his Story How far his Interest stoops to Glory: Whose Generosity is such, We doubt not he'll outdo the Dutch. We only add, that we are come By Trumpets sound and beat of Drum, For our just Titles Vindication, And Liberty's Corroboration. So may we ever find Success, As we intent you nothing less Than what you owe to old Qeen Bess. On the Death of the Queen. By my Lord Cutts. SHE's gone! The Beauty of our Isle is fled; Our Joy cut off, the Great MARIA dead. We faint beneath the Stroke: But weep no more, Waft not our Sorrow to a Foreign Shore; Lest ALBION's Enemies with impious Breath Profane our Sighs, and Triumph in her Death. Tears are too mean for her; our Grief should be Dumb as the Grave, and Black as Destiny. For such a Loss let universal Nature mourn, And all things to their first Disorder turn. Ye Fields and Gardens, where our Sovereign walked, Serenly Smiled, and profitably Talked; Be Gay no more; but Wild and Barren lie, That all your blooming Sweets, with Her's may dye, Sweets that crowned Love, and softened Majesty. Blessed Princess! How distinguished, how adored! How much above even Her own Sphere She soared! Whilst other Monarch's glory in their State, In Wealth and Power contented to be Great; She, with a Godlike and Heroic Mind, Pursued a Greatness of another Kind; A brighter Diadem than Earth could give; A glorious Name that should for ever live. And with unwaried Virtue pressing on, Gave Lustre to, not borrowed from a Crown. Nor was this Angel lodged in common Earth, Her Form procaimed Her Mind as well as Birth; So graceful and so lovely; ne'er was seen A finer Woman or more awful Queen: The Gazing Crowd admired Her as a God, And reverenced the Ground whereon she trod. Ye gentle Nymphs that on her Throne did wait, And helped to fill the Brightness of Her State; Mourn over your dead Mistress, speechless mourn, Watch Her dear Ashes, and attend Her Urn. She cherished and adorned your tender Years, Preventing still the fearful Mother's Cares; Whilst all with shining Gold and Purple graced, Your Beauties in the fairest Light were placed. How Majesty is fallen! As if the Great Were destined to short Days, and sudden Fate. O Empire! Thou deceitful treacherous Good! How false thy Smiles, tho' hard to be withstood! What stormy Ills thy calmer Brow conceals, And what uncommon Strokes a Monarch feels! See where the glorious Nassau fainting lies; The mighty Atlas falls, the Conqueror dies. O Sir! return, to Albion's Help return; Command your Grief, and like a Hero mourn. If you forsake us we are lost indeed; Your Subjects now Lament, but then must Bleed. Think what a Task Your Virtue has begun, And be not weary ere your Race is run. That Power that formed You in the tender Womb, Then laid the Scenes of all Your Toils to come, Decreed that you should Europe's Saviour be, And from fierce Monsters purge the Earth and Sea; Monsters of Tyrants that oppress Mankind, And set no Bounds to their ambitious Mind. Success and Honour wait upon your Arms; Heaven guide your Heart, and guard you still from Harms. Maria has the Crown of Glory won; And may you Late arrive where she is gone. Tunbridgialia: Or, the Pleasures of Tunbridge. In a Letter to a Friend. By Mr. Peter Causton, Merchant. THou best of Poets, and thou best of Friends, Best of that List which thy great Race commends, By Tunbridge noble Spring, much pleased, I lay, At Truce with Care passing the Summer's day, When the Rich Present came in shining Verse; Ye Gods! how shall I half my Joy rehearse? I once was thinking to return the same In Lines that might express an equal Flame: I tried in vain; my long-neglected Muse, Like Women past their Childing, did refuse, And could not, to my mind, one Hint produce: For I was ne'er you know my Friend, at best, With a rich Vein by peevish Nature blest; I made my Court to the coy Nymphs in vain, And blest the Bards that could their Loves obtain. Howe'er, at call of Friendship's sacred Name, The faint Remains of my decaying Flame Exalt their head, ambitious now to try One Blaze, before they quite extinguished die. May your good Humour overlook Mistakes, And pardon all the Faults which Friendship makes: This Fountain then shall the famed Spring outdo, And Tunbridge for Castalian Waters go. You fain would know how we employ the day, Which of itself makes too much haste away; What Arts we use to keep our Grief and Care, (Those Flies which in our Cup still bold Intruders are) With what Receipts and Helps prepared we come To lose the thought of Families at home. Assist me, gentle Muse, to answer these In Lines that may myself and others please. Refreshed with sleep, which Nature's loss repairs. Soon as the day on the streaked hills appears, Up with the Sun we mount and travel, We To the famed Spring, He to the Western Sea. Tobacco makes the Journey strangely slide, Ever the best Companion, walk or ride. Having now reached the Spring, a Country Lass Stands ready to present you with a Glass: Such Water tho' nor Rome nor Greece can show, Tho' here the Poet's boasted Spring does flow; Impregnate with such Virtues it does come, As to add heat to the cold barren Womb. To an expiring House it gives an Heir, And wretched helpless Women here repair, Who joyful Mothers prove within the year. It cures the raging Feaver's Calenture, And keeps that Purple Flood from boiling over. The sad Sisyphian Task, the Stone, which still Rowls back again, and mocks the Artists Skill; It carries off with far less pains and cost, Than Hannibal with his Quack Arts could boast: It steeps your Cares beyond the power of Wine, And does the Brain for thinking fit re●ine: Clouds of the Head, like those above we find, Dissolved in Water, both are at an end. An ugly numerous Rout of Feverish Pains, Had seized at once my Liver, Heart, and Veins, And made such quick and fierce Attacks, that I, Just on surrendering, thought I now must die. I sought the Sons of Art, who tried in vain To raise the Siege, and force the pressing pain. Whatever Virtues Herbs and Drugs can boast, They found, alas, on me were merely lost. The proud Disease became more rampant still, And laughed at all their baffled Art and Skill. 'Twas Here I found Ease for my mighty Grief, And where Art failed, kind Nature gave Relief; This Fountain proved to me a Well of Life. Blessed Spring! what Praise and Honours can we give, Worthy the Favours we from Thee receive? Thy lasting Name (if Time's impartial hand But spare these Lines) in Poetry shall stand, And round the learned World shall largely spread, With the famed Springs of Old together read. In the mean time, after we've drunk a Glass Or two, to make the Waters better pass, We take a Turn i'th' Walks— Here in such crowds the Ladies pass, you'd swear, The Cyprian Goddess and her Nymphs were there; Hung round with all the Riches that the East Or West sends here, brisk, jaunty and well dressed; With what a Mein and charming Air they move, Creating Wonder, and inspiring Love! Such was the beauteous Helen's shining Train, When she was courted by the Phrygian Swain. And all the while, to entertain the Ear, Music and Voices mixed, their parts do bear. Next for the Chapel, by the Fountain raised, Where its great Author is devoutly praised: And after Prayers, a Pipe can do no harm In drinking, good to keep the Stomach warm. For this design appointed places are, L●st Smoking on the Walks offend the fair. And now we sit, after a careless rate, Over a dish of Tea, and fall to chat: Here one, forsooth, plays the Philosopher Upon the Wells, describes the secret power Of Spaws and Mineral Waters, how they come, With Steel impregnate, through the Earth's cold Womb; Whence springs their force, that they so nearly can Make clean this foul Angean Stable, Man; How first found out, and when the Mode began. Another turns the Talk to Westminster, And asks how Matters past last Term at Bar; What Judges likely are to rise or fall, What Lawyers hang the best, and who the best can bawl. Warmly, a third takes up Religion's Cause, Gravely