A Journey to Hell: OR, A Visit paid to the Devil. A POEM. LONDON, Printed, and are to be Sold by the Booksellers of London and Westminster. 1700. THE PREFACE. SINCE a Poet, in a piece of satire, like a Passionate Man in a Skirmish, may by accident offend those he never designed to meddle with, the Author, lest People should think he has too far jested with an Edge-Tool, has thought fit to declare, that he had no other Intention in the following Poem, than to apply it as a Carpenter does his Axe, when, to the hazard of its Edge, he strikes at those stubborn and irregular Knots which are a discredit to the Tree, and lessen the value of the Timber: Or as a Surgeon handles his Lancet, when he lays open a corrupt Member, which is both troublesome and scandalous to the sound parts of the Body. It is evident enough, there is no Church in the World but what has received some Blemishes from her Priests, meaning some few, who, for want of either Learning, Prudence, or Piety, have been a dishonour to their Function, such only I accuse; and I hope, should I blame Peter for denying his Master, or Judas for betraying Him, the rest of the Apostles would have no reason to be angry. If I am condemned for Arraigning 'em in the Lower Regions, which some of 'em have good reason to hope was prepared only for us Laymen, I have only this to say, that I am not the first that has placed a vicious Clergyman in the Infernal Territories; for Michael Angelo, the Famous Roman Painter, in his Resurrection in St. Peter's Chapel, had the presumption to paint a Cardinal in Hell, so very like the grave Father he represented, that every body knew the Picture, which put the good Old Gentleman under so great a Dissatisfaction, that he complained to the Pope, and desired he would Command it should be rubbed out; who told him, he was got quite out of his Jurisdiction, saying, If he had been but a step on this side, he could have released him from Purgatory, but having not the Keys of Hell, from thence there could be no Redemption. The next part of my Apology, is to the Learned Professors both of Law and Physic, for whom (as well as the Orthodox Clergy of the English Church) I have a peculiar Veneration, who cannot be insensible what swarms of hungry and unskilful Practisers in both Sciences there are, who fraudulently prey upon the honest Labours of the Public, at such only is this satire pointed, who support themselves basely by others Ruin, and have no just Prospect, for want of true Knowledge in their Business, to preserve themselves from Beggary, but by often bringing others into it; one side plunging their Clients further into Trouble, instead of helping them out; and the other, instead of recovering their Patients of Curable Distempers, will, if they be Poor, through neglect; or if Rich, by delays of Cure, for Interest sake, be the Death of some, and the undoing of others, to their whole Lives Misery. Therefore, since it as essentially relates to the Comforts of the Life of Man, to know what other People are, as well as what he himself should be, I thought it no Ill Task to Communicate to the World what knowledge of Mankind I have gathered from my own Experience; the Good wont hurt us, 'tis the Bad we must be Cautious how we deal with; for which reason, I have herein separated the Wicked from the Godly, representing only the former, to show Youth what Monsters in Humane Shape they must expect to meet with in this World, tho' of the most Noble Professions: Therefore, my whole Design is only to make Men careful with what Priests they trust their Souls; with what Lawyers their Estates; and with what Physicians their Bodies. And if this Part of my Undertaking succeed well, and that the World is pleased with it, they shall hear further from me on the same Subject; for in this I had not room to half finish my Design. So Farewell. A Journey to Hell: OR, A Visit paid to the Devil. CANTO I. WHEN Western Clouds involved the God of Light, And all the Eastern starry Orbs looked bright; When Sots their Tavern Bacchanals begun, And Thetis at a draught drank up the Sun; Whilst Luna with her Silver Horns drew near, To bless the Night, and bear Dominion here. 'Twas then that I, my better self, my Soul Broke lose, and through my Prison Casements stole, And glad I'd shifted off my Earthly Chains, Danced like a flaming Vapour round the Plains. I then through Brakes and over Whirlpools flew, Till tired with only superficial view; Then into Holes and Crannies did I dive, Where Badger, Fox, and sundry Vermin live; Where Moles were labouring to enlarge their Homes And buzzing Bees made Music o'er their Combs. Farther I darted through the porous Earth, To seek that Womb whence Nature had her Birth, But found the hidden Mystery far too great, And for a Human Soul too intricate: Causes with sundry Causes mixed I found, Each Matrix did with proper Seeds abound, But why those Seeds their likeness should produce, Their Form preserve, be still the same in use, My shallow Reason neither see or knew, But found each Cause did the Decrees pursue, Of some Eternal Power beyond dim Reasons view. Through deeper Caverns still I forced my way, Where useless Dregs of the old Chaos lay, Involved in Night, remote, and never seen by Day. Where Plagues and Pestilential Fumes were penned, Till heavens Decree should give 'em fatal vent: Where greater Serpents do the less devour, And Human-like, contend for sovereign Power: Where Streams through subteranean Channels run, And fight with Winds far distant from the Sun; Whose violent Shocks the World can scarce survive, But trembles at the very strokes they give. And where Heavens Judgements in subjection lay, Ready the dreadful Trumpet to Obey, And work the World's destruction at the last sad Day. Thus through Night's deep Avenues did I pass, Where all was rude as in the unformed Mass. Through Death's remoter frightful Vaults I went, Where ghastly Sprights their Follies past lament, And in despairing Sighs such Discord make, No Soul could hear, but of their Grief partake, Dreading from thence their sad remove each Hour, To endless Pains, where Time shall be no more. So the poor Thief, when seized for his Offence, Finds his own Conscience Judge and Evidence. And thus, before he to the Bar shall come, Dreads with sad Terror his succeeding Doom. I forward pressed, bemoaning of their Case, Freed from my Earth, Death asked me for no Pass, But boldly shot the Adamantine Gates Without repulse, unquestioned by the Fates, Who busy sat, with Distaff, Reel, and Knife, Spining and cutting Man's short Threads of Life. O'er scorching Sands, where fiery Seeds lay hid, I Travelled, till the Avernuan Hills I spied, High were their gloomy Heads, the trodden Path as wide, I ventured forwards, till to Styx I came, Which shone like humid Vapours in a flame; It's poisonous Fumes so fatal and impure, None but Immortal Spirits can endure. I stood a while, and pondered by the Lake Upon the frightful Voyage I had still to take. CANTO II. My Resolutions now much stronger grew, My first Intentions to at last pursue, Charon I called, his leaky Boat to Freight, Who in's infernal Pinnace nodding sat: Hearing a Voice he started, and with speed, He dragged his rotten Bark from Mud and Weed: With painful pulls he brought her to the Shore, Black with the Gild of those he'd wafted over. The grisly Churl asked whither I would go, Up to Elysium, or the Shades below. I told him I to Pluto's Court was bound, Where restless Souls amidst their Pains are found. The frowning Pilot finding me alone, Even bid me wait, for he'd not carry One. 