Loyal Poems AND SATYRS Upon the TIMES, Since the beginning of the Salamanca Plot. Written by several Hands.  
Collected by M. T.  Absolom and Achitophel. 
Plots true or false are necessary things  
To set up Commonwealths, and Ruin Kings.  
LONDON, Printed for John Smith Bookseller in Russel-Street near Covent-Garden, 1685.   

To the most Illustrious, most Honourable, & most Loyal, THE LORDS and GENTLEMEN OF THE Loyal Club, At the Dog in Drury-Lane.  
Most Honourable, and most Loyal.  
THis Collection of LOYAL POEMS rescued from the Flames (when our Ilium was almost a second time on Fire) present themselves an humble Offering at your Feet. It is the Poet's Loyalty and Religion, asserting those Rights with their Pens, which you have avouched to maintain with your Swords; The Defence of which was the first Foundation of this Illustrious Society. A most Noble Institution, and destined to as glorious ends, When Factious Cabals began to prevail, and Rebellion under the disguise of Liberty began to invade on the Prerogative, than was't the Royal Party began to meet with generous Resolution, and stand up as one Man for the Interest of the Crown and Government. When Absolom had Conspired with Achitophel against the envied Life and Peaceful Reign of Injured David, what less could engage in his Defence than the Princes and Chiefs of Israel? This was that Royal Assembly which like you kept the Aspiring Rebels in awe, and the Monarch against all their Conspiracies safe upon his Throne. Where then can these Innocent Loyal Truths rather fly for Protection, than to You the most Eminent Patrons of Truth and Loyalty?  
I fear it will be counted Arrogance in me to devote so mean a Trifle to the whole Body Politic, the least Member of which is worthy of a far Richer Oblation, but our whole Artillery being levelled against the Factions, what Hercules Arm can guard me against the Multitude? Against the Imps of Rebellion, there is no Power to invoke, but the Sons of Loyalty, nor a spell against the Witchcraft of the Murmuring Cabals, but the Musical Charms of the ROYAL CLUB. That Club so nobly founded, and so amicably carried on with unanimity of Heart and Voice for the long Life and Preservation of his Majesty and Loyal Brother in the Lawful Succession against all Opposers.  
I dare not venture after the manner of Dedications to enter on Encomium, or Lance out into the boundless praise of so many Illustrious and Eminent Heroes, the meanest of whom is a Theme sufficient for the most Celebrated Pen; but being threatened before on the like occasion (for my Collection of Loyal Songs Dedicated to his R. Highness) I only implore your gracious Protection, and acceptance, that under that Influence being guarded from all the Treacherous Assaults of my Enemies, Whigs and Trimmers, I may walk abroad in safety under the Character of  
Your Honour's Most Obedient, and Most Devoted Humble Servant, Mat. Taubman.   

THE Loyal Club.  

HAil, Royal Synod! Sons of Loyalty:  
That Parliament whose Hearts and Tongues agree:  
With one consent the Loyal Health goes round,  
And Universal Harmony is found:  
The Crowns Defence, the Beauty of the Field,  
The People's Safeguard, and the Prince's Shield:  
The Pride o'th' Court, the Glory of the Camp,  
The Sterling Ore that bears the Royal Stamp:  
That Touchstone where no Counterfeit can pass,  
But soon discovers all its secret Brass;  
Trimmer and Whig, like Copper faced with Tin,  
Currant without, and Counterfeit within;  
The Bit and Bridle of the Factious Bands,  
That checks their stubborn Necks, and binds their Hands:  
The Rebels Dread and Fear, that gives them Law;  
The Rabbles Curb, that keeps the Beast in awe.   

Whilist every night You your bright beams display,  
The Factions, like gross Vapours, waste away.  
YOU, like the Stars, fixed constant to your Sphere,  
To CHARLES his Wain pay Homage all the year;  
Whilst Whig-Cabals, like Exhalations drawn  
From all the poisonous Treason-Sinks in Town,  
From their aspiring Heights come tumbling down;  
The grosser Bubbles mounting up too far,  
Like  fall, shot from an angry Star.  
No Whig nor Trimmer can inhabit there;  
They're Exhalations cannot reach Your Sphere.  
Those Wills i'th' Wisp that lead Men from the Road,  
To see a Sun more bright, revile their God:  
The Sun which gave them Being they dis-own,  
And fall to Earth, who cannot mount his Throne.  
When e'er that Fiery-Comet does appear  
Within the Centre of our Hemisphere,  
The Fate-portending Tail does still pronounce,  
The fall of Kingdoms and the date of Crowns.  
That Monstrous Tyrant with his Gorgon face,  
Whose looks are Death, this late had been our Case,  
Had not the LOYAL CLUB retrieved our Fate,  
And stood the Atlas of the Throne and State.  
That Throne Heaven guard, and HIM that sits thereon,  
And YOU, next Heaven, the Pillars of that Throne;  
May Loyalty with Friendship link for ever,  
No Tyrants force that Gordian Knot dissever.  
May never Discord in this CLUB be found,  
But Echoing Huzza's from th' Skies rebound,  
And every Glass with Caesar's Health be crowned.    

The CONTENTS.  

THE Poets Address to the King. 1  
The Excellency of Monarchy. a Panegyric. 4  
On his Majesty's Recovery at Windsor. 7  
The Succession. 10  
A Paradox against Liberty, Written by the Lords, during their Imprisonment in the Tower. 13  
The last Speech of Sr. Edmundbury Godfrye's Ghost. 21  
On the Death of the Protestant Joiner. 24  
Innocence Vnveiled; or, a Poem on the Acquittal of the Lord Chief Justice Scrogs. 28  
Advice to the Painter's Adviser. 30  
The Hypocritical Christian: or the Conventicling Citizen. 34  
On the Loyal Apprentices Feast. 40  
On old Doctor Wild's new Poem to his old Friend upon the new Parliament. 44  
Scanda! Proof, or an Heroic Poem on the Renowned Champions of the good old Cause, Impudent Dick Janeway, and the rest of the Factious Tribe. 48  
Fitz— Harris his Farewell to the World, or a Traitor's Just Reward. 52  
The Meal Tubb Plot. 55  
A Dialogue between the Ghosts of the two last Parliaments at their Interview Fuimur Troes Westminster Ghost's Advice. 57  
Nitimur in Vetitum Oxford Ghost. 60  
Westminster Ghost. 61  
Tom Think Ghost. 74  
Sejanus, or the Popular Favourite. 70  
The Whig cabal. 75  
The Presbyterian Club. 77  
The true Presbyterian without Disguise. 80  
The Dissenter. 87  
The Solicitous Citizen. 90  
Iter Boreale. 94  
The Madman's Hospital, or Presbyterian Itch 96  
State Cases put to Jack Presbyter. 99  
The Geneva Litany. 102  
The Norwich Litany. 105  
The Loyal Litany. 108  
The last will and Testament of Anthony King of Poland. 111  
A Codecil to the Former Will. 115  
Shaftsburys farewell, or the Association. 120  
The Recovery. 123  
On the King's Deliverance at Newmarket. 127    

THE Poets Address TO THE KING.  

THO Scribbling Factions are so saucy grown,  
To dart cursed Libels at your Sacred Throne,  
To strive to pre-depose your Royal Heirs,  
And seek your Life who frankly gave them theirs,  
Yet (Mighty Sir) the Poets are your own,  
Their Lives and Pens (for Fortunes they have none)  
Reason, and Wit are faithful to their Prince,  
Nay he that Writes against you can't Write Sense,  
The Sacred Nine Elected you Supreme,  
And Swore Allegiance to your Diadem;  
And all the Jobbers of the Rhyming Crew  
Are Rebels even to them when so to You.   

Th' Old Loyal Blood when your kind Beams withdrew,  
Unmurmuring Slept till they returned anew;  
Then (like the Lust of Plants) its Automs strong  
To deck th' old Branches, & to shoot forth young.  
Westminster was an Autumn to our Lays,  
But th' Oxford Nipping Spring had killed our Bays,  
Had not your Mercy and Dissolving Skill  
Stopped both their Doing, and our Suffering iii.  
Had we th' Hesperian Fruit, you should not pull,  
We'd freely drop you a whole Checquer full,  
(But equal Heaven has given it to the Dull.)  
Wit by Camelion Nourishment conceives,  
And was Decreed only to put forth Leaves.   

Hail (Sacred Sir) although we have no Banks  
Yet we can pay (what none can give You) thanks  
Thanks for the Numerous Blessings which you shed  
Like the Impartial Sun on every Head.  
Thanks for the Factious Deluge you put by,  
And thanks for th' humble stoop to tell us why  
But thanks above all thinking for your Care  
To stop that Tap which would have drowned your Heir   

Illustrious James thou couldst not bear such thing  
Wert thou not Son and Brother to such Kings;  
How could we think from Justice thou shouldst fly  
A Land which does it to their King deny?   

The Sh'riffs of late such Naturalists are grown  
They'll turn no streams back to the Fountain, Throne  
And those grand Jews that Ignoramus bring  
For Barrabas would Crucify their King.   

The Polish Prince is Charmed, he scorns weak Buff,  
His Conscience of Impenetrable stuff  
Arms the small Patriot, Plot, and Witness Proof;  
'Tis such a Knot as wants the Gordian Knife,  
For some Conspire his Death, and some his Life,  
And Nineteen Unbelievers Damn to Save  
That Head so lately Destined to a Grave.   

Once more Hail Sacred Monarch, may kind Stars  
Prosper your Peace, and Guard you in your Wars.  
Let God arise, who your Avenger is,  
And Scatter both Your Enemies and His;  
May Heaven attend your Councils and Dispose  
Success to all that's Yours except your Foes.   

Long may you Rule this Island with your Nod,  
And let the stubborn feel your angry Rod,  
Exceed your Father, and be like Your God.    

The Excellency of MONARCHY. A Panegyric,  

I.  
IF wanting wings one may ascend the Skies,  
And Phoebus' view without an eagle's Eyes,  
Then rouse up, (Muse) from thy Lethargic strains.  
And having first invoked the God of brains,  
Let the grand Subject of thy Measures be,  
No rule to England like a Monarchy.   

II.  
It is the Image of that Domination,  
By which Jehova rules the whole Creation,  
Angels nor Saints do in his Kingdom share,  
God is sole Monarch, they but Subjects are,  
Whose Laws are such as when they did Rebel,  
Sequestered not, but sent 'em strait to Hell.   

III.  
As old as that paternal Sovereignty,  
God placed in Adam, Ruled his People by,  
Disowned by none, but them whose minds aspire,  
And Envy One should have what All desire,  
For be't a Few or Many we live under,  
Such shall Repine, still whilst not of the Number.   

iv  
The Ancients did a Monarchy prefer,  
Made all their Gods Submit to Jupiter,  
And (where Affairs, and Nations first begun)  
Princes Decrees were th' only Laws of Man.  
Experience will avow it where there's Any,  
One Honest Man is sooner found then Many.   

V  
The Rational Soul performs a Prince's Part,  
She rules the Body by Monarchick Art,  
Poor Cranes and little Bees with shivering Wings,  
Observe their Leaders and obey their Kings.  
Nature herself disdains a crowded Throne,  
The Body's Monstrous, has more Heads then One.   

VI  
A Monarchy's that Politic simple State,  
Consists in Unity (Inseprate,  
Pure and Entire) A Government that stands,  
When others fall, touched but with Levelling hands.  
So natural and with such skill Endued,  
It makes one Body of a Multitude.   

VII.  
In order wherein later things Depend,  
On former, that's most perfect doth Attend  
On Unity: But this can never be,  
The popular state nor Aristocrasy:  
For where, or All, or Many bear the sway,  
Such Order to Confusion leads the Way.   

VIII.  
A Monarchy more quickly doth attain  
The end proposed, for 'tis the single Brain  
That ripens Council, and Concealeth best  
Princely designs, 'tis deeds proclaim 'em blest.  
Whilst numerous Heads are rarely of one Mind,  
Slow in their Motion, louder than the Wind.   

IX.  
Treason nor Fear so suddenly divides  
Th' united strength that in a Crown resides:  
Sedition prospers not, it seldom here,  
Results the Object of a Prince's fear.  
Then when an Empire Rome was ne'er so strong,  
Nor Triumphed under other Rule so long.   

X.  
A Monarchy abates those Feverish fits,  
Of Emulation, a free state begets;  
A Prince cannot his Reins so quickly slack,  
Or throw his burden on another's back:  
But where so many Rulers have Command,  
The works Transferred, and tossed from Hand to Hand.   

XI.  
The People or the Nobles to Debate  
The deep Concernments of a troubled state,  
Set Times and Places have assigned them, they  
First Meet, and then Adjourn from Day to Day.  
Whereas a Monarch who by Nature's one,  
Deliberat's always, never's off his Throne.    

On His Majesty's Recovery AT WINDSOR.  

I.  
THanks High and Mighty one by whom King's Reign,  
We now return unto ourselves again,  
The Head affected could the Members all  
Lie otherwise then Apoplectical?  
So when a Spring Head has not passage clear,  
The Brooks subside, and Gasping Fish appear.   

II.  
WINDSOR whose lofty Top Mounts to the Sky,  
WINDSOR that Writers do so Magnify?  
How had thy name sneaked under ground and failed  
Had the Blood-thirsty-Traytor PLOT prevailed?  
Or had so good a Prince by Nature died,  
Nature and Thou (as guilty) had been Tried.   

III.  
In thee too long for shame without a Tomb.  
The best of Kings lay after Martyrdom,  
Regardlessly full Thirty Years were spent,  
'Twas well his Virtues stood his Monument,  
Whence let Contrivers do well or amiss,  
MOUSOLUS never had the like to His.   

iv  
His Sacred Urn disturbed who could have heard,  
Without Convulsive Fits what good Men feared?  
The Perfume of whose Ashes cleared the Air,  
More than Arabian Spices could by far,  
So that the Paroxysm had Remedy,  
Not from dull Physic, but by Sympathy.   

V  
Ask the Physician what an Ague means,  
He'll talk of Ebollition in the Veins,  
Ferment and Circulation stopped, and Chat,  
What Baker knows, and Brewer from his Fat,  
Take him aside and smile him in the Face,  
Indeed quoth he, an Agu's our Disgrace.   

VI  
And so it had been with a Witness sure,  
Had Providence not found a Sovereign Cure,  
That Providence that slumbers not nor sleeps,  
But his Anointed still in Safety keeps,  
Vouchsafeing Combinations to Reveal,  
When the Foundation's laid as deep as Hell.   

VII.  
Whether the Breathing of a Vain gave ease,  
And did the Preternatural Heat appease,  
In Royal Blood (whose Spirits are so fine,  
They of themselves might to give ease incline)  
We argue not, but I dare promise it,  
'Twas not the Jesuits Powder checked the fit.   

VIII.  
Summon Apothecaries, let them tell  
How oft our Oaken Bark for it they sell,  
And this as well as that has proved a spell.  
Sacred to Jove, how could her Boughs do less,  
Then yield a MONARCH shelter in distress?  
For which the Powers above we ever bless.   

IX.  
There lies our Fort, our Rock of firm Defence,  
'Gainst Foreign and Domestic Violence,  
Those signal Demonstrations have been given,  
Of Preservation (Maugre spite) from Heaven,  
Prove CHARLES on Earth Immortal whose Remove  
May it be late, then let him Reign above.   

X.  
(Welcome Great Sir) to your Majestic Seat,  
To Whitehall Royal and your Chair of State,  
From whence let Tamasis the Tidings send,  
To Tiber that our Tears are at an End,  
Then let the Consistory meet again,  
Fret, and lay Cap aside to cool the Brain.    

THE SUCCESSION.  

THE precious Gem called Loyalty grows scarce,  
The Saints pretending, turns it into Farce,  
Whilst England's great Prerogative does grow  
Into Contempt by the Tumultuous Foe,  
Whose subtle secret Hypocritick 'gins,  
Would turn the Frame of Nature off its pins  
A Painted Zeal must back what they Decree,  
And while the Cheat pretends to Loyalty,  
Heaven must be mocked t' uphold their Treachery.   

Blush then Disloyal Mortals, let your shame  
All wild Attempts against your Reason Tame,  
Nor think yourselves who are but Subjects, Kings,  
You know Religion teaches better things,  
Late reeling times sufficiently have shown  
The Effects of Masquerade Religion,  
When Charles the Great whose Memory shall Live,  
Could not their Loyal Principles Survive,  
And those who dare oppose Succession  
Would play the same Game over with the Son,  
This Speaks your trust, the Wounds continue green  
Since that Blessed Martyr was the Bloody Scene  
Of their Impieties; This Land was wracked,  
Its Bowels Torn, Nature's chief Fabric Cracked,  
Into Confusion hurled, till in the End  
(As each thing does unto its Centre tend,)  
The Clouds dispersed, and drove away Despair  
When in the Throne appeared the much wronged Heir   

Whom Heaven preserve, and may he ever be  
Secure from all pretending Loyalty,  
Princes are Gods Anointed and the Crown,  
None can detain but Heavens great Prince alone,  
When Nature's Law hath been Impeached such things  
Are wrought by Power Divine, the King of Kings,  
By that great Power they Rule, and by no less,  
And he who only raised them can depress.   

All Officers whether of Sword or Gown  
Are sworn t'uphold the Rights of England's Crown  
The Commons too before they Voice can claim  
Are duly Sworn i'th' House to Right the same,  
How can we Judge of this but as a Plot  
When such a Solemn Oath can be forgot?  
It's a high Crime to let a Papist Reign,  
But Perjury we'll Piously maintain,  
For a great Virtue when self-interest  
In Whispers tells us all goes for the Best,  
That Monster Faction evermore did range  
In these three Kingdoms to promote a Change,  
Which being upheld by Frenzy, Pride and Scorn,  
Of Monarcy, 'tis that's the wounding Thorn,  
To public Peace, and makes the greatest Scars  
That fills men's Mouths with Arms, Blood and Wars,  
'Tis that Deposes Princes, blackens Fame  
Whitens the Negro, makes the sound Man Lame,  
A Prince o'th' the Blood is a Regardless thing  
And if we durst we'd tell you so's a KING,  
Virtue's bright Lustre can't herself protect  
From base Ingratitude and Disrespect,  
It once hath been admired in that great Prince  
And still  be his Glorious Defence,  
Against the Tongue of everysenseless Brute  
That dare Succession to the Crown Dispute.    

