Midsummer-MOON: OR, The Livery-Man's Complaint.  
By Tho. Thompson.  
LONDON, Printed for E. Harris, 1682.   

THE Livery-man's Complaint.  

I Cannot hold, hot struggling Rage aspires,  
And crowds my freeborn Breast with noble Fires,  
Whilst prudent Fools squeak Treason through the Nose,  
And whine a quivering Vote in sneaking Prose,  
My Muse soars out of reach, and dares despise  
What ere below attempts to tyrannize.  
Though I by some base Nero should be clad  
In such a Gown as the old Christians had,  
In Clouds of satire up to Heaven I'd roll;  
For he could burn my Shell, but not my Soul.  
Though Nature her auspicious Aid refuse,  
Revenge and Anger shall inspire my Muse.  
Nature has given me a complaining part,  
And bleeding ENGLAND a resenting Heart.   

Let creeping players whose pliant Fancies can  
Sneak to the Devil, and call him Gentleman;  
How long has Northern Air so Sovereign been  
To purge the PLOT, and sanctify a Sin;  
'Tis well for England if at last it find  
The Traitor's Noxious Humours left behind,  
Which long have been fomented by the spoil  
Of that old-fashioned honest Fool Are— le,  
Who lost a noble Fortune, on pretence  
Of a fond thing the Whigs call Conscience.  
His Fall, and Thynn's, if rightly understood,  
Were only doomed to flesh the Hounds in Blood.  
The Way's chalked out, though Fear retard the Elow,  
'Tis plain that once a R— and ever so.  
Treason's the Gangrene of a mounting Soul,  
Which, if not soon cut off, infects the whole.  
Tho Heaven in Anger sometimes may relieve,  
Pardons still do not follow a Reprieve.  
Not fell Charybdis, Godwins, and the Ore,  
If Fate ordained, shall keep a Prince from shore;  
Since he that would by Brother's Blood be crowned,  
Shall (though in Eggshell Frigate) ne'er be drowned.   

Which stocked Seraglios, and rich Grand Viziers,  
Th'industrious ●●●y truck for Officers.  
In sober sadness, Sirs, how goes the Price?  
Are Sheriffs lately grown good Merchandise?  
Sure, Brethren, we may fear the Cause is low,  
When you for Cordials unto Turkey go:  
When nothing else the desperate Game retrieves,  
You'll choose the City Circumcised Shrieves:  
To whom, if you would take advice from me,  
Good Father eliot should a Chaplain be.  
Some Musties too you might have wafted o'er,  
But that with B—ps we were stocked before,  
High rampant, swearing B—ps, tight and true,  
Brisk B—ps, who have their Seraglioes too;  
Who'll bid, ere Ghostly Codpiece find rebuke,  
Two hundred pounds a Year above a Duke;  
Who, if their Piety were open set,  
Are verier Turks than Bishop Mahomet;  
Who armed with Sword for Pen, and Male for Gown,  
With cogent Blows knock reeling Error down.  
Had you some Aids of Janissaries got,  
Or some bold Troops from the Timariot,  
These better would have merited Rewards,  
Than all your Ruby-nosed and Whoring Guards;  
Who though to fight they could not find a Heart,  
Most nobly would discharge the Plundering part.  
Then we shall get as Loyal Sheliffs, when  
The Lousy Regiments are Livery-men.   

Now you by Law may freely take a Purse,  
For one upon the B—ch will vouch it, Sirs.  
Claw me, and I'll claw thee; what, he's his Brother!  
And one Good-turn, ye know, requires another.  
For that old Fox most prudently decreed,  
To get a powerful Friend in time of need;  
That when he Newgate Fate approaching sees,  
He may persuade him to refund his Fees;  
Or, if they cannot here securely trade,  
Sneak back with him, and turn a Renegade.   

Poor Tories! have you none but him in store,  
Who's now been thumbed so oft he'll hold no more?  
Can you provide no better Partner than  
An Unbeliever for a Mussulman?  
Those are but mongrel Turks (to tell you true)  
Who love not Christian better than a Jew;  
And, if they will not take a Friend's Advice,  
Shall ne'er come into Mahomet's Paradise.   