debates the Test and Penal Laws. Another tells a Tale, or breaks a Jest, Inquires the Hour, or what comes uppermost; How do your Waters pass? O bravely, Sir, What News from London? how does things stand there? I hear Sir john— is likely to be Mayor. Are the Particulars yet come by Post, What Prisoners taken, how many Men were lost On the Turks side, and what the Victory cost? What, are the Pole and Moscovite asleep, Idly to let such fair occasions slip? How do the India Actions rise? what Ships, On the Plate-Expedition go with Phipps? Followed by all the forward Youth of Greece, Thus jason brought in triumph home the Golden Fleece: But what before was mere Romance and Lie, Shall henceforth pass for current History. This and Tobacco pass the time away; Others there are that rather fancy Play: But me from Play, my better Stars preserve, The fatal Box devouring as the Grave; Into Charibdis' mouth as soon I'd fly, As venture my Estate upon a Die. Having by this time fed the Eye and Ear, Next for the Belly is our greatest care: There's nothing at our Lodgings to be got, Here we must cater both for Spit and Pot. Close by the Wells, upon a spacious Plain, (Where rows of Trees make a delightful Lane) A noble Market's daily kept, well stored With all the Countries round about afford. Fresh Fish a Neighbouring River does supply; Sols, Oysters, and the like, are brought from Rye. Of Flesh and Fowl, no where more plenty's found, In Veal, Lamb, Pork, and Beef, we much abound; And Tunbridge Mutton, famed above the rest. Of Fowl we have good store, and of the best; As well-cramed Chickens, Pigeons, Ducks & Geese, With Teal and Partridge, nicer Tastes to please; The Swan and Peacock you may add to these, On which tho' we but small esteem do place, The latter did an * Vitellius. Emperor's Table grace. In short then, not to swell the Bill of Fare, St. Peter's Sheet, and Noah's Ark are here; Whatever kinds the British World does see Of Beasts, Fish, Fowl, that go, or swim, or fly; Fruits, Spice, and Indian Pepper too we boast, That here we hardly fancy Bantam lost; Sugar from Maevis and Barbadoes brought, By wondrous Art to such perfection wrought: Italy sends us Oil, Virginia Smoak, A better sort I— rys himself ne'er took. And after all, to crown the Work, the Rhine, France, Florence, the Canaries find us Wine. London, that noble Mart, can't furnish more; London, for choice, compared with us, is poor. Were that * Vitellius. Imperial Glutton now at hand, Who a years Tax would at one Supper spend, Who made each Land, and every distant Sea, Club to maintain his raving Luxury, On easier terms he here supplied might be. This for the Belly; and for other Ware Of every sort, we challenge Sturbridge-Fair. Having now drunk our Mornings Dose, and Cheer Provided, homewards we directly steer. After a Whiff of the famed Indian Weed, By way of Whetstone to Dinner we proceed; Tho', betwixt Friends, we seldom need a Whetstone, Or any Arts, to raise the Appetite: 'Tis the Fresh Earth that makes the Ploughman feed, Water in us does the same sharpness breed. Now with a Friend, a Jest, and cheering Glass Of blessed Bourdeaux, how glibly Victuals pass! The Camp once victualled, than the Sport begins, Whether your fancy leads to Bowls or Pins. Here's choice of Bowling-places to be seen, But Rusthall is by much the finest Green, All curious Carpet-ground: You know the play, One with the Jack, a small Bowl, leads the way: By throwing of a Dice who first must go, And who and who's together, straight we know. Come, pray Sir, bowl away, this Ground's your Guide; That Cast is narrow, this as much too wide: Not home! for want of strength your Cast you spoil; Oh rub a thousand, now you're gone a Mile. Here's three; to make us up, one more we lack: Thank ye for that, dear Sir, you kiss the Jack. The finest Archer's Bow, or Fowler's Piece, As soon may fail, as a good Bowler miss. Are you for Cards? here you may find enough Disposed for Cribbige, Gleek, or Lantre-lieu, A Game at Cards, a perfect Fight, you'd swear, Maintained with all the Stratagems of War: Here's Ambuscading, Routing, Rallying Men, And every thing but Wounds and Dying seen. After a long Dispute, with restless pains, One side besure a bloodless Victory gains. But if my Counsel in the case might sway, Beware how you become a Slave to Play. Some sit whole Nights together at the Sport, For which their Families and Lands must smart: Not that I blame any that undertake It more for Pleasure, than for Lucre-sake; But playing deep, and squandring so much time, Is that in Carding I account a Crime. If this don't please, we have another Game Called Chess, at which the Gentry pass their time. Into the chequered Field two Kings descend, On each a Queen and Bishops two attend; On either side two Knights their Post maintain, Two Rooks and Pawns twice four complete the Train: The Signal given, both the Armies join To take the Adverse King, the chief Design: For this both sides in furious Charges meet, Proud of a Death before their Sovereign's feet; That is a Law peculiar to the Play, The King must first be took, before you win the Day. Are you disposed to read a Poet, than Our old Acquaintance Horace is the Man; He'll please, which way soever your Humour lean; Does it to Mirth and Gallantry incline? His charming Odes are full of Love and Wine. He can be grave, not only please, but teach, As well as any Grecian Master preach. His Rules of Poetry the means impart How the best Genius may be helped by Art. Here you may learn correctly how to Write, To a true edge your Style and Judgement set. His satire, formed above the common size, Lays Railing by, and Jeers you out of Vice. But if your Thoughts are more devoutly set, Then for a Page or two in a Sacred Writ. This little Book does at one view contain What Grecian Sages blindly sought in vain, The World's Creation, and the Fall of Man; And how the Tincture of his Sin could be Derived on his Unborn Posterity: How he entailed a double Death on Man; Whence Physic and Divinity began: How after several rolling Periods passed, With an Incarnate God the World was blest; Who to poor Man, bowels of Mercy bore, And Death disarmed of all its Sting and Power; Redeemed the captive Wretch from Sin and Hell, And placed him higher than whence at first he fell; Removed his Seat from Earth to Heaven, with power Of never sinning, never falling more. With watchful Providence our gracious Lord, From Foes of every sort, his Church does guard. Heaven han't indeed thought fit that we should be From Sin, much less from Error, wholly free, Lest we, on disappearance of a Foe, Throw by our Arms, careless of danger grow. Thus vanquished Carthage 'twas thought fit to spare, To keep Rome's Martial Spirits still in fear. But if a Friend comes in, the Book's thrown by; A Bottle better suits in Company. Boy, reach that Flask here: Come, Sir, if you please, Here's to the King, and both the Princesses. Another Health to the Established Church; Hang him who does that or his Liquor lurch. Bless me! it warms, I fell the potent Juice Its winged fires through every Vein diffuse. What Magic in the Grape, what Charms in Wine, That to such various Humours Men incline! Pander to Lust, Midwife to Mirth and Wit, Thou mak'st old Friends fall out, and Cowards fight: The Captive full of Thee, forgets his Chains; With Thee the Beggar flushed, in Fancy reigns. The Dutch at Sea, Death in the face will stare, Their Senses steeped in Nants and Gunpowder. The Sun by this a good way on his Road, The cool and lengthened Shades invite abroad. Whether we ride or walk, through Woods or Plains, The winged Choir divert us with their strains. Here Sights to Citts, unknown, the time beguile Viewing the various kinds of Rural Toil: For one's a Haying, with unwearied Pains, Amidst a jolly crew of Sunburnt Swains: Another plies the Plough for Grain and Food; Some distance off a third's a felling Wood The pretty painful Bee, by nature blest With foresight, is as busy as the best; Along the Fields in bands