A PARADOX Against Liberty, Written by the Lords, during their Imprisonment in the Tower.  

A Prison, or the Isle, are much the same;  
They only differ in Conceit and Name.  
As Art the first, Nature Immures the last;  
Only i'th' larger Mould her Figure's cast.  
All Islanders are in a Prison penned,  
And none at large, not those o'th' Continent.  
Each Mariner's a Prisoner in his Bark.  
The living World was prisoned in the Ark.  
And though it be abroad adays; the Light  
Still lodges in the Prison of black Night.  
The Sea itself, is to its bounds confined,  
And Aeolus in Caves shuts up the wind:  
Nothing in nature has such vast Extent,  
But is imprisoned in its Element.  
The Fish in watery Dungeons are enclosed;  
Men, Beasts, and Birds, to Earth and Ayr disposed.  
If to enlarge their narrow bounds, they strive,  
The fatal freedom rarely they survive.  
And as with them, we hope with Us 'twill be,  
When from their Prisons took, Death sets them free,  
Man can no more a native freedom boast;  
That Jewel ne'er was found, since first 'twas lost.  
'Twas then transported to the Stygian Coast.  
But still there's something which we do esteem,  
Only because 'tis like the polished Gem,  
And this we Freedom call; its credit grows  
From a false stamp, the guilded outside shows:  
Which avaricious Man attempts to get,  
Cheated and ruined with the Counterfeit.  
Like Children, Soapy-Bubbles they pursue,  
And the santastick Vision, take for true;  
But whilst they think bright forms they do enmbrace  
Ixion-like, they find a cloud i'th' place.  
Consent of Crowds, exceeding credit brings,  
And seems to slamp Truth's Image on false thing  
Not what's a real good, but what does seem,  
Still shares the blind and popular esteem.  
Whilst Sense and sancy overrule their choice,  
And Reason in th' Election has no voice.  
But Souls in vain have Reason's Attribute,  
If to the Rule, they cannot Sense submit.  
Hence the Heriock mind make; no complaint,  
But freedom does Enjoy, even in restraint.  
When Chains and Fetters do his Body bind,  
He than appears more free, and less confined.  
Discord and Care, which do distract him here,  
In durance take their leave and come not there.  
False Friends and Flatterers, then, take last adieu,  
Who often swore how faithful and how true,  
Things their dishonest bosoms never knew.  
These, like the Swallows, in cold weather fly;  
A Summer's fortune only draws them nigh.  
Elatt'rers a sort of fatal Suckers be,  
Which draw the Sap till they destroy the Tree.  
Fair Virtue to their Obticks when they bring,  
Seems a deformed and antiquated thing.  
Vice they commend, whilst Virtue is despised;  
The blackest by these Negroes most are prized.  
These slaves to Vice, do hug so hard and long,  
Till like the o'erfond Ape, they kill their Young.  
Ambition in the Mind's a Feverish Thirst,  
Which is by drinking drier than at First;  
And these will feed the humour till it burst.  
When Parasites the Arbiters are made,  
They'll place the Garland on a Beadlam's head.  
Riot, Excess, and Pleasure car' the Day,  
And Lust (the worst of Tyrants) bears the sway,  
At whose black Throne they blind Allegiance pay.  
Morose and dull they do account the Grave;  
And the Meek-man, fit only for a Slave:  
The Humble of a Nature poor and base;  
The , sprung from a dull insipid Race;  
And Temperance, a Gallant's chief disgrace.  
In Virtue's garb, the great Man's Vice they dress,  
Giving it Names which sound of Worthiness.  
They call his Pride the Grandeur of his mind,  
And for his lust the Name they have designed  
Is a complaisant Air, that makes men kind.  
Profaneness is his Wit; and his Excess  
By a Gay janty Humour they express;  
All his Debauches too must be no less.  
Thus they lap ruin up, and gild our Crimes;  
But Vice destroys, like Ivy, where it climbs.  
In us the dangrous state th' Ambitious see  
Of Greatness, Avarice, and Flattery.  
Gifts, Honour, Office, Greatness, Grace of Kings,  
Raise the Ambitious upon treacherous wings.  
Till from the mighty heights they giddy grow,  
And fall into the Ruin lies below.  
If the first fail, which do support our state,  
The last our Fall serve to percipitate.  
This with too dear Experience we have bought,  
And learned a Lesson, which too late was taught.  
Prosperity's a Drug, that must be ta'en  
Corrected, (Opium like) or else 'tis bane.  
A more Lethargic quality's in her,  
Than ever yet in Opium did appear.  
her fatal Poison to the Mind she sends,  
And uncorrect, in sure destruction ends.  
Whilst in the way her guilded snares she lays,  
Easie and credulous Man she soon betrays;  
Who sees her Roses and her Lilies here,  
But her concealed Snakes doth never fear.  
Prosperity's repasts puff up the Mind  
With unsubstantial and unwholesome wind.  
'Tis a Hault-Goust which Epicures do use,  
And choicer Viands squeamishly refuse.  
But when Affliction moulds your daily bread,  
'Tis then the staff of Life with which she's fed.  
Affliction (like the river Nile) bestows  
Her fruitful blessings wheresoever she flows:  
And if when she withdraws, strange Serpents rise,  
Not in her streams, but in the Soil, it lies.  
Which (like the great Apollo) she strikes dead,  
By the same Influence they first were bred,  
If she return, and show her hidden head.  
Great Minds (like the victorious palms) are wont  
Under the Weights of Fortune more to mount.  
Strongly suppressed, and hurled upon the ground,  
Filled with sublimer thoughts they more rebound.  
Still careless whether Fortune smile or frown,  
Whether she give, or take away a Crown.  
Our Walls are Tided, and by that we know  
She always ebbs, when she doth leave to flow,  
And constant in Inconstancy does grow.  
Make an attack all Injuries that can,  
They fall like Waves beneath a rising Swan.  
Freed and secured from all discordant Care,  
Here we our heads above the billows bear,  
Till from our shoulders they transplanted are.  
And from their summits, with dum gapes proclaim,  
Of a Quincumvirat the traitorous shame,  
But during all this Storm, we still do find  
An Anchor and a Haven in our Mind,  
Not beaten now, though then exposed to th' Wind.  
As Nightingales, our bosom we expose,  
And sing, environed with the sharpest woes.  
Degraded from vain Honour, here we grow  
More great and high, as Trees by lopping do.  
Honour's like froth in each Man's glass of Beer;  
'Tis least of use, though topmost it appear.  
The common Vouchee for ill acts she's grown;  
It and Religion all our Mischifs own.  
She reigns in Youth with an unruly heat,  
And in her falser Mirror shows them Great,  
Till Age and Time convince them of the Cheat.  
Rash heads approve what sober Men despise,  
And the fantastict Garb offends the Wise;  
She rarely now is seen, but in Disguise.  
True Honour and plain Honesty's the same;  
From various Dwellings, comes the various Name:  
For whilst she gay in Courts, she's Honour there,  
But Honesty with us in Durance here.  
In differing States, most things have difference:  
What pleased this day, the next offends the Prince.  
The Prosperous loath what the Afflicted love;  
Prisoners abhor, what free, they did approve.  
And still there's power in each Man choice, to make  
Himself content, if he can wisely take,  
And think his own (though hard) a happy Stake.  
In every state does some Contentment dwell,  
And here we sinned a Palace in a Cell.  
Good is good ev'ry where, and every thing,  
And good can of itself no Evil bring.  
All good's a ray of the first Light alone;  
When Ill approaches, only that's our own.  
virtue's not gained by spending of our days  
In pleasure, Princes Courts, or from their Rays.  
At virtue's Coast by Travel we arrive,  
And so by Travel virtue's kept alive.  
She dwindles if she want due Exercise;  
But used, grows brighter, and still multiplies.  
Virtue increases, Snow-ball-like, rolled on:  
A lazy virtue's next of kin to None.  
Prisoners indeed they be, that do lay by  
At once their Freedom and their Industry.  
If Men turn Drones within these honeyed Hives,  
It lies i'th' prisoner's heart, and not his Gyves.  
The good grows better here, the bad grows worse;  
The Spur that makes this go, does jade that Horse.  
Hence the great'st part are malcontent and sad,  
Since that the Good are fewer than the bad.  
A Bliss that springs from penitential joy,  
Is the Minds balsam in each sharp Annoy;  
Fools only their own Comforts do destroy.  
To this Retrement we can freely go;  
'Tis the great'st pace of Majesty below:  
Or stirring out imports the World to know.  
The Goaler's Centinel to guard our Doors,  
And Castles are contained i'th' narrow Floors.  
More happy and more safe, secured from Foes,  
Than those whom Troops of Enemies enclose.  
Much more as Prisoners, our high bliss we boast,  
Being secured from such a mighty Host  
Gf deadly Foes, so fierce with wrath and might,  
Ourselves so feeble, and unfit to fight  
'Gainst the black band of vicious and Profane,  
Who Thousands do undo in each Campain.  
In the Assault, we seldom brook the Field.  
But fly like Hares, or else like Cowards yield.  
Yet this the World esteems an hard estate,  
And Us, who feel it, count unfortunate.  
Show then, Philosophy! the state wherein  
Such Safety, and so much Content is seen.  
Wherein less rugged or steep hindrance lies,  
T'obstruct the Path unto Perfection's prize.  
The useful Rod's only bound up for this,  
To whip and lash the Childish on to Bliss;  
Who sullenly refuse the Rod to kiss,  
And so the Blessing in the Whipping miss.  
Some, like the Whale, only designed to play  
In fruteless pleasures, drive the flying day;  
As Boys with Clackers drive the Lent away.  
Whilst here, we stop the hours of time, that flies,  
With Contemplation's nobler Exercise.  
Maurge all Goals, think we e'er long must die,  
And then enjoy an endless Liberty;  
Death will redeem from long Captivity.  
Man's Life's a Piece spun of a various Thread;  
In some 'tis fine, in some a courser Web.  
The Threads across, th' Occurrences of Fate,  
Cut early from the Loom by Death or late.  
The Dread of Kings, Death, does not us dismay;  
To Die's less than be Tantalised each day.  
What Man complains, with Weariness oppressed,  
That Night is come, the only Time to Rest?    

The last SPEECH OF Sr. Edmundbury Godfrey's Ghost.  

LOok up? Base Croaking Zealots of the Age,  
Before your Frenzy Wits, fall into rage;  
Look here? Who Vindicates the Royal Stage.  
Godfrey's brave Spirit, doth this day appear,  
Tremble ye now for Anger, or for Fear.  
His worthy Ghost, that courted Sacred good,  
Has past the dangers, of the Stygian Flood;  
Left the Elysian Shades, by strict commands,  
To see once more how this poor Country stands.  
But to our shame his grieved Soul doth find,  
(Lunatic Zeal) with us hath Been too kind,  
And struck his Loving Fellow Subjects Blind.  
He fears our Disobedience to a Prince,  
Whom Heaven protected, (he can the World convince,  
From Zealous Rage; and Traitors hands long since.  
He sees and fears, that in-bread Wars are coming,  
By Zealous Prayer created, Preached by cunning,  
Holy Longwinded, Fervent, Piows, Men  
Who seem as innocent as the pretty Wren;  
But if well tried, we easily may find,  
They unto none, but to themselves are kind;  
Envy all happiness, but what's their own,  
Have humble outsides, inwardly o'ergrown,  
With Pride, Ambition, snd Self-Interest;  
Longing with Crowns themselves for to Invest,  
For what is Monarchy to them that say,  
They are all Monarch's, that Zealoufly can Pray  
He sees foul threaten, and intestine Thunder,  
The Plagues of Eating Swords, Domestic Plunder  
Foretells the Father's striking of his Suns,  
Who without Mercy, on their Old Sire runs;  
Sees the Sons base Revenge upon the Father,  
Who never leave, till all lie dead together;  
Friend killing Friend, a Brother Fights a Brother  
And spares his own Blood less than any other.  
A wake, a wake, I say awake be times,  
Before your Souls, feed on such Hellish Crimes;  
Let your own reason, cleat your blinded Eyes,  
Let sad experience, banish such Tragedies;  
And as you older are, still grow more wise.  
Beware those Monsters, that have taught your Zeals,  
First to Bethrone your Prince (whom God an heals,)  
Then brings Destruction, to your Public Weals,  
For doubtless such base Principles as these,  
Cannot, but must the Heavenly Power Displease.  
Godfrey's fore-grived-Ghost, weeps Bloody Tears,  
Seeing you drawn by jealoufies and Fears,  
To act those things, which Murdering sorrow bears.  
Is it so long since, that you have forgot,  
Can you so soon wash out that Royal Spots,  
Of Sacred Innocent Blood, bring back to mind,  
Murdering the Sire, then to the Son be kind,  
And say again your Zeal had made you blind.  
Let not Religion's Cloak, your Bodies cover,  
And under That Both Prince and Country Smother.  
To make yourselves, more hateful, and less good  
Than Lucifer and his Rebellious. Brood.  
You as a parelel to them I bring,  
Both striving (with this Difference in the thing,)  
They 'gain their Heavenly—,  
But you, both 'gainst, your Heaven and Earthly King.  
But yet a King so good. so sweet, so great.  
Makes all your joys and happiness Complete.  
Them only are excepted, that you see  
Fain would be Monarch's, Kings as well as Herald  
Let not your Loving Godfrey longer weep,  
But let his weary Ghost retire to sleep;  
Who never can have rest, unless he find,  
Your souls more Loyal to your Prince more kind;  
Endeavouring still to imitate those Quires,  
That with their Harps, and Hearts, and Sacred Lyres,  
Sing to their Heavenly King, who can alone,  
Set whom he Pleases on an Earthly Throne.    

ON THE DEATH Of the Protestant Joiner.  

I.  
BRave College is Hanged, the Chief of our hopes,  
For pulling down Bishops and making New Popes,  
Our dear Brother Property crawls on the Ground,  
In Poland, K— Anthony ne'er will be Crowned:  
For now they're resolved, that Hearts shall be Trump,  
And the Prentices Swear, they will Burn the Old Rump.   

II.  
Brave College, both Champion and Carver of Laws,  
Who died undaunted, and stuck to the Cause;  
What mischief might thou to the Godly have done  
Had thy daring Soul, dreaded the World to come?  
And all thy dear Party to danger exposed.  
If thou to the World, had thy secrets disclosed.   

III.  
But now thou art Hanged, and that fear is past,  
Were all thats in question as safe in the Nest,  
Then we some new means, might consult or contrive,  
To drive on our purpose, to prosper or thrive:  
But the Popish PLOT, has now quite lost its Name,  
And none thy bright Blunderbush dare to maintain.   

iv  
What K— but Great College, could ere make a Pope  
Tho' he was o'er ruled by the end of the Rope?  
Great College, was certainly Jure Divino,  
When the Triple Crown, on the Pope's Heap did Shino.  
He burned him to ashes, for pastime like Nero  
Then strait made a new one, such Power had our Here.   

V  
Great College, must certainly die a good Martyr,  
Being Knight of the Halter, and above the Garter;  
Our dear Brother Statesman, tho' bred in a Saw-pit,  
Had Internal Genius, enough to or ethrow Wit:  
He framed a new Moddle, to limit the K—,  
In hopes Crown and Sceptre, might truckle to him.   

VI  
Great, Britain, ne'er bred such a Brother as College,  
He made Seven Popes, in his Time on our knowledge;  
Our Signals of Crimes, he put in the Pope's Arms  
Which prudent Contrivance, our Function Alarms.  
With threats in Petition, King's Power to restrain,  
Yet Towser and Broomstaff, rides Admiral again.   

VII.  
Great Hanibals Conquest, nor oliver's Nose,  
Can with such small Slaughter, subdue such great Foes,  
As he in this three years, with the help of our Party,  
Hath checked our three Kingdoms and Magna Carta.  
The Head of our Church, and the Head of our Cause,  
He would have maintained them by Perjury and Blows.   

VIII.  
He now may becalled, a third Saviour o'th' Nation,  
To save his dear Church he Renounced Salvation;  
Like Famous Cargile, he died for King Jesus,  
Defying Church Idols; enough to amaze us:  
He tied up together, both his and our Crimes,  
And died like a Devil, to damp our Designs.   

IX.  
Our cause tothth' Carrecter-men, we must refer  
To Shadwell, and Settle, to Curtis, and Carr.  
To know who Succeeds, our Late Captain the Joiner,  
He must be an Artist, some Carver, or coiner,  
To make our Solemnity, and some New Popes,  
On which our dependency, hangs and our hopes.   

X.  
But when the time comes, that the Pope must be burned  
Ifear we shall find that the Tide is much turned?  
For the Tory Party, hath got so much ground,  
To Head a Rebellion there's none will be found;  
For now they're Resolved that Hearts shall be Trump;  
And the Prentices Swear, they'll burn the Old Rump.   

XI.  
Such a confused Monster, they swear they'll Compose  
Of all the Dissenters, that are the King's Foes;  
The Baptist, and Biter, the Pendant, and Quaker,  
From which they will draw such a prodigious Creature:  
More Diabolical Invective far,  
Then all Popes Solemnity's at Temple-Barr.   

XII.  
Our Common-Councel let's Summon together,  
To Panel packed Jury's, Let's make't our endeavour,  
For an Habeus Corpus, Insists on our Power;  
To fetch our Great Patriots out of the Tower;  
And then we'll Dispute the Case, for Reformation,  
And make the Proud Torys Resign us the Nation.    