Degenerate London! Slave to Mighty Pelf!  
Degenerate London! Stranger to thyself.  
Are these thy Senators? thy Father's sage?  
Sure, if they are, they dote with Gold and Age.  
There was, alas! there was a time when we  
Esteemed our Lives below our Liberty;  
When, if our dying Country we could save,  
We head sung on Tombs, and triumphed on the Grave,  
Joyfully fallen on her beloved Face,  
And perished in our Mother's dear Embrace.  
That nobler Ardour, long agone, is fled;  
The Slaves are living, and the Heroes dead.  
We peep into the Hall, and whoop, and then,  
Fools as we went, like Fools come back again:  
For, Shrieves, like Larks in falling Skies, we gape,  
And dance attendance on the Courtier's Ape,  
Who (poor good-natured Soul) can neither have  
Honest for the Fool, nor Wit for Knave.  
He's a strange piece of Linsy-Woolsy Ware,  
Just such another thing as B—ps are.   

When he on lofty ten-toes did advance,  
And through the Streets on footback proudly prance,  
Circled around by all the ragged Rout,  
Who loud Huzza's, and, Bless your Lordship, shout;  
Absent from I— s, H— x, and all  
That in his Ears for ever buzz and bawl,  
Then he his loyal Carcase did undress,  
And unto Ghostly Mother thus confess:   

The Work is done, I ought to swear 'em too;  
But, Oh! shall be chidden if I do.  
Some body terrifies me twice and once,  
And frights me with Raw Head & Bloody Bones.  
But if I'm good, he calls me Love and Joy,  
And tells me, there's my dainty Golden Boy!  
Gives me a Pipe, and Cart to truckle in,  
And strokes my Head, & chocks me under Chin.  
And also promised the next time he comes,  
To bring his Pocket full of Sugar Plumbs.  
Nay, once in verity he passed his Word,  
To make my Honourable K— veship, Lord,  
Spite of my teeth he made me Truant play,  
And to W— Hall Kidnaped my Ld away;  
There such paw words so terribly he said,  
As with strange Proclamations filled my head;  
I'll imitate great Lucifer, and be  
A Tie— nt far more absolute than he,  
Who never could a Common-Council call.  
Nor domineer, like me in Heaven's Guild-Hall;  
Nor yet in the Crown-Office put the Stars,  
Nor Angels prosecute for Rioters.  
Well, if at last I find the House top hot,  
And Master I J —y needs must go to pot,  
Worst come to th' worst, it only shall be said  
I wisely hanged myself, to save my Head.   

Thus said on gilded Couches sinking down,  
Sleep seized his Corpse, & laid his empty Crown.  
Through all the tedious hours of baleful Night,  
Gild gnaws his Soul with many a ghastly sp'right.  
Disloyal Morpheus did at first present  
The horrid Spectre of a PARLIAMENT,  
Five hundred Heads adorn its mighty Chest,  
Millions of Noble Hearts inform the Breast;  
Millions of Hands defend the Sacred Throne,  
Bravely resolved to make its Grave their own:  
Poor He at their Tribunal quivering stood,  
Gild locked his Veins, & Fear congealed his Blood;  
But what was done or said by him, or these,  
I cannot tell you till their Masters please.   

The next that gave his Memory a rub,  
Were Two produced in City Sweating-Tub,  
Who that they might appear for N—th and B— x,  
Were used like rotten Courtiers with a Px;  
Within his Bannio they were forced to stay,  
Till choked with heat, their Souls did melt away;  
Bequeathing him the People's weighty Hate,  
Sure Omen of a far severer Fate.   

The next that discomposed his Lordship's naps,  
Was a whole shower of dreadful Shoulder-Claps,  
Action they still atop of Action pack,  
Almost enough to break a Camel's Back;  
Hundreds of thousand Pounds! St. I— s defend us,  
Or these unconscionable Whigs will end us:  
So great a noise these Counter-Devils did keep,  
As fright his doughty Lordship out of sleep:  
For a Court-Journey he again provides,  
Saddles his Cane, and then gets up and rides,  
To the Cabal he hastily does go,  
Still crying Westminster and Lambeth, hoa.  
What there he did, fanatics must not tell:  
But if you'd know, pray ask Sir L— l.   