'Twas I, said he, this Ferry first began, And held it ever since the Fall of Man, But never yet, as Pluto knows full well, E'er wafted o'er one single Soul to Hell. On Earth of what Employment couldst thou be, Who comest so destitute of Company: Hard was thy Fate, to these dark Shades unknown, Thou art the first that e'er was Damned alone. I heard his Questions, but no Answer made, And what he further asked did still evade, With humble Words, that with him might prevail, To take his Fare on board and set up Sail. But all my soft Persuasions would not make, The grim Tarpaulin his old Custom break, Who gently rowed his Ferry to and fro, Bawling aloud, hay, downward, downward ho. Thus for more Company being forced to wait, Down on the Bank, amongst the Weeds, I sat, And looking round me, at a distance saw, A loit'ring Crowd towards Charon's Ferry draw: They gently crept along, oft seemed to stay, And hung their Arses as if bound my way: So the Wretch, drove to suffer for his Crime, Now steps, then stops, to lengthen out the Time. Charon looked out, the multitude drew nigh, P— on'em, says the Churl, this sooty fry Are Lawyers Souls, I know them by their dye. Close to the Stygian Banks at last they came, Showing some signs of Sorrow, some of Shame: Despair and Anguish in their Looks I read, Each did his sultry unknown Voyage dread; And, Transport like, as gladly would be drowned, As see the slavish Shore to which they're bound. Charon pulled near, but grumbled in the Throat, Your ponderous Ills will never let me float, You always come in Crowds, enough to sink my Boat: If Hell in such mean Traffic means to Trade, Pluto must get a stronger Vessel made: But come, step in, and do not make me stay, Pray trim the Boat, whilst I my Stretcher lay. Then in we hobbled from a steep Descent, Hoist up Sail, and on our way we went; Whilst I, not under the Decrees of Fate, Amongst the sighing Crew with Pleasure sat, Bearing some glim'rings of celestial Light, With them compared, looked innocent and bright, As the tanned Mariner amongst Negro Slaves looks white. My Soul was light, and they so weighty were, We held no poise, made Charon curse his Fare. Who pulled and puffed, still roared with open Throat, W— nds move your Shades, and better trim the Boat, The Larboard Gunhil's almost under Water, For me, the Devil waft such Fares hereafter. My Soul considering her diviner Air, No balance with their heavy Crimes could bear, Stepped from the side, and in the centre got, And to the Churl's content I trimmed the Boat, Which Charon skulled a head with mighty pains, Deep Laden as a Western Barge from Stains. Downwards our Course, and as more way we made, The Rocky Beach still loftier raised its Head; Whose thistly Product all looked parched and dry, Like Weeds long hoed that in the Sunshine lie. Vapours condensed hung low'ring o'er each Head, And sporting Daemons round the Vessel played. Night-Ravens, Bats, and Screech-owl's than drew near, To give old Charon, as he passed, a cheer; Who with their horrid Skrieks alarmed each frighted Ear, Mixed with the Groans of filthy Souls from Stews, Condemned to Fetters in the stinking Owse. Thus the black Judge such Punishment contrives As bears proportion to their odious Lives. Serpents, like River-fish, their freaks would take, And skip above the surface of the Lake; Where Furies came from their more cursed abodes, To catch and bundle up their snaky Rods. Charon now tired, his labouring Oar forsook, A dram of some infernal Spirits took, And 'twixt his Jaws a Pipe of flaming Sulphur stuck; Then to his Oars himself again applied, And to his Fare the merry Slave thus cried, Cheer up, ye sullen Shades, and be not dull; (Then, adding strength, he gave a strenuous pull;) You who'n the upper World, in long delays Of Justice, and in Quarrels spend your Days, Hold up your drooping Heads, more Courage show, Than fear th'immortal Discords here below. You that have passed the Adamantine Gates, Grim King of Terrors, and the moody Fates, Shake off your cowardly Fears, and with a Grace Look the stern Prince of Darkness in the Face. They shook their Ears, and signs of Horror showed, Great their Despair, and great their sinful load: Their guilty Forms no Comfort could receive, Or could they one defensive Answer give, But hung their thoughtful Heads, looked Al-a-mort, Like sullen Convicts in a Tyburn-Cart. By this time to a narrow Gulf we came, The Lake descending in a rapid Stream; Darkness all round above our Heads were set, Locked in with Mountains in conjunction met; Where clacks of Whips, and distant Yells were heard, But nothing seen, Night only here appeared. This Current brought us to the deep Abyss, Unknown to Light, to Harmony, and Peace, Where Souls the painful Stings of Conscience bear, And nothing dwells but Horror and Despair. B'ing come to th'brink of the Infernal Cell, Our Pilot steering to the Wharf of Hell, Landed his Fare, and bid us all farewell. CANTO III. Thus put on Shore upon the dismal Strand, Where fiery Atoms sparkled from the Sand; Sighing my Comrades stood, and made their moan, Like Seamen Shipwrecked on a Coast unknown, Whilst I unforced had little cause to mourn, But was commissioned safely to return. Time pruned his Wings, and hastened on with speed, The dreadful Moment that the Gods decreed, The drooping Wretches should their entrance make, At Hell's wide Porch that guards the burning Lake. Compelled by the extrinsic power of Fate, The trembling Souls gave notice at the Gate, Dreading those Torments which the Ills they'd done Deserved, and was not in their power to shun. Cerberus growled, his Three-tone Snarl we heard, The Chain he rattled, and the Gate unbar'd. To Pluto's Court we thus admitted were, Dusky his Mansions, sultry hot the Air: The Door shut after's with a frightful Clap, From those sad Confines could be no escape: Fetters and Links did at a distance clink; Sad Howls we heard, and nothing smelled but Stink; Nauseous as are the Fumes of smothering Straw, Great heat we felt, and gloomy Fires we saw, Glowing like burning Piles of Turf or Peat, Whilst groaning Souls lay basking in the Heat. My sad Companions were received by throngs Of envious Spirits, armed with fiery Prongs, Who clapped their pointed Wings, and with a Yell, Gave'em a dreadful Welcome into Hell, And led'em Captive to a loathsome Cell; Whilst I some Rays of Innocence diffused, Unquestioned passed, by all the Guards excused: As he that visits Bridewell, with intent To Goodness learn from others Punishment, Does fearless through the Prison confines rove, Whilst guilty Slaves are to Correction drove. Vast streams of melted Minerals ran down, 'Twixt glowing Banks of Adamantine Stone, Roaring like Cataracts on every side, Flowing with violence, like an eager Tide: Where Souls unpityed are condemned to dwell, Whilst heavens without control, or Hell is Hell. They Ploughed the Fiery Surges to get free, But sunk again, like Monsters in the Sea, Or as the Poor on Earth, bore down by Destiny. Near these were punished in Ignifluous Vaults, The greatest Spirits for the biggest Faults: Where I with pity and amazement viewed, Princes of old, once styled so Great and Good, Held so Immaculate, so all Divine, That Gods could scarce with greater Glories shine; High in the State, Victorious in the Field, Abroad had Conquered, and at Home had Killed; Wise in their Conduct, and approved their Cause, Mighty in Power, and equal in Applause: Flattered on Earth by Poets and by Priests, Yet doomed at last to be Infernal Guests: How much, thought I, do we mistake above, Who esteem Power a mark of Heaven's Love: When thus I saw their grand Fatigues on Earth, Their Noble Spirits and Illustrious Birth, Their glorious Bloodshed in the wreaking Field, For Crowns, or to enlarge Dominion spilled. Resistless Arms, and Arbitrary sway, That forces ravished Countries to Obey. Their dangerous Battles which they once might boast, Crowned with Success, by no Ill-fortune crossed, Were punished here as Princely Ills, too great For common sinful Slaves to perpetrate. Some Crimson Hero's painted over with Blood, Storming amidst their sweeting Torments stood, Railed against Kingdoms they had basely won, And raving, cursed each sanguine Ill they'd done, Accusing of Severity their Fate, Made 'em renounce all Goodness to be Great. Thus Tyrants, who so lordly once appeared, Rushed on at all, nor God nor Devil feared, In these dark Regions are decreed to know, Tho' once they Ruled above, they must Obey below, And change that Splendour which deceived the Crowd, For guilty Consciences that cried aloud: So the proud Combatants before they fell, Looked bright in Heaven, but now look black in Hell. Others through moody Pride contemned their Chains, And bore with sullen hardiness their Pains; Slighted their Sufferings, patiented stood and mute, As N— l P— n when tortured with the Boot; Whilst some bemoaned their Doom, their Crimes exposed, In Sighs and Tears their sad Despair disclosed. Whose cow'rdly Souls bewailed their wretched state, And begged for Mercy, but alas too late: Railing at Eve, on her the blame they laid, Who to such Miseries had her Sons betrayed, Crying, O wretched Soul, that art Immortal made. From thence I wandered through a stately Porch, Where Carbuncles supplied the Light of Torch; Flashes of Fire they darted from on high, Like beams of lightning from a stormy Sky. This Entry to a spacious Cavern led, Where Azure Lamps with Oil of Sulphur fed, Hung blinking round the subterranean Hall, numerous as Beauties at a Prince's Ball, But dim as Tapers at an Emperor's Funeral. I gazed around, and at a distance off, Saw Pillars of rough Adamant sustain the Roof, Composed of Coral of Igniscent Red, Like glowing Bars on Vulcan's Anvil laid, Beset