INNOCENCE UNVEILED: OR, A POEM On the Acquittal of the Lord Chief Justice SCROGS.  
Right Honourable,  

IMperious Bedlow, and his Oaten Friend,  
Will now begin to buckle, or to bend:  
Now I do plainly see that they are Fools,  
They find it dangerous meddling with Edgetools  
Justice is sharp when 'tis too much abused,  
Justice unjustly lately was accused:  
And now what follows, Scourges of the Law,  
To keep such boldfaced Fellows all in awe.  
Your Innocence (unless I miss my mark)  
Will make their Evidence look dull and dark.  
Had they but found you Guilty, I dare swing  
If they had let alone our Gracious King.  
Their Heads were very high, their Hearts too stout,  
Now give their Pride and Confidence a rout.  
The House of Commons is there All in All,  
And while they stand, the Coxcombs cannot fall.  
This is their strong conceit; they do not fear:  
But every man that has an ear to hear,  
Shall shortly hear that they have spoiled their sport  
By nothing more, than by this false Report.  
Those Scribblers Harris, Smith, and Care, will quake,  
For their Foundation doth begin to shake:  
The first and second Saviour both look pale,  
To see their Gall and Malice doth so fall:  
The Rubbish is removed, Knaves must fly hence,  
For who can stand against our Innocence!  
The Chief in Justice shines in's proper place,  
Whilst Envy lies obscured with great disgrace.  
Plot on, thou puny Levite, but beware  
(Both Thou, the Captain Harris, Smith, and Care,  
Of him you aimed to catch within your Snare.  
His great Integrity is fully known,  
And well approved by him that wears the Crown;  
Is't a light thing to tread our Justice down?  
Might Justice once be trodden under feet,  
Then every Knave would strive for CHARLES his Seat:  
Justice is not so weak as you suppose;  
Your Smith may sooner take the Devil by th' Nose,  
Than think his Libels or your Oaths can taint  
That that's the Badge of every Earthly Saint.  
Injustice is your Justice, I'm afraid,  
But yet by Justice you shall all be paid?  
You have had Rope enough too much I doubt,  
Indeed I wonder that your Necks are out.  
You are not Hanged, but choked up in your Throats,  
Now who'll believe the Reverend Dr. Oates,  
Or the Heroic Captain? Commons may  
Not when they find your Truth is gone astray:  
My Lord Chief Justice Story will be told,  
And 'twill appear that you have been too bold,  
And Truth and Justice both at once 've sold.    

ADVICE TO THE Painter's Adviser,  

WE Dogs and Lions by their Voices know,  
For by their Notes themselves all Creatures show;  
Yet here's a Thing I know not what to call,  
He roars and Barks; what's Good he curses all.  
No Monster that e'er yet from afric came,  
But what would start at thy prodigious Fame;  
Yet we thy Name nor Pedigree can tell,  
Thou darest Blaspheme beyond the Mouths of Hell.  
What shall I call thee, Monster or base Fiend,  
That canst daub Paper to so base an end?  
Unmouth that Tongue, maugre its double Pale,  
(Fit Instrument to tell the Devil's Tale)  
Which dared blaspheme that Sacred Majesty,  
The voice of Angels joyed to Deify.  
Foul Traitor, to bespatter such a King  
With th' Aspish Poison of thy slandering,  
Whose every Action (if the Truth we scan)  
Speaks as much God, as his Foes find him Man?  
A Prince so tender of his Subjects Good,  
As would redeem the meanest with his Blood:  
Heavens Joy, Earth's Pride; when After-age shall tell  
His Worth and Parts, 'twill want a Parrellel.  
Let Greece and Rome their Hero's Punies call,  
Our Charles the Great I'm sure outdoes them all.  
Cursed Caitiff, thy sharp Arrow, bitter word,  
gauled more than Europe's many edged Sword.  
Ye Heavens look to't, he that attempts so high  
As Vice-God Charles, threats Gignatomachy.  
So he that stabbed famed Millain's Duke of yore,  
By Practice at his Picture did no more.  
But (Oh! the Devil) see the Serpent flies  
To his first course, he doubles his Advice  
To a poor Painter, to draw this and that,  
And draws himself into the Lord knows what.  
Even so those Brats of sin we blush to own,  
We bring to others doors, and lay them down.  
But (pox upon his Picture) to be short,  
The wary White could have no colour for't;  
Else Hell had paid the Wages of th' abuse,  
His Quidlibit audendi's no excuse.  
King's failings (if th' are any) ought not lie  
An open Prospect for the Vulgar Eye.  
He that drew Alexander's scarry Face,  
Discreetly put his Finger on the place:  
But where's the Artest that can frame a Line,  
To Shadow or Eclipse the Glorious Shine  
Of CHARLES' Ray? what Eagle-eye can gaze  
On so much Sun, or fully such a Blaze.  
Illustrious i'th' Abstract, whose each Glance  
Would strike Presumption out of Countenance;  
Much less can any draw his Treasured Mind,  
To every Noble Virtuous Mood inclined;  
Unblemished as the Saints, the Sun less clear  
In that first Shine which Summered all the Year:  
Our Painters well knew this, who  read o'er  
A Face more puzzling Art, a Mind much more.  
Then, Devil do thy worst, with thy Advice,  
Charles and his Court are 'bove thy Calumnies.  
Powers and Dignities approach the Skies,  
Like Ships the more the Waves do under rise.  
But 'tis not each God's Fate alone, else why  
Do Miscreants slight the Angel's Ministry?  
Ours is but little lower, one remove,  
Vicegerent to the King of Kings above.  
The best are still the most maligned with wrong,  
Virtue's no fence against a spiteful Tongue;  
Is th' Object of his profanation.  
Tho pure as new fallen Snow, free from offence,  
As blameless Truth, and white as Innocence.  
His breath blasts those, whose breath perfuming Air,  
Makes all (save that) as sweet as they are fair,  
Unbittered bitterness itself of all,  
Earth's Heavenly few, the most Angelical,  
But Vice be damned, thou art like one of those,  
Who giddied in a Ship at Sea, suppose  
The Continent doth move as well as they,  
All tread awry to those whose Feet are splay.  
If (though our thoughts are free) we must not think  
Ill of the King; he that shall black his Ink,  
And pale his Paper with words, startles more,  
Than, Lord, have mercy, chalked upon the door,  
To traduce Princes in the shapes of sin,  
Wise Painters choose to draw the Devil in;  
These are the marks o'th' Beasts, who casts an eye  
On those (as on a Basilisk) must die.  
The Mecha Pilgrims at their Prophet's Tomb,  
Need nothing else to make them blind or dumb.  
Here now my Muse would sit as Judge at last,  
And Sentence pass on every Sentence past;  
But he's not worth the while, Avaunt, be gone;  
Yet first attend thy Benediction:  
Thou that dar'st own, and dost desire no Name,  
But what is Registered to endless shame,  
Live long in all the Plagues this World affords;  
And if thou wilt repent and eat thy words  
To choke thee; or, to give the Devil's due,  
The Hangman draw thee, and thy Painter too.    

THE HYPOCRITICAL CHRISTIAN: OR THE Conventicling Citizen.  

WEll! for a careful foresight, sober wit,  
Give me a Godly, zealous, Wiggish Cit  
He twice a Week to Conventicle walks,  
Where Bawling, Canting Preacher Nonsense talks.  
He squeamish Fool for Orthodox Divine  
Near cares; because he cannot Sob, and Whine.  
He likes a Tubster with his down cast Face,  
His Comic Postures, and his damned Grimace.  
But hates the Reverend Clergy of the Town,  
Disdains with Pride a Pulpiteer in Gown.  
And every Parson Dr. Crape he'll call;  
Like Lad of late at Merchant- Tailors Hall.  
Whose sneaking looks his Principles betrayed.  
It was a sly, starved Whig in Masquerade,  
A stingy perjured, faithless Renegade.  
The Godly Puppet came (he said) to see,  
And know the Humour of the Company.  
But the gluttonous Ass he was so nesty,  
Hewed down the Walls of the Venison Pastry.  
To come to's roast; Alas! the Tarts and Pies,  
To's Ostrich-stomack fell a Sacrifice.  
His Appetite was keen for all's pretences,  
He pleased his Eye, and Banqu'tted his Senses.  
Then all the generous Guests traduces,  
With stirring, dirty, pit'ful abuses.  
Because they drank a Loyal Health or two,  
He calls them Popish, Torish drunken Crew.  
A parcel of mean sordid Lads there were,  
Who he was certain near eat Buck before.  
For such abuses let the Lad beware,  
And so let pimping, Whiggish Harry Care.  
Who's Tugging daily to Promote the Cause,  
To T'wart all Justice, and make Null the Laws.  
One Ignoramus-man, (says he) at least,  
Is able purchase all that were at Feast.  
All their Estates in equal Balance laid,  
By one Whig-Jury-man's would be outweighed.  
Faith! Harry's very generous; he prates  
As though he really knew all men's Estates.  
Poor Mr. Christian's dead, and th' Duke's Grace,  
May give to Harry his old Steward's Place.  
For he's a Godly, Honest Man, and true,  
And does deserve his Place, and Pill'ry too.  
His too hot Zeal for Teckley Reformation,  
In broaching Falsehoods, t'embroil the Nation;  
His Venting this, and contradicting that,  
Show him more Fool, or Knave, than pillared Nat:  
The greatest Truths that published can be,  
By Hodge; are Story's and damned Ribaldry,  
If it with his and Gotham's disagree,  
The Duke's young Daughter could not live, 'twas said  
'Twas so infirm a Child, and since 'tis dead.  
The Serenading Crew, for all their squeaking,  
Were Thiefs, and did intent House-breaking.  
Contrived with's Grace, a black and dismal War,  
To batter him with Fiddles and Gitter,  
The Instrument of Death, a small Rechorder,  
And Fiddle Stick, and Pipe to do th' Murder.  
The Chichester Informer took a Pot,  
Too much of Brandy; and his Brains were hot,  
Broke Windows, was a swearing drunken Sot.  
HE had wild Freaks, ungovernable Passions,  
And died (like Bishop's Horse) of the Fashions.  
The fine Prelatic Jade will sure be Sainted,  
Yes, yes: If Baxter's book of Saints reprinted.  
Then Curtiss, Care with mighty Polander,  
Shall have their Names in Whiggish Calendar.  
And all who carry on the work o'th' Laird.  
Shall have a good and bountiful Reward.  
In this large Catalogue of Fools and Knaves,  
Come Leaden Constables with Wooden Staves.  
With Solemn Oaths they gravely can dispense,  
They have a swinging well stretched Conscience.  
Who take up the Office out of mighty Zeal,  
To support their Brethren o'th' Common Weal.  
They to th' Brotherhood send holy Greetings,  
Acquaint them how they'll come molest th' Meetings.  
Then hay! the Godly Flock's dispersed and gone,  
And all (like young Fledged Birds) are quickly Flown.  
The Preacher then with's Congregation,  
Give thanks for this great Preservation,  
And Orders that th' Thanks of the House be sent,  
To Godly Constable for's good intent.  
O! what will not Men do, if this they dare,  
To Affront Justice? And themselves Forswear  
To Oblige a few, and such a Faction please,  
Who in this Government were ne'er at ease.  
Thus Officer (though gravely Sworn) Cologues,  
Calls Hilton Fool, and all th' Informers Rogues.  
Though he hath Warrants with him, that's all one,  
In spite of Laws, he Executeth none.  
'Tis strange, such Meetings cannot silenced be,  
Where Preacher bawls so much for Liberty,  
And boldly talks of Subject's Property.  
Oh! Horrid Insolence! can Justice sleep?  
Not see such Vermin into Corners creep?  
Seduce poor Women, and on Cit impose,  
Draw him through Bogs of Error by the Nose.  
Tell him of Plots, and great Designs, forsooth  
All which the Credulous Cit sucks in for Truth,  
That several Jesuits were up and down,  
In close Cabals, for to enslave the Town.  
It was, not long ago at Lor'ners-Hall,  
That Youngster did for Magna Charta Bawl.  
And (like Hugh Peter) with new strange Alarms,  
Bid them beware, stand stiffly to their Arms.  
To quit themselves like Men; be Strong and Stout,  
Secure their Persons, and the Tories Rout.  
What? lose the Privilege of Choosing Shrieves,  
Why North and Richardo will prove two deadly Thiefs.  
They'll rob you of your Jury's here at home,  
And make you fall sad Victims unto Rome.  
Then still oppose the Polls of Sir John More,  
He hugs that Witch, the Babylonic Whore,  
Will ne'er your Native Liberty's restore.  
Be ready too, your Charter to secure,  
Who those damned Que-Warranto's can't endure?  
You see that Oxford stoutly doth Defy,  
Such Writs; and will protect their Liberty.  
ne'er trust their Charter in the Hands of King's,  
Who'd bauk their Privilege, and clip their Wings.  
Then stand it out Boys still, and still be Famous,  
(Like Oxford Townsmen) for old Ignoramus.  
But I'm informed of late that Whiggish Town  
Is Altered strangely; and is Loyal grown,  
An Impudent Resistance does disown.  
The Charter they'll Resign for all the bawling,  
Of Foolish Wright, and selfconceited Pawling.  
To oppose the Loyalists the Whigs don't dare,  
The Youngsters laugh at dull Machine the Mayor.  
Thus Honesty, I hope, in vogue may be,  
And Cit may find his long lost Loyalty,  
And bawl no more for Bugbear Property.  
May names of Parties and Distinctions cease,  
May Faction fall, and Loyalty increase,  
To Establish here an Universal Peace.  
May Cit to Church devoutly go and Pray,  
And ne'er despise a Godly-Homily.  
ne'er Meet thus in Un-hallowed Barns and Sties,  
And blindly Offer their Fool's Sacrifice.  
Leave Cit, those Synagogues, and do Conform,  
Into the Church's Breast at last Return.  
Cast off (for Shame) the Factious Crew; you know  
How they Profanely impudent do grow.  
An Amorous Brother late so kind and tender,  
Did there with Sister Publicly Engender.  
The Preacher saw the Godly Act of Grace,  
Saw the Lewd Couple Zealously Embrace.  
He nodded, Frowned, and gravely did Reprove,  
Their wicked Satyr's way, of Brutal Love.  
Hence forth he'll have a Smarter Rod in Pickle,  
For such Debaucher's of's dear Conventicle.  
From such Vile Cells as from Contagion slay,  
Such Deeds were never seen in Monast'ry.  
Believe it (to th' Eternal shame of Meetings)  
Nor in our Churches are such Carnal Greetings.  
Then prithee Disaffected Cit Comply,  
With Law; and thou'lt enjoy thy Liberty.  
Securely live beneath thy Vine at ease.  
Thy Credit and thy Fortune will increase.  
Be Loyal, and Defend the Kings Just Right,  
ne'er read a Factious Pamphlet with delight.  
ne'er seed on Horse flesh; nor read vain Discourses,  
'Twixt Charing-Cross and your Wool-Church-Horses.  
ne'er have a Vicious thought 'gainst Majesty,  
But let all Treason Talkers silenced be,  
Those Vermin that do girn at Monarchy.  
Oppose their barking; and let the World know  
You can be honest, if you would be so.  
The Comet that appeared did sure portend,  
That all your Factions here will have an end,  
And Zealous Conventiclers will amend.    

On the Loyal Apprentices FEAST.  

THe buisy Town grew still, and Traitorous Whigs  
Had lately changed their Looks & Periwigs,  
Lest Envy's Face behind, and sniveling Cant,  
And Hector's turned, with Loyalists to Rant.  
I know not which it was, whether They thought  
Some Conventicling Whores might there be brought  
By strict Devotion to meet a BROTHER;  
Or whether 'twas they Scented out some other  
Warm Zealous Game, as Pastry, Pudding-Pie,  
Not Superstitious now, if WHIG be by.  
But something 'twas made Godly'st Men o'th'Nation  
Back-slide a little now for Recreation;  
And here's a Penitential Psalm of One  
That tells his BRETHREN what Himself has done  
At LOTAL-FEAST in MERCHNT-TAYLORS-HALL  
'Mongst Coxcomb-Lords, and Worshippers of BAAL;  
Wither Foolish KING, and PRINCE'S too had sent  
Fat BUCKS, in Sacrifice to IDOLS meant.  
Yet 'mongst such Fools a WHIG can Eat and Drink,  
Whilst H'one thing Speaks, and doth another Think.  
He in Deceit can manage cunning slight;  
Not so the Tories, they must be downright,  
And naturally are so to all men's sight.  
But Whigs with Reservation Speak and Writ,  
And far outdo the greatest Jesuit.  
Well; Fools we must be then, the Whigs will have  
For their dear selves the other Surname, Knave.  
Then let them have't, well give the Devil's due,  
Whig earns it better than Papist, Turk, or Jew:  
'Tis but recounting in FANATIC strain  
The foulest Crimes, and then they're SAINT again.  
A FALLEN STAR to day, perhaps to morrow  
May shine like LUCIFER, and from him borrow  
A brand or two of his Infernal LIGHT,  
T'intoxicate poor people in the Night.  
New Lights, and new Discoveries they bring,  
Dark-Lanthorn-Counsels how to 'buse the King;  
Make every thing Ridiculous appear,  
That pleases HIM, or any LOYAL PEER.  
The ROYAL FAM'LY's but a Popish Crew,  
And Doctor Crape-Gowns are all Papists too;  
A puny Prayers the best thing they can tell ye,  
Whilst their Devotion's fixed upon their Belly:  
Loyal ADDRESSES, and ABHORRENCES,  
(Quoth Turncoat Whig) are sottish Flatteries;  
The KING delights in Parasites, we see,  
And none but Fools can in His Favour be;  
Dissolving Parliaments deserves Damnation,  
For keeping Public Justice from the Nation;  
And th' Godly Persecuted. 'Lass! 'tis worse  
Than Tyranny, or Arbitrary Force.  
Popery is come already! Where be we?  
Brethren, stand fast in Christian Liberty.  
See how the Loval Beagles of the Town  
Flock from their Shops, t'adore the Idol CROWN.  
Those  Curs, that sometimes used to help's,  
And foll'w our keen Rebellious Bloodhound Whelps,  
They're now declaring for the ROYAL CAUSE,  
Think KINGLY BLOOD too Sacred for our Jaws.  
Help now or never, Baxter, Curtis, Care,  
And all True Patriots of our Holy War;  
The KING and COURT can't be more odious made,  
Strike now; strike home, or all our PLOT's betrayed.  
Thus far the Whigs; For here the True Sense lies  
Of all their Libels, Rhithmes, and Forgeries;  
And yet they're LOYAL still; But ye must know  
'Tis with a Mental Reservation though,  
As Brother Poet has at last confessed;  
Who, if he'd hid This Truth, had spoiled his Jest.  
Ay, 've experienced well what LOYALTY  
Since Forty One, his Brethren brood and he  
Are like to show; which makes us think, and say,  
Old Nicks as True, and Loyal too, as They.  
But YOU, Brave Loyal YOUTHS (that Fools & Fops  
Are nicknamed by the Rebel-Rout) Your shops  
Shall be Protected, by the sovereign Charms  
Of CHARLES and YORK, and their Victorious Arms;  
With heavens assistance, win Yourselves Renown,  
Redeem the Credit of this Ancient Town;  
Say, LONDON'S ' PRENTICES have done the thing,  
Joined Zeal to GOD with Duty to the KING.    

