EPISTLES TO THE KING AND DUKE. LONDON, Printed for Tho. Dring, at the Harrow against the Temple-Gate in Fleetstreet. M.DC.LXXXII. TO THE KING. WISE Men begin at th' Enterprises End, Sense should the Aim, ere 'tis an Act, commend; With Courtiers, Fencers, Lawyers, Poets still Boldness makes up, their want of Force, or Skill; And Zeal is oft, the Pious Fools Excuse, Whose rude Prayer is the Deity's Abuse; So when defaming Libels fly abroad, Profaneing the high Name of earthly God, I too, scarce hold taking great Name in vain, Must with new insolence, of theirs complain; Who thinks your Name by Slaves can lessened be, Does to your Honour, but more Injury; Of all your Provinces, yet ne'er was known, Parnassus (Sir) Rebellious to the Crown, Province of Wit, more than the rest your own Tho Poets still, by Courts were kept Threadbare, In Verse, for Monarchy, true Wits declare, A Wit's your true, Indigent Officer Still out of Royal Sight, kept below Stairs, Appearing through his Coat, seldom appears; Court litter ere has been a Spaniel Crew; To Fawning, Sloth, yet scarce to Master true, Suffering no Poor, to come in Master's view; If Royal Bounty, aught to Stranger throws, The Household greedy Fawners interpose; So Wretch for whom 'twas meant, the Boon must lose; I am the only Spaniel of the Crown, Kicked out, and yet must still be hanging on, The kinder too, for being but ill used, To baffled me, why is Court-grace refused? Where 'tis Preferment, but to be abused. But Poet amongst State-Lyars can't put in, And Wit with Politics, scarce ere there, seen, The only bashful Liar too, comes there, And only hungry, ill clad, Flatterer; Flattery with Wit, like Paint on a good Face, Instead of setting off, heightening Disgrace, And Flattery makes Wit thought counterfeit, As red, which does appear too plain to sight, Renders suspected, undawbed neighbouring White; Wit, like unfarded Beauty, will appear, Still best barefaced, and when Men peep most near; Yet Fucus Flattery's too hard for Wit, Tho by Wit's shelter she does safest sit, Mole Flatterer, sole danger of great Men, Who raises levels up, whilst Heart's unseen, Heaving loose Hills, for trampling proud Court foot, In unsmooth Court paths, still to spurn about; Court-Underminers, are still trod upon, Yet to destroy them, each great Man has one; As Elephants have Mice to eat 'em down; The Horse, has lurking Bot, the Dog his Worm, Poet, has Worm called Wit, to do him harm; Each Mortal, does own Bane about him bear, So great Prince has, his sticking Flatterer; Flattery copper Coin to current Wit, Tho so Court current, ne'er passed with you, yet; That Ivy of Court Cedars, whose Embrace, Hinders its high Stocks growth, its worst disgrace, Destruction to best Palaces high walls, Whilst from her clinging growth, huge Fabric falls; But you hate Flattery, as you love Wit, Bold Flattery, always too hard for it; For Flatterers, though you low Race disown, Still think themselves, Appendices o'th' Crown, So sticking Sploach, gold's lustre will deface, And Cobwebs oft, hang safest on high place, To Courts, perpetual hanging on, Disgrace; Wit like your Robes, none but you there have on, Easy Majestic free, to be aimed at by none; In Conversation make no difference yet, Distinguished then as first but by your Wit, Which like your Gold, from you does freely flow, Fountain of Honour, Wealth, nay true Wit too, You are a Tyrant only by your Wit, Tormenting aiming Coxcombs still with it, And no bold Talker can safe near you sit; You never triumph, though you overcome, Not by your Checks, but Wit, make Talkers dumb; Monarch of Wit, have all Wits in your power, Yet ne'er made Man blush, who could blush before; Nay let too, forward dapper Wit, alone, Till that his own bold Nonsense runs him down; So an ill Fencer falls by his own Sword, The more he bushes, the more out of guard; But you, Wit, like your Justice (Sir) all know, More than in punishment in mercy show, Tho if provoked none can be sharper too; But sparing is the part of generous Wit, Whilst rambling Fools shot, does all round it, hit; Loud half Wits, as loud half Braves, bloody'st are, In their Wit's fury, Man, nor Woman, spare; But true Wits, like your Spaniels have alone, Their Master Friend, by th'Crowd, kicked, trod upon; Wits small great Party, you alone (Sir) are, Yet Poet, at Whitehall, sole Flatterer, Who by the Rules of Court, is left to starve, If not Wit, lying should the Wretch preserve, Where cutting Friends up does Knaves mouthfuls carve; And palling Flattery, helps Fools to dine, But could Wits force, with Flattery once join, It ne'er could have, improsperous design; For Wit, with Flattery, like Force with Art, Lay's open fencing Courtiers covered heart; Against lurking Flattery, few men there are, Who want their weak side, or do not lie bare; None but you (Sir) for Flattery too high, That piercing soft, feathered Artillery; Which falls to Earth, aiming up, at the Sky; Against Court Wind-Guns you alone are fast, And Poyson-praise, Court-slaves before you taste, They have first draught, to you presented last: At Court, Wit lives, alas, like Loyalty, Maimed, shabby, out of date, passed by; Thought Favourite of Courts, gets there but shame, Sole Liar there too, Subject is to blame; Like Cavalier, lives on Wit's Lottery, The Playhouse, starving Scene of Poetry; That scrambling Lottery of needy Wit, Where most times chance is missed for one poor hit, And all with busy, filching Scribbling paw, For art, and pushing blanks most often draw; Saints meeting Playhouses play down the Stage, There act more lewd love, and more Bloody-rage With Devils, Pope, and Friars to engage, And they on Pulpit-Ribaldry grow fat, On vices of the World to live, and chat, Better, than any Poet of 'em All, Or Coffee-holders-forth, who unhired Bawl; By Prick-eared, Busy, Lazy is revived, So did he look so whine, so sneered, so grieved, And Foe to Plays the greatest Player is Acts on stale Plot, (Of 41) though People roar, and hiss, Lowed, bawling Bombast, tragic Villainy, And seriously plays