they take their flight, Returning home laden with Spoils at night. Here's one, i'th' School of Patience thoroughly tried, Thoughtfully Angling by a River side; After six tedious hours, lose or get, He still keeps on, half starved and through wet. Fishing, he'll tell you, is its own Reward; Give him but Bites, Fish is his least regard. But now a Pack of Dogs alarms our Ears, Music, that Hunters say, exceeds the Spheres; O'er Hill and Dale, with full mouthed Cry they run, To the known sound of Hollow or of Horn. The Deer no safety in their Coverts find, And Reynolds stands to rights before the Wind. As for the timorous Hare, away she flings Before the Dogs, 'twas fear first gave her Wings. From this Diversion straight we're called aside To view the soaring Hawk's delightful pride, How through that Sea of Air the Bird of Prey, With Wings, instead of Sails, divides his way: The lesser Birds clap on more sail, and fly; It looks just like a running Fight at Sea. At this mean Prize he makes his humble stoop, Like Algerine at some poor Pink or Sloop. Besides all this, to close the lovely Scene, Each Night there's constant Dancing on the Green: Persons of highest Rank-stuck round the Ring, Lustre and Grace to the Diversion bring: While Lads and Lasses forth in pairs advance, Music keeps time to the well-measured Dance. Not finer Virgins flocked to those feigned Games, When Rome's bold Youth so roughly wooed the Sabian Dames. Tired but not cloyed, with this and suchlike Sport, Home to our Rest and Lodgings we resort; And here we lie free from the dismal noise Of Coaches, Midnight-Fires and Bellman's Voice: Here we in safe security are blest, And naught but Conscience to disturb our Rest. Refreshed with sleep, next Morn again we rig. Nothing remains of Yesterday Fatigue. Thus, Friend, from Grief and Care, we purge our Head, In such a constant round of Pleasures tread, That Mecca's Prophet, in his Paradise, Has hardly past his word for more than this. But Oh, my Muse, Oh whether wilt thou lead? Forbear, 'tis hallowed Ground on which we tread. Methinks I hear the Poets of the Town Thus schooling me with a censorious Frown: Free of the Ham●urgh or the Guinea Trade, You ought not yet the Poet's Rights invade; Whose jealous Company no more allows Of Interlopers, than the India House. The Toleration Tradesmen may admit For the high Calling of a Preacher fit; But Poetry no gifted Brother knows, Who from a Merchant straight an Upstart Author grows, Go home, fond man, and mind a better Game Than trading thus to the wild Coasts of Fame; Go, count your Cash, your Merchandise pursue, At once bid Poetry and Friend Adieu. An Essay on Writing, and the Art and Mystery of Printing. A Translation out of the Anthology. WOrthy that Man to escape Mortality, And leap that Ditch where all must plunging lie, Who found out Letters first, and did impart, With Dextrous Skill, Writing's Mysterious Art, In Characters, to hold Intelligence, And to express the Mind's most hidden Sense. The Indian Slave, I'm sure, might wonder well, How the dumb Papers could his Theft reveal. The Stupid World admired the secret Cause Of the Tongue's Commerce without help of Voice; That merely by a Pen it could reveal, And all the Soul's abstrusest Notions tell: The Pen, like Plowshare on the Paper's Face, With Black and Magic Tracks its way does trace, Assisted only by that Useful Quill, Plucked from the Geese that saved the Capitol. First Writing-Tables Paper's Place supplied, Till Parchment and Nilotick Reeds were tried: Parchment, the Skins of Beasts, well scraped and dressed, By these poor Helps of old, the Mind expressed: But Aftertimes a better way did go, A lasting sort of Paper, white as Snow, Composed of Rags well pounded in a Mill, Proof against all but Fire, and the Moths Spoil. What poor beginnings these! The Silkworm there Had nought to do, no Silken-Threads were here; But Rags, from Doors picked part, from Dunghills part, Marsht in a Mill, gave Rise to this fine Art; Which in an instant gives a speedy Birth To Virgil's Books, the rarest Work on Earth. But still an Art from Heaven was to come, (From thence it came) this Matter to consume; Which could transcribe whole Books without a Hand; Behold the Press! see how the Squadrons stand! In all his Fights the Roman Parricide, With half the skill ne'er did his Troops divide; Nor Philip's Son, who with his Force o'errun, And mowed the Countries of the Rising Morn: Not the least motion from their Post, but all Work hard, and wait the welcome Signal's Call; The Letters all turned Mutes, in Iron bound, Never prove Vocal, till in Ink they're drowned: The Labouring Engine their still silence breaks, And strait they render up their Charge, and speak: Now drunk with the Castalian flood, they sing, Arma Virumq; gods, and godlike Kings: Six hundred Lines of Maro's, quick as Thought, Beyond the nimblest Running-hand are wrought; Much fairer too the Characters do show; For Grace, famed Cockquer's Pen, its Head must bow. Three thousand Births at once, you see, which soon O'er every Country scattered are, and thrown, In every Tongue with which Fame speaks are known. These Types immortalize where ere they come, And give Learned Writers a more lasting Doom. Court Rites, Galenic Precepts, Moses Rules, Are Printed off, the Guides of Learned Schools: What Wonders would Antiquity have tried, Had they the dawn of the Invention spied? The Offices of Tully were the first That came abroad in this new-fashioned Dress. Imperial Metz herself would Author prove; And Venice cries, she did the Art improve; Not Ancient Cities more for Homer strove. Goddess! Preserver from the Teeth of Time, Who keeps our Names still fresh in Youthful prime; What man was he whom thus the Gods have graced, Worthy among the Stars to have a Place! Like Head of Nile unknown, thy bubbling rise Is hid, for ever hid, from Mortal Eyes. Prologue, by the E. of R— r. GEntle Reproofs have long been tried in vain, Men but despise us while we but complain: Such numbers are concerned for the wrong side, A weak resistance still provokes their Pride; And cannot stem the fierceness of the Tide. Laughers, Buffoons, with an unthinking Crowd Of gaudy Fools, impertinent and loud, Insult in every corner: Want of Sen●e, Confirmed with an outlandish Impudence. Among the rude Disturbers of the Pit, Have introduced ill Breeding, and false Wit; To boast their Lewdness here young Scourers meet, And all the vile Companions of a Street; Keep a perpetual bawling near that Door, Who beat the Bawd last Night, who bilked the Whore: They snarl, but neither Fight nor pay a Farthing, A Playhouse is become a mear Bear-garden; Where every one with Insolence enjoys, His Liberty and Property of Noise. Should true Sense, with revengeful Fire, come down, Our Sodom wants Ten Men to save the Town: Each Parish is infected, to be clear We must lose more than when the Plague was here; While every little Thing perks up so soon, That at Fourteen it hectors up and down, With the best Cheats and the worst Whores i'th' Town. Swears at a Play, who should be whipped at School, The Foplings must in time grow up to rule, The Fashion must prevail to be a Fool. Some powerful Muse, inspired for our defence, Arise, and save a little common Sense: In such a Cause, let thy keen satire bite, Where Indignation bids thy Genius write: Mark a bold leading Coxcomb of the Town, And single out the Beast and hunt him down; Hang up his mangled Carcase on the Stage, To fright away the Vermin of the Age. On Melting down the Plate: Or, The Pisspot's Farewell, 1697. Maid's need no more their Silver Piss-pots scour, They now must jog like Traitors to the Tower. A quick dispatch! no sooner are they come, But every Vessel there receives its Doom: By Law condemned to take their fiery Trial, A sentence that admits of no denial. Presumptuous Pisspot! How didst thou offend? Compelling Females on their Hams to bend? To Kings and Queens, we humbly bow the Knee; But Queens themselves are forced to stoop to thee: To