ON Old Doctor Wild's New POEM TO HIS Old Friend, upon the New PARLIAMENT.  

THus 'tis to stand Condemned by rigorous Fate  
To the vile Plague of a Poetic Pate:  
The Itch of Rhyming where it once does seize,  
Becomes a more Incurable Disease  
Than Pox or Scurvy: Harder 'tis to rout  
WILD's Scribbling humour, than to Charm his Gout  
An Old Man's twice a Child, I heard folks say,  
But never more, than when he would seem Gay,  
And does with Jingling Hobby-horses play:  
When sprightly Fancy's gone, the doting Bungler  
Mounts the brisk Muse, but proves an errand Fumble  
Gets only Puling Verse, languid and thin,  
Not to be called a Birth, but Souterkin.  
Sorry dull Puns, and Nauseating Quibbles,  
Worse than old Crab-i'th-wood, or Belman Scribbles.  
Just so Sir Limberham that scarce can crawl,  
Will on his Venus, and his Cupids call;  
And drains Five hundred Pieces from his Purse  
To keep a Miss, when more he wants a Nurse.  
But tell me Reverend Songster! was it fit  
Thy Doctorship should thus the Pulpit quit,  
To Revel in such Babylonish Wit?  
Thy very Friends when they thy Poem scan,  
Say only— He's a Towardly old Man.  
Though thou forgot'st thy Calling, Age, Degree,  
This Subject sure should curb thy Levity  
To treat of PARLIAMENTS at such a rate,  
In fulsome Metaphors of Billingsgate,  
Before th' August Illustrious Senate come,  
And strait turn up, (sans shame,) thy Aged Bum  
Deserves a Lash from the Black Rod at least  
To make th' Old Baby smart for the lewd Jest,  
Amongst so many Olds as thou dost trace,  
'Tis strange the Good Old Cause obtained no place.  
Then Poor Dissenter bravely might Ascend  
Into a Pulpit from the Tables end,  
And Hold forth Godly Sonnets to his Friend.  
We all are Joyed at present Face of Things,  
And thank both heavens kind Influence, and the Kings,  
ROME'S Vultures, nor the  Cocks we fear,  
Safe in our watchful Eagles Royal Care:  
Yet love not to run mad, and Dance the Hay,  
As stung (like thee) With a Tarantula:  
Who  thy greasy Tale of Pork does view,  
Suspects thee for the By-blow of a Jew.  
Thy Grandam when she burned th'old Stock, was cruel,  
Not Bees but Wasps deserve to be made Fuel:  
Good Housewives do not think her Method safe,  
To Drive is better than to Burn by half;  
But these Wild Sallies do too plainly show,  
Thou dost but Cackle when thou thoughtst to Crow.  
Treating of Richest Robes of State, and Ermine,  
Thou just like some Pot-Poets Cousin German  
Bethinks thee of th'own threadbare  & Vermin.  
Then criest to Longlane with them-New put on;  
Sweet Sir! 'tis timely thought of,  be done.  
But best make haste  Ketches Wardrobe's gone  
Thinkest thou (WILD as thou art!) such Language meet  
T'approach the Sovereign Legislative Seat?  
Pardon Great Senate! that his Frenzy drew  
Me to the Rudeness here of naming You.  
The haughtiest Subjects tremble when they come  
To your Just Bar, and dread th' Impartial Doom.  
Fair Copy of Heaven's Policy! the same  
Idea that rules the Universal Frame,  
Where Nobles, as the Fixed Stars do shine  
In Honour's Firmament; And Rays Divine  
From Reverend Fathers of the Church are spread,  
To strike both Schism and Superstition dead.  
Next, Sages of the Law, as Planets trace  
Their Circuits, to enliven in each place  
Those needful ACTS which here are framed, and deal  
Distributive Justice for the Public weal.  
Then COMMONS as full Constellations, join,  
And their Wise Counsels solemnly Combine,  
Whilst Sacred Majesty encircled round  
With Native Glory, as the Sun, is found  
Beaming his Acts of Grace so free and bright,  
That all from Him borrow both Heat and Light.  
Healing Assembly! whensoe'er you meet,  
The People's Choice, and the KING'S Wishes greet:  
Their Liberties, His Honour, You mantain,  
O let them ne'er be Differenced again!  
In his own proper Orb let each Star move,  
Not Jostling those Below, nor them Above.  
Let no False Fires their dazzling Beams display,  
Nor upstart Meteors interrupt your way:  
All Your Debates lot Moderation Calm,  
And Your Results become the Nation's Balm.  
Those little Foxes that the Land Defile,  
And seek our Vine and Tender Grapes to spoil,  
Unkennel them; and let ROME'S Conclave see,  
In vain they PLOT, whilst You our Guardians be.  
May Heaven all Your Consultations Bless,  
And all Good Men pray for your wished Success.  
But our Old Busy Rhymer we shall lose,  
Who Hawks and Kites, and blind Buzzards pursues,  
Until at last like a Bewildred Jolt-head,  
His Muse has all her Borrowed Feathers moulted.  
Age makes all stoop— How fast the Man descends?  
Commences Doctor, and Poor Robin, Ends.    

SCANDAL PROOF, OR AN Heroic Poem On the Renowned Champions of the Good Old Cause, Inpudent Dick Janeway, and the rest of the Factious Tribe.  

COme on ye Scribbling Rebels of the Age,  
Come on I say, advance upon the Stage;  
Armed with Fanatic Malice, Zeal and Rage.  
Display your Merits to the Public View,  
Tell'em'tis You're their Champion, none but You  
Dare Counterplot the Popish Plotting Crew,  
Faith 'twas great pity there was not a Trial  
Between that pack of Priests, who did deny all,  
And You Fanatic Scribblers who Belly-all:  
I mean that Zealous Sanctified Gang,  
Comus, and Hal-Old Elephant, and Lang-  
(who precious Saints) no doubt in time may Hang.  
And make as Fine a Show, as Whitebread did  
With th' other precious four whose Souls are fled  
Into another World; yet 'twas unkind  
To leave such Holy Brethren thus behind,  
Without Directions, where their Friends to find.  
Alas poor Harmless Devils, what a Pother  
They make to Troop so hasty after th'other:  
Who died great Rogues, yet ne'er denied their Trade  
As you do, who their Mystery Invade,  
Proving yourselves Jesuits in Masquerade.  
I Laugh to see how you'd the World deceive,  
If they would all your Lying Tricks believe;  
As how you'rth ' only Men, that stand i'th' Gap,  
There to repel th' approaching Thunderclap  
Of Popery, which Threatens all the Nation,  
With no less than a Total Inundation;  
Unless prevented by your Reformation.  
This is a precious hopeful Age, no doubt,  
When such an Impious, Daring Rebel Rout;  
Such Wretched Tools as You shall undertake  
A Reformation in the Church and State.  
Yet 'tis but what we must expect from You,  
Who in plain Terms, (to give the Devil his due)  
Pretend to Love the King, but hate him too.  
Among the rest of this Fanatic Knot  
Of Factious Whigs, Faith I had quite forgot  
To mention that Fgregious Rascal Dick,  
That Wondrous Lying Son of Damned Old Nick:  
Impartial Rakehell whose Romantic Skill  
Excels the other Lying Knights o' th' Quill:  
So like a Janus, does Dick Janeway look,  
We see his Double Face in every Book;  
In which we're Weekly Plagued with's Impudence,  
Offensive to all Loyal men of Sense,  
Who hate both Dick, and's Damned Impertinence.  
Well then, go on thou Cursed Rogue in Grain,  
Proceed to Write in thy own Lying Strain.  
'Tis Meritorious; thou deserv'st Applause,  
By Propping up the Sinking Damned Old Cause,  
Which not prevented, Ruins the King & Laws:  
Go tell th'awakened World, (but 'tis in vain)  
You Love (alas you Lie) Great Charles his Reign:  
How canst thou Love the King, or can your Brood  
Of Whigs, when Treason Taints your Soul & Blood,  
Ye Damned Antipodes to all that's good.  
But Thou amongst the rest art such a Fool,  
Poor Silly Rogue! They use thee for a Tool:  
A certain necessary Implement,  
To Print and own the Lies that they Invent;  
A Foppish Brazen Fool, that's led Astray  
By every Cunning Whig that shows the way:  
With what Officious Care thou Plagu'st thy Brains,  
To get the Name of Villain for thy pains;  
Like that Inglorious Rogue that set on Flame  
Diana's Temple; which to the Villains shame  
He only did, to gain a Carsed Fame:  
Such is thy Cursed Care thou damned Fop,  
Whose Pate more sit for Scullens Broom, or Mop;  
Merits the Glorious Name of busy Sot,  
And (Calves-Head-like) deserves to go to Pot.  
Thou Dull Insipid Coxcomb, worse than Beast,  
What Guts and Garbage hath thy Brains possessed;  
To make thy Scribbling Whelpship so Uncivil,  
So unlike man, and so much like the Devil:  
Sure thou'rt the Spawn of some Ill Natured Gipsy,  
Got in a Barn, perhaps where each was Tipsy;  
Hatched up with th' noise of Tory, Rory, Randy,  
The pure effects of Ale, and Beer, and Brandy;  
And ever since thou'st been the Devil's Imp,  
Dissenters Bully, and fanatics Pimp:  
A perfect Stalking Horse unto all those,  
That Hate the King, and Love the Kingdom's Foes:  
A Drudging Journy-man, a Slave to th' Pope,  
Next Heir in Law to the Heer Van Catch his Rope;  
One whom the Devil, for his Excellent Work  
Is more beholding to, then Pope or Turk.  
Mayst thou at length receive thy Merits Due,  
As Ample as the Popish Plotting Crew;  
So Janeway, far thee well, until I see  
Thy Rogueship made St. Dick at Tyburn Tree.    

Fitz-Harris HIS Farewell to the WORLD, OR A TRAITORS Just Reward.  

Farewell great Villain, and unpitied Lie,  
Instead of Tears drawn from a tender Eye;  
Ten thousand Traitors like Fitz-Harris die.   

Unhuman Monster, to the World ingrate,  
An Enemy to the King, the Church and State;  
Hadst thou been starved, it had been too kind a Fate.   

His Crimes were horrid, infamous and base.  
Deserves a total extinct of his Race;  
Banish his Name unto some dismal place.   

What's worse than injuring Sacred Majesty?  
For which he suftered on the fatal Tree;  
May all men suffer for such Loyalty.   

England may then be glad, with Triumph sing,  
When all her Foes are vanished with a string;  
The Golden Age from Halcion-days will spring.   

Those Wolves that Plot Protestant Lambs to Gull,  
May Heaven obstruct the Engines of their Scull;  
Give them of Tyburn, Lord, their Belly full.   

 Youths have been seduced of late,  
Beyond their Wits, talk of the Affairs of State;  
Obedience learn to avoid Fitz-Harris Fate.   

Those public Libelers with Zeal and heat,  
With some unheard of Novels daily Treat;  
If they writ falsely, tie them from their Meat.   

Tell th' Ambitious, they Fools strive in vain,  
To undermine a Crown, King Charles will Reign:  
To be true and honest, is the safest Gain.   

I hope to see Justice at Tyburn done,  
If so, some hundreds may have Cause to run;  
Give them what they deserve, their Thread is spun.   

Bid proud petitioners, good Advice approve,  
Make an Address and in one Body move;  
With all humility t' gain their Prince's Love.   

I'd sooner lose a Limb, from th' Monument fly,  
Endure the worst of Torments till I die;  
Then willingly deserve my Kings displeasing Eye.   

London, on thee all slourishing joys descend,  
Heaven's bless the Government, and Governors to the end;  
Unanimous to agree, your Sovereign to defend.   

The Man that burned Diana's Temple down,  
Did it on purpose a Villain to be Crowned;  
Mongst Rogues (Damned Rogues) he got Renown.   

How many thousands are there in the Nation,  
Mere Knaves, but Saints, in private Congregation;  
Loves Monarchy, with mental Reservation.   

The Gods rebuke the Error of the Age,  
Let moderation Tumultuous men assuage;  
But hang all those against their King engage.   

Let all dissenting Brothers Love the King.  
To the Church Unite, 'tis a goodly thing;  
With Brethren to agree, and with Te Deum sing.   

Heaven's bless his Majesty, with Plenty, Joy and Peace.  
To all that love the King Heavens give increase;  
Confound his Foes to pray I ne'er will cease.   

Non est Lex justior ulla  
Quam Necis Artifficis, Arte perire sua.    

THE MEAL TUBB PLOT.  

GOod Heraclitus let's have no quarrel,  
Sing you of the Tap, i'll sing of the Barrel,  
And neither laugh nor cry for the Laurel.  
Which no Body can deny.   

A Fig for your Tap or your Cork. Do but bring here  
A barrel of empty Reports, (Mr. Singer)  
You shall see we can broach them with a wet Finger.  
Which no body, etc.   

I'll not meddle with Barrels of Ale and Bear,  
For should they work again, we may fear  
Too quick a return o'th' Platonic Tear.  
Which no Body, etc.   

A Pox of your Barrels full of French,  
'Tis a sort of an ominous Bloody Drench,  
And full of dispute as an Oyster Wench.  
Which no Body, etc.   

Give me that Miraculous Lasting Joke,  
O'th' Barrel of Meal, that Blinded the Folk,  
Filled every Man's Mouth and yet every Man spoke  
Which no Body, etc.   

It made more noise and was more hot,  
Than all those Barrels I had forgot,  
That had their heads in the Gunpowder-Plot,  
Which no Body, etc.   

Some say it was the very same.  
Where Byter John the first of the Name,  
Vented such store of Smoke and Flame,  
Which no Body, etc.   

I think indeed they hit the Nail,  
For's Notes were found within the Meal,  
Wherewith the Discoverer wiped his Tayl.  
Which no Body, etc.   

Regulus (but for the spoiling the Leaven)  
The Barrel full of Spikes had driven,  
And rolled the Rogue downward to Heaven.  
Which no Bedy can deny.    

A DIALOGUE Between the Ghosts of the two last Parliaments at their Interview Fuimur Troes Westminster Ghost 's Advice.  

FRom deepest Dungeon of Eternal Night,  
The Seats of Horror, Sorrow, Pains and Spite,  
I have been sent to tell your tender Youth  
A Seasonable and Important Truth!  
I feel, (but oh too late) that no Disease  
Is like a Surfeit of Luxurious Ease;  
And of all other the most tempting things  
Are too much Wealth, and too Indulgent Kings.  
None ever was Superlitively ill  
But by Degrees with Industry and Skill  
And some whose meaning hath at first been fair,  
Grow Knaves by use, and Rebels by Despair;  
My time is past, and yours will soon begin  
Keep the first Blossoms from the blast of Sin,  
And by the Fate of my Tumultuous ways  
Preserve yourself, and bring Serener days,  
The busy subtle Serpents of the Law  
Did first my mind from Due obedience draw,  
While I did limits to the King prescribe  
And look for Oracles that canting Tribe,  
I changed true Freedom for the name of Free  
And grew Seditious for Variety;  
All that opposed me were to be accused  
And by the Law Illegally abused.  
The Robe was summoned M— d in the head,  
In Legal Minder none so deeply read:  
I brought him to the Bar where once he stood  
Stained with the (yet unexpiated) Blood  
Of the Brave Strafford when three Kingdoms rung  
With his Accumulated Hackney Tongue:  
Prisoners and Witnesses were waiting by:  
These had been taught to Swear, and those to die  
And to expect their Arbitrary Fates  
Some for ill faces some for good Effates:  
To fright the people, and alarm the Town,  
Bedlo, and Oats Employed the Reverend Gown.  
But while the Treble Mitre bore the blame  
The ning Three Crowns were their Rebellious Aim.  
I seemed and did but seem to fear the Guards,  
And took for mine the B— and the— W.—  
Antimonarchick Heretics of State,  
Immortal Atheists, Rich and Reprobate:  
But above all I got a little Guide  
Who every Foard of Villainy had tried;  
None knew so well the Old pernicious way  
To Ruin Subjects, and make Rings obey,  
And my small Jehu at a furious Rate  
Was driving Eighty back to Forty Eight,  
This the King knew and was resolved to bear  
But I mistook his patience for his fear:  
All that this happy Island could afford  
Was sacrificed to my Voluptuous board.  
In his whole Paradise one only Tree  
He had Excepted by a strict Decree,  
A Sacred Tree which Royal fruit did bear,  
Yet it in pieces I conspired to tear,  
Beware my Child! Divinity is there.  
This so out did all I had done before  
I could attempt, and He Endure no more.  
My unprepared and unrepenting Breath  
Was snatched away by the swift hand of Death,  
And I with all my Sins about me hurled  
Tothth' utter Darkness of the Lower World;  
A Dreadful place which you too soon will fee  
If you believe Seducers, more than me.    

Nitimur in Vetitum Oxford Ghost.  