Pulpit-Comedy, Ridiculous, Religious Mimckry; For four hours, deaf'ning Galleries and Pit, While Pulpit-fixt long Ears in Pill'ry sit, And those merc'less Ear Executioners, To Pulpits pin down, for five hours, all Ears, With mauling, railing, sharp invective Prayers, Against the Playhouses, so much declare, Cause such their Meeting-houses, only are; When Town, had but two, they could ne'er agree, What feuds will rise by late Plurality? Let Cushion-beaters rage, thump Pulpits down, Each thrash about him, till his Cushion's gone; And if (Sir) once you take away Saints ease, His Praying, and his noise, will soon then cease; So Pillow ta'en from Sick-man's dying Bed, Strugler gets quiet from his fallen head; In meeting Playhouse, thriving Players do, To Less than ten, with sharing audience go; They Tithes alone, for gain-sake still lay down, Because they think their Flocks fleece all their own Believe as Saints, so Heaven's sole Heirs they are, And wronged, when they are stinted to tenth share, Of blessings, which like showers, come without care: But holy Playhouses, like others do, Act Tragedies on Kings, in Puppet show, And with the Royal leave, or sufferance, By acting so, the active cause advance; Of Rapine, Rage, Rebellion, nay Lust too, Where raised up Eyes, each Dame and Purse look throw, There with rude Worship, Church, and Court defame, In Prayer take most in vain, God's, and your name; Yet often'st in their Prayer you are left out, But in Prayer only, escape blaspheming Throat; Such old Reformers, did old Laws withstand, Such by King-killing, made yours holy Land; And such, again, (forbid Eternal Power,) Would so exalt their King as once before, But you, without Death's stroke, will ever live, In deeds of Mercy, like a God, you give, Yet Death, or vengeance deal with slowest Arm, By mercy (Sir) you only can do harm; Yours is, in sparing but destructive hand, With strokes you'd heal, State-evil of your Land; But when you think all's Cured the humorous Sore, Missing your Gold, breaks out, worse than before; Rebellion, like a Felon, must endure, Squeesing and anguish, ere 'twill find a Cure; You ne'er are cruel, but when you forgive, And Rebels, whom your laws condemn reprieve, Saving such lives, risks that, by which all live; When a King's Murdered, one Man does not die, Whole Nations, suffer Death in Monarchy, And lose their dearest Life old Liberty: Your Arm, like Heaven's fences with your Foes, To save those lives who would your power depose; Excess of Mercy, is self cruelty, Hazarding Life that Murderers mayn't die; Yet sometimes, Traitorous Friend bids Friend have care, Makes him turns Head, to take him unaware, When none, but his own Traitorous hand, was near; But your own sparing hand, you need but fear, 'Cause 'twould not kill, but only rage disarm, Venturing yourself, not enemy to harm; Late is your Vengeance, if it comes at all, Like Heaven's hand, your great Original, Tardy in punishment, in giving swift, When merit calls, you give till nothing's left; Kings names, by th' King of Mettles ought to live, Yet not by Dross they stamp, but Gold, they give; Kings are Land-pirates from their taking power, By gift, not stamp of Gold, Kings are made more, By giving each King grows an Emperor; Yet the sole fault of giving, is excess; Its overflowing, makes its shallowness, By giving, Liberality will cease, All but yourself, in your Court, are at ease, All but yourself, there too, proud, big, and high; overflowing honour dreins Spring Majesty, And when a Prince puts Royal stamp on Brass, Raising the Mettles price, will his debase; Some worthless wretches wear high Character, As Copper Farthings too King's Image bear, As well as Gold, which weighs well, and looks right, Of worth Intrinsic, glorious too, in sight; When honours grow too cheap, it is a sign, In other Courts of scarcity of Coin, So Royal stamp, in Exigences has, Coined Leather, and for sterling made it pass, But your stamp is the same, on Lead, and Brass; In heat of stamping often dull Dross may Mix with pure Gold, and steal its stamp away; Yet some there are, deserve the stamp I know, And as true Coin, may make the false to go When Princes justly honour too confer, Such honoured is, his Prince's honourer; You can make any thing, but yourself proud, Best Kings, are like best Gold, easiest bowed; Such is your gentle condescending Reign, As when Gods ruled each Village and each Plain, Ere Ceremony swayed, Pride, or Disdain, Or rust of Avarice, did Conscience slain; And ere intruding, loud Religion strove, To change for tattle, silence of the Grove; Left Heavenly solitude t'improve the Earth, And scourced silent content, for noisy mirth; Such your Reign, as when Gods ruled infant Times, Your patience, bounty, mercy, are your Crimes; If they are faults, the Gods are Gods by them, More than by Thunder, or Stars Diadem; Your power alone, in saving you employ, You still save more, than Tyrants would destroy; Some Kings, out of revenge, but Justice do, But out of easiness, their pity show, And out of highest Vanity, seem low, You are your Nation's King, yet Father too; Your haughty Brother, Kings by ruin Reign, Offenders of your Mercy but complain, When they act o'er their Villainies again: You by forgiving make, and Conquer Foes, And bind men more, by letting of 'em loose; pardoning, in other Kings, is but an art, More to enslave, they give Life for a Heart, Which never must from them again depart; So give Life, but to take away a Life, For Death to wretch, from slavery's reprief, Such King's reprieve wretch, from the quiet grave, To make him live in Hell here Galley slave; To force slave Subjects, is King's slavery, A Rape on Hearts, begets disloyalty; Making your Subjects Hearts unasked to give, Is only Gods, and your Prerogative, Force on Allegiance worse than Rape on Love, Pleasure, and rule by force, but Tiresome pain will prove With your rude Nation, you, have kindly strove, But after all your Courtship, still you find, The humorous sullen harlot, scarce is kind, The only she, to whom your love applied, Who