thee they cringe, and with a straining Face, They cure their Grief, by opening of their Case. In times of need thy help they did implore, And oft to ease their Ailments made thee roar. Under their Bed thou still hadst been concealed, And ne'er but on Necessity revealed: When over charged, and in Extremity, Their dearest Secrets they disclosed to thee. Long hast thou been a Prisoner close confined, But Liberty is now for the designed, Thou, whom so many Beauties have enjoyed, Now in another use shall be employed; And with delight be handled every Day, And oftener occupied a better way. But crafty Workmen first must thee refine, To purge thee from thy Soder and thy Brine. When thou, transformed into another shape, Shalt make the World rejoice at thy Escape; And from the Mint in Triumph shalt be sent, New Coined, and Milled, to every Heart's content. Welcome to all, then proud of thy new Vamp, Bearing the Passport of a royal Stamp; And pass as currant, pleasant, and as free, As that which hath so oft passed into thee. On Content. I. Blessed he that with a mighty Hand, Does bravely his own fate command; Whom threatening Ills, and flattering Pleasures find, Safe in the Empire of a constant Mind: Who from the peaceful Bench descries, Repining Man in the World Ocean tossed, And with a cheerful Smile defies, The Storm in which the discontented's lost. II. Content thou best of Friends, for those In our Necessity's art so, Midst all our Ill, a Blessing still in store, Joy to the Rich, and Riches to the Poor. Thou Chemic good, that canst alone, From Fates most poisonous Drugs, rich Cordial raise: Thou truest Philosophic Stone, That turn'st Lives melancholy Dross to golden Days. III. Content the good, the golden mean, The safe Estate that sits between The sordid Poor, and miserable Great, The humble Tenant of a rural Seat. In vain we Wealth, and Treasure heap; He 'mid'st his thousand Kingdoms still is poor, That for another Crown does weep; 'Tis only he is Rich, that wishes for no more. VI Hence Titles, Manors and Estate, Content alone can make us great; Content is Riches, Honour, all beside: While the French Hero with insatiate Pride, A single Empire does disdain; While, still he's great, and still would greater be, On the least spot of Earth I Reign, A happier Man, and mightier Monarch far than he. V. I beg good Heaven, with just Desires, What Need, not Lux●●●, requires; Give me with sparing Hands, but moderate Wealth, A little Honour, and enough of Health; Life from the busy City free, Near shady Groves, and purling Stream confined; A faithful Friend, a pleasing she, And give me all in one, give a contented Mind. VI Tell me no more of glorious Things, Of Crowns, of Palaces and Kings; The glittering Folly, nobly I contemn, And scorn the troubles of a Diadem. Thus Horace for his Sabine Seat, Did mighty Caesar's shining Court refuse; And in himself, completely great, Contentedly enjoyed a Mistress, and a Muse. Tunbridge-Wells. By the Earl of Rochester, june 30. 1675. AT five this Morn, when Phoebus raised his head From Thetis Lapet, I raised myself from Bed, And mounting Steed, I trotted to the Waters, The Rendezvous of Fools, Buffoons and Praters, Cuckolds, Whores, Citizens, their Wives and Daughters My squeamish Stomach, I with Wine had bribed, To undertake the Dose, it was prescribed: But turning Head, a cursed sudden Crew, That innocent Provision overthrew, And without drinking, made me Purge and Spew. From Coach and Six, a Thing unwealdy rolled, Whom lumber Cart, more decently would hold: As wise as Calf it looked, as big as Bully, But handled, proved a mere Sir Nicholas Cully; A Bawling Fop, a Natural Nokes, and yet He dared to Censure, to be thought a Wit. To make him more Ridiculous in spite, Nature contrived the Fool should be a Knight: " How wise is Nature when she does dispense, " A large Estate to cover want of Sense. " The Man's a Fool, 'tis true, but that's no matter, " For He's a mighty Wit, with those that flatter; " But a poor Blockhead, is a wretched Creature. Tho' he alone was dismal sight enough, His Train contributed to set him off; All of his Shape, all of the selfsame Stuff. No Spleen or Malice, need on them be thrown, Nature has done the business of Lampoon, And in their Looks their Characters are shown. Endeavouring this irksome sight to balk, And a more irksome noise, their silly talk; I silently shrunk down to''th' lower Walk. But often when we would Charybdis shun, Down upon Scylla 'tis our fate to run; For here it was my cursed luck to find, As great a Fop, tho' of another kind: A tall stiff Fool, that walked in spanish guise, The Buckram Puppet never stirred his Eyes, But grave as Owlet looked, as Woodcock wise. He scorns the empty talk of this mad Age, And speaks all Proverbs, Sentences, adage; Can with as great solemnity buy Eggs, As a Cabal can talk of their Intrigues; Master o'th' Ceremonies, yet can dispense, With the formality of talking sense. From hence unto the upper end I ran, Where a new Scene of Foppery began; A tribe of Curates, Priests, Canonical Elves, Were company for none besides themselves: They got together, each his Distemper told, Scurvy, Stone, Strangury; and some were bold, To charge the Spleen to be their Misery, And on that wise Disease bring Infamy. But none there were, so modest to complain Of want of Learning, Honesty or Brain, The general Diseases of that Train. These call themselves Ambassadors of Heaven, Saucily pretending a Commission given: But should an Indian King, whose small Command, Seldom extends t'above ten miles of Land; Send forth such wretched Fools on an Embassage, He'd find but small effect, from such a Message. Listening, I found the Cobb of all the Rabble, Was pert * Parker Bays, with Importance comfortable; He being raised to an Arch-deaconry, By trampling on Religious Liberty; Was grown so fat, and looked so big and jolly, Not being disturbed with care and melancholy, Tho' Marvel has enough exposed his folly: He drank to carry of some old Remains, His lazy dull Distemper left in's Veins; Let him drink on, but 'tis not a whole Flood, Can give sufficient sweetness to his Blood, Or make his Nature or his Manners good. Next after these, a fulsome Irish Crew, Of silly Macks were offered to my view; The Things did talk, but hearing what they said, I hid myself, the kindness to evade. Nature has placed these Wretches below scorn, They can't be called so vile, as they were born. Amidst the crowed, next I myself conveyed, For now there comes (Whitewash, and Paint being laid, Mother and Daughter, Mistress and the Maid, And Squire with Wig and Pantaloons displayed: But ne'er could Conventicle Play, or Fair, For a true Medley, with this Herd compare. Here Lords, Knights, Squires, Ladies and Countesses, Chandler's, Mum, Bacon, Women and Sempstresses, Were mixed together, nor did they agree, More in their Humours, than their Quality. Here waiting for Gallant, young Damsel stood, Leaning on Cane, and Muffled up in Hood: The would be wit— whose business 'twas to woe, With Hat removed, and solemn scrape of Shoe; Bowing advanced, than he gently shrugs, And ruffled Foretop, he in order tugs; And thus accosts her," Madam methinks the Wether, " Is grown much more serene since you came hither; " You influence the Heavens; and should the Sun, " Withdraw himself to see his Rays outdone; " Your Luminaries would supply the Morn, " And make a Day, before the Day be born. With Mouth screwed up, and awkward winking Eyes, And breast thrust forward; Lord, Sir, she replies: It is your goodness, and not my deserts, Which makes you show your Learning, Wit and Parts. He puzzled, bites his Nails, both to display The Sparkling Ring, and think what's next to say: And thus breaks out a fresh. Madam, I gad, Your Luck, last Night, at Cards was mighty bad At Cribbage; Fifty nine, and the next show, To make your Game, and yet to want those Two: G—d— me, Madam, I'm the Son of a Whore, If in my Life, I saw the like before. To Pedlar's Hall he drags her soon, and