HAil great prophetic spirit; who could see  
Through the dark glass of ripening time what we  
Too true have found and now too late complain  
That thou great Spirit shouldst foretell in vain,  
Full well and Faithfully didst thou advise,  
Had we been modestly and timely wise.  
Free may you rang'e saidst thou through every Field  
And what else more Luxurious Gardens yield  
Is thine; what e'er may please what  delight  
The weakest stomach nicest appetite;  
Of all the plenty of so Vast a store  
One thing forbidden is one, and no more,  
By late and sad Experience of what's past  
Probatum est ipse Dixit: Do not taste!  
Swift Ruins there, and sure Destruction,  
How great a Truth had it in time been known.    

WESTMINSTER GHOST.  

VAin empty nothing that were lately all,  
How just, and how unpitied is thy Fall!  
Well worthy of the Horrors of this place  
That would no warning take by my disgrace;  
Glutted with Plenty, surfeited with Peace,  
Weary of Blessings, sick of to much ease,  
Mad, restless Troublers of our Israel  
Who would not quiet be when things went well;  
Of severel base designs, mere managed Tools,  
Rash, unadvised, incorrigible Fools;  
Brisk Hotspurs inconsiderately bold  
By much too violent, and too hot to hold;  
Zeal flew as if it had been to run a Race,  
Duty and reason could not keep its pace:  
Insensible, Regardless of my Fate  
Dull Phrygian Sages, wise when 'tis too late;  
You lived and then you had an easy way  
To have provided 'gainst the Evil day  
Who would not then be timely wise? forbear  
Your vain unreasonable sorrows here;  
Frailty (for men are frail) may err one time  
But malice only can repeat the crime.  
Unthinking Senate fed with empty words  
Of Patriot Lawyers and protesting Lords:  
Abused by popular and mistaken friends;  
Served a dull Property for base hidden ends  
Liberty, Property, Religion,  
Sweet names and so is Reformation.  
Rank sign of sickly and distempered times  
When fairest names disguise the foulest crimes.  
The cry of liberty helpeth Ambition,  
And straitlaced Conscience quite chokes up Religion  
Of public Interest you had not concern;  
But damned a Proverb, ne'er too late to learn,  
By no experience taught, miscarriage tamed  
Nor by sad Instance of my Fate reclaimed.  
What prejudice and private Ends ill used,  
False zeal and like Religion ill excused:  
Who (stiff necked) rather would my Fate repeat  
Than by new measures be securely great:  
No freedom of debate was left for you  
When all was moved and managed by a few.  
Your leading M. J.— s and W—ton  
As if all wisdom were in them alone:  
A House of Commons crumbled into three,  
Slaves in effect, and in appearance Free.  
What ailed the Pilot slept he at the head?  
Or was your Judgement by your wills misled?  
What evil spirits Influence did prevail  
That you who might at large securely Sail  
In full Sea, and from all dangers free  
Would run upon that shelf that ruin'd me?  
These sure and sad effects I well foresaw,  
These real ills which seeming good would draw;  
From these sad consequences to dissuade  
I was sent forth, and gladly I obeyed:  
I told you then what now too true I find,  
Where zeal flies out, and duty leaves behind,  
'tis wisdom's shame and Policies defect  
For still like causes will have like Effect.  
I sought by wondrous Truth the point to gain,  
Urged many Reasons, but urged all in Vain:  
None were of force against the Good Old Cause,  
Counsel was thrown away, Fool that I was.  
Where men with Law and Prophets would not live  
To think a message from the Dead should thrive.  
Spite of my foresight, and my dear bought Skill  
Cassandra I, you faithless Pans are still.  
Your boundless passion did no measures keep,  
Well might you break your Neck with such a leap:  
Men may at Distance over about Kings  
And by your Influence move Earthly things  
But when those Bounds they would Exceed, and fly  
Too near the Sun scorched they drop down, and die,  
What an Occasion lost you to improve  
The Prince's Favour and the People's Love?  
This when considering Posterity  
Shall think upon, they'll hate your Memory;  
And as once ancient Rome, they in their turn  
With you had never died, or ne'er been Born;  
Should your Successors tread your steps, they then,  
Tho they were Gods, like us, shall die as men.  
Oh! may the next, (for sure a next will be)  
Avoid the Rock that ruin'd you and me:  
Deeply affected with a just Concern  
At your sad Fate self-preservation learn;  
And merit by avoiding needless fears  
By moderate Councils, and praise worthy cares,  
A Monarch's blessing, and Three Kingdoms Prayer.    

Tom, Thins' Ghost  
IN dead of night when the pale Moon  
Had got to th' Nocturnal Noon  
Betwixt her Light, and what was lent  
From twinkling Candle almost spent,  
As I lay slumbering on my Bed  
I saw methought a man was dead,  
Gravely he stalked and stood and stared  
While I lay trembling and was Scarr'd  
Dumb for a while at last I broke  
Silence and to the Phantosm spoke,  
Art thou said I that man of Sin  
Or Ghost of Thomas late Squire T.  
He soon replied with Accents hollow  
In words conform to these that follow.  
From the Tartarean shades below  
That neither Bounds nor bottom know  
Where a new life, the Cursed gain,  
Throw constant Torments, Endless pain,  
I by permission come to tell  
What Government there is in Hell,  
Because I know thou wert a Tory  
To thee I chose t' impart my story,  
For thou wilt Joyfully reveal  
What, whigs that long for, Common-weal  
Like Spartan Boys, would still conceal.  
Attend then and my Narrative  
Communicate to all alive,  
I am the Soul of one of those  
That both the K— and Law oppose  
And Itch' with Conscientious Scurvy  
To turn the Kingdom topsey Turvey,  
Rogues that presume themselves appointed  
To contradict the Lords Anointed,  
Those that would murder an Addressor  
And cut the Legs of true Successor.  
And make him look in piteous Case  
As Withrington in Chivy Chase,  
Nay cut his Throat and in his place  
Set Perking up of Extract base,  
Who has no more pretence to Rule  
This Land, than any other Fool,  
But may make out I'll Swear as soon  
A Title to the World i'th' Moon,  
I was I say of that Cabal  
Till I was murdered in the Mall;  
've heard I know of that Barbarity  
Hateful beyond all Bonds of Charity.  
Proceed we then with our Relation  
Of Action in th' Infernal Nation,  
Assist me steed of Phoebus' Legion  
Whilst I describe the doleful Region,  
One Monarch in that World controls  
With flaming Sceptre, tortured Souls,  
And Captive, though he be in Chains,  
Yet absolute Emperor he Reigns.  
No Factions there disturb the State  
Which is preserved by steady fate,  
Unalterable Laws they have  
Which the Almighty Godhead gave,  
And to their Prince even on his Foes  
A strict Obedience does Impose.  
That Prince is Lucifer, whose power  
The Subject Ghosts adore Each hour,  
Who to advance their mighty King  
In Blasphemies, his praises sing  
Devoutly swearing there's no odds  
Betwixt this Grandeur and the Gods,  
These tho' they suffer 'tis in Vain  
Amidst their Torments to complain,  
If he but nod from burning Throne  
There's not a Soul that dares to groan,  
For Hell admits of no Petition  
To redress Grievance of condition,  
Nor do Tumultuous Crowds appear  
With bold Remonstrances of Fear,  
Nor Spirit Murmur at oppression  
Nor prate of right or wrong Succession,  
Their King Immortal, Oh! 'mong you,  
That Charles the Second were so too.  
I love him now, and tho' a Devil  
Am much more honest grown and Civil,  
For having ta'en a Drachm of Styx  
I have forgot my Whiggish Tricks  
Next to the Prince there are that stand  
Awfully waiting his Command  
Belzebub, Moloch, Ashteroth, Baal,  
And Dagon, who before their fall  
Thou not condemned t' Eternal Night  
Where Seraphins and sons of Light.  
Those cursed Peers when  he will  
If he intends great woe or Ill  
To sons of Earth he quickly can  
Summon into his Dark divan,  
Not to give Counsel, but to do  
What his Dire Dictates Prompts him to.  
You have like him, one Noble Peer  
Who would do mighty Service there  
Woven he were there in stead of me  
To show his Squinting Policy.  
He 'tis I mean that looks at once  
Like Cerberus from tipple Sconce  
But that his Eyes would fascinate  
And give a destiny to Fate;  
For he I fear would break the Law  
By which this world is kept in awe,  
Since it is here his chiefest Care  
To break all Laws that Penal are,  
He would go nigh even in this station  
To make a new Association.  
But if he did, Oh! There are Judges,  
In stead of Scarlet Cloth with Budges  
Not such as these in which we trade  
But Robes of Solid Darkness made,  
They'd firk his Toby for take this  
For fatal truth, (and so it is)  
In the proceed against furies  
There are no Ignoramus Juries,  
Plain Evidence is there believed  
And no convicted Soul reprieved.  
No Mainprize there allowed nor Bail  
But doomned to an Eternal Jail,  
The restless Prisoners howl, and cry  
Whilst they in burning Shackles fry,  
Yet in my Conscience he'd Endeavour  
even to deceive the great Deceiver,  
Or would pretend to Court for Mistress  
The fatallest o'th' Fatal Sisters,  
And would so wheedle her that she  
Should cut the thread of Monarchy,  
So would he his dear wish obtain  
And put an end to Charles his Reign,  
Nor would he value his Damnation  
To keep great James from Kingly Station,  
Here upon Earth he has a Pug  
Which he like Devil & Witch does hug,  
For he ne'er found his words were true in  
Any one thing but his own Ruin,  
He Whilom told the Younker he  
Should sway the British Monarchy,  
Of a known Bastard grown a Prince  
But poor deluded Perkin since,  
From fancied Honour is degraded  
And all his Flowerde-lysses faded.  
But I degress from my Design  
While things on Earth, and Hell I join,  
Suffer me then to represent  
The Methods of our Parliament.  
When Lucifer to utmost borders  
Of Erebus sends out his Orders,  
His Officers make no delay  
But the great Summons soon obey,  
Unanimously they all Elect,  
Not such as say they will protect,  
The Common People's Liberty  
From their dread Sovereign's Tyranny,  
For none his boundless Power Questions  
Or make undutiful Suggestions.  
But such they are as when th' assemble  
Before his Footstool bow and tremble,  
They come with steadfast Resolutions  
To assert the fatal Constitutions,  
Nor do they once Capitulate  
Or grumble to maintain the State  
All that they have to him they own  
Mammon besides is his they know,  
There is no Saucy well clad Clown  
That claims the use of what's his own,  
Nor can from Hellish mouth such sin come  
As to deny him his own Income.  
There no Abhorror on their Knees,  
Pay Topham's Arbitrary Fees.  
Nor bawling Lawyers Speakers make  
Which only with the Vulgar take.  
But hark! I hear the Midnight Bell,  
And that rings my Departing Knel.  
What I have said pray con it o'er,  
Next time we meet I'll tell thee more.   

Sejanus, OR THE Popular Favourite  

IS this thy Glory now? Is this thy Pride  
Of sticking to the Saints and Godly side?  
Religious Bugbear words that fright from hence,  
From Subjects, all their Loyalty to Prince,  
Make black Rebellion seem white Innocence.  
Entitle Heaven to the Vilest Crimes,  
Make Deity, like Rabble, blame the Times.  
Mad Zealots! so Atheistically Civil,  
Blsapheme the Gods to Compliment the Devil.  
The mightiest of these inspired Saints is come,  
To Crown himself with fancied martyrdom.  
Geneva Whig that still cries out at Rome,  
But raises still Domestic Broils at home.  
How quietly Great Charles might end his Reign  
Which all in troubles the Dear Prince began,  
Now vexed by Ghost mere shadow of a Man.  
The cunning Hypocrite that still can Spy  
The smallest more in his kind Prince's Eye,  
By Zeal and Nature made so double blind,  
That in his own the Beam he cannot find:  
Some say but one vast Luminary stands,  
In's furrowed Brow, and watches all the Land.  
But sunk into its hole, crept out of sight,  
As if it were afraid to see the Light.  
His Scull's too narrow Circle can't contain,  
His Towering thought and vast Gigantic Brain.  
Blinded again with hopes of Reformation,  
Poor little Polyphemus of the Nation.  
That mighty Monster braved the rising Flood,  
And this can wade throw a whole Sea of Blood.  
How hath this wretched Isle been changed and cursed  
Since thou were't born in't, and it knew thee first.  
How did its tributary Rivers pay  
A bloody dreadful Homage to the Sea!  
Whilst on the purple Ocean thou didst ride,  
And tack about with every Wind and Tide.  
This floating Bark he now again would Steer,  
Ah! treacherous Pilot! and false Mariner.  
The Kingdoms yet scarce mended Hulk to save,  
Would launch again into the Purple Wave.  
Religious Bully that can cheat a Nation,  
And make it perish working out Salvation.  
Three Kingdoms he o'er looks, and soon can Count,  
The Tories all from Barwick to the Mount.  
Sifts Cittys, Shires, to know what Each afford,  
Calls this tantivy, that protesting Lord.  
Sees what grave Noddle's for Caballing fit,  
And who are Bromigems of Sense and Wit.  
Old Ovid's Muse from hence may take her flights,  
Her Argus only had an hundred lights.  
This little Monstrous Corpse is Eye all o'er,  
And the whole Body sees at every poor.  
Sees hatching thought mere Embryo of a Plot,  
Nay sees it oft before it be begot:  
If well corrected for his Insolence,  
The little Spannil fawns upon his Prince.  
But once escaped the Axe, or fatal loops,  
Strait to the dull anthinking Rabble stoops,  
Puffed up with the vain blast of Vulgar Breath  
The small State Urchins hurry to their Death,  
So the kind Air with an officious blast  
Tosses poor Bubbles to the Clouds at last,  
Dances the little Globe about the Sky;  
Then breaks the glittering Ball it fanned so high,  
So Rome's fair darling once that governed all  
With the Inconstant Rout did stand or fall:  
Th' obliged Camp their General did Crown,  
Then dragged his ragged Carcase throw the Town.  
Weak Tools! that think they may securely flee  
On the lose Wings of wild Inconstancy,  
Or on its Metaphor the Mobile.  
Disgusted by the Rout this cunning wight  
Runs cringing to his Injured Monarch strait,  
Whose goodness is too ready to forgive  
Faulty alone in suffering him to live.  
Advanced to follow Mace, and wear a Gown  
The Tony then saw Mutineers in Town,  
But now they all True Protestants are grown.  
Whilst he unto its Chambers can resort  
There's naught alas! of Popery at Court,  
Clap the Prophetic Soul but in the Tower  
It strait divines of Arbitrary Power,  
Nor leaves the Rout, and then as soon as able  
Leaves his good Prince just as he left the Rabble.  
This busy Noddle of the Factious Crew  
(The Badge of upstart Whigs must still be new)  
With his green bob in his new Senate sits  
And round him all those Livery Men of Wits,  
Some raise a name, and some insert a Clause  
Order their Bills themselves and Vote 'em Laws,  
With awful care some Scribblers Penning be  
A Speech for Sister Scotland's Liberty,  
'Gainst Lotherdales' unbounded Tyranny.  
There a Young Scribe is coppying out a Cant  
Next Morn for to be spoke in Parliament,  
Upstarts an Hector, Swears upon a Book,  
Gad you shall see we will Exclude the Duke,  
Then brings a Bill 'gainst Arbitrary Power  
And that will send a Member to the Tower,  
One Votes him to be censured on his Knees,  
This cries discharge, that let him pay his Fees,  
And in the little Club you fairly see  
Of the great Senate an Epitome.  
Our sad Distracted Albion gazed around  
She saw no Foe, but still she felt a wound,  
The bleeding Dear thus trembling stands at bay,  
But can't find where the close hid Archer lay.  
As on the winding Banks, and watery Maze  
Where famed Meander cuts her crooked ways,  
The lost distracted Traveller doth gaze.  
At last kind Fate or Providence doth bring  
The poor Despairing Soul unto the Spring,  
So some kind Angel, genius of this Isle  
Where peace alas! with thee could never smile,  
Hath taught us now to make her flourish still  
Shown us the hidden source of all her Ill,  
Reason the Plummet, with the Line shall be  
Both stretched to Fathom, and to measure thee,  
Led throw the Labyrinth of all thy tricks  
All the wild Mazes of thy Politics.    

THE Whig cabal.  

TH' sullen night worn threadbare when I lay  
Expecting the Approach of Early Day:  
Such Loyal thoughts did in my Bosom rage.  
As drew my Curses on this Factious Age:  
With tears I mourned our sinking Countries Fate,  
And shadowed glory of the Royal State.  
Till slumbering at the last a glimmering Light,  
Methought was shown to my Mysterious Sight.  
When I descried a Treasonous damned Cabal,  
Hell's mounting Engines that would sink us all,  
And rise upon our King and Countries fall.  
Dark were their Looks and knowingly I saw  
Villains they were and such as fled the Law:  
Printers, and those who had abused the times,  
Religion was their Cloak to hid their Crimes,  
Envious as Eiends, like Hell's Divan they sat,  
What would Hell more? to ruin Church and State.  
So vile as these it never could appear,  
Had the great Whigland Lucifer been there.  
When in an abrupt Voice I heard one Cry,  
Rome's Idol York shan't gorge our Liberty.  
Rowz up my friends, our Ruins more than feared  
Their Bulls do roar so loud we can't be heard.  
With that he paused— then said with much Distress,  
What shall we do? the Tide of our Success  
Now seems to Ebb, nor can we hope for less.  
For even those will now believe no more  
Our shams who judged them Miracles before.  
Interest's our hook, and Freedom is the Bait,  
Bondage but named, you'll see Rebellion Strait.  
Each weak pretence deceives the Easy Crowd,  
With them 'tis Law what is by us allowed,  
But shallow are our Plots to searching Eyes,  
They see what Mischiefs at the Bottom Lies.  
Our Sh'riffs and Juryes for their ends applause,  
With Ignormaus Riots prop our Cause,  
They doubt of peace from those that break the Laws.  
There our Designs are Desperate and so crossed,  
Bold the Attempt must be to gain what's lost.  
Zealous Rebellion must secure us all,  
We cannot fail while we pretend a Call.  
With that like Fiends they Vanished, and I work,  
Whilst all amazed and troubled thus I spoke.   

