A SEARCH AFTER HONESTY. A POEM. By Mr. TUTCHIM.  
LONDON, Printed for the Author. 1697.   

To His FRIEND Mr. J. T. on the Following POEM.  

PRithee, Old Friend, Shall I make bold to Ask,  
What Angry Stars have doomed Thee to this Task?  
What Powers Swayed thy Fancy? What thy Mind?  
To Seek a Thing, so Plaguy hard to Find.  
First try thy Fate, see how such Projects hit;  
Find out something that's Parallel to it.  
Find out a CITY destitute of Vice;  
Find out that Spot, called, The Old Paradise:  
Find a French Courtier without Genteel Lies,  
Or any English one that Gold denies.  
Find out a Beauty, and no Pride Lodged there;  
An Honest Thief, and Generous Usurer;  
Find out the Unicorn, and Phoenix too,  
And from what Cause in Nature they first grew:  
When these are found, than we perhaps may see  
Some dark blind steps of Light-Heel'd-Honesty.  
I once was Led, by Curious Thoughts, to know,  
On what Strange Soil this Honesty did grow:  
But those I Asked for it, returned me No.  
I from the Lawyer first, Direction sought,  
And begged his Aid to this my Newborn Thought.  
Tush, Tush, quoth he, Our Trade is to Adjust  
Nice Points of Law, and Doubtfull-Deeds of Trust,  
By which we make Men Poor, but seldom Just.  
The Doctor felt my Pulse, quoth he, thou'rt Mad;  
Go Bleed, use Hellebore, and Shave thy Head.  
Then to a Priest I went, and told my Want;  
Who Fairly Answered, He knew nothing on't.  
Nay then (quoth I) if this is owned by All,  
I'll Use it Sparingly, or not at All:  
I'll Talk on't too, like others, without Ground;  
The Crowd they'll Stare, Believe, and so't goes round.  
What is this thing, that Men so Lamely Know?  
This Honesty? so much Pretended to.  
'tis nothing. Or, What's next to't, but a Toy?  
Oft-times a Shooing-horn for Knavery:  
'Tis Faith's next Heir, a Jewel, if you knew it;  
Engrossed by all, though very few dare show it.  
'Tis like the Solvent, Chymist's talk so on;  
A sort of Witchcraft, more Believed then Known:  
'Tis like the Flame that doth so fine appear,  
But Burns the Skin of him that comes too near:  
'Tis vainly Called, what vauntingly we boast;  
Talked by the Wise, Believed to Weak men's Cost:  
'Tis like the Maidenhead weak Men Adore;  
Ne'er Found when Lost, nor never seen before.  
This Truth all know; and some Men to their Sorrow:  
One's Honest now, perhaps a Knave to Morrow.  
Then what's the Honesty in Common Vogue?  
When he that hath it, Proves next Day a ROGUE.  
Were it as Plenty as 'tis said to be,  
More Honest Deeds, and fewer Knaves you'd see.  
'Tis Craft and Skill, not Justice, makes the Knave;  
Who, to Enrich his Heir, himself's a Slave.  
To Swell th' Estate, Crowds in a Crime or Two;  
So gains his Point, 'tis no great matter How.  
So Heirs are Cursed: Estates too, now and then;  
And this too done by them, Called, Honest Men.   

Well, Friend, Go on, in this Design Abide,  
And th' Great Being be thy Sacred Guide.  
'Tis Brave and Generous: Nay, a Noble Strain,  
To seek for that, which few Men wish to gain:  
'Tis a Design of such Descent and Birth,  
That proves 'twas Born Above, not here on Earth.  
As a Reward, may thou its Birth-place View,  
As a Possessor, not as Pilgrims Do  
Let us be Honest: Us, that Shrine Adore;  
A Blessing still Attends it, though we're Poor.   
J. P.   

A SEARCH After Honesty.  

IN Silent Shades, upon the Banks of Thames,  
A Pensive Bard sat viewing of the Streams;  
He thought, retiring, to have found Relief,  
But Shades and Darksome Scenes augment our Grief:  
Long he his Country and her Fate did Mourn,  
And Prayed for more Auspicious days return:  
His Goddess, HONESTY, he long had lost  
Upon the Ages Impious Surges tossed.  
No Influence, no Tract of her he finds,  
But what remains in his and Generous Minds;  
Whether She's fled, or how disturbed of rest,  
He long revolved within his Tortured Breast.  
To Foreign Climes, from Heavenly Seats Above,  
Bearing the Mandates of Almighty Jove,  
As Angels do with swiftest speed repair  
Through the vast Empires of extended Air;  
Guided by Heavenly Charts, a Passage find,  
And leave the Winds and Flagging Clouds behind,  
At once they view the Regions of the Sky,  
And Humane Actions, as aloft they fly.  
Thus does the Mind all distant Forms survey,  
And Just Ideas to itself convey;  
Things hid in Dark recess to Light are brought,  
By Inspiration, or a Turn of Thought.   