says The same dull stuff a thousand different ways; And then more smartly to expound the Riddle Of all his Prattle, gives her a Scotch Fiddle. Quite tired with this most dismal stuff; I ran Where were two Wives, and Girl just fit for Man, Short was her Breath, Looks pale, and Visage wan. Some Curtisy's past, and the old Compliment, Of being glad to see each other, spent; With Hand in Hand they lovingly did walk, And one began thus to renew the Talk. I pray, good Madam, if it may be thought No Rudeness, what cause was't hither brought Your Ladyship? She soon replying, smiled, We have a good Estate, but ne'er a Child; And I'm informed these Wells will make a barren Woman, as fruitful as a Cony-Warren. The first returned; for this Cause I am come, For I can have no Quietness at Home. My Husband grumbles tho' we've gotten one, This poor young Girl, and mutters for a Son: And this disturbed with Head ache, Pangs and Throws, Is full Sixteen and yet had never Those. She answered, straight, get her a Husband, Madam; I Married at that Age, and never had 'em; Was just like her, Steel Waters let alone, A Back of Steel will bring them better down. And ten to one, but they themselves will try, The same way to increase their Family. Poor silly Fribble, who by Subtlety Of Midwife, truest Friend to Lechery; Persuaded art to be at Pains and Charge, To give thy Wife occasion to enlarge Thy silly Head. Some here Walk, Cuff and Kick With brawny Back and Legs and potent— Who more substantially will cure thy Wife, And to her half Dead-Womb restore new Life: From these the Waters got their Reputation Of good Assistance, unto Generation. Some warlike Men were now got to the Throng, With Hair tied back, singing a bawdy Song: Not much afraid, I got a nearer View, And 'twas my Chance to know the dreadful Crew: They were Cadets, that seldom did appear, Damned to the stint of Thirty Pounds a Year. With Hawk on Fist, or Greyhound led in Hand, They Dog and Footboy sometimes do command; But now having trimmed a leash of spavined Horse, With three hard-pincht-for Guineas in their Purse Two rusty Pistols, scarf about the Arse— Coat lined with Red, they here presumed to swell; This goes for Captain, that for Colonel: Even so Bear-Garden-Ape, on his Steed mounted, No longer is a Jackanapes accounted, But is by Virtue of his Trumpery, then Called by the Name of the young Gentleman. Bless me! thought I what Thing is Man, that thus In all his shapes, he is ridiculous. Ourselves with noise of Reason we do please, In vain, Humanity's our worst Disease. Thrice happy Beasts are, who, because they be Of Reason void, are so of Poppery. In Memory of Joseph Washington, Esq late of the Middle Temple, an Elegy. Written by N. Tate, Servant to Their Majesties. CAN Learning's Orb, when such a Star Expires, No Notice take of it's extinguished Fires? Can Washington from Britain's Arms be torn, And not one British Muse his Hearse Adorni? Since abler Bards his Obsequies decline, And They whom Art inspires desert his Shrine, I'll trust my Grief his Funeral Dirge to Breath; I'll Crown his Tomb, tho' with a fading Wreath. Nor shall the boasting Fates have this to say, That unobserved they stole such Worth away; No— since Mankind a Loss in him sustain, We'll of that Wrong to all Mankind complain. O whither tend the famished Hopes of Wit, That does whole Years in Brooding Study sit! From Early Dawn, till Day forsakes the Sky, And Midnight Lamps the absent Sun supply; Why should the Learned, with Chymist's Patience wait Their Works Projection, never gained till late? If, soon as got, Fate's riged Law must doom Them, and their rich Discovery to one Tomb! Why should we Ancient Arts steep Ruins Climb, And backward Trace the Painful Steps of Time? Why moil, and ransack, for a Golden Mite Past Age's Rubbish till we lose our Sight? If baffled from the search we must Retire; Or, having seized it, o'er the Prize Expire. In vain does friendly Nature too Combine, And with our Industry her Forces join; In vain her Ablest Faculties are brought, Quick Fancy, Judgement to perfection wrought, And Memory, the Magazine of Thought; Convincing Reason, Charming Eloquence, All these she did to Him we Mourn Dispense; To Him who lies in Death's cold Arms enclosed, And leaves his Sacred Fame— To such an Artless Song as mine, Exposed. O for a Mausolaeum! no less Tomb, Can for his Merit's History have Room: Then let some Angel from the Realms of Light Descend, the shining Epitaph to Write! No Mortal Wit his Character may give; Our Verse can only on his Marble live. His Genius rivalled Rome's and Athen's Fame, Breathed Virgil's Majesty, and Homer's Flame; Touched the Horatian Lyre with equal Ease, Sailed with success on Tully's flowing Seas. In Languages his Knowledge was sublime, From Modern to the Speech of Infant-Time. Thus from the sacred Oracles he drew Those Truths, which scarce the Patriarches better knew. The Sages, by Antiquity Admired, (Who justly to the Name of Wise Aspired,) In Speculation ne'er could soar so High, Nor Contemplation to such Use apply; For He, his Life adjusting to his Thought, Practised more Virtue than those Masters Taught. His Soul of ev'ry Science was the Sphere, Yet Artless Honesty sat Regent there; Bright Learning's Charms none better understood, Yet less he studied to be Learned, than Good. To Truth, in Notion, as in Practice, just, Ne'er servily his Knowledge took on Trust; Nor held for Sacred Custom's doting Dreams; Disdained to drink Tradition's muddy Streams: But to clear Principles had still Recourse, Nor rested, till he found the happy Source: And then, with generous Charity possessed, His Country with the rich Discovery blest. His Skill in Laws was less for private Gain Employed; than public Freedom to maintain; While Mercenaries with the Current steered, His Country's constant Patron he appeared. With Roman Virtue at the needful Hour, Opposed encroaching Tides of Lawless Power. His brandished Pen, in Liberty's Support, Could Lightning on th' astonished Foe retort. Scarcely in Marvel's keen Remarks we find Such Energy of Wit and Reason joined. Great Milton's shade with pleasure oft looked down, A Genius to applaud so like his Own. FRIENDSHIP. I. WHen Souls unite, in generous Friendship joined, By a Reciprocal Exchange of Hearts: The Cement which does the Contexture bind, Arises from a Sympathy in Parts. II. 'Tis not the Work of Interest, or Force, But Nature all things to their Like does move: Love is true Friendships, Origine and Source; Similitude the truest Cause of Love. III. Soon as each Object does its self display, At the first view such mutual Charms appear; Tho' Distance, or Disasters stop the way; Yet still they Wish and Covet to be near. IV. Their Motions and Desires are the same: This, no design to that unknown, does move. Both their Affections shine with equal Flame, By Nature kindled, and supplied by Love. V. A Pair of Souls, in sweet Conjunction, One! Safe in each others Bosom they confide: Have neither Joy nor Grief that's singly known; But both alike the common Care divide. VI Friendship on such a Basis built shall grow, And like the Eagle still its youth renew. Time in the Building no defect can show, Nor Wit or Malice the strong Knot undo. VII. Thus sturdy Oaks from small Beginnings grow, Which when in Earth have deeply taken root, Play with those Winds that weaker Trees o'erthrow Whilst up to Heaven the Lofty Branches shoot. The WISH I AS Leaves which from the Trees blown down Are scorched and shrivelled by the Sun: Or Lilies which the Virgin's crop Contract their Beauty die and droop. So when I on Dorinda look, I straight am with the Lightning struck; But if I gaze a while and stay I melt insensibly away. II. But then as soft and gentle Showers, Renew old Life in dying Flowers: Or Dew shed on the Womb of Earth Does give the early Blossoms birth. So if Dorinda sheds a Tear New strength and motion does appear: But if she balmy Kisses gives, My Soul returns again and lives. III. Therefore my Dear, since