O wretched Land! how proved thy cureing vain?  
Sign thy old wound is breaking out again.  
The wholes Endangered by th' Infected part,  
But Heaven instruct our great Physicians Art.  
There's one way left to heal this desperate Wound,  
Out off the Rotten for to save the Sound.  
Were there no Cause for this now needful blow,  
Religious peace than through the Land would Flow  
So Jehu Zion purged, and faith did grow.  
But let's unite with pious Joy to sing,  
Health to the best— to England's gracious King.  
Blest may he be, his Queen and Royal Bed,  
And bless great James whilst all their Foes lie Dead  
So we at last shall bruise the Serpents Head.    

THE Presbyterian Club,  

AS another's day Dick, Harry, Tom, and I,  
At th' Tavern sat in wine and mirth raised high  
As round the Board the Cheerful Brimmer went,  
And Charles his health was drunk with one Consent  
The Duke of Tork's by Birthright next Ensued,  
Confusion to all those who would Exclude.  
Thus went the Claret round till up the stairs,  
The Drawer came laden with Stools and Chairs.  
His Burden thrice he did renew when I  
(To satisfy my Curiosity,  
Ask the Reason of his Task,) was told  
The Saints to night a Canventicle hold  
The Room was large, well stored with Chairs & Stools,  
Pity 'twas to be filled anon with Fools,  
We Torys big with Expectation wait  
As well to see 'em as to hear 'em prate,  
When ushered up in long procession came  
Baxter with many more too long to name;  
Their looks, their dress, was such you would have thought  
They really had practised what they taught,  
With starch lawn Band, and hats right gravely set  
Had you but seen 'em, you had thought they'd met  
There to set up a thorough Reformation  
When 'twas it seems only for Recreation,  
Now round the Table all in Order sat  
Baxter at th' upper end as chief in State,  
For Pride is to th' Elect as natural  
As to the Devil 'twas before his fall,  
Mean while the Brethren drink till warm with wine  
They all to Treasonable talk incline,  
And in each glass the King's Destruction vow  
The King ne'er more their Enemy than now.  
Thus still the Zealous glass went round, whom one  
With lift up hands and gogling Eyes begun,  
I thought him by his Bawling Farringdon.  
Half drunk to make a Godly speech, and cry  
Oh Lord!  
When will thou put an end to Tyranny?  
When wilt thou free us from our Tyrant's hands  
And settle on us all the Bishop's Lands?  
For though Lawn Sleeves and Gowns are an offence  
We with the Churches Live could dispense,  
Nay verily I think I could submit  
To any thing, but Popery, to get,  
The Diocese of Winchester I say,  
I would the Churches living were our prey,  
Nay I pray daily God would make 'em so  
For I have little else with Prayer to do,  
And though the K. (good Man) be vainly lead  
Ith' crooked path of Wickedness to tread,  
'Tis Charity to wish the Tyrant Dead.  
Would he were mounting, nay I wish he were  
Already crowned in his Triumphant Chair,  
That he from thence might see us act below  
Deeds that our once Loved Cromwell shall outdo,  
Such deeds as even his Ghost shall fear to see  
While Satan trembles at our Tyranny,  
Lest coming thither we their Peace destroy  
And with intestine Wars his Relms annoy,  
Lest we by force should their old Laws repeal  
And spite of Empire for a Common-weal,  
Thus spoke the Reverend Pimp with sober hum  
They as amazement had 'em all struck dumb,  
Did silently applaud the speech, whilst he  
As in Arrears did swallow Brimmers three.   

And now the hour of ten drew nigh, 'twas time  
To part, least staying prove a Godly crime,  
Then being drunk, for all of 'em were so,  
B— r himself could not uprightly go,  
Tho' he had much the odds of all the rest  
Who in's sheep Clothing fed a greedy Beast,  
Making the Scripture Prophecy prove good  
Which ne'er till now was rightly understood.   

Thus they, (and time it was) the house Depart  
For I their Absence wished with all my heart,  
Thus do the Saints solace themselves, and thus  
They act those Crimes which they abhor in us.    

THE True Presbyterian Without Disguise  

A Presbyter is such a Monstrous thing  
That Loves Democrasy and hates a King,  
For Royal Issue never making Prayers  
Since Kingdoms as he thinks should have no Heirs,  
But stand Elective, that the holy Crew  
May (when their Zeal transports them) choose a new,   

And is so strongly grounded in belief  
That Antichrist his coming will be brief,  
As he dares swear (if he dares swear at all)  
The Quakers are ordained to make him fall,  
From whence he grows impatient, and he says  
The wisest Counsels are but fond Delays,  
To hold him lingering in deluded hope,  
Else long  this he had subdued the Pope.  
A Presbyter is he whose heart doth hate  
The Man (how good so e'er) advanceed in State,  
And finding his Disease a Leprosy  
Doth Judge that all in Courts Gehesi's be;  
Whist he himself in Bribery is lost  
And lies for gain unto the holy Ghost,  
When tho' in show he seems a grave Tobias  
He is within a very Ananias,  
The lay-prophane name (Lord) he hates, and says  
It is th' approaching sign of the last days,  
For Churchmen to be styled so, nay more,  
'Tis Usher to the Babylonian Whore,  
The Bishop's Habits with the Tip and Rochets  
Beget in him such fancies and such Crotchets,  
That he believes it is a thing as Evil  
To look on them as to behold the Devil,  
And for the Government Episcopal  
That he condemns to be the worst of all,  
Because the primest times did suffer no man  
To ' exalt himself, for all was held in Common,  
Yet 'tis most strange when he is most Zeal-sick  
Nothing can cure him but a Bishopric,  
Where once Invested proves without all scope  
Insulting boundless more than any Pope,  
A Presbyter is he that's never known  
To think on others good besides his own,  
And all his Doctrine is of hope and Faith,  
For Charity, 'tis Popery he saith:  
And is not only silent in good works,  
But in his practice too Resembles Turks.  
The Church's Ornaments, the Ring of Bells  
(Can he get Power) 'tis ten to one he sells,  
For his well tuned Ears cannot abide  
A Jangling noise, but when his Neighbours chide  
A Presbyter is he that never Prays  
But all the World must hear him what he says;  
And in that fashion too, that all may see  
He is an open Modern Pharisee.  
The Name of Sabbath still he keeps, 'tis true,  
But so he is less Christian more a Jew,  
Nor settled form of Prayer his Zeal will keep  
But Preacheth all his purer Flock asleep,  
To study what to say, were for to doubt  
Of a presumed Grace to hold him out.  
And to be learned is too too human thought,  
Th' Apostles all he says were men untaught,  
And thus he proves it for the best to be  
A simple Teacher of Divinity.  
The Reverence which Ceremony brings  
Into the Sacred Church his Conscience stings,  
Which is so void of Grace and so ill bend,  
That kneel he will not at the Sacrament,  
But sits more like a Judge then like a Sinner,  
And takes it just as he recieves his Dinner.  
Thus do his saucy postures speak his Sin,  
For as without such is his heart within.  
A Presbyter is he who doth defame  
Those Reverend Ancestors from whence he came,  
And like a graceless Child above all other  
Denies Respect unto the Church his Mother,  
His Chosen Protestants he scorns, as men  
Not saved, because they are not Brethren,  
And lest his Doctrine should be counted new,  
He wears an ancient Beard to make it true.  
A Presbyter is he who thinks his Place  
At every Table is to say the Grace,  
When the good Man or when his Child hath paid  
And thanks to God for King and Realm hath said,  
He than starts up and thinks himself a Debtor  
Till he doth cry (I pray you thank God better,)  
When long he prays for every living thing  
But for the Catholic Church, and for the King.  
A Presbyter is he would wondrous fain  
Be called Disciple by the holy Train,  
Which to be worthy of, he'll stray and Err  
Ten Miles to hear a silenced Minister:  
He loves a Vesper Sermon, hates a Mattin,  
And he detests the Fathers named in Latin,  
And as he Friday, Sunday makes in Diet,  
Because the King and Canons do deny it,  
The self same nature makes him to repair  
To week day Lectures, more than Sunday Prayer,  
And as the Man must needs in all things Err  
He starves his Parson, crams his Lecturer,  
A Presbyter is he whose heart is bend  
To cross the King's designs in Parliament.  
Where whilst the place of Burgess he doth bear,  
He thinks he owes but small Allegiance there,  
But stands at Distance at some higher thing,  
Like a Lycurgus, or a kind of King.  
Then as in Errand times bold Knights were wont  
To seek out Monsters, and Adventures hunt,  
So with his Wit and Valour he doth try,  
How the Prerogative he may defy.  
Thus he attempts and first he fain would know,  
If that the Sovereign Power be new, or no:  
Or if it were not fit Kings should be  
Confined unto a limited Degree.  
And for his part like a Plebeian state,  
Where th' poor Mechanics freely may debate  
All matters at their pleasure, not confined  
To this, or that, but as they cause do find;  
When tho' that every Voice against him go,  
he'll slay the Giant with his Single, No.  
He in his Heart, tho' at a poor Expense,  
Abhors a gift that's called Benevolence.  
For as his Mind, so is his Bounty bend,  
And still unto the King Malevolent.  
He is the Statesman, just enough, precise,  
The nearest Government to Scandalise.  
Nor like a Drunkard when he doth Expose  
In secret underneath the silent Rose,  
To use his Freedom when the pot might bear,  
The faults which closely he committed there.  
But, Shimei like, to all the Men he meets,  
He spews his Frantic Venom in the streets:  
And tho' he says the spirit moves him to it,  
The Devil is that Spirit made him do it.  
A Presbyter is he (else there is none,)  
That thinks the King will change Religion.  
His doubtful thought like to the Moon blind Eyes,  
Makes the Beast start at every shape he Spies.  
And what his fond mistaken fancy Breed,  
He does believe as firmly as the Creed.  
From whence he doth proclaim a fast to all,  
That he allows to be Canonical,  
And then he Consecrates a Secret Room,  
Where none but the Elected Sisters come.  
When being met doth Treason boldly Teach,  
And will not Fast and Pray, but Fast and Preach:  
Then strains a Text whereon he may Relate,  
The Church's Danger, Discontent of State,  
And hold them there so long in fear & doubt  
That some do think 'tis Danger to go out.  
Believing if they hear the Ceiling Crack,  
The Bishops are behind them at their Back.  
And so they sit bewaling one another,  
Each groaning Sister howling to her Brother.  
A Presbyter is he has women's Fears,  
And yet will set the whole world by th' Ears:  
he'll rail in public if the King deny  
To let the Quarrel of the Spaniard die.  
He storms to hear in France the Wars should cease  
And that by Treaty there should be a peace.  
For sure saith he the Church doth Honour want,  
When 'tis not truly called Militant,  
And in plain truth as far as I can find,  
He bears the self same Treasonable Mind  
As does the Jesuit, for tho' they be  
Tongue Enemies, in show their Hearts agree.  
And both professed foes alike consent,  
Both to betray th' Anointed Innocent.  
For though their Manners differ, yet they aim,  
That either may the King or Kingdom maim.  
The difference is this way understood,  
One in Sedition, another's deals in Blood.  
Their Characters abridged if you will have,  
Each seems a Saint, yet either proves a Knave.    

THE DISSENTER.  

What! shall a gorious Nation be o'er thrown  
By Troops of sneaking Rascals of our own?  
Must Civil and Ecclesiastic Laws,  
Once truckle more under the Good old Cause?  
Shall these ungrateful Varlets think to Live,  
Only to clip Royal Prerogative?  
Shall all our Blood turn whey whilst we do see,  
Men both affront, and stab the Manarchy?  
I'm all inflamed with a poetic Rage,  
And will chastise the follies of the Age.  
Thoughts crowed so fast upon me I must Write,  
Till I've displayed the gaudy Hypocrite.  
He's one that scarcely can be called a Man,  
And yet's a pious holy Christian.  
He's big with saving Faith (he says) yet, He  
Has Not one spark of Common Charity.  
'Gainst Reason he perpetually Whines,  
Because it contradicts his black Designs.  
He disesteems dull Morals, for a Saint,  
My well belov'd Brethren must not want  
Soul warming thoughts; so warm that they did dwell,  
First in the Womb, then in the Breasts of Hell.  
He flouts the Common Prayer, yet the poor Fool,  
Himself, not them, does turn to ridicule,  
He hates a Form, yet loves his dear Nonsense;  
Nauseats his God with his Impertinence.  
With Eyes turned up, Mouth screwed, and Monkey Face  
He loudly Bawls to God for saving Grace.  
With Mien so base and scurvy as if even  
His Apish postures only would please Heaven.  
And then his snivelling tone to the most High,  
He does conclude his Curious Melody.  
If things succeed not as his Humour Would,  
He strayed grows angry, and he huffs his God:  
And this (as if God knew not what to do)  
And that would have been for thy Glory too.  
Then muzzled in his Cloak Roger gins  
In's Sermon to dawb forth Soul killing Sins.  
Murder, and theft, and pride, and Gluttony, etc.  
Which in their Lives none more Applauds than He,  
Yet if you do survey the List with Care,  
You'll quickly find Rebellon is hid there.  
And when he's pressed to Duties for some Hours,  
He ne'er puts in? Obey the Higher Powers,  
At Surplice and Lawn sleeves he takes offence,  
Because they are the Types of Innocence,  
For that he hates, and with it Men of Sense,  
The Reverend Prelate he still vilifies,  
'Cause they detect his cursed Villainies.  
Hand them they Bark, come let us pull them down  
For this same Mitre does support the Crown.  
They're the King's truest friends, yet thought it good  
To drown his Kingdom in a Sea of Blood.  
They the King's Person would protect they said,  
Yes, yes, forsooth, by Cutting off his Head.  
And this they did, inspired by Zeal alone,  
To fasten Christ in his Triumphant Throne.  
As if Damned Lies, false Oaths, and Base Deceit,  
Propped up his Throne and made him truly Great.  
As if the Devil himself that acted them,  
Did bring the Lustre to his Diadem.  
Nay they go on yet with the same Intents,  
By Moulding to their Minds new Parliaments,  
Some of the Great they by their whimsies guide  
To like their Treason, and to 'steem their Pride.  
In other things like Methods they pursue,  
For even the Sh'riffs must be fanatics too.  
The Judges too they'd to their Party gain,  
Did they want either Honesty or Brain.  
And when their wheedling Tricks do fail on these  
They poison soon some Country Justices.  
Then had they once the dear Militia,  
They'd mount the Saddle, and make Charles obey.  
Thus first they'd make him but a very Straw,  
And then at last Control and give him Law.  
In fine they are the foes of Royal State,  
Order is the great Object of their Hate.  
Nor God nor Men these Furies seek to please,  
They'd bruise the Crown, and Tear our Surplices.  
They'd undermine the Church's Harmony,  
And ride a full Career to Popery.  
They all Mankind, except themselves, Despise,  
Chief the great for being Good and Wise.  
Some Subtle have, and some have Giddy Souls,  
Some Fools, some Knaves, and some are Knaves and Fools.  
These Vermin would even the best things Command  
And suck up all the Sweetness of the Land.    

THE Solicitous Citizen  

Continual Hubbub, and the noise of PLOT,  
Idle suspicions of he knows not what,  
The Pope, the Devil, and the French three years,  
Have Citt enslaved to Jealousies and Fears,  
Nor any prospect yet of Peace appears.  
Bandied about 'twixt Credit and Despair,  
Who's safe (he cries) while such Designs there are?  
And what is more peplexing can't tell where.  
No, tho' of late he to his side have got  
TITUS, that Devil at cold scent of PLOT.  
But the poor Cur at Oxford lost his fame,  
Where he Ran Counter to's eternal shame;  
There the base Man Disloyal and Unjust  
A Second time proved Traitor to his Trust,  
In vain from him Discoveries you hope,  
Till he the whole confesses in a Rope.  
But this to Citt no satisfaction gives,  
He's still uneasy, and in Fear he lives,  
Cries there are others who can find out Plots,  
(And make perhaps) as well as Dr. Oats;  
Says wiser Heads than his the City Rule  
(Or else I'd said each Citt had been a Fool)  
Say what you will we will secure our Home,  
Be all in Readiness at Beat of Drum,  
Who knows how soon the K. of France may come?  
The Guards each night, you'd split to see the Farce,  
(Like Rattle Snakes, with Bandeliers at A—  
Tied to long Swords, and dressed in Greasy Buff,  
Majestic Porters) through the City Huff;  
While Leader, Fore-horse like, the Pageant makes  
With formal strut, and gaudy Tossell shakes.  
In this brave Pomp they walk to Rendezvous,  
And there from Nine to Six securely bouse,  
In damned Mundungus, and as nasty Nantz,  
They Curse the Pope and Huff the K. of France.  
Does but poor Whore about their Quarters budge,  
Whom unkind Stars do force till Ten to Trudge,  
Straight brustling Myrmidon cries, who comes there?  
Stand or I'll Fire; or stir a foot that dare.  
Raises the Guards; (for such Alarms are Common  
Two hundred Men to seize on one poor Woman)  
Why here so late (cries Leader) on what score,  
What are you, I'm a Woman, you're a Whore,  
And fellow Buff-Coats, a suspicious one,  
For aught I know, the Whore of Babylon,  
As you say, Captain it may be Pope Joan.  
Such Fears as these our Mighty Dons of War  
Perform to show the World how much they dare,  
But here dull Cit is out in's Policy  
While he on Woman doth his Manhood try,  
Credulous Ass! there's no more gross mistake  
Citizen's Wives Beasts of their Husbands make,  
Believe me Cit thou'dst better far Neglect  
The Plots abroad, and those at home Inspect  
Thou needest not fear the Jesuits, but the Leagues  
Of Wife with Courtier, Islington Intrigues.  
Was it well known to each contented Sot  
What don at home, how Jacky was begot,  
he'd be more jealous of his Wife then th' Plot  
But of all Pates, Cit has the softest one,  
The better (cries the Wife) to graft upon,  
But he by such dam'd dullness is undone.  
While on him Every Rascal puts a trick,  
Care, Curtis, Baldwin, and Seditious Dick,  
Such Rogues as these do still suspicions give,  
And make new Plots that no man can believe,  
One makes him hope, another makes him fear  
Just like four Masty Dogs upon one Bear,  
Who knows not which the true or false to call,  
But honestly, dull Soul, believes them all,  
These are the Knaves who make the Cits suspect  
Their Prince that he their safety does neglect,  
Whose only care, (Heaven knows) is to protect.  
These are the Villains who our Jars increase,  
Nor till they're hanged can we e'er hope for Peace,  
Each Cobler's Statesman-grown, and the bold Rabble  
Convert each Ale-house-board to Council Table,  
One Censures this, another blames that fashion,  
And thus they settle the Affairs o'th' Nation,  
On Votes and Councils are their Judgements past,  
And in what form they please Affairs they cast,  
Thus College did, but he was hanged at last.    