saucily, her kindness has denied; Yet will she, beastly prostrate be, lie down, And common grow to Fop of Shire and Town, Not worthy for such Majesty to own: Your Nation was your Mistress next to Fame, Till she proved false; your wrong is but her shame, The more you Court, the Jilt becomes more coy, Your show of Love, does but your hopes destroy; French Hector's kick, coy Jade e'er she'll be kind, That way of wooing's best most Monarches find; Neglect, scorn, and ill nature, best subdue Her who, then's only lost when you pursue, She to be followed will run out of view: False Commonwealth, dear Pation of her Prince. She who has been chief Mistress of expense, Is first, who at your giving takes offence; Jade Commonwealth, who in your bosom lay, Her whom you watched all night, Courted by day, Proves now your false, and weakening Dalila, Betraying first your strength your Life would lose, Clipping your power, you to Philistians expose, Philist'ans, to Almightiness, old Foes, Who from your strength to mightiness first rose; She too, would make great Master but her slave, Grown proud, scorns him, from bounties first he gave, Such fickle, false, and humorous next Fame, Is Mistress Commonwealth, her Lover's shame, Who suffers her too high, would be too tame. Truckling's the way to make Love still despised, For haughtiness, more than for truth oft prized: That Love which can engage, yet will not awe, Contempt in fine on profferer will draw, False Subjects, like false Whores but true for fear; Are Loyallest, when they are kept most bare. After new Conquests you ne'er vainly roam, To make War which tho scouring far from home, At length, does to home rage, and plundering come, Nay Princes, ravage home, to sack abroad, With burth'nous War, own Paisents first they load, To make strange Subject's Vassals to their Throne, Some squeeze, tax, torture, and fire too, their own; Ambitiously, to others ruin run, First by own loss, and desolation; So pushing Kings, like stamping Fencers live, Upon those sides to which most bangs they give, As if that Subjects, were like hidebound stocks, Whom Prince, by bangs to bearing fruit provokes, Slave so to Fame, for's glory slaves does load, Sets fire on home, to make men fly abroad, So broken Knave fires own House to get Brief, His ruin is, his ruins sole relief; And Poverty in peace, that makes men run, From Laws; in War, leads always poor Rogues, on; Kings pillage slaves, till pillaging goes round, By want, as well as rage, Arms first are found, So those, who cannot live, nor starve at home, For fear of starving to be killed may roam; Are fitted for a March, before they go, All hardship, want, first from their Prince they know, Trained up at home, for Military Vice, In Theft, and Soldiers starving exercise, In suffering hunger, thirst, and stripes are brave, So way to Conquer, is to be a slave; Home-hunger, and home-thirst the slaves first try, Thus neighbouring shore is made Arms nursery, So Officers in Muster's only stout, To show their valour, first their own men rout, But when none strike again, lay most about. Soldiers from Officers take bangs, and blows, That they may learn to take 'em from their foes; And Soldiers oft by being clothed, are stripped, And being paid, have half their wages clipped, Like Martial Fools, are Knaves, on honour's score, Most Courts with payments Rob, with gifts make poor With Titles infamous, with praise a Whore, valiantest there, oft of their pay afraid, Most often too, but with bangs truly paid; By state cashiers, and Captains are robbed so, That art of pillaging they too may know, ere they themselves may come, to strip a Foe; So Soldier who, first Arms, and Armour buys, By his own Arm, or Shot, their mettle tries, So hack they too, their Soldiers natural Buff, To find, if that it be true hacking proof, And when their Geese, and Ostriches can live, On Iron, then tame flock from home they drive; Then too, on heedless neighbours are let loose, When they are ready to eat up friends, foes; So Mastiffs from their hunger, and their chains, Get courage which their Masters Fold maintains, And at his Whistle follow him about, Lapping from Fountain made by Horse's foot, Such, and so hard, is honour's Pilgrimage, To honour's shrine, leads many a tedious stage, Fame's cracked Divote, long gadding undergoes, As if 'twere got by wearing out ones shoes; From beating only Hoof, not beat of Drum, Late Conquerors far Provinces o'ercome, So Packhorses, with Snapsacks too engage, The Winds, and Storms, steep Hills, and Drivers rage, And may be said to make a long Campaigne, Of which they never but by ribs complain, Carriers, for loading hard too, so get praise, And for their going on still name can raise, And beating of the Hoof so up and down, To Provinces they troth through are well known; And but for gadding far and near renowned, As any Drudge, on Fame's Road lately found, For all late wandering Conquests we did see, Reckoned for Travels, should much rather be, If gadding so should get Drudge Prince great stile, What was Tom Coriat, or great Mandavil? No Heroes sure take now more care or pain, Nor World with larger Memoirs entertain; Whose Printed Campaigns too, walk the World round; And show their hardened Soles, have trod more ground Than any Fame-hunter, on Earth now found; When Conquests only trudging Marches are, Kings are Arms Pedlars, but of Fame's small ware; They too like gadding Filchers bravely do, Take frightened Geese, Pigs, Smocks, wheresoever they go, Make Corn, nay Hay, by lying on it Straw, And Prisoner Poultry from warm Roost draw, And all this too, by Gadders Martial Law, With hasty Course, new Conquerors like the wind, All you blow down, alas, you leave behind; Skies Circling Tempests, and swift Whirlwinds so, Before them but old Thatch, and Forage blow, And harm, to quiet Sheep, and cattle do. Yet we, from Airy Head no Annals find, Of the vast Conquests by her Prince the wind, Honour itself, is in the wind light chaff, Of which too, whistling rumour will rob half, It swells, breaks bag, small nourishment