with Gems that made a glorious show, And Orient Pearl adorned the sides below; With Fury's Whips, and Prongs Infernal graced, Which were as Arms in a Guard-Chamber placed: Fearless I walked, still further did intrude, And Pluto's Palace with amazement viewed, Till to a Bar at th' upper-end I came, Gilded with Fire, and burnished o'er with Flame; Within whose Bounds was held th'Infernal Court, Without stood ghastly Prisoners All-a-mort; Whilst Radamanthus on his Judgment-seat, Like an old Bridewell-Judge looked Grave and Great, Awarding Pains proportioned to the Sin Of Souls condemned, by Hell's black Guards brought in, From mighty Jove's High Court of Justice sent, As Convicts to receive their Punishment. Fresh entered Sinners made the Fiends new Sport, Who hauled th' unwilling Wretches into Court, As Sergeants when their Prey want Coin or Bail, Lugier the poor Prisoner headlong to a Goal. CANTO IU. A Train of vicious Priests did first draw near, Guarded as Culprits to a Sessions-Bar; Some in long Cloaks, and Gowns, great Coats and Bands, With brainless Heads, grave Looks, and close clinched Hands. For Spirits, by report of old, appear In the same Shape they did, when living were: Or else when Goblins, being vexed and crossed, At Midnight rove from Pillar unto Post, (Ghost? How should the frighted Bumpkin know his Neighbour's A prattling Devil rises, and at large, Opens before the Court this following Charge. The Prisoners at the Bar, nor learned, nor wise, Nor having Grace of Heaven before their Eyes, Have with a carnal Weapon, called the Tongue, Abused what's Righteous, and maintained what's Wrong; Wounding Religion, and opposed the Truth, And with their Whimsies maimed and crippled both. Also by Laziness and Looseness show, They ne'er would practise what they taught or knew; But by their Lives on Earth made Mortals think, Their only Duty was to Eat and Drink. On Pigs and Geese luxuriously they fed, By humble Peasants at their Groundcel's laid; Who were themselves content with Bread and Cheese, Small-Beer, Skim-Milk, and such like things as these, Yet laboured hard to keep their wanton Guides in Ease. Whilst they Caroused, and did on Dainties Dine, Squeesing each Bigots Cupboard, and his Vine, As if their God was Meat, and Paradise was Wine. And when they'd raised their Lust by luscious Food, To bless with more increase the Pious Brood, And kiss the Godly Dame was held divinely Good. Further they would with Things unjust comply For Gain, and ask no other reason why: Preach Pro and Con, with any Faction side, To gain their Ends, and gratify their Pride; Yet made the Ignorant by their Cant believe, They could assurance of Salvation give, To all that pined their Faith upon their Pastor's Sleeve: The Laws they taught their very Lives defied, Enjoying all to others they denied. The Rich they envied and the Poor abused, Extolling Charity, but none they used: Railed at the Miser, and his rusty hoard, Declared how Charity's in Heaven stored, Yet never lent themselves one Penny to the Lord, But did in riotous Excesses live, Coveting all things, yet would nothing give. As walking in the upper World one Day, A Lame poor Wretch stood begging in their way; Great were his Wants, but their Neglects were such, He noched down nineteen Teachers on his Crutch, On whom thro' Heaven he did for succour call, But got not one small Alms amongst 'em all. The Cripple turned to's mumping Mate, says he, If Charity, alas, be Heaven's Key, How will these sable Soul's admittance get, From whom we ne'er obtained one Farthing yet. Poh, says the other, I have begged of many, When young I was, but never got one Penny; And now I've learned more Wit than e'er to beg of any. The Hypocrite they damned, and set at nought, Yet played the same through every Hour they taught; With Eyes turned up, as a Religious Grace, They daily flattered Heaven to its Face; And every Name of Lord they bawled aloud, More to amuse, than to instruct the Crowd. When all their thoughtless Nonsense spoke beside, If by the touch of common Reason tried, Was something that just nothing signified, The Doctrine of Forgiveness would they give; But injured once, revenge it whilst they live: Many commit, but no Affronts would bear; And when provoked, they so Contentious were, That with Stiff-Necks, and Hearts as hard as Rocks, Rather than lose an Egg, they'd spend an Ox. delivering each poor En'my, to the Jaws Of that wild Monster the devouring Laws: Where Justice is too oft so dearly bought, The Wrong's most cheap where Justice ne'er is sought. These are the Ills for which they're hither sent, By heavens Decree to receive Punishment; Therefore, my Lord, what now remains for you, Is to award such Pains as are their due. The Judge arising did his Task assume, And gravely standing thus pronounced their Doom: Although, says he, in different Robes you came, I find your Ills are equally the same: I decree therefore you alike shall feel, A Tithe of all the Punishments in Hell. And as you, when you did on Earth reside, The Poor neglected, who on Alms relied, So shall you Mercy crave, but always be denied. They nothing had on their behalves to say, But whimpered, and by Fiends were dragged away. CANTO V. Before the next surprising Scene appeared, A noise of strange tumultuous Tongues I heard, They nearer still approached, till grown as loud, As the base Murmurs of a Traitorous Crowd, Raised by some Statesman's Tool, to perpetrate Some ill Design against a sinking State. At last in view there came a wondrous Throng Of fettered Convicts, all upon the Tongue: Each to the other did confusedly Prate, Like tat'ling Gossips in a drunken Chat; Or else like Temple Students, when they call, To fright the crazy Bench, A Hall, a Hall: Grave Robes and Gowns of sundry sorts they wore, And many Badges of distinction bore, Some old Grey-Heads, with Silk and Flax adorned, Whose wrinkled Brows, as well as Toes, were Corned By Wives too young for Sixty, and too old To bribe off Loves enjoyments with their Husbands Gold. Gouty and Lame these Sages limped along, And were advanced the foremost in the Throng; All seeming by their mercenary Looks Cunning as Foxes, and as sharp as Hawks: Their Palms looked black, by taking Bribes of Coin, As Slaves who labour in an Indian Mine: Methoughts I heard 'em cry, Ne'er fear; go on, My Fee, my Fee, your business shall be done; Money's the Life, the Spirit of the Laws, Find me but that, and never fear your Cause. These were succeeded by the Clerk's o'th'Court, The lesser Scribes, that do the greater hurt, Whose woeful earnest of a Ten Groats Fee, Enters the Client first in Misery: Of these some Beaus, and some precise in Bands, With Parchment Rowls, like Truncheons in their Hands; Their Pockets stuffed with Scrawls, like Poet Bays, For expedition some, and some delays; Under their Arms green Woollen Snapsacks hung, Filled with learned Instruments of Right and Wrong. There followed next to these a spurious sort Of Pettyfogers, mere Locusts of the Court, Who often help the former to deceive, And eat up what the bigger Vermin leave. Some by their Shopboard Looks were Tailors bred, But broke, and on their Backs had scarce a Shred; Not only in their Lives, but Looks were Knaves, Litigious from their Cradles to their Graves. Versed in those Quirks, amongst the Scribes they saw, After long Troubles did themselves withdraw, From making Suits of clothes, to manage Suits of Law: Well knowing it requires an equal Skill, To make a Lawyer's, or a tailor's Bill. Amongst this paltry Crew, were Ten to One Bred up to Trades, but by the Law undone: And thus distressed, most equitably sought Relief from that which had their Ruin brought: Or else resolved, from being basely used, T' abuse the Law, by which they'd been abused. So the poor Wretch, who Witchcraft has endured, If once she claws the envious Hag she's cured. Some in Freeze-Coats, straight wigs, and flapping Hats, Great Beards, and dirty Hands, like Counter Rats, With Looks undaunted, at their Heels a Straw, Bold Teasers and Torments in the Law: Tho' all the knavish Knowledge they had in't, Was learned i'th' Friars, Newgate, or the Mint: These in each Cause, to manifest their Care, Would, if they're hired, Solicit or Forswear: Stand stiffly to a Point, the World might see, Their Clients should, by them, no sufferers be. Bailiffs and Hangmen did the next appear, And Gaolers too were crowded in the Rear; Why these were mixed, I asked, and 'twas because, These were the Plagues and Periods of the Laws, Whom all Mankind with equal Odium hate, For Rog'ries done so despicably great. These hung an Arse, and crept so slow along, A Devil spurred them forward with his