Iter Boreale.  

AFter long practised Malice in the South,  
Brutus (the People's Ear, the People's Mouth)  
At length most prudently has Sallied forth,  
And cautiously retired to his North.  
His Poison he has left behind in London,  
By whose Infection Whigland's Chiefs are undone.  
Charter lies bleeding, Echoing Orphans cries  
Reach Heaven, whilst the guilty Causer flies.  
Whole Corporation suffers for Believing  
Sneaksby who but one Garret had to live in.  
Yet had he had his Arbitrary Swing  
Would all our Nobles to his Ninepences bring.  
Would curtail Monarches and by grand Debate  
Reduce Great Britain to an Hamburg-State,  
(For Eighty Two should be as Forty Eight.)  
But since great Ends by Providence are crossed,  
And Jesuit-Whig Designs in Blanket's tossed,  
Since Jurors must no longer be forsworn,  
Nor private Sense 'gainst Solemn Oath Suborn,  
Since Oats Deposals are Immortalised,  
And eliot still remains Uncircumcised;  
Since Loyalty must take and All are for't,  
Since Pomfret Eloquence won't take at Court,  
Since Riots for the Publick-Weal can't be  
Secure without Invading Royalty;  
And Legal Bearings up against the Power,  
In People's Right, force Demagogues to th' Tower.  
Since all the Juice of Tony's Taps quite spent,  
Which suckled long both good old Cause and Trent,  
(For some who this way look are that way bend)  
Since Bacon's Brazen Head fixed on his Shoulders,  
TIME WASPE—  
Can only say to Property Upholders.  
Since Legal Monarchy must rule the Roast,  
And care determined is to keep his post,  
Since Envy, Hatred, Malice do small feats,  
Party detected in all holy Cheats:  
Thousands of Guineas can't have Influence  
On him who hath of Loyalty due sense,  
Since neither Wapping Treats, nor Whigshead Clubs  
Assert the Right of Perkin or the Tubs,  
Since truth, and only truth must now prevail,  
Maugre St. Tony's Tap or Stephen's Flail,  
And Brutus lately London's Demagogue  
No Office has but where Men Disembogue,  
'Tis time, high time to quit that hated place  
Where nought but Loyal must, dare show its face,  
So Fiends Associate Wizards still forsake,  
Cajoled with hopes until they come to stake,  
Thus inmate Rats who first espy the flaw  
In Ruinous Buildings prudently widraw,  
Neswells Whig babels shall, & parting seems to say,  
Perish ye with your Cause so I be out oth'way.    

THE MADMAN'S HOSPITAL, OR Presbyterian Itch.  

I.  
OH happy Soil, unhappily possessed,  
Your Natives now invade your Sacred peace,  
And that Religion we all professed,  
Must now by Exterpation succease:  
Our Laws are broken, Birthrights ta'en away,  
Banished or Murdered Innocents' betray.   

II.  
This Hell bred Change hath Reformation brought,  
By bold Interpritation of Text:  
What was believed, and our Forefathers taught.  
By new dark Lantern Lights is now perplexed.  
New Government's set up, the Rabble see  
A way to Rule the Church and Monarchy.   

III.  
Oh triple damned! Rebbles to God and King,  
Who first put Arms into the Roundheads hands,  
Taught them to know their Brutish strength, who bring  
A right of Levelling to all men's Lands.  
Like Hounds unhunted left to their own Chase,  
Seize all that cross their way, Noble or Base.   

VI  
They love the King as School boy's Masters love,  
Let them do what they will; How good a Man;  
Correct them he's a Tyrant, none above,  
If they admit, then Govern them that can.  
Break up the School, A Commonwealth their Cry's,  
Learning hath Fooled the World, and taught us Lies.   

V  
Thus in this wilful, and presuming Age,  
Where Reasons Blinded with Opinion,  
For currant Truth upheld by th' People's Rage.  
They Spurn at Truth, and true Religion.  
Those Beast like Rights, which greater Beasts persuade,  
Are the false Optics of their Cheating Trade.   

VI  
Poor Country Men! the whole world's hate or scorn  
Led by a creeping Will ih ' Wisp's false Fire,  
Like him to Malice and to Mischiefs born,  
Leads you to perish in a poisoned Mire.  
Pride made a Devil, what is't made thee so?  
Malice: So coupled both together go.   

VII.  
But tell me yet Madmen have intervals,  
What end do you propose? suppose your Plot,  
Should take effect that Palaces and Halls,  
The King, the Duke, Lords, Papists and who not  
Should in one Ruin fall what would Succeed?  
Cutting of Throats make one another Bleed!   

VIII.  
For the great King will not descend to reign,  
You (in his Members) Crucify him here,  
In time complete when he will come again,  
'Twill be to your Confusion, and Fear:  
Order Supports the World, nothing can stand  
Without it; Beasts have Order and Command:   

IX.  
These very Sects who now together join,  
Will then divide, and each their Claim advance.  
This is the Truth I hold, that Lordship's Mine,  
'Tis false, 'tis not, 'tis for the K. of France,  
For when that one another's Blood we draw,  
'Tis time a third should come to give us Law.    

STATE CASES PUT TO jack Presbyter.  

JAck if you have one Grain of Sense,  
That's free from pride and Impudence,  
Say something in your own Defence.  
But Lie not.  
Why dost thou make our Blood recoil,  
With noise of Plots and Popish Guile,  
While you're the Traitor all the while.  
And Bygot?  
Why dost thou brood upon the Plot,  
To hatch the Mischiefs Room could not,  
And play th'old Game? but we have caught  
Ye Napping.  
Why did the little Dorset Eel,  
To make the Brain sick Crowd Rebel,  
Sad stories in the City tell,  
And Wapping?  
What did the western progress mean,  
When a fine Duke did march between,  
L. Grace and Tommy to be seen.  
Oth' Women?  
How Country Protestants did run,  
To Gaze upon a Royal Son  
God bless him or we're quite undone  
For Freemen.  
What meant Ben: Harri's Appeal  
So full of Loyalty and Zeal,  
Was it not written for to heal  
Our Breaches?  
Why did the Commons house Address  
And move the King that he'd Release  
The Villain from the Marshalseas:  
And Gratis?  
And prithee Jack didst never hear  
The famous Speech of Noble Peer  
Stuffed with true protestants, and bore  
Faced Treason?  
Why were so many Thousands Spread  
That every post Town packets had,  
Without one penny for 'em paid,  
Th' Reason?  
Why did the perjured Jury Save  
The little Elephantine Knave,  
And on the Bills back side Engrave,  
Ignoramus?  
Juries are now a Town Tropan,  
A Tory Trap they know their Man  
This Jack we plainly say, nor can  
You Blame us.  
Why did you stickle Tooth and Nail  
The penal Statutes to repeal  
When you yourselves would never deal  
Such Measure?  
But did inhumanly impose  
On all you Judged Dissenting Foes,  
Heavy Mulcts and heavier Blows,  
At Pleasure.  
Why did the Knights and Burghers Vote  
No Man should lend the King a Groat  
Tho' good Security were brought  
And Royal?  
But oh! that Brittain's Majesty  
Is never to be trusted, why,  
Confounded Jack, was that said? I  
Defyall.  
Why do you suffer Janeway  
And Curtis factious Lies to say  
And Hireling Care the Devils Ama—  
Nuensis.  
Why doth the Packet of Advice  
And protestant true Mercuries  
Scare Folks with weekly Forgeries  
To Frenzies?  
And yet you Easily can spy  
In Rogers works state Heresy  
And Popery and all in He—  
Raclitus  
Jack if you will these Scruples weigh,  
And any thing in answer say,  
To Query once again it may  
Invite us    

THE Geneva Litany,  

FRom the Tap in the Guts of the Honourable Stump,  
From which runs Rebellion, that stinks like the Rump,  
On purpose to leaven the Factious Lump,  
Libera nos Domine.  
From him that aspires as high as the Crown,  
And vows to pull Copes and Cathedrals down,  
Fit only to govern the World in the Moon,  
Libera nos.  
From the Prick-eared Levite, that can without pain  
Swear black into white, then deny it again;  
Whose Name did design him a Villain in Grain,  
Libera nos.  
From his Black-Bills, and Pilgrims with Sticks in their hands  
That came to make up a Religion's Band,  
Then Ravish our Wives, and Inhabit our Land,  
Libera nos.  
From the Mouth of the City, that never gives o'er  
To complain of Oppressions unheard-of before,  
And yet for his Lechery will not quit score,  
Libera nos.  
From the Cent per Cent Scrivener, and every Statetrick;  
That rails at intemperance, who yet will not stick  
To clear a young Spend thrift's Estate at a lick,  
Libera nos.  
From the Force and the Fire of the Insolent Rabble,  
That would hurl the Government into a Babel,  
And from the nice Fare of the Mouse-starver's Table,  
Libera nos.  
From the Elder in New-street, that does Goggle and Cant,  
Then turns up his Whites, to nose it, and pant,  
And at the same time plays Devil and Saint,  
Libera nos.  
From Jenkin's Homilies drawn through the Nose,  
From Langley, Dick, Baldwin, and all such as those,  
And from Brawny Settles his Poem in Prose,  
Libera nos.  
From a Surfeit occasioned by Protestant Feasts,  
From Sedition for Sauce, and Republics for Guests,  
With Treason for Grace-Cup, and Faction the rest,  
Libera nos.  
From the Conscience of Cits, resembling their Dames,  
That in Public are Nice, but in private so Tame,  
That they'll not stick out for a Touch of that Same,  
Libera nos.  
From the blind Zeal of all Democratical Tools,  
From Whigland, and all its Anarchical Rules,  
Devised by Knaves, and Imposed on Fools,  
Libera nos.  
From the late Times Revived, when Religion was gain,  
And Church-Plate was seized for Relics Profane,  
Since practised by Searching Sir William again,  
Libera nos.  
From such Reformation where Zealots begun,  
To preach Heaven must by firm Bulwarks be won,  
And Te Deum sung from the mouth of a Gun,  
Libera nos.  
From Parliamentarians, that out of their Love  
And Care for His Majesty's Safety, would prove  
The securest way were His Guards to remove,  
Libera nos.  
From Saucy PETITIONS, that serve to inflame us,  
From all who for ASSOCIATION are famous,  
From the Devil, the Doctor, and the Damned IGNORAMUS.  
Libera nos.    

THE Norwich Litany.  

DEfend us from all Popish Plots,  
That so the People Pray;  
And eke also from Treacherous Scots  
As bad or worse than they.   

From Parliaments long Rumps and Tails  
From House of Commons Furies  
Defend us eke from Protestant flails  
And Ignoramus Jurys.   

Protect us now and evermore  
From a white sheet and Proctor.  
And from that noble Peer brought o'er  
The Salamanca Doctor.   

A Doctor with a witness sure  
Both in his rise and fall,  
His Exit almost as Obscure  
As his Original.   

Designs and Dangers far Remove  
From this Distressed Nation,  
And damn the Traitorous model of  
The new Association.   

And may the prick Eared party that  
Have coin Enough to Cupboard,  
Forbear to shiver an Estate,  
And splinters mount for Hobart.   

From Sixteen self conceited Peers  
Protect our Sovereign still,  
And from the damned Petitioners  
For the Exclusive Bill.   

Guard Heaven great Charles and his Estate  
'Gainst Tony upon Tony,  
And from a House of Commons that  
Will give the King no Money.   

From those that did Design and Laugh  
At Tangier in Distress  
And were Mahometans worse by half  
Then all the Moors at Fez.   

From such as with Usurping hand  
Drive Princes to Extremes;  
Confound all their Devices, and  
Deliver Charles and James.   

But may the Beauteous youth come home,  
And do the thing that's fit,  
Or I must tell that Absolom  
He has more Hair then Wit.   

May he be wise, and soon Expel  
Th' old Fox th' old fawning Elf;  
The time draws nigh Achitophel  
Will make away himself.   

This Jury I've impanell'd here  
Of honest Lines and true  
Whom you'll I doubt at Westminster  
Find Ignoramus too.    

THE Loyal Litany.  

FRom a new Modelled Jesuit in a Scotch Bonnet,  
With a Mass undersleeve, and a Covenant on it,  
From Irish Sedition blown out of French Sonnet,  
Libera nos Domine.  
From conspiring at Joes and Cabballing at Mews,  
From Sir Guts holy Tub of uncircumcised Jews  
From Gibbet, and Halter which will be their Deuce,  
Libera nos.  
From a Parliament Man raked out of the Embers,  
From Knights that haunt Counters. and Lunatic Members,  
From Presbyters Januaries, and Papists Novembers,  
Libera nos.  
From hugging a Witch and consulting the Devil,  
From Welsh Repermates which are something uncivil,  
From the Touch of a Scot to cure the King's Evil,  
Libera nos.  
From the Mutinous Clamours of such as raise Fears,  
From those that would set us together by the Ears,  
Who still for the shipwreck of Monarchy stears,  
Libera nos.  
From Rebellion wrapped up in an humble petition,  
From the crafty Intrigues of an old Politician,  
From a Geneva Divine, and a Staffords Physician,  
Libera nos.  
From serving great Charles as his Father before,  
Disinheriting York without why or wherefore,  
And from such as Absaloms' folly adore,  
Libera nos.  
From Denying the King that which is his Right,  
From Cashiering of Members for faults very Light,  
From the Troublesome Searches of a Monyless Knight,  
Libera nos.  
From Libelling the Government, and Actions of Kings,  
From Vindicating Sectaries in Illegal things,  
From encouraging Faction which Rebellion brings,  
Libera nos.  
From murmuring for sending the Parliament home,  
From choosing fanatics to sit in their Room,  
That the Actions of Forty may not be out-don,  
Libera nos.  
From Irish Massacres by Papists don,  
From Seditious Cut Throats which thing is all one,  
From murdering the Father, and banishing the son,  
Libera nos.  
From shrouding all Villainies under the Cause,  
From making us happy by giving Sword Laws,  
From trampling o'th' Mitre & Crown with applause,  
Libera nos.  
From Hunting the King and abjuring his Race,  
From Cleansers of Bungholes usurping his place,  
From preachers in Tubs that are void of all Grace,  
Libera nos.  
From Vulcan's Treasons late forged by the Fan,  
From starving of Mice to be Parliament Man,  
From his Copper face that out face all things can,  
Libera nos.  
From voting Lords useless, and dangeroufly Ill,  
From hanging of Bishops for dropping the Bill,  
From letting fanatics have too much their Will,  
Libera nos.  
From purging the house to obstruct our free Choice,  
From Resolving the King to oppose with one voice,  
From such that at Mischief do daily Rejoice  
Libera nos.  
From all the Seditious that love not the King,  
From such as a Civil war once more would bring,  
And Repenting with College at last in a string,  
Libera nos.    

THE Last Will and Testament OF ANTHONY King of Poland.  

MY Tap is run, than Baxter tell me why  
Should not the good the great Potapski die?  
Grim death who lays us all upon our backs,  
Instead of Sith doth now advance his Ax.  
And I who all my Life in Broils have spent,  
Intent at last to make a fettlement.  
Imprimis, for my Soul (tho' I had thought  
To've left that thing I never minded, out)  
Some do advi e for fear of doing wrong,  
To give it him to whom it doth belong.  
But I who all mankind have cheated, now  
Intent likewise to cheat the Devil too.  
Therefore I leave my Soul unto my Son,  
For he, as Wisemen think, as yet hath none.  
Then for my Polish Crown that pretty thing,  
Let Mon— take't, who longs to be a King.  
His empty Head soft nature did design,  
For such a Light and Airy Crown as mine.  
With my Estate, I'll tell you how it stands,  
Jack Catch must have my ; the K. my Lands,  
Item. I leave the damned Association,  
To all the wise Disturbers of the Nation.  
Not that I think they'll gain their Ends thereby,  
But that they may be hanged as well as I.  
Armstrong in Murders and in Whoring skilled,  
Who twenty Bastards gets, for one Man killed.  
To thee I do bequeath my Brace of Whores,  
Long kept to draw the Humours from my Sores.  
For you they'll serve as well as Silver Tap,  
For Women give, and sometimes cure a Clap.  
How— d my partner in Captivity,  
False to thy God and King, but true to me,  
To thee some heinous Legacy I'd give,  
But that I think thou hast not long to live.  
Besides thou'st Wickedness enough in store,  
To serve thyself, and Twenty Thousand more.  
To thee (young Grace) I'd some small Toy present,  
For you with any thing can be Content.  
Then take the Knife with which I cut my Corns,  
'Twill serve to pair and sharp your Lordship's Horns  
That you may Rampant Mon— push and gore,  
Till he shall leave your house and change his Whore.  
On top of Monument let my Head stand,  
Itself a Monument, where first began  
The flame that has Endangered all the Land.  
But first to Titus let my Fars be thrown,  
For He 'tis thought will shortly lose his own.  
I leave Old Baxter my Envenomed Teeth,  
To By't and Poison all the Bishops with.  
My Squinting Eyes let Ignoramus wear,  
That they may this way look, and that way swear.  
Let the Citts take my Nose because 'tis said,  
That by the Nose I them have always led.  
But for their Wives I nothing now can spare,  
For all my Life time they have had their share,  
Let not my Quarters stand on City Gate,  
Lest they new Sects and Factions do create.  
For certainly the Presbyterian Wenches,  
In dirt will fall to Idolise my Haunches.  
But, that I may to my old Friend be Civil,  
Let some Witch make them Mummy for the Devil.  
To good K. Charles I leave (though faith, 'tis pity,)  
A Poy soned Nation, and deluded City.  
Seditious Clamours, Murmurs, Jealousies,  
False Oaths, shame stories, and Religious Lies.  
there's one thing still which I had quite forgot,  
To him I leave the Carcase of my Plot.  
In a Consumption the poor thing doth Lie,  
And when I'm gone 'twill pine away, and die.  
Let Jenkings in a Tub my worth declare,  
And let my Life be writ by Harry Care.  
And if my Bowels in the Earth find Room,  
Then let these Lines be writ upon my Tomb.   