Room for the Chap-faln Mouth, or else 'twill swear  
By all the Aps from Saint Cadwallader,  
Prute's her create Cranfather, if her inquire,  
And Adam's cranfather was Prutus Sire.  
Famous ap Jenkin was her elder Prother,  
Some Caledonian Sycorax her Mother,  
Or some she-Deel more damned than all the rest,  
At their black Feast her lustful Sire compressed;  
Thence this incarnate Cacodaemon risen,  
Whose very Face his Parent's Image shows:  
His shape was all inhuman, and uncouth,  
But yet he's chief Devil about the MOUTH.  
With care they nursed the Brat, for fear it should  
Grow tame, and so degenerate into good;  
With City-Charters him they wrapped about,  
And Acts of Parliament for Swadling-Clout.  
As he grew up, he won a noble Fame,  
Well worthy of the Brood from whence he came;  
Cherishing Spite, and hugging Discord fell,  
He was the best-beloved Brat of Hell.  
Oft with success this Mighty Blast did Bawl,  
Where loudest Lungs and longest Swords win all;  
And still his clenched Arguments did end  
With that homethrust, He is not Caesar's Friend.  
Sometimes, that jaded Ears he might release,  
Good Man! he has been feed to hold his Peace.  
Hear him, but never see him, and you'd swear  
He was the Crier, not the Counsellor.  
He roars, as if he only chanced to find  
Justice was now grown deaf as well as blind.  
This demy-Fiend, this Hurricane of Man,  
Must shatter London's Glory (if he can?)  
This Engineer must with his forked Crown  
For Battering Ram, beat all her Bulwarks down.  
And him our prudent Praetor wisely chose  
To splutter Law, and the dinned Rabble pose.  
They have a thousand Tongues, yet he can roar  
Far louder, though they had a thousand more.  
Unto longwinded Cook he scorns to go,  
But pleads, His M M —y will have it so.  
Counsel alone, for such a Client fit,  
As famed for Honesty as he for Wit.   

Well, quoth Sir G. the Whigs may think me rude,  
Or brand me guilty of Ingratitude;  
At my Preferment they (poor Fools) may grudge,  
And think me fit for Hangman; more than Judge;  
But though they fret, and by't their Nails, and Bawl,  
I'll slight them, and go kiss dear Ne Ne —y W—ll.  
Dalila is to Court returned, and I,  
Blest with her influence, all the World defy;  
I'm made, whilst Samson wantoness in her Lap:  
Such Favourites are Wh—s, so charming is a Clap—   

But hold! what makes the gaping Many run?  
Is France defeated? or, is Rome undone?  
Is P—th Nun, or K— a Mother grown?  
Will conscientious Comyn swear for none?  
Have Poets quite forgot to smooth, and gloze,  
And lead admiring Cullies by the Nose?  
Have we a War with Monsieur, Peace with Spain,  
Or, have we got a Parliament again?  
All in good time, when Heaven & Charles shall please.  
But 'tis a Wonder greater far than these,  
Were not our Shreeves the greatest Sots alive,  
To question my L. M— s Prerogative,  
Who is (if all that Tories say be true)  
The wisest Lord that ever London knew?  
And aided by some musty Laws, dispute  
With him that is, or would be, Absolute.  
Tho thats (if due to one) to One alone,  
Unless the Hustings could commence a Throne.  
Rave whilst they will, he'll make the City stay;  
Because 'tis Great and Lordly to Delay.  
Our Pleasure is that you no longer sit,  
But go, and meet again when We think fit.  
When Will and Pleasure could not aught prevail,  
Away he trots to tell the woeful Tale.  
On Marrowbones he sadly begs for pity;  
Pray, Sir! I can't be quiet for the City.  
They hunch, and punch, and hit me many a Pat,  
And throw one down, and dirt one's Bever-Hat.  
Th'uncomplaisant fanatics neither care  
For sage Sir I— n, nor L. nor M— r, nor M-a-r.  
woe to the naughty Boy that's such a noddy,  
T' abuse him who says nothing to no body.  
The Shreeves must come, and in one livelong hour,  
Praesto, they're conjured int'o enchanted Tower:  
But Four small Devils did hoist 'em on their backs;  
Behold the Policy of H— x:  
Who makes the Protestants Devotion thus,  
From Hell, and Hull, and Him, deliver us.  
That Shame won't take, Sir; for what e'er you do,  
We know our Strength, but know our Duty too.  
At these fine little Tricks of State we laugh;  
For such old Birds are seldom caught with Chaff.  
Yet though whole droves of Locusts you provide,  
With ten and twenty Regiments beside;  
Tho they should batter down our I owers & Walls  
(As once before) with Tewxbury Mustard-Balls;  
've Noble Hearts dare leap into a flame,  
With a bold Traitor's Blood to quench the same,  
With parting breath curse all the Friends to Rome,  
And in some Temples Ruins find a Tomb.   