His Mind first brought him, as the chief of things,  
Unto the Gilded Palaces of Kings;  
He thought a GODDESS of so Great a Port  
Was fit for Empire, and received at COURT;  
Soon the Mistaken Bard his Error found,  
When Fancy brought him on the slippery Ground;  
Nature does here with hideous Forms affright,  
And Paints the Landscape of Eternal Night.  
The Sun, whose Blessing is his heat Divine,  
Does here, like some Enchanted Taper, shine;  
Pimps, Parasites and Knaves make up the Throng,  
Whilst Ghosts of Poisoned Monarches glide along.  
A Den, where none but Beasts of Prey resort,  
And hatch New Crimes, their Old Ones to Support.  
Night- Ravens Perch, with the Illboding- Owl;  
State- Foxes Bark, and Ravenous Tigers Howl.  
GoblinsTransform themselves, and Night-Mares Prance;  
Elves Bellow Loud, and Ghastly Satyrs Dance.  
Men here by Philtres do provoke their Loves,  
And every Woman a Medoea proves:  
Each Man, with Envy, does the next surprise,  
The Small-ones Grumble as the Great-ones Rise;  
One Man Preferred, the Residue Combine,  
And do his State-Foundations Undermine:  
Yet all Aspiring to be Gay and Great,  
Alike, they Flatter, and alike they Cheat.  
Still Fancy leads him, by Mistaken Rules,  
And brings him, next, to Colleges and Schools;  
Where Youth is with the Laws Corruption Fed;  
Where Priests are Formed, and Holy Cheats are Bred;  
Taught to Misled the Ignorant from the Way,  
Bewitch their Senses, and their Faith Betray:  
From these, as from the Stews, do overflow,  
(numerous, as Grass does on the Mountains grow)  
Monks, Nuns and Priests, of every Sect and Kind,  
The same in Virtue, and the same in Mind:  
Here, to the Sacred Altar he repairs,  
Hoping to Meet his Goddess at her Prayers:  
With Fervent Zeal the Priest's Devotion Pay,  
With Outward CANT, and Hearts within Astray:  
By Formal Zeal the Trading-Priesthood Thrives,  
Yet Damn their Doctrine in their Wicked Lives.  
Incensed at this, our Poet did express  
His Just Resentments, in such Words as these;  
" How much this Age, than others, is Accursed?  
" How much Unlike what was Created First?  
" The Infant-World with Care and Plenty Blest,  
" Knew not the Plague nor odious Name of Priest;  
" Each Man a Temple in his Dwelling saw,  
" And Taught his Children to Expound the Law;  
" Was Priest himself, yet Ploughed his Fertile Soil,  
" And eat the Sweets of all his Care and Toil:  
" No Black-Invader did his Ease molest,  
" Nor Paid he Tithes to a Voracious Priest:  
" Pampered with Ease, eat Manna for his Bread,  
" Yet loathed those Daintys which his Bowels fed,  
" At once, his God and Liberty Detests.  
" He, like the Heathen-Nations, craved for Priests;  
" Th'Almighty Froun'd, and in his Anger gave  
" A Priest, should make unthinking Man a Slave:  
" Scarce half his Bleating Flocks could now suffice  
" The Priest for Office and for Sacrifice:  
" The Priestly-pride devoured the Layman's Wealth,  
" The Hearers Illness was the Preacher's Health▪  
" The Unadulterate Priesthood never knew  
" The Glory, Strength, nor Lewdness of the New  
" Nor does the New those Sacred Tenants hold▪  
" Nor love the Faith and Virtue of the old.  
" Good God no longer let us be Accursed!  
" But show this Age how Man was Governed First;  
" we'll soon acknowledge thy Imperial Power,  
" While thy Just Sway our Wooden Gods devour;  
" Under thy Banner willing Nations call,  
" Nor trust Mankind t'attempt a Second Fall.   

Next, to his Mind, a Martial Wight appears,  
His Aspect Fierce, and Beautified with Scars,  
Who does conduct him to the Scenes of Wars;  
Where Mighty Squadrons range upon the Plain,  
While Large Battalions Canvas Tents contain:  
Not such as Rome's expiring Glories raised,  
And made the Wondering World around Amazed;  
Whose Prowess gained their State a just Applause,  
With Arms proportioned to so good a Cause;  
Repaired the Fame of its declining State,  
And made Rome's Empire and her Glories great:  
These never knew the Modern Arts of War,  
Fight, and not Entrenching, was their Care.  
The God of War disowns his Progeny,  
And Bacchus is amazed, ashamed to see  
Men more Debauched, and Proffligate than Herald  
One Boasts his Valour, and his Famed Exploits,  
Tho' he for Coin, not for his Country Fights:  
Beneath a Gloomy Ditch, one Wounded lies,  
Praying to God to Damn him ere he Dies.  
Vile Wretch, that would his Destiny Forestall,  
And, for what others Dread, so Vainly Call;  
Loud, as Defeated Armies, when they Fly,  
They Belch out Oaths, and Blacken all the Sky.  
No Footsteps here of Honesty remain,  
Impiety and Lewdness fill the Plain.   