does yield, And no increase, though strewed on fruitful Field; And though it be so stuffed out to the sight, See it 'tis dross, and weigh it 'tis but light; Food fit for proud Beast who bears it about, Whose Load helps him to fall into the rout, And when once down, keeps him from coming out: So gadding Princes, Hackneys are to empty Fame, Who Loads 'em till she Rides 'em down or Lame, All her trapted Hackneys get by trotting on, To Rhodes for Robbers, is to be well known; By Marching World round, all that Hero's gain, Is Dirty Boots, and labour for their pain; For spoiling of the Rhodes, and making Padders, Slaves, Horses, Asses, Thiefs so too are Gadders; By setting, and waylay treacherous arts, As Padders Horses, Hero's steal men's Hearts, To Jade 'em in their Service, when weak, lean, Take trappings off turn 'em to th' Road again, Disabled slave in force for carrying Arms, Becomes a Drudge to Villages, and Farms; Or else a Prince against his Laws makes Bandits, Murderers, Robbers, or worse Parasites, Cruel Assassinates of good men's fame, And ne'er let pass unrifled a good name; Courts are the Garrisons of Lawless Tongues, Whence all, who are not of 'em suffer wrongs, If Tribute, Flattery, there be not paid, From Pimps, and Knaves, the only Royal Aid; That vile old Court Coin, you Sir have cried down, As too light, and too base for you to own, Fit only for Court-sweepers humble rout, Whose Knees, Tongues rub, and lick Court-sploches out; You are sole Prince, who ever would decry, For Coin unlawful current Flattery; Which other Kings are made immortal by Base damning Immortality, which does Eternize names, but to their shame, and loss; If counterfeiting Coin, we Treason deem, What is't to make a King quite other seem? If Treason's crime be Coins diminishing, What is't, to lessen, clip, wash o'er a King, Flattery does suspected glory bring; True sterling needs no rub to set it off, It's own Intrinsic worth, it's valu's proof; You are sole Prince, would flattery disown, Which no Kings, but yourself would 'ere cry down, They set their Royal Marks upon it, so, Will in exchange of favour take it too; And in their Palaces, each King to's face, That sergeant low Coin, bowing and base, Treason against him, for him, will let pass; Almost my crime (great Sir) prays short of you, Is diminution of your honour so, That out of duty, I but Rebel grow, Serving you thus, such pardon shall I want, As you to self accuser often grant; But dulness pardon, no where ere could find, Yet Courts to impudence, have oft been kind; But that was more, than you Sir ever knew, Your Officers forgive, nay pay bold crew, Or else themselves in others they'd condemn, They modesty, as her twin-wit contemn, Boldness at Court, they think does merit show. Men get Coin, not by Brains but outside brow, Thick Skulls, fraughted with but outside confidence, Have seldom need of inside bashful sense, They speak as eat, but from their liberal Prince; Honey of Courts, makes there such dronish swarms, men's impudence is wealth there, women's charms; But now to modesty, I've lost pretence Daring Sir, at your praise is impudence, Saucy Address to Majesty Offence. But you, the highest, humblest of your Court, Have pardoned Millions of this ins'lent sort, No modest Writer, but with Pen in's hand, Thinks he has privilege to makes Prince stand, Poems are but Petitions too in Verse, Which Authors sufferings, and wants rehearse; Large Portions they of Fame to Princes give, That you in Verse, and they may by it live, Like senseless Courtiers with mean flattery, Think so, King's grace, they do not beg, but buy; Bold wretches, to your Memory still sue, For promises, you gave to them ne'er due, And beg, to be remembered still by you: A Princess easy'st boon, forgetfulness, I only beg, for which too, none else press; Such grant too, without ask Princes give, By your forgetting, I new way should thrive. To be forgotten, Sir, were grace to me, The only ruined, by your Memory; Worst crime is still, rejecting Heaven's grace, Worst punishment, is not to see God's Face; None wretched are, who can come where you are, Wretch is damned here, who must that joy forbear: You are but terrible abroad to Foes, Your loaded Forehead here no terror shows, You do not rule your Subjects with your brows; With no proud threats, your Neighbours ere alarm, Nor seek vain stile, to do your Subject's harm, Conquering abroad, brings desolation home, Old Subjects are enslaved, new to o'ercome; Like Torrents, Kings, o'erthrow own banks to roam. But your smooth stream, seeks not to overthrow, Her own Banks, that to strange Coasts it may go, Your streams of power, on own Banks ne'er intrude, Yet yours, God's overflowing hands similitude; You, like your Thames (Sir) keep a temperate Course, The Shore you glide by's fattened, not the worse, Your even Stream seeks but to keep its own, (From choking Sands which would its current drown) But not to undermine its wealthy Coast, overflowing streams by their own Banks are lost; The more abroad, the stream of power overflows, Drier, and narrower, at home it grows, Dividing does oft name, and current lose; Branching of Power dreins but the first Springhead, Foreign overflowing makes home, dry and dead; Making a War, is making Victors less, And getting power, but at their wealth's decrease; Let other vain Kings, their Wild gaddings boast, What treasures they of men, for blows have lost, The cheapest Victories, too dearly cost; 'Tis senseless glory got by growing poor, Making new Subjects, by the loss of more, Kings, when they kill, are Men, Gods when they give, Not Deaths, or Rapine, bounty makes Kings live, Fierceness, but makes men fly, Gold makes Men kneel, 'Tis pliant Gold that Conquers not hard steel; More power Man has, the less 'tis to be used, Using power ill, God whence it came's abused; Subjects a Rascal, whose unequal power, In Duel-war, has made him Conqueror; Who with the longest Sword chooses to fight, Nor cause, nor heart, ('tis to be feared) has right, 'Tis infamous by mere strength to o'ercome, Becoming