Nor you Familiars shall forgotten be,  
Although unworthy of my Verse and Me;  
You who that Honourable Fool command,  
And finely manage him by slight of hand,  
Billy look to't,  Parliament come on  
Let you and Neighbour Jimmy get you gone.  
Rouse up ye Tories of the Factious Age,  
Implicit Clappers to the Bawdy Stage,  
Du— b's an Ass to think these mighty Men  
Would take such store of pains for Nine or Ten;  
When your dear Patrons to preferment rise,  
Moloch must have a larger Sacrifice;  
Hundreds of Hecatombs shall grace his Shrine,  
Whilst you huzza in Blood instead of Wine;  
Whilst from their holes the Waspish Whigs you burn,  
And every Signpost to a Gibbet turn.  
Degenerate Albion! ah! is this thy Son?  
This thy degenerate Offspring Albion!  
Canst thou without a Cloud of Blushes see  
The Follies of thy spurious Progeny?  
Is not the Man an Hero, bold and brave,  
That damns his race, & dooms his Grandchild Slave?  
Does not our loyal Lord deserve to pass,  
For what he is indeed, a loyal—?  
Are not our dearest Friends, the plodding Whigs,  
Old Dogs at Politics and State-Intrigues,  
Who split again upon the selfsame Shelves,  
And sweat to twist a Rope to hang themselves?  
One would have thought the port wherewth he goes,  
And Chain and all, enough to fright his Foes!  
'Tis true he scorns to fear, or take Affront,  
But looks as big as Bully Rodomont.  
For who the Valour and the Force can tell  
That waits upon the name of COLONEL?  
But yet to curb fanatics Discontent,  
Guards must be drawn up, ready to present.  
Yet though he's so courageous, he's so wise,  
That none but Friends know where his Valour lies.  
Poor Soul-less thing! alike contemned and cursed,  
By some Court-sneaking Devil informed at first,  
Under what sickly Planet were't thou born,  
Doomed at thy birth thy Nation's Plague & Scorn,  
Did sullen Saturn rule the sooty Sky,  
Or frowning Mars his Car run rumbling by?  
No Manlike Power would then vouchsafe to sway,  
Some Woman-God usurped th'unlucky Day;  
Unconstant Luna's force did then prevail  
In close Conjunction with the Dragon's Tail.  
Poor Souless thing! thee cross-grained Nature gave;  
To make the Land a Scourge, the Court a Slave;  
Thy Country's Bane, the Statesman's Wooden-Tool,  
More Fool than Knave and yet more Knave than Fool.  
Like farting Pythia, thou art nothing else  
But a mere Trunk to Satan's Oracles:  
Still mayst thou live, but live in fear and pain,  
And live to see a PARLIAMENT again.   