In vain, o'er Hills and Mountains he Complains;  
In vain he treads the Unfrequented Plains:  
Next he Attempts the Billows of the Deep,  
Where Neptune Rules, and's Watry-Court does keep:  
Tho' Brittle Barks are here to pieces Torn,  
Venus, a Goddess, on the Waves was Born:  
Here Raging Winds are sometimes Lulled Asleep,  
And Halcyon's Brood upon the Silent Deep:  
Here Little Cupid does Expand his Wing,  
And Tritons Dance, while Lovely Sirens Sing:  
He Views the Gilded Ships, who Lofty Ride,  
And with their Prows Stem the Approaching Tide;  
Pleased with the Goodly Sight, allured from Far,  
Tho' with the mean Perfumes of Pitch and Tarr,  
He does Approach, They Marine State provide,  
The Boatswain's Whistle, and they Man the Side;  
He enters, is received in Awful Port,  
Beholds the Splendour of a Marine Court;  
He looks around, and stands amazed to see  
The Costly Splendid Luxury of the Sea;  
In Wooden Castles Floating from afar,  
The Captains Cursing as the Sailors Swear,  
Than Sands themselves, more Treacherous, on the shore,  
Or Faithless Winds, when Angry Tempests Roar.  
Tyrannic Sway o'er Government prevails,  
They're puffed with Pride as Boreas fills their sails▪  
In whose Big Bellies undiscovered lie  
The Fate of Kings, and Sailor's Destiny;  
Like sooty Fiends, they to their Cabins Creep,  
Leviathan, not Neptune, Rules the Deep.   

Fatigued in Search, and in his Mind oppressed,  
Our Poet lays his Wearied Limbs to Rest:  
Ease to our Limbs, in every place, we find,  
But what can Ease the Labours of the Mind?  
When the declining Sun dropped out of sight,  
And Evening-Stars had Ushered in the Night;  
And Wanton Fishes, which before did Sport  
On the Streams Surface to the Deep resort,  
To their Repose upon some Slimy Bed,  
Or in the Caverns of the Banks are laid,  
Two gent'e Charon's, Rowing, he espied,  
With Well-tymed Oars, upon the Ebbing-Tyde,  
They took him in, and to Augusta came,  
Augusta, great in Riches as in Fame,  
He views each Stately Dome, each lofty Spire,  
A Phoenix City sprung from Fatal Fire;  
With Trade and Riches in abundance blest,  
By Foreign Empires and Great States Garrest:  
Each Flowing-Tide does fill her Crowded Port  
With Ships could bear the Island they do Court;  
Whose Wooden-Wombs produce a Mighty Birth  
Of all the Treasures of the Distant Earth,  
Ships, who, like Bees, to Both the Indies Roam,  
And having Plundered whereso're they come,  
Do, to this Hive, bring all their Honey Home.  
With Generous Wine, and Costly Dainties filled,  
Augusta's Sons devour what Swains have Tilled.  
Her Mighty Bigness does augment her state,  
And Borrowing Princes at her Chamber wait.  
In Princely Palaces her Sons reside,  
And grow as Wanton as the Flowing Tide.  
Her Women Beauteous, of Majestic Port;  
Venus and Cupid both keep here their Court;  
But our Bard's Goddess here has no resort.  
A Fabric stands near to its Rivers Edge,  
Where Two Kind 
† The BRIDGE Built by a Waterman's Two Daughters.  Sisters Built a Lofty Bridge;  
A Monument of Vast Aspiring Height,  
Wond'rous in Form, Amazing to the Sight;  
Founded in Orphan's Ruin, Widows Tears,  
And the Collected Wealth of many Years;  
It's lofty Top, in thicker Air it shrouds,  
And hides its shameful Head among the Clouds;  
Aspiring thus it nearer Heaven does grow,  
That Heaven might see men's Villainies below.  
Founded at first a Monument for Sin,  
Because the City's Flames did here begin.  
Thus some Lewd Priest, who, like a sharpened Scythe,  
Has Mowed a Parish of its Wealth for Tithe;  
Heaven to Appease, he most Devoutly Prays,  
And all his Plunder on the Altar lays.   