not a King, but wrestling Groom; Kings who exceed Commission to 'em given, Are themselves Traitors to the Prince of Heaven, And who does not to execute heavens will, In sparing Traitors Blood, his own does spill. God, great Example to Vicegerents gave When he threw down the first Rebellious slave, The Rebels punishments, good Subjects save, And Justice done reprieves near dying Laws, Half tied up, choked, by the new, good old Cause; But Death's, the only slow reward you give With Heavenly patience you for Stiff-necks grieve, Whilst Hypocrites to you, use self deceit, Who would cheat a wise God, good King, himself does cheat; Traitors to you, stabs to own Conscience give, Ill Life's worst punishments to let it live, The envious you execute, by their reprieve, Who for the good you do, though 'twere to them would grieve, To pardon them, will hardly give you leave; And guilty Conscience is worst Hangman too, Severest Justice to itself will do. And Subjects are Self-Felons i'th' true Sense, Who would destroy a Just, and pardoning Prince. The Life of freeborn Man is Liberty, And Life of Liberty is Monarchy, If we best, first Man's service thraldom call, What must it be to serve then always all? The Government o'th' Skies, ours imitates, Ruled by one single power, and yet three States; O might our imitation throughly run, Your Godlike Reign Eternally last on, Excepting perpetuity alone; Our sparing King, lives here a Deity, Of whom nothing but's wrath can ever die. 'Tis but your Justice does ill Men incense, You, for Rebellion, leave Slaves no pretence, Are Good, Great, Merciful, even to Offence, Kings, but condemn the Just, when they the guilty save, Suffering Tyrant Slaves, they their own Crowns enslave; And Subjects mutiny, is madness, rage, When each for th' public, against themselves engage, For fear of one King, set up Hundreds more, Who have but power too, but to make 'em poor, Yet now are saving, on unthrifty score; So treacherous trusties, take only care, To spare the Tenants, but to rack the Heir, To force releases keep him low, and bare. But since your Slaves for you, too high would grow, At their own perils, let it even be so; In spite, heap Titles on 'em, more and more, That since Purse proud, they may be honour poor; That heaviest Tax of honour, none deny; A Tax with which all Fools, most Knaves comply; A Tax, to beggar their Posterity. So Pyramids more high they grow, grow less, Their height is but their substances decrease. FINIS. Errata in the Poem to the King. Page the 1. Line 8. for Defaming, Profaning, p. 7. l. 15. for passsed by, by all passed by, p. 8. l. 11. for World to, World too, p. 14. l. 10. for honour to, honour too. Errata in the Dukes. Page 5. Line 9 for brake, break, p. 8. l. 9 for our is, ours is, p. 11. l. 8, for your fate, your fates, p. 15. l. 8. for praises, praise, p. 22. l. 2. for help to, help me to, p. 24. l. 17. for conj'ring, conquering, p. 26. l. 6. for Jock-friends, Foe-friends, p. 29. l. 9 for but in, but here. TO THE DUKE. Written in his Absence, occasioned from the sight of some Defamatory Libels on Him. THe Brave and Just, life to himself does give, Ready'st to die, is fittest still to live; Nor Virtues, nor the Crimes of Ancestors, Can truly magnify or lessen Ours. Why should Sires, Mothers, Sisters, or Wife's Sin, Be a Reproach to him, that's next of Kin? Man may to Stock, or Blood, Related be, From Friends ill Fame, Ignoble Vice, yet free; Virtue is still the best Nobility, Justice, and Truth, most lasting Heraldry; Let Jockeys Huntsmen of long Stocks take heed, Value a Horse, or Dog, but for their Breed, And take no notice of their Shapes, or Speed. The Stallion-Parent, only Shapes does find, No mortal Sire, can give the Godlike mind; Wise, Just, is Noble by the God's above, Good Actions best, high Lineage from 'em prove: Just firm, is Royal, knows to Die, as Live, Life to forgotten Ancestors, does give; In Mercy shows his Braver Conquered Heart, And Wounds he's forced to give, first make him Smart. In giving Life, a Gods, or Hero's part. His Mercy is, sole danger of his Life; To save, more than to kill, is still his strife: To Honour, he by Arms, no siege does lay, He dares meet Death; from Fame yet flies away. Such are You (Sir) Obscured by Royal Blood: Had you not owned a KING for Sire, you should, By mortal Heroes, have been owned a God, Above the Comets dread heavens held-out Rod; Your sufferings only prove your mortal Race; Best Prince was once with People in Disgrace: With a more Jewish race, you have to do, Who would their Countrys-Saviour banish too: Yet you bear wrongs, like an immortal mind, Some sorrows, (but for sins against you) find; But for yourself, you never feel the wrongs Are done you, by profaning Hearts and Tongues. If any touch you, they are chiefly those, Offered you by reneagueing slaves Friend-Foes. Their aim they do, you cannot courage lose: Blaspheming does no wrong to heedless Jove, Atheist to you, shall Hell in conscience prove. Your Godlike Patience will disarm their spite; Your Constancy, shall their perverseness fight, Your quiet Suffering, show your heart, sense right. Wretches, who did their Lawful Prince dethrone, Of his Inheritance, would rob the Son: Fond fools, Heaven says, it can't, it shan't be done. Such Insolents, once Heaven itself assailed, And o'er the God's themselves would have prevailed. Such long-armed Monsters against Heaven did rise, Swelled up against Government of Jove and Skies; And with huge Gripes, unhinged whole Provinces, To give disturbance to the God's long Ease: With Mountains shielded, many handed Slaves, Slung Campaigns to the skies, which proved their Graves: So their own strength, own ruin most did prove, Heaved Hills their Monuments against their Jove, And vainly seeking to bring their God's down, Heaped on their own heads own Destruction. May all rebellious rabble's even so thrive, Who will not let him live, by whom they live, Would pluck down their defence against foreign Foes, Like drunken squablers Guardian-Friend Oppose. Your Royal true