A satire AGAINST INGRATITUDE, With Some REFLECTIONS ON THE Wits of the Age.  
LONDON, Printed for N. C. MDCXCIX.   

THE BOOKSELLER TO THE READER.  
AS this is a very Odd Poem, so it came as Oddly to my Hands; being Sent me in a Letter by the General-Post; and, I Guess by what I Paid for it, that it came at least a Hundred Miles off, but whether East, West, North or South, I am utterly Ignorant. The Letter it came in, told me, I might either Condemn it to the Press, or to the Flames, which I pleased; but told me withal, by way of Encouragement, That if I Printed, and got any thing by it, I should not fail of one or two more very speedily; and looking it carefully over in Company, with an Intelligent Friend, and discerning nothing in it of Reflection upon the Government, or any Particular Person, we Resolved to Publish it. As to that Part of the satire on the Bankrupt, the Modesty of the Author is very Remarkable, for his not having set down so much as a Letter of his Name, nor giving any other Discriminating Sign, to Expose him to the Censures of the Public, Manifestly Demonstrates, that 'tis Designed only as a Private, Wholesome Admonition to the Person Himself: for there being not only more than One, but more than a Thousand, of the same sort of Cattle about the Town. 'tis not possible, with Reason, to be Construed otherwise. But what he Means by Repeating the Word Heaven so often, is best known to Himself; tho' it should have been otherwise, if I might have Advised; for 'twill certainly be a Great Eyesore to it; which, with some other Purging (not to say Nausiating) Qualities therein, will never agree with the Delicate Niceness of the Stomach of this Age; and, consequently, must be fatal to it; which I suppose the Author not to be Insensible of, by his Industrious Concealment.   

A satire AGAINST INGRATITUDE, With some Reflections on the Wits of this Age.  

AWAKE my drowsy, yet my Darling Muse,  
And done't the Task, I point thee out, refuse.  
Thou hast been Dormant long, and stupefied;  
And, to touch Pen, for many years, denied:  
I know the Reason Poets now a-days,  
Writ all for Profit, or what's worse, for Praise;  
Virtue is not the Prize, but Lucre, or the Bays.   

Whilst there's the Cause, thy Sloth I cannot blame;  
For what Wise Man would value Cummon Fame,  
Or then an empty-Cask, an empty Name?  
And then for Gain, What Generous Man would Write?  
What noble Muse, thus clogged, can take a flight,  
Worthy her Heavenly Birth? for all agree,  
That's the Aborigine of Poetry.  
If so, What Wretches are our Modern Wits?  
For, as a Man that's liable to Fits,  
Exerts his utmost strength, and tears and rents,  
And grins, and spits, and gnashes on his Friends;  
Who, for their kindly coming to his ayed,  
He has thus most ungratefully repaid.   

But much more like that Luciferian Band,  
On whom th'Almighty, with a bounteous hand,  
Conferred such Power and Wit, and Excellence;  
That nothing could surmount, but that from whence  
That Inexhausted source from whence it came,  
And must be sempeternally the same;  
Maugre the Malice of this Cursed Crew,  
Who, tho' for ever Damned, han't half their Due;  
For turning of these Faculties Divine,  
Not as they ought to serve, but undermine,  
And to Catastrophise God's Wonderful Design;  
But all in vain; for, the Omnicient Eye,  
(Within whose Ken all secrets openly)  
Did presently the Treachery descry:  
For, not to Creatures, but to Heaven alone,  
All hearts are open, all desires known:  
And sure these heaven-born Traitors were no more,  
Tho' richly fraught with Blessings as before,  
So wondrous rich that Heaven could give no more,  
As they supposed; but Heaven knew better things,  
And how to clip, as well as make their Wings.   

Thus did young Iccarus presume to fly,  
And with his Waxed Wings to mount on high;  
Till Phoebus Rising, sent his flagrant Beams  
From Heaven to Earth, in piercing Lucid Streams:  
Whereby that Wondrous Glorious Second Cause  
Obeys his Maker, and fulfils his Laws:  
Giving the Charming Products of the Earth  
Full Beauty, Growth and Strength, as well as Birth.   

Thou Great Dispenser of Kind heavens vast store,  
That equal dealest thy Gifts to Rich and Poor,  
And but for which us Mortals were no more:  
For what but thee could wretched Man sustain?  
Thou giv'st us Salutary Dews and Rain,  
Which, with strong hand, thou Wafts us from the Main:  
Whereby thou dost Refrigerate our Earth,  
Postponing the Tremendous coming Dearth.   

And if we thus admire an Effect,  
(As all Men must, that Common Sense direct)  
What more, than Fools, are those, that shall the Cause neglect?  
But to return! as the Ambitious Boy,  
Which with cursed Pride does all our worth destroy,  
(For else there's many that were justly prized,  
Who, for that Fault, as justly are despised;)  
I say, as this our forward Youth would try,  
Too far from Earth, and too near Heaven to fly,  
And as Sol's Beams came forth, and dashed him from the Sky;  
Even so the Glorious Angel Michael came,  
And quenched their Livid with his Heavenly flame;  
So quenched, as never there again to rise,  
But close penned up, in Hell it mouldering lies.   

And thus shall all Ingratitude be served,  
Hell's bitter Fare for such is still reserved;  
And Plenteous Meals on't will to them be Carved.  
Now as these Traitors impudently flew,  
(As did their like and Successor the Jew)  
The Works of their Creator to undo:  
So there are Men alive who we'll not Name,  
(To their Confusion and Eternal shame)  
Have, to their Pristine Benefactors, done the same.  
To give one Instance (and to give no more,  
Tho' we have others in Reserve for Store)  
Of an unhappy Bankrupt of the Town,  
On whom Blind-Fortune once much Wealth had thrown,  
Tho' now not worth a Groat, had every Man his Own.   