Prong: And at their Laziness with Rage inflamed, Cried, move you Rogues, walk faster, and be damned. A Hangman angry at the gross Affront, Turned back his Head, and answered him as blunt, Why Rogue, and please your Worship, what d'ye mean, I have as honest as my-Master's been: I from all blame by Human Laws am freed, And only finished what the Court decreed: What if some Wretches should unjustly die, The Fault is not in me or my Employ; Those that Convicted 'em were R— s, not I These, tho' alike, by no means could agree, Or to each Brother Villain civil be: The Bailiffs on the Hangmen looked awry, Each Carnifex returned an evil Eye, As threatening to be with'em by and by; Like signs of Terror on their Brows did sit, One feared a Rope, the other feared a Writ: Mutual Aversions were on each entailed, From Bailiffs oft b'ing Hanged, and Hangmen Goaled: 'Twixt Fear and Hate they did each other greet, As a poor Bankrupt, who by chance shall meet The Creditor he's Cozened, in the Street. Round the Infernal Court they all were hauled, The first Division to the Bar were called; The Charge brought down from the High Court of Jove Of which they'd all Convicted been above: Silence was first proclaimed in the Divan, And Hell's Attorney-General thus began: My Lord, the Grave, Wise Culprits at the Bar, Who raised amongst Mankind perpetual War; By some called Lawyers, and by some Be-knaved, Who by sly Quirks the Upper-World enslaved; Subtle as Foxes, who with Tongues, not Claws, Dug themselves Holes, and burrowed in the Laws; Skilled to unravel Justice, but instead, A hundred Wrongs to one just Act they did; Till by ill use so mercenary grown, They valued no Man's welfare but their own: By studied means would tedious Suits create, And spin each Contest to a long Debate; For other Persons plead, but get themselves the Estate. Justice behind so many Quirks they've put, None but the long full Purse can find her out. In vain by Thousands has she oft been sought, But seldom found but when too dearly bought. These her dark Agents, to their Country's shame, Gilded their Frauds and Knaveries with her Name, But seldom would regard the hoodwinked heavenly Dame. Biased by Briberies to the strongest side, Rich Men were served, when Paupers were denied: For golden Fees, each sold his silver Tongue; The Moneyed Cause was right, if starved, 'twas wrong. The Poor thus slighted, seldom could prevail; Large Fees the Pleader turned, and he the Scale, From him to whom the Balance should incline By right, but perishes for want of Coin. Contentious Suits and Quarrels they began, Oft to th'undoing of the Just Good Man, By wilful Flaws in Deeds, they might avoid: Thus erred with Pens, their Tongues might be employed, Till the poor sufferers Bags had largely paid, For mending Faults their knavish Lawyers made. If the Rich Miser asked their sage Advice In a bad Case, they'd only say 'twas Nice: But if their Client to the dregs was drawn, And had no Money, or Estate to Pawn, Tho' good his Cause, 'twas bad, not worth the carrying on. So the Youth, poisoned with a Harlot's Eye, Is Hug'd and Flattered till she sucks him dry; But when she's Jilted him of all she could, Foh! his Breath stinks, and all his Talk is rude. Th'Infernal Orator now paused a space, He hauked and spit, blowed Nose, and wiped his Face: B'ing thus refreshed, he turned his saucer Eyes, And to Attorneys thus himself applies, You who in Times of old did Ink-horns wear In Leathern Zones, and Pens in twisted Hair; Whose Locks were Combed as lank, and cut as short, As best should seem the pleasure of the Court. Who now on Earth as num'rously abound, As Rooks and Magpies in a new sown Ground: These by foul Practice and Extortion thrived, And beggared half the Country where they lived; Revived old Discords, kindled up new Flame, And sowed Contention wheresoever they came, To pick the Purse of each laborious Slave, Who Thrashes hard to feed the greedy Knave, Buoyed up with hopes he shall Victorious be; He sweats and toils a Week to earn a Fee, Then to next Market rides before his Dame, And to his Scribe presents, with scraping Leg, the same; Who bids the Booby Client cheer his Heart, And haughtily does bad Advice impart, Fear not, says he, I'll make the Rascal smart; But when his Purse has yielded up its Store, His Cause proves bad, if he can bleed no more: You told me wrong, did several things misplace, Agree, agree, it proves an ugly Case. Thus by long Bills stuffed with unlawful Fees, They taxed the Farmer as themselves should please: Improved litigious Suits by ill Advice, Eat up full Barns and Acres in a trice, And plagued the sinful Land like Egypt's Frogs and Lice. As they from Leathern Belt to Sword arose, And from a rural Grey to Town-made clothes, The greater value on their Pains they laid, The more imposed, the Client still obeyed, And scraped and bowed more low at every word he said. These were the Locust first from Envy bred, Who like the Drone, on others Labours fed; And such insatiate Appetites they show, As still devoured, and still more hungry grew. So the lean Miser that improves his Store, Becomes more close and greedy than before, And as he grows more Rich, the more he grinds the Poor. This said, the pensive Scribes were all set by, And to the Bar they called the lesser Fry, Those worse Knaves, that Pestilential Throng, Who in the Rear-Division marched along, The Court amazed to see so vile a Train, The sable Pleader thus again began: Of these, my Lord, but little need be said, The worst of Rogues that Human Race e'er bred. In Frauds and Cheats all others these excel, A curse to Earth, and now a Shame to Hell. Treacherous their Trade, and odious as its Name, Abhorred of all the World from whence they came: These at no Crime or Villainy would start, But boast and glory in each roguish part, Hell's sharpest Pains scarce equals their Desert. Concluding thus, the Judge himself gins, And pronounced Sentence in the following Lines: You in grave Robes, most learned in Human Laws, Who by locutious Arts could damn a Cause Tho' ne'er so just, and make the wrong appear, When e'er you pleased indisputably clear; And since these Ills were all for Riches done, A melted Mine of Gold shall ever run, Upon your greedy Palms, and drop upon each Tongue. Thus shall your Crimes (by this my just Decree,) Done for the lucre of a golden Fee, With Gold be punished to Eternity. And you the mercenary Clerks o'th' Court, Who made your Client's ruin but your Sport, And by Neglect, or by unlawful Speed, Gave Mortals twice the trouble that you need; Who held it just, in practice of the Laws, To widen Discords, and prolong the Cause, Whilst the large Purse did with advantage fight, And conquered him that had the greatest Right; Then with long Bills the vanquished Wretch pursue, And make him pay half double what's his due, To you a newfound Punishment I'll give, Amongst old Hags and Furies shall you live, There Scratch and Claw, and in confusion fight, Till Hell wants Darkness, and the Heaven's Light; There shall you strive to mitigate your Pain, And reconcile your Foes, but all in vain. Furies shall scourge you with their Scorpion-Rods, Beneath the reach of Mercy from the Gods, Thus dwell involved in Night, eternally at odds. And as for you, * Bailiffs and Hangmen. cursed even from your Birth, The very dregs of all the Rogues on Earth, Offspring of Devils, and by Nature base, Ne'er blessed with one small Ray of heavens Grace, But led to Crimes, by such degenerate Wills, That knew no Pleasure but in acting Ills, The hottest Mansions of the deep Abyss, Where fiery Snakes and Salamanders hiss, To those dire Confines shall you all be sent, Where Fires at once shall quicken and torment; And as you burn, Hell's Roof shall opened be, You distant Souls in Paradise may see, And by their Joy, increase your own sad Misery. Thus Radamanthus spoke— Then did the Guards their proper Prisoners take, And, by force, drag them to the burning Lake, Who hung an Arse, like Bears, when hauling to the Stake. CANTO VI. Soon as the Scribes were to their Torments gone, I heard another Crowd come trampling on; Grave Signors led the AEsculapian Rout, Some crying, Oh! the Stone, some, Oh! the Gout; Holding in every Interval a Chat, Of Acids, Alkalies, and Hell knows what. Some boasting of a Nostrum of his own, To all the College but himself unknown. Another praised an universal Slop, Made from the sweep of a Drugster's Shop; Whose wondrous Virtues may be seen in Print, Tho' he that made it never knew what's in't. Another wisely had acquired an Art, To make a Man Immortal by a Squirt. Some with two Talents were profusely blest, And seemed to study least, what