Ah too too happy London! didst thou know,  
And bless the Arm divine that made thee so,  
Planted by Heaven in a Luxuriant Soil,  
The Paradise of all this fruitful Isle,  
With Air-invading Turrets proudly crowned,  
With Thames' ouzey Arms begirt around  
With Silver Thames, who smooths his Aged Face  
When hasting to his Darlings dear embrace.  
Bearing the Traffic of the homespun West,  
As a Love token to adorn her Breast.  
On his proud neck he takes the irksome Chain,  
And still rolls back to kiss her Shores again;  
Indulgent Mothers so, long tales will tell,  
And give their parting Sons a long Farewell!  
The gentle Naiads for her sight prepare,  
And in their Crystal Mirrors Curl their hair;  
Their purling streams, and bubbling Rills advance,  
And round the Sedges decked with Osiers dance.  
Their Brooks and Ponds of skaly Subjects drain,  
For Presents to enrich their Sovereign;  
The stately Nereids with the swelling tide,  
Rich Freights from all the Universe provide,  
Whate'er of Rarities the East can show,  
With all the glittering entrails of Peru;  
Cargoes of Myrrh and Frankincense they bring,  
And Pearls and Diamonds for an Offering;  
And when a Storm is raised, to make their Peace,  
Even their own Corals and their Ambergrease:  
Nor yet this Cabinet, tho' bright, had been  
Admired, but for the nobler Gems within;  
Not all the Indys' Charms enough can find,  
To please and satisfy a Virtuous mind;  
For Wealth without our Liberties would be  
But painted Chains, and gilded Slavery;  
To make her Happiness complete and whole,  
The Gods inspired her with a generous Soul;  
Her Freeborn Offspring still was great and brave,  
Too low for Rebel, but too high for Slave;  
Who both of Right and Duty sense did feel,  
And could Bow low, but rather burst than Kneel.  
Amongst this purer Wheat some Tares did breed,  
Some Cockle, and encroaching Darnel Seed;  
A viprous Brood, who smiling Poison give,  
To those indulgent friends who made 'em live;  
Cut out for France or some ignobler place,  
Where Tyrants Chains are counted no disgrace:  
Nature found Stuff for men, and wrought it right,  
But Heaven denies to give a humane Spirit.  
Some sparks of fire she like Prometheus stole,  
And wanting better, gave a Chickens Soul;  
Or what did by late transmigration pass  
From some contented Slave, or golden A—  
These (BLEEDING LONDON) all thy Bliss destroy,  
These Stab thy Hopes, and Murder all thy Joy:  
These not content with what themselves could do,  
To please the Devil, would Damn their Neighbours too.  
But thou (great Charles!) whose glorious Wain does rove  
Round our Horizon, next to none but Jove  
With Royal goodness hear their humble Suit,  
Who fain would love thee, if thou'dst let 'em do't;  
I beg no favour, I expect no Bays  
Bare truth gets Frowns, guilt Lies have Coin and Praise;  
Can I the art of thy great Laureate win,  
To wash a Moor, or blanche a blacker sin,  
Then might I nobly Swear and whore in State,  
And even bid fair for Wealth in spite of Fate;  
But tho' my threadbare Muse would fain be trying,  
Yet all, like him, have not the gift of Lying.   

Oh hear thy bleeding Subjects groans and sighs,  
If not their Tongues, yet hear their flowing eyes;  
Pity their too well grounded griefs and fears,  
Moved by the silent Rhetoric of their tears:  
O let the charming Devil tempt on in vain,  
Appear thyself, and break th'ignoble Chain;  
Shake the Court Ear-wiggs from thy pestered Throne  
Shake off thy little Kings, and reign alone,  
So mayst thou see thy Flatterers fall, and see  
Those that are friends to Law are friends to thee;  
So mayst thou bring poor England glad Relief,  
To right her wrongs, and banish all her grief,  
Till Crowned with Suns and Beams of peaceful day  
Attendant Angels thee to Bliss convey;  
Thither tho' late (late let it be) remove,  
And change this Diadem for one more-bright above  
May thy Surviving Image ever be,  
(If possible) as much beloved as thee.  
May after-ages his great Sons admire,  
For England's Darlings and the World's desire;  
For Sworn Eternal foes to France and Rome,  
In a long, long Succession down to th' day of Doom.   
FINIS.