ANEPITAPH upon his Bowels.  
YE Mortal Whigs for death prepare,  
For mighty Tapsky's Guts lie here:  
Will his great Name keep sweet d'y ' think!  
For certainly his Entrails Stink.  
Alas! 'tis but a Foolish pride  
To outsin all Mankind beside.  
When such Illustrious Garbage must  
Be mingled with the Common dust.  
Palfe Nature! that could thus delude  
The Cheater of the Multitude.  
That put his Thoughts upon the Wing,  
And Egged 'em on to be a King.  
See now to what an use she puts  
His Noble great and little Guts.  
Tapski who was a Man of Wit,  
Had guts for other uses fit.  
Tho Fiddle strings they might not be,  
(Because he hated Harmony)  
Yet for Black Puddings they were good,  
Their Master did delight in Blood.  
Of this they should have drank their fill,  
(King Cyrus did not far so ill)  
Poor Guts could this have been your hap,  
Sh'rif Bethel might have got a Shap.  
But now at York his Guts must rumble,  
Since you into a hole did Tumble.    

A Codecil To the Former WILL Added in HOLLAND where he Died January, 20th. 1682.  

MOurn! England Mourn! Let not thy griefs be feigned,  
The Tap so long upon the Lees is Drained.  
The cringing Atlas of the State and Church  
Is fallen, and left his proselytes i'th' Lurch.  
Alas? what will become o'th' Reformation?  
The Popish Plots, and Blank Association?  
Our Rights and Libertys and good old Cause,  
Patched Juryes, and th' Ignoramus Laws?  
What will become o'th' Saints in Tribulation  
If Tory Loyalty comes into Fashion?  
The Salamanca Doctor must take Post,  
If Tompson and Lestrange must rule the Roast,  
And Monkey Care, Gotham, and Snivelling Dick,  
Must from the Hague even follow to old Nick.  
In vain we strive to shun th'appointed Fate  
That on the Knave as well as Fool does Wait.  
Tho I (said he) have drawn Infectious Breath,  
And lived this Sixty years in spite of Death.  
Had I been Hanged but half those years agone,  
Less Treason had Ensued, less Mischief done.  
But as there is an Evil Genius Waits,  
On private Men, so there's on public States,  
The universal Temper of Mankind,  
That always in the Ditch will lead the Blind,  
Of Sin and Faction the Allotted Bane,  
And for that very Cause has leave to Reign,  
Else Belzebub long since I'd been thy due,  
But that he feared I should Supplant him too.  
Thus like the Devil I was made a Curse  
To all Mankind: My Lord and Master worse,  
Betrayed like Judas while I kept the Purse.  
Yet still in every state I walked secure,  
Grave with the King, and jocund with the Whore.  
And never did one Lucky Mischief Vow,  
But Grateful Laurels still adorned my Brown.  
In every state have so successful been,  
As if Success was the Reward of Sin.  
And all this while not the Severest Law  
Could find me Guilty tho' they found a Flaw.  
Still by my Art or Ignoramus Friends,  
I Guiltless seemed, and still pursued my ends,  
For what was all the Specious pretence,  
Of Subjects right, and safety of the Prince?  
Religion, Liberty, Association?  
But to betray all and Enslave the Nation?  
Which by so many Wiles I did Enthral,  
Whilst the blind Rabble worshipped me as Baal.  
But now the Mist is Vanished from their Eyes,  
They see my Crimes throw all their thick Disguise.  
(Tho' for the Saints and Brethren I dare say  
I could have kept in Ignorance to this day.)  
Once Sons of Light, but now the Saints are blind,  
White Torys Janus like have Eyes behind.  
Thus all my shams discovered I poor I  
Was forced altho' my wings were clipped to fly,  
Nay tho' no legs I had, my Gate was fleet,  
Obliged to Travel tho' I wanted Feet,  
From Justice (all my Crimes laid at my Door)  
Found Power to run, who could not crawl before.  
Old and Decrepit, gouty Toes, scared Shins,  
Turn Pilgrim in my Dotage for my Sins.  
My Strength and Action gone, I fly the Stage  
With all the Frailtyes that attends on Age.  
And nothing left me but the Constant Will  
And Natural Inclination to do ill.  
Glad to shame off with all my Vanquished hope  
To save that Neck that would disgrace a Rope.  
My Hopes are fled, let Death wind up the Charm  
Life's but a plague if I can do no harm.  
Our Canting words no longer will prevail,  
Our Liberty and Property's grown stolen.  
The Rights and Privileges of the Nation,  
The like Cast Suits, when Loyalty's in fashion,  
Our Plots and Perjuries will do no more,  
Our Slavery and Arbitrary Power  
Are with my Banished self thrown out of Door.  
What now Remains but that this Tap should burst,  
Who can do more that has even done his worst?  
That the proved Foe Rejoice not in my fall.  
Now Heart break Heart and baffle Catch and all,  
But ere I Fall a Victim tho' too late,  
In a vile Nation to a Viler Fate,  
I thus bequeath the Remnant of my Estate.  
My former Will as Fates Decretals stands,  
But something's due unto the Netherlands  
For their Civiltyes Since here I Fled,  
Foul Napkins, Stinking Fish, and Mouldy Bread.  
To th' States because they are a freeborn Nation  
I do bequeath my New Association.  
That perfect Model of true Anarchy,  
And Charm against all Monarch Tyranny.  
Tho' to live here had it so pleased the Fates,  
I had been King or th' Devil had had the States.  
My heart with Faction flamed that source of Evil,  
I leave to my old Club that Haunts the Devil,  
As fickle and as false, as is their own  
Sworn Enemy to all that sways the Throne.  
My Lungs my Ignoramus Frienps are yours,  
But for my Lights I leave 'em to the Boars  
To blow the Bellows of each new Sedition  
On any Change of Faction or Religion.  
I leave my Brains to that Incestuous Crew,  
The Lordly Tribe who lofty Treason's Brew.  
Those hot brained fiery Catiline's of state,  
Who their own and the Nations Ills create,  
And will I fear like me, Repent too late,  
To Bethel and his Brethren I Resign  
The Axe which Baffled Fate predestined mine,  
To do that Execution they would bring  
On Monarcy and an Indulgent King.  
To th' Salamanca Beagle of the Plot,  
I leave a Holter as his proper Lot  
For his ill management (whild Fools connived)  
Of an ill Plot that was so well contrived.  
And lastly to these Friends who were at strife,  
Losing themselves to save a wretched Life,  
I do Bequeath my Sledg as the just Fee  
Of their accumulated Perjury.  
You the trusties of this my Dying Will,  
If you in Villainy would prosper still,  
Besure you justly every point fulfil.    

SHAFTSBURYS FAREWELL OR The Association,  

GReatest of Men, yet Man's least friend farewell,  
Wit's mightiest but most useless Miracle.  
Where Nature all her Richest Treasures stored,  
To make one vast unprofitable Hoard.  
So high as thine no Orb of fire could roll,  
The Brightest, yet the most Excenticle Soul;  
Whom midst wealth, Honour, Fame, yet want of Ease,  
No power could e'er oblige, no state could please.  
Be in thy grave with peaceful slumbers blest,  
And find thy whole Life's only stranger, REST.  
Oh Sh—ry had thy prodigious Mind  
Been to thyself and thy great Master kind.  
Glory had wanted Lungs thy Toomb to blow,  
And Pyramids had been a Tomb too low.  
Oh that the World (Great statesmen) e'er should see  
Nebucadnezzars Dream fulfilled in thee!  
Whilst such low Paths led thy great Soul away,  
Thy Head of Gold moved but on Feet of Clay.  
Yes, from Rebellions late Inhuman Rage,  
The Crimes and Chaos of that Monstrous Age.  
As the old Patriarch from Sodom Flew,  
So to great CHARLES his Sacred Bosom Thou;  
But oh? with more than Lot's Wives fatal Fault,  
For which she stood in Monumental salt.  
Tho' the Black scene thy hasting Footstep flies,  
Thy Soul turns back and looks with longing eyes.  
Oh restless Peer! that the Records of same  
Should give Erothratus and Thee one name.  
Great was his bold Atchieument, Greater Thine,  
Greater as Kings than Shrines are more Divine.  
Greater as Vaster Toils it did Require  
To ' inflame three Kingdoms, that one Temple fire.  
But where are all those blustering storms Retired,  
That roared so loud when Oliver Expired?  
Storms that rend Oaks, and Rocks asunder broke,  
And at his Exequys in Thunder Spoke?  
Was there less Cause when thy last doom was given  
To waken all the Revelers of Heaven?  
Or did there want in Beligias humble Soil,  
A Cedar fit to fall thy Funeral pile?  
No: Die, and Heaven th' Expense of Thunder save,  
Husked as thy own designs down to Thy Grave.  
So husked may all the portents of the sky  
With thee our last great Comets Influence Die.  
May this one stroke our lowering Tempests Clear,  
And all the Fiery Trigon finish here.  
With thee Expire the Democratick Gall,  
Thy Sepulchre and Lethe swallow all.  
Here ends the Poison of that Viperous Brood,  
And make thy Urn like Moses wondrous Rod,  
So may our Breaches close in thy one Grave,  
Till Sh—ry's last breath three Nations save.  
And Dying thus t'avert his Countries Doom,  
Go with more Fame than Curtius to his Tomb.  
But is he Dead! How! cruel Belgia say!  
Lodged in thy Arms, yet make so short a stay!  
Ungrateful Country, Barbarous Holland shore,  
Could the Batavian Climate do no more!  
Her Sh—ry's dear Life no longer save!  
What a Republic Air! And yet so quick a Grave!  
Oh! all ye scattered Sons of Titan Weep,  
This Dismal day with solemn Mourning keep,  
Like Israel's Moulten Calf your Medal burn,  
And into Tears your great Laetemur Turn.  
Oh! wail in dust to think how Fates dire frown,  
Has Thrown your dear Herculean Column down.  
Oh! Charon waft thy load of Mischiefs o'er,  
And land him sasly on the Stygian shore.  
At his Approach James loudest Trumpet call,  
Cromwell, Cook, Ireton, Bradshaw, Hewson, all,  
From all the Courts below, each well pleased Ghost,  
All the Republic Legions, Numerous Host,  
Swarm thick to see your mighty Hero Land,  
Crowed up the shore and blacken all the Strand;  
And, what e'er Chance on Earth, or Powers accursed,  
Broke all your Bands, your holy Leagues all burst,  
This union of the SAINTS no storm shall sever,  
This last ASSOCIATION holds for ever.    

THE RECOVERY.  
YET once more Peace turns back her head to smile,  
And take some pity on our stubborn Isle,  
She and her Sister Truth, now hand in hand,  
Return to Visit our forsaken Land,  
I see, I see! Oh Albion help the sight,  
TRUTH long eclipsed, lift up her Sacred Light,  
And chase away those obscene Birds of Night.  
Th' illboding Scritchowl we so long did fear,  
Hover above in our thickened Air,  
Whose fatal note was never heard, but Death  
Followed th' Infernal Evidencing Breath.  
Hail Lovely Truth! Oh spread thy Rays Divine,  
And let thy dawning Beams more fully shine,  
Already thy glad Inference we find,  
And all now see, but they who will be blind,  
They see whilst thou holds up thy guiding Light,  
The dangerous Errors of the former Night,  
A Night which all our Heaven did invade,  
By the Dire skill of State Magicians made.  
In a dark Cell the Wayward Brothers Met,  
Ith' midst there was a Chair for Satan set,  
Which in his absence—  
A little withered Conjurer supplied,  
And all his Imps drank Venom from his side,  
His word was (than he out his Tap did pluck.)  
Come my young Pugs of Treason, come and suck.  
This Hellish Rite performed to work they go,  
To raise up Darkness from the shades below,  
Thick Mists of popular fears, and Jealousies,  
Did at the Necromantic Call arise,  
And in black Clouds hid all the British Skies.  
Here first their unskiled Spirits their Visions played,  
And learned their Message to the Hatfield Maid,  
Here first were raised the wondering World to scare  
The Armies Harris mustered in the Air.  
But now the Charms dissolved, and England free  
From the Enchantment does its madness see,  
Sees its vain fears of that expected Day,  
No Royal Blood, stained the Fifteenth of May,  
Prevailing Truth has opened Britain's Eyes,  
And Folly seen, gins to make her wise.  
Oh! Let us then unite, let Faction cease,  
Nor think Confusion is the way of Peace,  
That Schism must the Churches fall prevent.  
And breaking Laws, secure the Government,  
Let Traitors to expected Trial come,  
And from the Mouth of Justice hear their Doom,  
'tis so, He's gone where Justice does maintain  
Her Seat in Peace, nor bears the Sword in vain,  
No Hackney speakers there o'er Law prevail,  
To Conquer thee by telling of a tale,  
Nor Factious, nor guilty Lords appear,  
To blunt that Sword whose Edge they justly fear.  
No Garter blue nor Star that Court can awe,  
That Star which did long since its Beams with draw,  
Nor at the Trial can its Light dispense,  
To Cherish Treason with its Influence.  
Here all in vain strives Councillor and Lord,  
Where the Revenging Goddess speaks the word,  
Nor can Confession turn aside the Blow,  
From Criminals that own that they are so,  
Had this been done long since it had saved the guilt  
Of so much Blood so prodigally spilt,  
While certain Villainy did hurry hence,  
To unjust Death suspected Innocence.  
But Justice now is this Triumphant scene,  
Thy shame does end, and Triumph doth begin,  
All this to thy Defender Charles is due,  
Who now with the his Glories does Renew,  
Already with fresh Beams the Crown does shine,  
Power Sacred grows, and Majesty Divine,  
His mighty Sceptres in his hand held fast,  
Nor like a Deed is bend with every blast.  
Hold, hold Great Charles, this Resolution hold,  
And in thy own, and Countries Cause be bold,  
Whatever of this mighty Body thou,  
The Head, Resolvest, we thy hands will do,  
Dare to be happy, and to make us so.  
How great is Majesty, and how August,  
How Godlike when 'tis Resolutely just?  
Then 'tis that willing Subjects gladly meet,  
To throw their Lives before their Monarch's Feet,  
There 'tis their Fortunes they before him lay,  
Sue to be Ruled and Glory to Obey,  
Such Charles is now thy State, and such the Train  
Of those that now petition thee to Reign,  
See even thy Prodigal Son does now destre,  
To leave his Husk, and Swine, and Wapping mire,  
In which so long he wallowed up and down.  
Known to each dirty Kennel in the Town.  
And to his Injured Father and his Lord,  
Would by his much wronged Uncle be restored.  
How well have W—ms, Jones, and W—ton,  
B—ch, G—rd, T— by, their great Duty done?  
How have they taught the People to Repent  
Their Zeal for their great Idol Parliament,  
How have they shown the Arbitrary Way  
That Monster took to make us all its Prey!  
They to lose all, claimed more than was their Right,  
And stretched their Power only to break it quite,  
These, these are they who have true Service done,  
Meriting their secret favours from the Crown,  
These, these have made a Dissolution be,  
Not Wisdom only, but Necessity.  
These thus removed our Jealousies and Fears,  
Were ever such deserving Pensioners?  
Then Charles, since all things now conspire to bless  
Thy graceful Age with Conquest and success,  
Begin, Resolve, and venture to be great,  
Nor overthrow those vast designs of Fate.  
Begin at home, purge thine own house, and Free  
From Villains Tongues the Ears of Majesty.   

ON THE King's Deliverance AT NEW MARKET.  

I.  
SO Weapons prosper which are formed 'gainst Heaven,  
Or it is Vice grant Heavens peculiar Care,  
To whom are more than Vulgar Blessings given,  
And fire has saved whom men more Cruel would not spare.  
Some greater Genius him defends,  
By mighty means for mighty ends,  
And makes his Foes his Footstool be,  
Or (what his Goodness more Delights to see)  
Makes them his Friends:   

II.  
Nor do we more Congratulate,  
The present safety of the State,  
Then future peace which we anticipate.  
Now Treasonous Arts are so Exposed to view,  
The Plots as soon as hatched are blasted too.  
Popery's coming in they well might cry,  
Whose Methods would fulfil the Prophecy.  
Nor did they cheat the World who took such pain,  
The Jealosyes they raised should not be vain.  
First Arbitrary power must down,  
Meaning the Crown.  
Then must some Ministers be in Disgrace,  
Because a Rebel wants his place.  
More Liberty the People crave,  
Yet know not how to use that which they have.  
Next that men's Propertyes secured must be,  
They'f made the King a Property,  
What Monstrous Blessings would a Change create,  
Might Atheists mend the Church, and Knaves the State.  
But shall we twice be gulled by one pretence?  
With one Allegiance have we lost 'em since?  
These very Tricks ruin'd us once before,  
Curse of such Arts which now are Arts no more.   

III.  
All that is envied still attend the Throne,  
And him that sits Theron.  
But when these Earthly Gods shall die like Men,  
Let only Nature then  
(Nature the Rule of him by whom King's Reign)  
Appoint who next shall grace and truth Maintain.  
May Names of Matchless Heroes of this Race,  
Distinguish happy times till time itself shall cease.   
FINIS.