Protector, you'd Destroy, And Arms against your Bulwark would Employ. Weary of Peace, you would enjoy Revenge, To let in War, the Government unhinge: Such hands as yours, once cut the Royal Line, And now the sacred Clew, you would untwine: Would brake the double Cable, which does hold The tossing Government, in storms so bold; So Fools, to shipwreck your own selves you fall Foul on your fearless Driving Admiral; And that ungrateful undefended shore, To which he was a Rock and Fence before, Would shipwreck him, who kept off Tides of Foes, By falling foul: What can you get, but blows? That Life which saved, and guided, Will you lose? Guided (I mean) in Storms, when Winds grew high, On Neighbour-shores', and Tempests gathered nigh, Till He 'twas cleared the Seas, and threatening Skye, With Thunder, like a warning Deity. Heaven will at last the muddy Tempest clear, And your test, torn, spent-followers will cheer. The Tempest which has shaken the Royal-Root, And from the shore it grew on, made it float, Will bring you back again to Native Land, Where tallest you, but one, did firmly Stand; And there shall spread your ruffled Top again, O'er Shrubs, who but of your high Growth complain. Yet by your Absence now too late they find, Your lofty stock, was shelter against all wind; From your Expanded Covert grew their height, Your Shadow to them, was both heat, nay light; They missed no warmth, who stood still in your sight; All things grew near you, You were lofty Prop, By which your Succours grew up to such Top; Nay, some ungratefully yet spring, and do, But by your absence basely higher grow; Who first were by your Sap and Succour fed, First thought your Growth too high, Boughs too far spread; So clinging Ivy climbing kills her Prop, On which she grew, and grown still helped her up; But firmly yet shall stand unmoving foot, From shaking Tempest take but deeper root; Storms always reach, and shake the things most high, Whilst low and grovelling undisturbed may lie: Your firmness only does your danger make; Things most immovable wild Storms would brake; The Pliant are but safe because they bow, Like Plants spread more, the more blown to and fro, For bearing Fruit contented to lie low. But Shrubs, which by your side would grow too high, And to the Master-Caedars injury, By that shade which first raised 'em may they die. The Navy is once more the sheltering Oak, To keep the Royal Stock, from Treasons Stroke. Seas to their Sovereign more constant prove, Whilst the fixed shore, by Tempest, more does move; Our is the floating, moving North-West-Ile, Which Pilots well-shaped Course does still beguile; That humorous Spot of quicksand driving ground, Which only, when 'tis sought to, can't be found; And n'one in storm can touch Thee, but is drowned; The toil of Pilot, mock of Mariners, He ne'er shall make Thee, who directly Steers; Ungrateful. Mother-Soyle, and traitorous Earth, To Shipwreck what from thee, had first high Birth! So Rich-Fraught Bottom far about does Roam, Scapes foreign Coasts, and Storms, to Sink at Home; And whilst by adverse Winds, on Seas 'tis Tossed, Is but in danger from own native Coast, Where wretches pray on shore, it may be Lost. Islanders, who by Storms and Tempests live, Whose Wealth is but what others Ruins give; Who curse less merc'less Seas, and ceasing Storm, And Heaven, which for them will do no Harm; Call them Gods-Goods which Tempests to 'em send, The Sea, old Foe to Earth, is their best friend. When Land-Storms rise, it is in vain to strive, Best course is then to let the torn Bark drive. When winds grow loud, Rebellious Seas to Roar, The Ship must roll, no dealings with the Shore; Sea then's ill Enemy, but worse the Port, Where entering Bark pays but too dearly for't: Fair weather may return, the Sun may Smile, And clear up yet, about our Clouded Isle; Where Mists are grown so dark, Seas so high roll, That Friends on Friends, on Admiral fall foul; Yet Haltion days, after these storms, may come, We may see our Tost-Admiral come Home. Welcome as once to this repenting Shore, Which had beat off its Admiral before. The love of Change, if not the love of Right, Will bring remorse, when once you come in Sight; And you again from second banishment, Once more are begged by Common Votes Consent, The People shall with Tears of Joy Lament; Their Sottish rage, and their wild frenzy mourn, Which their own Arms, in you, so would have torn; Come to themselves; your Renegads again, Will be your Slaves, and sue to wear your Chain. You are our small World's hidden Axletree, Round, which whilst all things turn you fixed we see; True Image of the patient Deity. Profaned by those, you should be worshipped by, From your own bounty, you too they defy; Would glorify you, as your Father too, O'er the whole world, in Heaven would Crown you: Your Fate would be, who always had been theirs, For your last Exaltation, they make Prayers: To their own Fate would be the fatal Doom, Him would subdue by whom they overcome: Their saving Admiral would run on ground, Venture their own, but His life to confound: Their foes, in you overcome, be Conquerors so, And all your Trophys get by spoiling you. Base, treacherous, and losing Victory, By which the Conquerors would ruined be! Immortal Pens successful virtue claw, Mine now for Fortune's Conqueror I draw; Virtue distressed in my Verse still shall Live, Who dies for Honour, him shall Fame reprieve. Honour's a kind of losing loadam Game, Whereby who loses Life, gets more of Fame, And never dies in his Eternal Name: Fame does gain Fame, whilst Fame to you she gives, And Fame of her suspected truth retrives. A Prince distressed most Honour so can give, In being Poets Theme, you make him live. But ready'st way to Immortality, Is not to save your Name, but for it Dye, The greatest Honour kept by Destiny. I who in verse ne'er thought a Name to raise, Or for my honour, to give others praise; Could not refuse myself best way to Fame, Who your great Name Enroles, Enroles his name. Painter's so by their finished Hero's side, Small name in Corner