they professed, In earnest Poetry, and Physic but in jest. One hoped by satire he himself should raise To the same Honour some had done by Praise, But angry seemed because he lost his Aim, And did th' Ingratitude of Prince's blame, Who gave not that Reward he might in Justice claim. As they moved forwards great Complaints they made Against the crafty Pharmacentick Trade; Bad were their Medicines, and too great their Price, Little their Care, and ignorant their Advice; Who from the Bills they filled had found a way To seem as Wise, and be as Rich as they. Ne'er fear, says one, a Project I'll advance Shall bring them back to their first Ignorance. The Means proposed were neither wise, nor fair, A frothy Thought that vanished into Air, And left the wrinkled Consult in a deep despair. Graduates and empirics here did well agree, And kindly mixed, like Gold and Mercury. Both had their Bands, their Canes Japaned with black, Each in their Carriage had the same grave Knack, 'Twas hard to know the Doctor from the Quack. Both skilled to sift the Patient's Worth, or Want, And furnished were alike with Chamber-Cant: Both could advance their Cane-heads to their Nose, And bid the Nurse take off, or lay on clothes; Judge the sick Pulse, pursuant to the Rule, And ask the Patient when he'd last a Stool: Both talked alike, alike did understand, Each had hard Words as Plenty at Command; But that which some small distance had begot, One knew from whence derived, the other not. The Empiric therefore in Dispute oft yields, And gives the College D—ce the mastery of moorfield's. Thus he that's Sick to either may address, For both administer with like Success, The Quack oft kills, the Doctor does no less. Next these a Troop of Medicine Mongers went With Cordials in their Hands, they should not faint, Who railed against the College Dons, and swore Themselves as Wise as those that went before. One much disturbed his Brethren were oppressed, Attention begged, and thus he spoke his best: Through Zeal to's Trade, he rashly did begin, Speaking as if on Earth he still had been: If to our Wrong, Physicians stoop so low, To keep a Medicine Warehouse, let'em know, We'll practise Physic till we kill and slay As many Thousands in a Year as they. The Poor they promised should have Medicines free, Instead of that the Upper-World may see, They make 'em pay great Rates for as bad Goods as we. Therefore in just Revenge let's drive at all, Advise, Bleed, Purge, and no Physician call: Thus into obstinate Resolves they broke, And wisely, like Apothecaries, spoke, We will do what we will, and let them see, As long as we don't care, pray what care we. St. Barth'lomew's Physicians next came up, Some bred Tom-Fools, and some to Dance the Rope: One Month employed i'th' Business of the Fair, And th' other Eleven stroling Doctors were. Of Learning these no Portion had, or Sense, Their only Gift was downright Impudence: Chief in Germany and Holland born, But England's Plague, and their own Country's Scorn. The Poor Fools Idol, and the Wiseman's Scoff; Yet often cured what Learned Heads left off. With these were Sowgelder's, and Tooth-Drawers mixed, And Barber-Surgeons here and there betwixt. Some round their Necks had Chains and Medals got, For Curing some strange Prince of God knows what: Others who Bulls, and Boars, and Colts had Gelt, Wore Silver Horseshoes on a Scarlet Belt. Whilst Spoon-Promoters with the rest came on, Adorned with Sets of good sound Teeth they'd drawn. illiterate all, from painful Study freed, Scarce one could Write, and very few could read. Themselves they extolled, on others heaping Blame, Their Bills and common Talk were much the same: When e'er they spoke their barren Nonsense show, They little had to say, and less to do. Some from the Loom, some from the Last arose, Others from making or from mending clothes. Pretending all such useful Truths they'd found In Physic's Riddle, which but few expound, That was most pleasant, speedy, safe and sure, And in the twinkling of an Eye would Cure The worst Disease on Earth, that Mortal could endure. Close to the Bar they now began to Crowd, Hoping for Mercy, very low they bowed. The Judge being tired, did for some Hours adjourn, And left 'em there to wait the Court's Return. The End of the First Part. A Journey to H—: OR, A Visit paid to, etc. A POEM. PART II. Both Parts by the Author of the London-Spy. LONDON, Printed, and are to be Sold by the Booksellers of London and Westminster. 1700. THE PREFACE. I Have reason to suspect, from some Clamours I have heard against the Title of this Poem, upon the Publication of the First Part, that 'tis a very wicked Age we live in, since the very Name of Hell and the Devil are such wonderful Scare-crows to a parcel of Puritannical Fornicators, which, if they had been oftener put in mind of his Infernal Worship, and his dreadful Dominions, might have been a means, for aught I know, of frighting 'em from a Licentious and Wicked Life, into more Honesty and Virtue. Words in themselves are no more than Marks by which we signify or express the Conceptions of our own Minds, or raise up Ideas of the same things we represent in others. Therefore to put the World in mind of Hell and the Devil, in a justifiable way, representing both as terrible as the narrowness of my Capacity would give me leave, I hope can be no Fault, since it is reasonable enough to believe, the dread of eternal Punishment deters more People from an Ill Life, than the hopes of everlasting Happiness has induc d to a Good one; for we may observe the weakness of Humane Nature to be such, that the fear of Wracks and Tortures has often brought Offenders and Conspirators to a Confession of their Gild and Plots, when the reward of Life would not tempt 'em to a Discovery; and almost every Man may find, who will but examine himself or observe others, that Prosperity in this World does not so much elevate a Man, as Adversity depresses him; Pleasure does not so much affect us as Pain, which makes us more watchful to avoid the one, than industrious to obtain the other. I declare my Intention to be good, and those that look into the Design without Prejudice, must allow it to be so: But as for such kind of zealous Shop-Criticks, who are afraid to peep into the Book because they see the Devil in the Title-Page, I must needs tell 'em, it favours more of ridiculous Preciseness and hypocrisy, than it does of true Zeel or good Judgement, and I think they deserve as much to be laughed at for being angry with the Title upon that Account, as the Lady did for burning her Bed upon another, which affording something of a Jest, I'll proceed to the Story. In the Times of Confusion, when the Sword had cut down the Sceptre, Purity knocked down the Church, and a High Court of Justice had destroyed both Law and Equity, there happened then to be a very Devout Lady, who numbered herself amongst the prevailing Saints, and would not suffer any thing that had been polluted to harbour under her Roof; the more to strengthen her in her Religious Exercises and Heavenly Meditations, she kept a thumping lusty Precisian in her House, which she called her Chaplain, who was always wonderful busy in watching the Lambs of Grace in the Family, ' that they might not Err and Stray like lost Sheep; and at last happened, by his vigilance, to discover a Manservant and a Maid-Servant upon a Bed together in very close Conjunction, and running presently to the Good Lady, brought her to the Keyhole of the Door to be an Eye-witness of the Matter, who seeing such an abomination committed in her House, called out to 'em with all impatience to open the Door, and for a Couple of unsanctified Wretches to departed her House, which she feared would fall under some heavy Judgement for so vile a Transgression; their business being done, in Obedience to their Lady's Commands, they drew the Bolt, and the enraged good Gentlewoman, with the assistance of her Holy Servant, turned 'em out into the Street, by Head and Shoulders, which being done, they consulted together how they should punish the defiled Bed, for assisting them in their Wickedness, at last concluded it should be burnt, which was done accordingly; who should come by, when the sinful Utensils were in Flames, but the Fellow who had been the Transgressor, and being informed what the Fire was made on, Egad, says he, they might as well have burnt all the Beds in the House, and most of the Chairs to boot; for there are none of the one, and very few of the other, but what, to my Knowledge, have been privy to the same business. I only give this Story as an Instance of the unaccountable Folly and blindness of some Folks Zeal; for if every