This Poor Man has a Loving Sister slain,  
And Faithful Nephew Ruined for his Gain,  
For which, 'tis feared he must, with those above, remain.  
This, as her Darling, does the Pious Mother  
Send to her most obliged, and Wealth Brother;  
Who, forthwith, made the hopeful Youth a Slave;  
Tho' of good Gold, a Weighty Sum she gave:  
Yet this Ungrateful Brother had she kept;  
And, as her Son, had in her Bosom Slept;  
Till She, too late, discovered the Mistake,  
When, in his Room, She found a Treacherous Snake;  
That first drew from her all the Wealth he could,  
And, after, Sucked Her Precious Vital Blood;  
Which, by a Metaphors as plain and clear,  
As Oere Murdered more than one a Year;  
For, from the causeless Ruin of her Son,  
Causeless, and yet impossible to shun,  
Her Fatal Malady its date begun;  
'Twixt whom and Nature long there was a strife;  
At last the Combat ended with her Life.  
Yet we could never hear what raised this feud,  
Or caused this instance of Ingratitude:  
Only with Nods, and Invendo's, fain  
He would wipe out the Spot, but all in vain;  
For 'tis a Bloody-Crimson, and in Grain.   

And does our Modern Wits, with those of Hell,  
And with these Men above, run parallel?  
Have they, like them, ungratefully abused  
The Gifts, that Heaven so liberally infused?  
Which, so profusely, some of them enjoy,  
That, one would think, 'twere Heaven, without aloy;  
And does their Actions then these Thoughts destroy.  
Has Owls, and Daws, and Ravens then Possessed,  
And with their Ordures filled the Haltions' Nest?  
Is then the Noble Genius of our Isle,  
That Sung, and blest, and Brooded on our Nile?  
Is she in earnest turned a Crocodile?  
Too true, alas! with Tears of Blood I Writ:  
Support, Oh Heaven, my Arm, that I may Smite:  
(Having from thy own Quiver had the Dart)  
This soul degenerate Monster to the Heart:  
A Monster worse than Ovid ever feigned;  
They but destroyed the Body, this the Mind;  
Therefore the Greater Devil of the Kind.  
Besides, his Monsters were but Fictions known,  
And had Existence in his Brain alone:  
But ours has the Brains of all possessed,  
And made all Mad, or Fools, or Knave at least.  
But hold, my Fiery Muse, obey the Rain,  
Nor Dogmatise, but call in that again,  
For, doubtless, many Worthies yet remain.  
The Muse submits! and yet, alas, you'll find,  
If you possess a grave, impartial Mind,  
And clear from thence each Prejudice and Blind,)  
On such Encounters they have been abroad;  
Their Virtue, not by Playhouse, Vices awed,  
For that, long since, from thence, removed her Blessed Abode:  
Where should she show again her Heavenly Face,  
Accompanied with Piety and Grace?  
They'd certainly be Hist, and Hooted from the place.  
Here nought but Weeds of Wickedness will grow;  
And, as they Whither, still again they Sow:  
Oh! What a Crop would Hell have, might it Mow;  
At a New Luscious Comedy, I mean,  
Where every Act, one may say, every Scene,  
Is Larded well with Fat, to Carry Off the Lean  
For our Stage-Ven'son now will not go down,  
Unless such Shoals of Maggots it surround,  
The very Hogo'd strike a Modest Stranger down.  
And this our Greatest, Gravest Wits applaud,  
For else the Under-Fry would soon be awed:  
In short, the Drammas now, even the Whole Nations Bawd:  
And this so seeming violent a Charge,  
If Heaven allows, shall be explained at large,  
And proved a Truth, most absolute and clear,  
Not only now, but for this Hundred year,  
As Categorically shall appear.   

And now, Plebeian Muse, behold thy Task!  
Try but thy utmost Strength, 'tis all I ask;  
I'll ask no more, but straight to Heaven Appeal,  
That does Great things from Mighty Men conceal,  
And unto Babes and Sucklings oft Reveal.  
We therefore now all Bounteous Heaven Implore,  
To freight our Vessel from that Crystal Shore,  
Or else we're Bankrupt, and can Trade no more.  
But, if once Laden thence, and under Sail,  
Although Attacked, she'll certainly prevail.  
No cunning Pirate shall our Ruin boast;  
But all our Danger lies upon the Coast,  
Where, Heaven, direct our Helm, or we are ever lost.  
Thou, who the Boat of Peter once didst fill,  
And, after, bade the surly Waves be still;  
(Who, straight Obeyed, that All-commanding Word,)  
Do thou Protection to our Bark afford;  
And, in Return for such a Mighty Boon,  
We'll Sing thy Praises, Morning, Night and Noon.   

And, till these Favours thou vouchsafe to Grant,  
(So Great, and so Apparent is our Want,  
So literally true our Muse is Poor,)  
That she, till Heaven shall Prompt, can Write no more:  
Therefore we'll Anchor here, in hopes of better store.  
Which, when Heaven sends us, and a Prosperous Gale,  
(And he that Humbly Asks, can never Fail.)  
We'll cut our Cables then, and Hoist up all our Sail.  
Thus, in Career, we'll fly before the Wind,  
And leave Hell's Doting Wou'd-be Wits behind.   
FINIS.