of great picture hide, From giving of just likeness they take pride. Ambitious hand grasps Immortality, And Climes to Fame, by laying hold so high. If you were dead, you never would be dead; Were there no Faith, you would be worshipped: Did you not own a God, you might be one; Might sit Safe, High, were you not next the Throne: Were't not your Altar, it might be your Seat; Serving your God and King, you are more great: Your Duty to both Kings is your offence, That fallen Rebel-Devils does incense: You fear God too much, so much love your Prince; Nay you could love too, without recompense: Allegiance is your fault, Virtue your Crime, Your Courage makes you feared, your Justice Grim, To those who would the Royal House divide, Which stands scarce safe, but by your Propping Side: Your High Born-Brother was without the Sun, You hidden Pole on which His world did Run; The lower bearing Hinge o'th' Government, For want of which, it has on one side leaned; More fit, by State Thief, to be heaved aside, Who to unhinging has all force applied, And lent his Back, his Shoulders and each side; Whilst Fall of State bold Fools own Trap might prove, Crushing those Shoulders, which for ruin have, And Spreyn those Arms, which for unhinging Strove. For Monarchy they would shut out of door, Kings they would be, yet would have Kings no more; At Westminster, they'd even you Adore, Would give your resting Courage there it's due, But may they, ay, and Fame, long keep your view. You to be greater, need not cannot die, Y'ave got already Immortality. I would die for your Name, live by it too; Gods Name, and yours, can Life by Death bestow. But there is taking too great Name in Vain, And you (Sir) of my Vows, may well complain; Which, with too small devotion, I Rehearse, God's demigods, have yet Prayer, Praises in Verse; Which only Zealous giver does delight; Devotion, pays itself, by being right: Who fears not to give Honour where 'tis due, Shows his true worship, that's Religion true. Poet's Devotion, without blame may have, Who seldom seek a Soul, but Name to save. Poets, Physicians Persecutors are, Yet such Religion's Persecutors spare, 'Cause they for no Religion will declare. Such for the Dead but to the Living pray, Damn, or Save men, as men will give or pay▪ But free-willed Poet, prays to Heathen Saints, To Love, to Ceres, Bacchus, makes com●…aints, Without the fear of Sharp finned Pursuivants: Against worshipping the Devil, there's no Law; Who dares fear Purgatory, Statutes jaw Will swallow up alive at Westminster; Wretch of Redemption ever must despair! Till Purgatory want Bards little ease, Frees him from starving world, his worst disease; Of which we find he's always crying out, The World's his Plague, his Pox, and his poor Gout, And from his Head flies down into his Foot: Seldom permitting him to go abroad, Till he goes last step, of life's rugged Road; And fills his hungry unstopped mouth with Clay Which scarce had mouthful till his life's last lay, And but for it was ever known to pray: Yet Godly malice may for aught I know, Charge me, tho' Poet, with Religion too, By showing short Devotion (Sir) to you. Poet's indeed oft are Idolaters, But Verse to you, is saying of on's prayers. Poet's tune up to Earthly Gods set Airs, To help Coin needs, and urgent Verse-affayres: Set up their Golden Calves their Stocks, their Stones, Traffic their worship, but for others Bones, Blessings, which Cost too many heavy groans: Yet upstart demigods nor Idols shall Me from my old Devotion tempt, or call. (Dread Sir) to you, I'll pray, bow, bend stiff knee, Rebellion is to me Idolatry, Our Common Fate shall be my Deity. But lest my praying should be thought a sin, By cursing my Devotion shall begin, For devout Cursers Poets still have been: Cursed be those Jews by whom y'are banished hence, To whom your Firmness was greatest Offence; Who to your Princely Forehead Thorns applied, Wound Majesty, piercing it through your Side: Joves, and your Brother's Thunder too defy, Like Atheists against Conscience will deny Your great Names Immortality: My mortal Verse in your Name shall not die. The safe bold way to save a Poet's Name, Is to be Drawer of your Deeds, and Fame; My glory would be finnished, tho' yours Lame. Yet you, 'tis Dangerous to portray right, For he who would do that, must see you fight; Then bear you Chearfull'st Look, and Noblest Grace; In danger you have still most steady Face; 'Midst fire, and Deaths, seem Deathless Deity, Whilst you the circling Flames but Glorify, And who would see you then, must dare to die. Cowards who Boldly'st charge a Prince's Ear, For boon of Honour, would not then press near. But what to you more honour does afford, You tho' a Prince, yet dare to keep your Word; In Fight no more, then in strict Virtue you A Second or a Councillor can know; He than became your greatest Enemy, Who to save life would let your Honour die, From danger to keep you; worst Injury! You always could forgive, and less would blame, The Traitor to your life, then to your Fame. I fear (Great Sir) I so have injured you; For who can set forth, what you did, can do? Your long Wing'd Honour takes such Eagles Flight, She leaves her blind pursuer out of sight; And after all his gazing, all he'll find, Your dazzling Sun makes bold Observers blind: Following you, in Honour's eager Game, Would tyre the Poet's Horse, and Wings of Fame; Report would lagg behind, Verse would be Lame: 'Tis Sauciness to trace the Demigods, Who Spur out of all Common Hackney-Roads; When out of sight, by Court-mouths Winds are Tossed, Yet highest when to Mortals they seem Lost; So Eagle like, to Mortals dazzled Eye, You than seem Least, when you are got most High; The greater distance you from Mortals are, To Heaven your Sphere, you are but much more near: Yet may your flight be long ere you come there, Late let us lose in you our Heaven here; Still on the Wing State Tempest keeps you up, And to your Shivered Rock forbids you stoop; For want of where to perch round Heaven you roam, Made fly from home all Heaven is your