Life and Death, Depend at once upon your Breath; Since what your Eyes of Life deprive, Your Kisses heal and do revive; Kill and destroy me as you please, For only than my Mind's at ease: When your Eyes and Lips contrive, To make me often Die and Live. The Deliverance. I. CElia, now my Heart has broke, The bands of your ungentle Yoke; Dissolved the Fetters of that Chain, With which it strove so long in vain. The Devil take me if I e'er Am trapped again within your snare. II. In vain you spread the treacherous Net, In vain your secret Toils are set; The Bird can now your Arts espy, And winged with Caution from 'em fly. Some heedless Heart your Prey may be, But, Faith, you're too well known to me. III. I now can with Contempt despise The feeble Witchcraft of your Eyes; Without concern can sit and hear, You prattle Nonsense half a Year: And go away as little moved, As you was lately when I Loved. IV. I wonder what the Devil 'twas, That made me such a stupid Ass. To fancy such a Charming Grace, In your Language, Mein and Face; Since now I nothing more can find, Than what I see in all your kind. V. Thus when the drowsy God of Sleep, Does o'er our weary Senses creep; Some curious Piece of Imagery By Fancy wrought delude the Eye. But when we wake th' Approach of Day, Scares the airy Form away. Song Ex Tempore. THey talk of Raptures, Flames and Darts, Of burning Fevers in their Hearts; Of Gods of Love, in women's Eyes, Which Please and Ravish, and Surprise: How they Admire, Love, Adore, With thousand other Wonders more. But I could ne'er in Womankind, Those dazzling Charms and Lustre find; Which should, in spite of Reason, prove, Sufficient to engage my Love. Whilst Kind, I love; but when Untrue, I leave 'em Faith, and grow so too. When once they Coy and Foolish be, They may go hang Themselves for Me, I Love my Bottle, and my Friend, No other Love I understand. Of Solitude. I. O! Solitude my sweetest Choice, Places devoted to the Night, Remote from tumult, and from Noise How you may restless Thoughts delight! O Heavens! what content is mine, To see those Trees which have appeared From the Nativity of Time, And which all Ages have reviewed, To look to day as fresh and green As when their Beauties first were seen? II. A cheerful Wind does court them so, And with such amorous Breath enfold, That we by nothing else can know, But by their Height that they are Old. Hither the Demigods did Fly To seek a Sanctuary; when Displeased jove once pierced the Sky, To pour a Deluge upon Men, And on these Boughs themselves did save, Whence they could hardly see a Wave. III. Sad Philomela upon this Thorn, So curiously by Flora dressed, In melting Notes, her case Forlorn, To entertain me, hath confessed. O! how agreeable a Sight These hanging Mountains do appear, Which the Unhappy would invite To finish all their Sorrows here, When their hard Fate makes them endure Such Woes, as only Death can Cure. IV. What pretty Desolations make These Torrents Vagabond and Fierce, Who in vast heaps their Springs forsake, This solitary Vale to pierce? Then sliding just as Serpents do Under the Foot of every Tree, Themselves are changed to Rivers too, Wherein some stately Nayade, As in her native Bed, is grown A Queen upon a Crystal Throne. V. This Den beset with River-Plants, O! How it does my Senses Charm: Nor Elders, Reeds, nor Willows want, Which the sharp Steel did never harm. Here Nymphs which come to take the Air, May, with such Distaffs furnished be, As Flags and Rushes can prepare, Where we the nimble Frogs may see, Who frighted to retreat do fly, If an approaching Man they spy. VI Here Water-Foul repose enjoy, Without the interrupting care, Lest Fortune should their Bliss destroy By the malicious Fowler's Snare. Some Ravished with so bright a Day, Their Feathers finely Prune and Deck, Others their Amorous Heats allay, Which yet the Waters could not check: All take their innocent Content In this their lovely Element. VII. Summer nor Winter's bold approach, This Stream did never entertain; Nor ever felt a Boat or Coach Whilst either Season did remain. No thirsty Traveller came near, And rudely made his Hand his Cup, Nor any hunted Hind hath here Her hopeless Life resigned up, Nor ever did the treacherous Hook, Intrude to empty any Brook. VIII. What Beauty is there in the sight Of these old ruin'd Castle Walls, In which the utmost Rage and Spite Of Time's worst Insurrection falls? The Witches keep their Sabbath here, And wanton Devils make retreat, Who in malicious Sport appear, Our Senses both t' afflict and cheat. And here within a thousand Holes Are nests of Adders and of Owls. IX. The Raven with his dismal cries, That mortal Augury of Fate, Those ghastly Goblins gratifies, Which in these gloomy Places wait. On a cursed Tree the Wind does move A Carcase which did once belong, To one that Hanged himself for Love Of a fair Nymph that did him wrong, Who though she saw his Love and Truth, With one Look would not save the Youth. X. But Heaven which judgeth equally, And its own Laws will still Maintain, Rewarded soon her Cruelty With a deserved and mighty Pain: About this squalid heap of Bones, Her wand'ring and condemning Shade, Laments in long and piercing Groans The Destiny her rigour made; And farther to Augment her Fright, Her Crime is ever in her Sight. XI. There upon Antic Marble traced, Devices of Pastimes we see, Here Age has almost quite Defaced, What Lovers Carved on every Tree. The Cellar, here, the highest Room, Receives when its Rasters fail, Soiled with the Venom and the Foam, Of the sly Spider and the Snail: And th' Ivy in the Chimney we, Find shaded by a Walnut Tree. XII. Below there does a Cave extend, Wherein there is so dark a Grot, That should the Sun himself descend, I think he could not see a Jot. Here Sleep within a heavy lid In quiet sadness locks up Sense, And every Care he does forbid, Whilst in the Arms of Negligence: Lazily on his Back he's spread, And sheaves of Poppey are his Bed. XIII. Within this cool and hallow Cave, Where Love itself might turn to Ice, Poor Echo ceases not to Rave, On her Narcissus wild and nice: Hither I softly steal a Thought, And by the softer Music made, With a sweet Lute in Charms well taught, Sometimes I flatter her sad shade; Whilst of my Chords I make such choice, To serve as Body to her Voice. XIV. When from these Ruins I retire, This horrid Rock I do invade, Whose lofty brow seems to inquire Of what materials mists are made: From thence dissending leisurely, Under the brow of this steep Hill, It with great pleasure I descry, By waters undermined, until They to Palaemon's Seat did Climb, Composed of Sponges and of Slime. XV. How highly is the Fancy pleased, To be upon the Ocean's Shore, When she begins to be appeased, And her fierce Billows cease to Roar! And when the hairy Tritons are Riding upon the shaken Wave, With what strange sound they strike the Air, Of their Trumpets hoarse and brave, Whose shrill Report, does every wind Unto his due submission bind! XVI. Sometimes the Sea dispels the Sand, Trembling and Murmuring in the Bay, And rowls itself upon the shells, Which it both bring and take away. Sometimes exposes on the Strand, Th' effects of Neptune's Rage and Scorn, Drowned Men, dead Monsters cast on Land, And Ships that were in Tempests torn, With Diamonds and Ambergris, And many more such things as these. XVII. Sometimes so sweetly she does smile, A floating Mirror she might be, And you would fancy all that while, New Heavens in her Face to see: The Sun himself is drawn so well, When there he would his Picture view, That our Eyes can hardly tell, Which is the false Sun, which the true; And lest we give our Sense the Lie, We think he's fallen from the Sky. XVIII. Bernieres! for whose beloved sake, My thoughts are at a noble Strife; This my fantastic Landscape take, Which I have Copied to the Life. I only seek the Deserts rough, Where all alone I love to walk, And with Discourse refined enough, My Genius and the Muses talk; But the Converse most truly