Bed was to be burnt that has been thus polluted, and every Book to be suppressed that has Hell or the Devil's Name in it, our Libraries would be very thin, and our Houses but indifferently Furnished; besides, as to the latter, the drift of the whole Poem being to detect and scourge the Frauds and Wickedness of Men. I say, they may as well Censure most Sermons preached, in the Nation, wherein the same Bugbear Words are used with a good Intention: But however, because such Persons should not be Offended, I have, in this Part, put Hell with a dash, and supplied the place of the Devil with an etc. which Method, to please 'em, I shall continue in all the succeeding Parts, which (God willing) I intent to carry on as long as the World shall give Encouragement. Farewell. A Journey, etc. PART II. IN the Court's absence hot Disputes arose, Betwixt the Doctors and their Dog'st— d Foes; No Blows they had, but every warm Debate Did in abusive Language terminate; Quack, Emp'rick, Clyster-giver, Fool, and Knave, Close-stool-Promoter, Buttock-peeping Slave, Physician's Vassal * Apothecaries originally Servants to Physicians. kept at first to Troth With Vomit, Vial, Purge, and Galley-pot, To pick our Drugs and Herbs, and what is worse, To bear the Teaze of every tatt'ling Nurse; Drudge to the Pestle and a Charcoal Fire, Only maintained to save a Porter's Hire, And now! to thus audaciously presume To prescribe Physic in a Doctor's room, When you no more of Theory understand, Than Monsters in the Ocean do of Land: Whence sprang this unaccountable advance, But from base Impudence and Ignorance? Whence can you boast your Knowledge, lest you own, By study of your Files you're Learned grown? And if you do, 'tis but a weak defence, For none but Quacks from Recipes Commence: If from Prescriptions you could once attain To be a competent Physician, Read Usher's Sermons, where the Gospel shines, And you as well may make yourselves Divines: How will ye find, by an old musty Bill, New Patients Constitutions when they're Ill? Or if unlearned in Physic's crabbed Laws, How the Distemper judge, or guests the Cause? No, your pretended Skills a dangerous Cheat, To bubble those who want both Health and Wit. If an old File can such Instructions give, As teach you how to make the Dying Live, How far must we Excel, what Wonders do, Who gave at first those Recipes to you! This Scourge made all the Crabs-Eye Crew run mad, Who answered 'em in Language full as bad, They humed and buzzed about like angry Bees, And looked as poisonous as Cantharideses, Vexed at the two-edged Say of the Bard, Thus they began, spoke loud, and would be heard: Cast on yourselves but an impartial Eye, Look round your ill-composed Society, And you as empty Dunces there may find, Quite deaf to Learning, and to Reason blind, As e'er swept Shop, or did a Counter wipe, Or tied a Bladder to a Clyster-Pipe: Some Hogan Mogan Quacks, first Tailors bred, And from the Shopboard were Physicians made, By old Receipts of others, not their own, Grow famous Curers of the Gout or Stone: Why may not we Prescribe as well as these, Who ne'er read Galen or Hypocrates, Or any part of Physic's System know, Beyond what our Dispensatories show. Others of Oxford may, or Cambridge boast, Who had a Twelve-month's standing there at most, Where what he learned at School he not improved, but lost, Whose wandering Thoughts no Study could entice, But is expelled for Negligence or Vice. And thus the Rake fallen short of a Degree, Chaplain or Curate he despairs to be, At last Physician turns through mere Necessity. When thus resolved, he does to Holland go, Where Quacks and Mountebanks like Mushrooms grow, Spring up as fast; a Recipes their rise, And thus they're made Physicians in a trice. But he more learned in Schoolboy Rules repairs To Leyden, where he's taught to stand the Bears, There spends Six Months, and at a small expense, Does two or three Degrees at once Commence: Then Home he comes, and does admittance gain, Amongst the grave old Bards in Warwick-Lane; Adorns his Copied Prescripts well as they, With the learned Capitals, M. F. S. A. A Pill made public is his main support, Which he takes care does neither good nor hurt, Famed for some wondrous Cure at some strange Prince'sCourt; He's always hasty, trots a Coach-Horse pace, And bears the Title (Doctor) with a Grace: Furnished with Terms, he can the Patiented pose, And runs at all, tho' nothing truly knows; Undertakes desperate Cures for weighty Sums, Cozening the Patient wheresoever he comes; Why may not we, to make up Medicines bred, The same Admin'ster, and as well succeed As this unskilful interloping Crew, Ignorant of Physic, nay, and Medicine too. The Learned but make of both a common Jest, A Leyden Quack, and Salamanca Priest: Therefore— The Judge returning, ended the Dispute, And with his awful Presence struck 'em Mute; As wrangling Mob, together by the Ears, Grow silent when the Constable appears. Down in great Pomp the grave Assembly sits, The Lamps grew dim, the Crier called fresh Lights. Then Pluto's Orator his Papers spread, And to the Court this short Oration made: My Lord— Within the Circle of a solar Year, Such numbers of these Criminals appear At this last Bar of Justice, that there needs But short recital of their sinful Deeds; A long Exordium therefore I'll forbear, And just remind your Lordship what they are. These were the Enemies to Humane Good, Who did the languishing Diseased delude, With gilded Poisons to abuse their Blood; And did to the mistaking World pretend Man's Life from Fate, pro Tempore, to defend. Instead of which, to one their Art could save, They hastened Legions headlong to the Grave; And by their Pills, so speedy, safe, and sure, Begot more Evils than their Art could Cure. Some Fools and Tumblers, some Mechanics bred, Who quitted Needle, Last, or some such Trade, To barbarously increase the numbers of the Dead. When lustful Brutes were weary of their Wives, And wanted younger Flesh to bless their Lives. These were the Artists who by Medicines force, Gave, on good Terms, a Physical Divorce, And often helped, at reasonable Rates, Impatient Heirs much sooner to Estates, Well knowing whensoe'er they exert their Skill, The rich old Dad, or homely Spouse to kill, The Son or Husband ne'er disputes the Doctor's Bill. If to a Patient called, to them unknown, When first into the House or Room they're shown, The mercenary Quack looks round to see What signs of Want, or of Prosperity Appear about the Chamber, and from thence Does his Advice accordingly dispense: If meanly Furnished, and course Sheets, they're Poor, The Country Air must then perform the Cure; But if the Patient's Rich, Lie still, dear Sir, Nurse keep him close, 'tis present Death to stir, I'll send a Drink shall rectify his Blood, Drenches and Drops can only do him good, Pearl-Cordials, made of Crabs-Eyes, must be now his Food. Thus is the Wretch with Physic stuffed and cloyed, And what he begs for most, is most denied, Till pined away at last to Skin and Bone, Only for want of Food to live upon: But when given over, if Nature be but strong, The Cook oft proves the Doctor in the wrong, And does his Life with Kitchen Physic save, Brought by base empirics once so near the Grave. From hence, my Lord, it plainly does appear, Such Doctors many Thousands in a Year, Secundum Artem, kill, for want of good small Beer. Thus is the noblest Science most abused, And Patients by unskilful Quacks misused. These Mercenary Methods they pursued, Regarding nothing but their own Self-Good. What Pains to these inhuman Crimes are due, My Lord, I humbly must submit to you. The Judge arose, his Countenance composed, And to the Prisoners thus his Mind disclosed; You who, pursuant to the God's Decree, Are to receive your final Doom from me, Your Crimes are great, which you yourselves well know, Expect no Mercy, for I none can show; Since you with loathsome Slops have Crowds destroyed, Whilst you yourselves good wholesome Food enjoyed; Killed on, without regard to dying Groans, And filled Church-Yards with your own Skeletons, To Pains I'll doom ye, yet to Hell unknown, Proportioned to the hainious Ills you've done: Such poisonous Drenches shall you always swill, As more and more torment, but never kill: Each odious Draught shall still increase your Hate, And gripe you worse than Asnick does a Rat. As close as barreled Figs you shall be crammed, Without the hopes of being e'er undamned: There Purge, Spew, Piss, Sweat, to the worst degree, And stink together to Eternity. The Doctors at their Sentence hawked and spit, The Apothecaries puked with mere conceit, And with sad sickly Looks did humbly pray The Court, they