Home. But in last voyage you'll find Volunteers; Who dares not with you die, lives for more fears. When you to Danger, and to Death lead on, And dying from the sick world will be gone, To short breathed Cowards life would then seem none: When from the dead world bravely you would fly, 'Twere but Self-preservation then to die; That life is lost, which with you is not lost, When Soul of Valour dies, man lives a Ghost, A flying Shadow, Sneaks from Mortal view: When daring Mortals would Cold thing pursue, And when your sacred Sun shall disappear, The damned remaining will live pale Ghosts here, And living will but daily die with fear. Coppying Soldiers Poet's Painters shall, Want their bold hand, and great Original: I draw but once an age, and after you, No daubing Praise, shall my Verse Pencil show; Then can have no one sit, or fight to me, Or help to express true Victory. Victory, whose dark Clouds but set it off, And dangerous odds, are not its loss, but proof: Victory, when vain Glory's led in Chains, And man's cool Sense, his hectering Will Constreyns. Who could your Glory draw shall honour have, Shall conquer Envy, be the muses Brave. Of tedious Drawer, you shall but Conplain, Of draught in little, dawbers greatest pain, Who you, for so ill picture dares deteyn: But who in your Great Name once draws his Pen, Will find it hard to finish as begin. Paynting's bewitching when the Object's dear, When you sit still, what dauber can forbear? But trembling hand bold Pencil must let fall, You must remain uncoppyed, Great Original; You Painters, Poets, Enemies disarm; Unutterable virtue will all Senses charm, What loads too much benumbs the brain and arm; And daring too ' sketch Immortality, Is no devotion, Pencil Blasphemy: God Heaven and you no mortal sees right here; Are libelled all, by short praise in long Prayer; And Tediousness against God, and man's a sin, Not to conclude worse than not to begin. You when you fight, your Acts best Drawer are, Immortal Deeds Gods best themselves declare; So Gods in Miracles to men appear. Your drawn Sword is your Style, Foes Iron Breast, Where its point best, own keenness has expressed. Fullness of Subject drowns your Poet's Pen, Who writing on, finds still he's to begin; Drowns flowing Praise itself, with its excess, And loses great Name, in own flourishes. Your Royal Brothers, and your only Name, Preserve a Flatterer, himself from blame; Names which would make late lying Poetry, But spareing, modest, ciphr'ing History: No Poets feign or will for liars go, Who your great Brothers, and your virtues show; Write all they can 'twere short of him, and you. Courage was ne'er thought less for modesty, He what he can, yet lets not bold men see. Th'almighty thunderers hand does not appear, Whilst he low Shrubs, hard Rocks below does tear. Insolent Babel-builders have a care; More high you Climb, your fall will greater be, Him you would reach, the Gods defend you see. You'll go to Heaven (Sir) no whether Fly, You for your Country would, not by it Dye; But when y'are ravished hence, by conqring spheres Blasphemous Curses will be turned to Prayers: If you were Dead, then would they make you Live, Fearing no more, your Valour's due, would give. But your Great Name can never greater grow, By Heaven, Fame, World, Me, nay not by You; Fame Poets, Flatterers, Courts Lying Crew, In speaking Short of you, do not speak True. Their Praise, more than whigs Malice, will decry, And but Besmear Names, they would Glorify; Lying Fools praise, or love, worst Injury. But Whigg! That Burlesque little paltry sound, In Ballad Verse, fit only to be found; Where your great Name is Sung, it should be drowned. Yet I more lessen you Sir, now I fear, But when hired Pens against your Fame appear, What block could help, being Verse-volunteer. When Pentionary Quills rebel against Fame, And draw upon the Noblest suffering Name, I boldly take my Courage, from their Shame. Yet I, perhaps may do Great Name more wrong, By short blunt Pralse, than edgeless satire long, Their wicked Will is, tho' their force not strong, Great is their Rage, who will expose their own, Your Sacred Reputation to bring down. Such flattering foe-friends of King's Purse and Crown, To starving Muse let 'em be left alone; Let Verse which was their Bellies, not Heads crime, Be'ts punishment, in Unpoetick time: Instead of Living, may they starve by Rhyme. Be like their Write, both short-lived and torn, By praise of Fools and Knaves, grow Wise men's scorn: Who like said Dogs, against absent bounty bay, Snapping that Hand, on which their wants did prey. Moon-Barkers so against the World's second Light, With false Alarms disturb the quiet Night: For shutting out themselves, loud Noise still keep, And will not let those of their own House sleep. To Kennel (Coffeehouse) even let 'em creep, Lap Coffee, and their Cares, with palled Jests, steep; Like hungry Rats, for want of Food, may they, On their blurred Papers, chamed conceits, still prey. Such Rats cannot devour your Deathless Name, ‛ Tho' they defaced the Register of Fame. Your Name, would still be what it was before; None make you less, your Self can't make you more: That only is beyond your Valours' power. Postscript. AS he who ne'er took Cudgel up before, Vexed at Foul Play, begins thick skull to scour, In Poet's Lists, and lays about him round, From sense of Friends Wrongs, clumsey strength has found. So has my just rage sharpened my blunt Quill: Forgive (Great Sir) defending you so ill; He always has best Heart, who shows least Skill. My End is not at all to show my Art, In Lying Verse, but here my-Your true Heart, Which from the Left-Right-Side can never part. The side Oppressed, is still to me, the Right: Who Loves, asks not what Quarrel Friend does Fight. Who Draws on Your Side, ne'er can be i'th' Wrong. Poet's still fight the Rabble, and the Throng. Malled Poets, like banged Braves o'th' ground, despise The Knock-down-Crowds, who will not let 'em Rise. The Honest, tho' the Weak side, has the Odds; Poets, and Heroes, are helped by the Gods. FINIS.