mine, Is the dear Memory of thine. XIX. Thou mayst in this Poem find, So full of liberty and heat, What illustrious Rays have shined, To enlighten my Conceit; Sometimes pensive, sometimes gay; Just as that Fury does control, And as the Object I survey, The Notions grow up in my Soul, And are as unconfined and free, As the flame which Transported me. XX. O! how I solitude adore, That Element of Noblest Wit, Where I have learned Apollo's Lore, Without the pains to study it: For thy sake I in Love am grown, With what thy fancy does pursue; But when I think upon my own, I hate it for that reason too, Because it needs must hinder me From seeing, and from serving thee. A satire against Brandy. FArewell thou Stygean Juice, which does bewitch, From the Court-Bawd, down to the Country Bitch. Down to thy Native Hell, and mend the Fire; Or if you rather choose to settle nigher, Descend to the dull Clime from whence you came, Where Wit and Courage may require the Flame; Where they Carouse in their Vesuvian Bowls, To crush the Quag-mire of their Spongy Souls. Had Dives for thy Scorching Moisture cried, Abraham in pity, had his suit denied. Or Bonner known thy force, the Martyr's Flood, Had sizzed in thee, and saved the Nation Wood▪ Essence of Ember, Scum of melted Flint, With all its native Sparkles floating in't; Sure the Black Chemist, with his Cloven Foot, All Aetna's Simples in his Lymbeck put: And doubly Stilled, nay, Quintiscenced thy Juice, To Charcoal Mortals, for his future use. Fireship to Nature, who dost doubly wound, For they who grapple thee, are Burnt and Drowned. So when Heaven pressed th' auxilaries of Hell, A scorching Storm on Cursed Sodom fell. And when its single Plague could not prevail, Egypt was scald with kindled Rain and Hail, So Nature's Feuds are reconciled in Thee, Thou two great Judgements in Epitome. God's past, and future Judgement breath in you, A Deluge, and a Conflagration too. View yonder Sot, I don't mean S— Grilled all o'er with Thee from Head to Foot: His greasy Eyelids showed above their pitch, His Face with Carbuncles, and Rubies Rich: His Scull instead of Brain, supplied with Cynder, His Nose turns all his handkercheifs to Tinder: His feeble Head scarce heave the Liquor in His Nerves, all crackle in his Parchment-skin: His Stomach don't concoct, but bake his Food, His Liver even vitrifies his Blood. His Guts from Nature's Drudgery are freed, And in his Bowels Salamanders breed. He breathes like a Smith's Forge, and wets the Fire, Not, to allay the Flame, but raise it higher. He's grown too hot to think, too dull to laugh, And steps as tho' he walked with Pinder's Staff. The moving glass-house lighten in his Eyes, Sings his clothes, and all his Marrow frys, Glows for a while, and then in Ashes dies. But hold; lest I the Saints dire Anger merit, By stinting these Auxiliary Spirits, I hear of late, what ere the wicked think, Thou art reformed, and turned a Godly Drink: For since the public Faith, for Plate did wimble, And Sanctified thy Gill, with Hannah's Thimble: Thou lefts thy old bad Company of Vermin, The swearing Porters, and the drunken Carmen; And the lewd drivers of the Hackney Coaches, And now take up with Sage Descreet Debauches: Thou freely droppest upon Gold Chains, and Furr, And Sots of Quality thy Minions are. No more shalt thou foment an Alehouse brawl, But the more Sober Riots of Guild-Hall. Whereby thy Spirits fallible Direction, The Reprobates stood Poling for Election. Go then, thou Emblem of their torrid Zeal, Add Flame to Flame, and their stiff Tempers real, Till they grow ductile to the Public Weal. Yet one Word more, now we are out of hearing, Many have died with Drinking; some with Swearing. If these two Ills should in Conjunction meet, The Grass would quickly grow in every Street: Save thou this Nation from the double Blow, And keep thy fire from Salamanca T. O. A Prologue spoken by Mr. Mounfort, after he came from the Army, and Acted on the Stage. AS reading of Romances did Inspire. The fierce Don Quixot with a Martial Fire; So some do think, my Acting Alexander, Gave me the whim of being a Commander. But then Reflecting that I had left behind me, An Audience rudely, that had used me kindly, My Conscience of Ingratitude accused me Bid me return, where you too well had used me, Ask pardon, and it should not be refused me. Thus relying on your Mercy I am come, Leaving Dundalk, to Act with you at Home. Forgive me then, and in return I'll swear, Ever to be your most Obedient Player. On the Infanta of Portugal. I. HOW Cruel was Alonzo's Fate, To fix his Love so high; That he must perish for her Hate, Or for her Kindness die? II. Tortured and Mangled, Cut and Maimed, I'th' midst of all his Pain, He with his dying Breath proclaimed, 'Twas better than Disdain. III. The Gentle Nymph, long since designed, For the proud Monsieurs Bed; Now to a Holy Goal confined, Drops Tears for every Bead. IV. Tell me ye Gods, if when a King Suffers for Impotence; If Love be such a Thing, What can be Innocence? Pindaric. By the Lord R— r. 1. LEt Ancients boast no more, Their lewd Imperial Whore; Whose everlasting Lust, Survived her Body's latest Thrust. And when that transitory Dust Had no more Vigour lest in store, Was still as fresh and active as before. 2. Her Glory must give place, To one of Modern British Race; Whose every daily Act exceeds The others most transcendent Deeds: She has at length made good, That there is Humane Flesh and Blood, Even able to outdo, All that their losest Wishes prompt 'em to. 3. When she has Jaded quite, Her almost Boundless Appetite; Cloyed with the choicest Banquets of Delight, She'll still drudge on in tasteless Vice, (As if she sinned for Exercise) Disabling stoolest Stallions every hour, And when they can perform no more, She'll rail at 'em, and kick them out of Door. 4. Mon— th' and Can—h Droop, As first did Henning— m and Scrope: Nay Scabby Ned looks Thin and Pale, And sturdy Frank himself begins to fail: But Woe betid him if he does, She'll set her jockey on his Toes, And he shall end the Quarrel without Blows. 5. Now tell me all you Powers, Who e'er could equal this Lewd Dame of ours? Lais herself must yield, And Vanquished julia quit the Field: Nor can that Princess, one day feigned, As wonder of the Earth, For Minataurus glorious Birth, With Admiration any more be Named These Puny Heroines of History, Eclipsed by her shall all forgotten be Whilst her great Name confronts Eternity. On the Return of K. Charles II. This should have been put next after the Poems on Oliver, but was misplaced. JUre & Amore tui modo spes, nunc gloria regni, Qui regnando refers Numen, & esse probas. Laudibus & titulis major, majorque superbis Principibus, solo denique Patre minor. Maxim Rex, sed adhuc vir major: en accipe honores, Quos tu regales accipiendo facis. Regna patent, & corda patent; sed latius ista: Omnia tu, praeter gaudia nostra, regis▪ Sol novus exoriens quam claro mane refulges, Occasu rubuit dum prior ille suo. Rex uni genti, sed donum missus es orbi, Hinc in tam multis gentibus exul eras. Sors tua te Gallos' divisit, & inter Iberos: Pluribus ut regnis te, populisque daret. Dum se interposuit regnum quinquenne Neronis, Oppositâ ornabat proximitate tuum Sanguinei, tua grata magis, post sceptra Tyranni Sic infert festos litera rubra dies. Quae rerum facies! viduam dum Carolus urbem Intrat, splendoris pars quota Pompa suit! O quam plena dies lachrymis sine luctibus! illum Sole vidente quidem, non faciente diem. Quis sine caede prius tot strictos viderat enses? Quisve sine effuso sanguine Victor erat? cum modo utramque manum comitanti fratre venires Carole, visa mihi est utraque dextra manus. Mercurium & Martem medio Jove vidimus: Omen Terna solent faustum sydera juncta dare. Dicitur Alcides bis sex submiss labores Exul: totque annos Carolus exul agit. Jamque duodecimum peragit feliciter annum, Ultimus huic pariter sit precor iste labour. Exilii spatiis regnum mensuret: & exul Quem modo lustrabat, jam regat ille globum. R. South, A. M. ex