might be damned the common way: The Judge to their Request had no regard, But sent 'em to receive their just Reward. CANTO VI. These were succeeded by a numerous Throng, Who scanned their Paces as they marched along, Some in their Hands had Songs, and some Lampoons, Some Read, whilst others Sung whitefriars Tunes. Amongst 'em, here and there, a staunched old Wit, Who long had stood the Censure of the Pit, Emphatically mouthing to the rest, Some Madmans' Rant, or some Fools barren Jest: Repeating all things like a Man Inspired, Storming or Smiling as the Sense required. Some who had Lyricked o'er a lucky Strain, Looked as if lately Rig'd in Drury-Lane; Whilst others, bantered by their Jilting Muse, Appeared in Thread-bate Coats and rusty Shoes, Yet all had Swords hung on strange awkward ways, From Poet Ninnie to the worthy Bays; Not wore as Soldiers do their Arms, to fight, But for distinction, as an Author's Right, Who tho' he hurts sometimes, yet hates to kill, And never Wounds but with a Goose's Quill. The mongrel Sriblers, who could stand no Test, Bowed low with Veneration to the rest, Entreating some grave Signior to peruse, A Leathern satire against Wooden Shoes; Or else a Poem, praising to the Skies, The Cook that first projected Farthing-Pies, Crying it was not heightened to his Power, Because he loosely writ it in an Hour; The anngry Bard with sundry Trifles teaz'd, Made it much worse, and then the Fool was pleased. Some about preference of Wit fell out, And made a Riot in the Rhyming Rout, Wounding each other with Poetic Darts, And railed like Billingsgates to show their Parts; Each envious Wasp stung t'other at no rate, Expressing not his Judgement, but his Hate. Thus did the Partial Critics all run Mad, And fiercely struggled for what neither had; As Whores their Reputations oft defend, And for a Good Name, which they want, contend; Whilst every stander-by the Feud derides, Takes neither part, but ridicules both sides. When round the Bar Apollo's Sons were spread, And Proclamation was for Silence made. Hell's Advocate began his just Report, Opening their Accusations to the Court. May't please your Lordship— — these the Taglines are, Who softly Writ, and very hardly Far; They tune their Words as Tubal did his Shells, And Chime 'em as a Green-Bird does his Bells: Their Muse's leisure wait, and Rave by fits, By some called Madmen, by themselves called Wits; Who, to improve, and please a vicious Age, Lampooned the Pulpit, and debauched the Stage; And with convincing Arguments professed, Wit was best relished in a Bawdy Jest; Writ wanton Songs would fire a Virgin's Blood, And make her covet what's against her good: Laid such obscene Intrigues in every Play, That sent warm Youth with lustful Thoughts away. And when thus guilty, a defence could urge, And justify those Ills they ought to scourge. These are the Flatterers, who with fulsome Lies Made Knaves seem honest, and rich Fools seem wise; Misplaced the Epithets, Great, Good, and Just, Used them as Masks to cover Pride and Lust: Virtues to each vain gilded Fop they gave, Made Niggard's Generous and Cowards Brave; Found Charms and Graces for each homely She, And highly praised each Jilt of Quality; Made her all Beauty, Innocence Divine, And like a Goddess in their Poems shine, Who whilst they sung her Praise, in Fact was lewd, And lawless Pleasures every Hour pursued; If liberal of her Gold they'd give her Charms, Thus sold their Praise as Heralds do their Arms. The World they cheated into base Mistakes, And gulled 'em with a thousand Rhyming Knacks; With Fancies, witty Flirt's, and musing Dreams, Extravagantly heightened to Extremes. If Praise they writ, than every partial Line, Should make the Bristol Stone like Diamond Shine; Or vouch a Nosegay of some Lady's Farts, More fragrant than a Rose, to show their Parts. Their Works are all false Mirrors, where Men see Not what they are, but what they cannot be: Such luscious Flatteries flowing from each Pen, As make their Patron's Gods, not Mortal Men. Thus some affecting Grandeur, by a Cheat Are often made so Popular and Great. As the proud Sappho did, by Parrots praise, Himself above all Humane Glory raise; And by his subtle and amusing Fraud, Procured the Veneration of a God. So are the Prisoners at the Bar (my Lords) A jingling Consort of deceitful Birds, Who sung about the World, like common Fame, Hyperboles of Praise to each great Name, And made those Actions Glorious which deserved but Shame The lewd Great Man, that bantered Holy Writ, And ridiculed Religion, was a Wit; For all things rendered able, tho' for nothing fit. Sublime his Notions, and refined his Thoughts, Their Dedications wiped away all Blots, And made the wild young Fop an Angel without fau't. The Patron of his Gold profusely free, To indulge himself in his Debauchery, Was generously Great, to a laudable degree. If too much love of Money was his Vice, He did the Pleasures of the World despise, And was with them no less than Provident and Wise. Thou ne'er so vile, if th'Muses Friends they were, For every Vice a Virtue should appear, Poems and Dedications kept their Honour's clear. If they writ satire, 'twas their only Care To represent things blacker than they were; Nay, clap a Sable Vizard on the brightest Fair: Make the best Creatures to their Lash submit, Render each Virtuous She a Counterfeit, And Style the Pious Virgin but a Hypocrite. The saving Man as Niggard they'll accuse, The generous Worthy they can call Profuse, Thus all that's Good and Just, when e'er they please, abuse. The sober Student is a Bookish Dunce, The Wit that's free spends too much Brains at once, And he that's Brave or Bold, is but a Flash or Bounce. Religion, when they please, is but a Trick, The Priests are Hounds that hunt a Bishopric, Who for the same Reward would truly serve Old Nick. Thus Cause or Person, whether bad or good, That in their biased Path of Interest stood, Were without Merit praised, or falsely rendered Lewd. Thus, may it please your Lordship, have I run Through the chief Ills their biased Pens have done, And must conclude, 'tis now the Bench's part To give the Rhyming Paupers their desert. Their Accusations being all made plain, The Judge himself austerely thus began. You who by Nature had such Gifts allowed, As raised your Minds above the common Crowd. When thus enriched, to condescend so low As stoop to Railing, or to Flattery bow, Shame on your Cow'rdly Souls, to so abuse That Genius given you for a nobler use. To've heightened Virtue should have been your Task, And showed the Strumpet Vice without her Mask. To've given the Wise Respect, taught Fools more Wit, Reproved, and not have raised vain Self-Conceit; By Flattering some for Interest, who abhor Those very Virtues you have praised 'em for, Whilst the Great Soul who true desert contains, Is rendered Odious by your envious Pens. For these Offences, which your Charge makes plain, Destructive to the common Peace of Man, This Sentence I Decree— To Hell's remotest Caves ye shall be sent, In woeful Verse you shall your Crimes recant, And Criticising Devils shall your Souls Torment. Nay, further, to increase your wretched State, Shall write in praise of Bailiffs, whom you hate, And humbly, in your Poems, style 'em Good and Great. Brisk Claret, and th' obliging Miss dispraise; Thus shall you Scribble against your Wills both ways, And every Imp shall make Bumfodder of your Lays. CANTO VII. This Scene being ended, and the Poets gone, After some space a new Parrade came on; A Throng of angry Ghosts that next drew near, Large as a Persian Army did appear; Each to the rest showed Envy in his Looks, Some Writings in their Hands, some printed Books. The learned Contents of which they knew no more, Than the Calf's Skins their sundry Volumes wore, Down from the bulky Folio to the Twenty-Four. As they pressed on, confusedly in a Crowd, Piracy, Piracy, they cried aloud, What made you print my Copy, Sir, says one, You're a mere Knave, 'tis very basely done. You did the like by such, you can't deny, And therefore you're as great a Knave as I. By their own Words I found alike they were, The devil a Barrel better Herring there. Printers, their Slaves, b'ing mixed amongst the rest, Betwixt 'em both arose a great Contest: Th' ungrateful Bibliopoles swollen big with Rage, Did thus their servile Typographs engage: You Letter-picking Jugglers at the Case, And you illiterate Slaves that work at Press, How dare you thus unlawfully invade Our Properties, and trespass on our Trade, Print Copies for yourselves, and fill the Town, Instead of ours, with Pamphlets of your own; Publish upon your own Accounts each Day, And buy our Authors off