From hence our Poet Views the Crowded Streets,  
And various Men with various Minds he Meets;  
Some Trick, like Courtiers, with Despotic Power,  
And, like Great Fish, the Lesser Fry devour.  
Some Clad with Livery Fines, profusely live,  
And o'er the Pavements in their Coaches drive.  
Bankrupts Commissions make some Rich and Great;  
He only Best does Trade, who Best does Cheat,   

Next at the Inns of Court a while he stops;  
In those Dark Cells he for his Doddess Gropes,  
As scattered Limbs of Beasts in pieces Torn,  
The Entrance to a Lion's Den Adorn:  
Thus at each Lawyer's Door does Grovelling lie  
The Poor Remains of some Lost Family;  
Praying, for what was once, by Law, their Own,  
By Parchment Murdered, and False Deeds Undone.  
Lord! How these Brutes with one another Jar,  
And Scold a Trial at the Noisy Bar?  
Lawyers, like Tailor's Shears, do open and Shut,  
And Grind each other in their Client's Suit;  
But still the Client is the Cloth they Cut.  
Corrupted Gold from Plainest Statutes draw;  
As Priests do Wrest the Gospel, these the Law.   

From these, as from the Pestilence, he Runs,  
And takes a View of Aesculapius Sons;  
Environed round with Sceletons they sit,  
And Instruments of Grizly Death do fit.  
No Ball from Canon's Mouth more surely Kills;  
Nor half so many as their Poisonous Pills:  
Not from Pandora's Box more Poisons fly,  
Then in their Nasty Drugs and Extracts lie,  
Denying Use of Nature's wholesome Food,  
They, with their Recipes, Corrupt our Blood.  
Cursed is the Wretch the Goblin- Doctor Haunts;  
He's Killed by Inches, Stung to Death by Ants:  
Yet Mild-Authority Approves their Skill;  
Hangmen and Doctors have a Right to Kill.   

Our Bard Confounded with the City Cheats,  
Like Pious Lot, from Sodom he Retreats;  
Where he his Goddess, or his Fate may find,  
Nor casts one Unauspicious Look behind:  
He Walks afoot along the Dusty Road,  
Where Wagons Groan beneath their Mighty Load;  
Where, from the Towns on Albion's distant Coast,  
Men, to Augusta, Travel, like an Host:  
When Sol's Hot Station did oppose the North,  
And, through the Air, Warm Beams were darted forth.  
Beneath a Shrub our Poet lays him down,  
To Ease his Limbs, and pass the Heat at Noon;  
No Dainties here Grace his Contented Board,  
But what the Brambles and the Hedge afford.  
What Liquor Nature had created first,  
Did from the Brook allay his Heat and Thirst.  
With Gentle Slumbers, and with Ease Refreshed,  
(Not Men, on Downy Beds, more sweetly Rest;)  
He Travels o'er the Melancholy Heath,  
And Views the Valleys, and the Herds beneath;  
Till Sol Retired unto his Place of Rest,  
And all in Darkness the Horizon Dressed:  
Our Poet now a Lonesome Wood had found,  
Beneath whose Boughs he lays him on the Ground:  
Unto his Goddess first his Prayers he made,  
Whilst Birds did Sing their Vespers o'er his Head.  
No Beast of Prey disturbed his soft Repose,  
But in the Morning to his Toil he rose.  
Long o'er the Hills and Mountains he Complains,  
And makes Enquiry of the Pagan Swains▪  
Some little notice of the Swains he had,  
His Goddess Honesty that Way was Fled.  
One Evening, as he passed a Loansome Plain,  
Scorched with the Sun, and seldom Blest with Rain▪  
Hither for Herbage Beasts do ne'er Repair,  
Nor will the Soil reward the tilers Care▪  
A Little Village near the Plain there stood,  
Contiguous to a Small, but Lofty Wood▪  
Like some, more happy, Unfrequented Grove,  
Where Turtles Woo, and Swains Commence their Love:  
Whether Inspired, or Destitute of Food,  
He Steers his Course by the obliging Wood;  
Beneath the Shadow of whose Spreading Trees,  
Guarded by Cottagers, his Goddess Sees.  
Though her Mean State Proclaimed aloud Despair,  
She still was Charming, and her Features Fair▪  
He made Obeisance at his Goddess Feet,  
And She did kindly her Adorer Greet:  
Dear Youth! She says, From whence proceeds this Toil?  
What makes thee Ravage this Deserted Isle?  
Long I Her Cities and her Towns have Left,  
Of all their Gods and Honesty Bereft▪  
To seek New Converts in the Thickest Shades▪  
Free from the Crowds the Noisy Town invades  
But Honesty is every where the same,  
Though Courts may hate Her, nor Her Worth Proclaim.  
Each Rising-Sun does Fresher Charms Engage;  
She's not Decayed, but more Improved by Age.  
Then Sat Down, Youth, and See my Homely Court,  
What Humble Pageantries my Pomp Support.   
FINIS.