Aede Christi. Thus Translated. God's and thy Right made thee our Hope before, And now conjoined our happy State restore. Thy glorious Reign two mighty Works can do, It proves a God, and represents him too. Proud Kings will to thy nobler Style submit, Only thy Father must above thee sit. Great King, but greater Man! our Wreaths allow, Which may imperial by acceptance grow. Large are the Realms, our Hearts more large, thy hand May those, but not our boundless Joys, command. What cheerful Beams our rising Phoebus' crown, Tho yesterday in bloody Clouds went down. One Nation's King, to all a Blessing sent, His wand'ring Course through various Nations spent. While thee their Guest, both French and Spaniards made, More Realms, more Tribes thy gentler Beams surveyed. Nero our Lord five tedious years would be, Only that he might prove a foil to thee. His bloody Reign makes thine delightful all, As our Red Letters show a Festival. How smiled the Town when Charles his Entrance made, More great himself than all the Cavalcade. Then griefless Tears within our Eyes could play, While Phoebus viewed, but never made the Day. Then first drawn Swords from Murders free we viewed And saw a Conqueror never stained with Blood. When, Charles, your Royal Brothers closed thy side, Nature no more could Left and Right decide. So Mars and Mercury round their Father move, And happy their divine Conjunctions prove, Twelve Labours banished Hercules sustained, Twelve tedious years great Charles in Exile reigned. The twelfth is now with lucky Omens passed, O may it be of all thy Cares the last. Vast may thy Empire as thy Wander be, And the wide Globe surveyed submit itself to thee. On the late Invention of the New Lights. — Velut inter Ignes Luna minores.— Hor. IN Doggerel Rhimes we seldom use To stay for any God or Muse: But in so nice a case as this I think it cannot do amiss: For all the Link-boys round the town, Have sworn, I hear, to run 'em down: The Men of Tallow, Wieck, and Cotten, The Tin-men too the Cry have gotten. Whom, let me see shall we retain? Phoebus, for once, shall be the Man. Great God of Lights! we thee invoke, If not by t' other side bespoke; The Stars above, to Men below, But like your Farthing Candles show: Whilst thou, with glorious Lustre crowned, Dost hang like one of Six i'th' pound: Thou▪ who'rt all Eye, cast half an one Down on this New Invention. 'Tis new indeed to us below, But known in Heaven long ago. The Stars in just such Crystal Spheres, Have burned above Five thousand Years; They fear no Storms by Day or Night, But thus hang wind and weather tied; And so they'll hang till Day of Doom, By that time they'll their Oil consume: And then their Glasses breaking round us, In flames they'll fall and so confound us. Nay, we can prove the Milky-way (For all Sir Sydrophel can say) Is but a Street of some such Lights, To guide the Heavenly Folks a-nights. ‛ The Council-chamber up above, Is hung with such; and Jove's Alcove. The sacred Ram can't furnish horn, For all the Lights that there are shown: Horners they've none, and I dare swear There's ne'er a Tallow-Chandler there. Prometheus once (that Son of Fame) Upon a Visit hither came; And liked the thing so wondrous well, He straight upon the Trial fell: But whether (as some Authors say) The Tallow-Chandlers showed foul play, Or Link-boys used to break his Glasses, (For variously the Story passes) The Project failed, and he ran mad, Such Luck the Virtuoso had; That's all the Bird, the Poets say, Lies gnawing of him Night and Day. May more propitious Fates attend Our present Art-improving Friend! Were this Design but understood, 'twould be of universal Good. The Stars might go to sleep a-nights, And leave their work to the New Lights. The Midwife-Moon might mind her Calling, And noisy Light-man leave his Bawling: Men may pull in their Horns, and be From Officers and Summons free. Nay with such potent Influence Their streaming Rays they do dispense, That if the Sun should lie too long, Here he might have his Business done: He might indulge in Thetis lap, And while these burn, take t'other Nap. Oh! had you been the other Night In Cheapside at th' amazing sight, Where with their Saucer Eyes they hung, And gathered the admiring throng. The scattering Light gilded all the gaudy way, Some People rose and thought it day. The plying Punks crept into Holes, Who walked the streets before by shoals; The Night could now no longer screen The Tavern-sots from being seen. The Light-men, they, began to rally, Who blushed, and sneaked down Grocers-Alley. The Tempest you have seen, no doubt, Just so the Candles all went out; Those silly tools no more could burn Than Kitchin-fires before the Sun. The Quaker, with uplifted Hands, By Yea and Nay the Rogue commends; Of all their boasted Lights, he said, These never entered once their Head. When we compare our times with those are past, We cry, this Age of greater Light can boast; I'll say so too, if this Invention hi●, Else swear, Our Age wants Wit as well as Light. On the late Invention of the PENY-POST, by Mr. Dockwra. Volvitur & volvetur in omne volubilis aevum. WHat Fools are they, who use to cry, Nature's grown crazy, old and dry, No new Inventions now can boast For that vast store of old was lost; We know this is an Age of Light, Our Grandfires all were under Night, The sacred Story tells us, that Our Father's Boys and Girls begat At nine hundred, so does too Past five thousand nature now. Imperial Ink, and dying Purple were Counted of old Inventions rare, With Napkins of peculiar Stuff, That could the Force of Fire rebuff, Throw'em into't, they took no hurt on't, Hot-brained Nero had a Shirt on't. These with others fill the Roll, Writ by learned pancirol. The modern Ages can produce, Inventions too of wondrous use, By which Dame Nature now may boast Her prolific Force not lost. Printing, the Compass, and the Gun, And that lost Art which Marble run, Lacker, Milled Lead, the Sailing Carr, And the New Lights, surprising rare. All these have had their just Applause, Have made throughout the World a Noise. What God, what Man shall we accost? Great Patron of the Peny-Post? Worthy, famed pancirol, to stand First in that List drawn by thy hand. Mercury, thou Post of Heaven, To thee the weighty Charge is given, Thou long ago didst found a Post All along the Heavenly coast, And daily thence thy journey takes O'er Hills and Dales, o'er Floods and Lakes, Wings at thy Head and at thy Heels, Thou like a Pidgeon-Carrier sails, Sometimes charged with Love and News, Sometimes from jove with Billet-deux. Sometimes with Baskets, Boxes, Tickets, Thy Mail is most stuffed with Love-pacquets; The Clouds give way, as thou dost go, And full-charged Thunder makes a Bow. Ah! thou, who with thy charming▪ Rod Canst control the sleepy God, Vouchsafe to thy poor Foot post Race, That when the Day's Fatigue is past, Into sweet Sleep they may be cast. To give the way let no Man scorn, Although they carry ne'er a Horn: Their Task is greater than the Sun's, He goes to Bed when he has done, They only rest an hour at Noon. As in the Soul of Man we find, Several fair Chambers are designed; The Heart, the Liver, and the Brain. The lovely Guest to Entertain. Five Porthole Senses too were made, By which all Objects are conveyed, So that whate'er abroad was done Is within as quickly known; What e'er is smelled, seen, felt or heard, As swift as flying Thought it runs, Through winding Paths, and secret Turns, And to the Soul's Apartment straight repaired. This way great Dockwra forth did chalk, As a Parterre from the Grand Walk Leads many ways, his nimble Men, After their Round, return and meet again. For twenty Miles these nimble Mercuries Carefully convey advice. Not Letters graved on Sculls, or Pidgeon-post, Of greater Secrecy can boast. Hail mighty Dockwra, Son of Art, With Flavio, Middleton or Swart. In the foremost Rank of Fame, Thou shalt fix thy lasting Name. Nor new Inventors' Fate thee hurt, To be damned or beggared fort. FINIS