with better Pay? How can you justific such Wrongs as these, When both, by right, should bow your Heads and Knees, To Write and Print for us, and at what rates we please? This Arrogance inflamed the Printing Crew, And from their Tongues these sharp reflections drew: Ye paltry Tribe, we bow our Heads to you! Pray when, or how, became this Homage due? What has possessed your Noddles with this Dream? Our Trade's an Art soars high i'th' World's esteem: 'Tis we the Labours of the Learned disperses, And diffuse Knowledge through the Universe, We give new Light, Obscurities remove, All Sciences preserve, the same improve; Which were it not for us would quickly die, And must in dark Oblivion buried lie. Nay, I may boldly say, the Church and State Are by our means supported and made great: Yet Gratitude obliges us to give, Preference to Authors, 'tis by them we live. We did at first, and still alone can do Their Business, and no Aid require of you, Who were at first but Hawkers, and no more, Employed to range the Town and Country over; Travelled with Asses to convey your Books, And kept no Shop but Panniers, Bags, and Pokes. Thus trudged to Markets, stroled to every Fair, Opened your Wallets on the Ground, and there, Amongst Hogs, Pigs, and Geese exposed your learned Ware. Thus you at first were neither more nor less, Than servile Pedlars to the fruitful Press; No Copies could ye buy, no Charter boast, But now alas, those good old Times are lost. Corners of Streets, and Gateways in the Town, Were chosen Places where your Stocks were shown; There sat like Women with their Curds and Whey, Had none, or very little Rent to pay: Sold Ballads, Peny-Books, poor Fools to please, Tom Thumbs old Tales, or such like Whims as these. At last, by Time and Chance more prosperous made, Leaped into Shops, and so advanced your Trade; As you grew Rich, still proving greater K —ves, Made Authors Hackneys, and the Press your Slaves: Why should we thus your Impositions bear, Who raised you first to be what now you are? Both, to our Grief, have been too long your Tools, They sell their Brains like Asses, we our Pains like Fools. This made the Libel-Venders Wrath run high, They show their Teeth, began a warm Reply; But that the Crier called 'em to the Bar, And the Court's awe suppressed their rising War, They knew their Gild, and humble reverence paid, Then all their Evils were before 'em laid. Thus says Hell's Council, I begin their Charge, Whose Crimes Stupendious are, their number large. My Lord— These Sheepish Forms, who look so pale and wan, Corrupted by a strong desire of Gain, Kingdoms inflamed, disturbed the Peace of Man. These were the discontented Statesman's Tools, Who spread his Malice and imposed on Fools; Princes abused, against their Thrones inveighed, Affronting Powers by them should be obeyed. Base mercenary Scribblers did employ, And when the Troubles of a State run high, Poured in their Pamphlets, did the World bewitch, With Paper-Engines still enlarged the Breach, Regarding not the Right of either side, But made the Mob's mistaken Zeal their Guide, Observed which way the People's Whimsies run, And followed them with Books to drive 'em on. Would Treasonable Lies accumulate And pelt 'em at a weak declining State, Oft to a King's undoing, or a Nation's Fate. Printed both Pro and Con no matter what, Served that Cause most, where most was to be got. No public Ill could reach the End desired, But their assistance must be first required: Were Midwives to designs of restless Men, Which ought to've died Abortives in the Brain. With hurtful Whims they kept the World in play, And introduced new Mischiefs every Day; Which the blind Crowd believing were misled, And still were greater Fools the more they read. When things accrued they'd to their Scribe repair, Hid in some lofty Turret Lord knows where: Where for small Pay, his mercenary Quill, Robs some of their good Names, gives others ill, Just as the Prisoners at the Bar required, To rail at any thing he would be hired, Who, fond of what he Writes, thinks every Line inspired. These Mongrel Scribblers they employed in spite, To abuse Wits, and tease 'em on to Write, That Press and Booksellers might both get Money by't. Kept 'em to raise up Jealousies and Fears, And set Mankind together by the Ears, As wifling Curs make Mastiffs oft engage, And keep a yelping to foment their Rage. But at a distance stand behind some Screen, And, like true Cowards, eat the dangerous Scene. Next these, my Lord, my Breviate does include The blackest of all Crimes, Ingratitude, Distinguished by so vile, so foul a Stain, Hateful to Beasts, nay Devils, well as Men, This Sin was epidemically spread, And by long use corrupted all the Trade, (Bread Towards Authors practised most, by whom they got their Which aggravates the Evil, and does make Their sullied Consciences appear more black. When the unwary forward Youth gins, To trust his private Thoughts in public Lines, Large Promises they'd make to draw him in, But their Performance he should find but thin. If's Writings pleased, they gently fed his Wants, And tho' things Sold, yet vexed him with Complaints, Instead of giving him that due Reward His Pains deserved, and they might well afford, They'd means contrive to build him up a Score, And find a thousand ways to keep him Poor. When this was done, they'd awe him with their Frowns, And buy him as their Slave by lent Half-Crowns; Arrest him, plague him, thus should he be teased, Unless he drudged and scribbled as they pleased: In Print abuse him, scourge him round the Town, And make his Reputation like their own. Thus did they feed on Author's teeming Brains, And kept'em Starving to Reward their Pains, Whose Faculties decline, as Age creeps on, And when their sprightly Thoughts are fled and gone, They leave the helpless Wretches mis'rably undone. So th'Magget in a Nut that long has fed, And by the Kernel fat and fair is made, Disdains the empty Shell wherein he first was bred. Next these, my Lord, themselves could not agree, Or could they honest to each other be, But one another's Properties invade, To th' scandal and the damage of their Trade. He that to's own Fraternity is base, Can ne'er be just, whilst Int'rest's in the Case; But will for mercenary Ends pursue The worst of Ills thats in his Power to do: An Adage has declared, the Bird, at best, Is but an ill one that befouls his Nest. As such Ill Birds, my Lord, for such they are, I represent the Prisoners at the Bar, (Care. To reward these their Crimes deserves your Lordship's Th'impartial Judge deliberation took, And when determined, thus he gravely spoke. You who before me do Convicted stand, Of public Mischiefs to your Native Land, Besides Ingratitude, Fraud, Piracy, Unreasonable Gain, and Calumny, Souls blackened with such deep infernal Stains, I'm bound to punish with the greatest Pains. Beneath the Poets shall your Station be, From their Invectives you shall ne'er be free: With burning Satyrs they shall sting your Souls, As Farmers do their Hogs, or Cooks their Fowls. Pamphlets and Plays shall make your flaming Pile, And Author's Dung shall baste you as you broil. And there for ever to increase your Woes, Read O— d— 's dull Rhimes, or Sh—y's Prose. A trembling Bookseller amidst the Crowd, When Sentence was pronounced, cried out aloud, Ah! Neighbours, Neighbours, would we'd honest been, Why what a sad Condition are we in! Poets you know were such faint-hearted Wretches, That when their Plays were damned they'd foul their Breeches. Indeed I dread them most of all our Evils, For now they're damned themselves they'll drip like Devils. CANTO VIII. Next came a jolly Troop of staggering Sots, Armed, some with Glasses, some with Pewter Pots; Who round their Hips had azure Ensigns tied, Put on for use, but hanging low for Pride. Some who were bound the bleeding Grape to thank, Had Noses died with Noble Juice they'd drank. Others crept after, whose Consumptive Looks, Were paler far than either Smiths or Cooks; Who wanting strength of Nature for their Trade, B'excess of Wine mere Skeletons were made. Amongst the rest some bulky Forms appeared, Huge strenuous Souls to be admired and feared; Each at his Middle had a sharp ground Adds, Looking like Giants that opposed the Gods. Some Nippers in their Hands, as if they meant To catch the Devil's Nose, as did the Saint. As they went on amongst the Tippling Train, About Precedence some Disputes began; The Hogshead Drummers, who to please the Mob, Can make such Music with an empty Tub, Took some distaste, their friendly Union broke, And thus in Anger to the Vintners spoke, Have we taught you the Practical Deceits, Of Cider, Stum, the Whites of Eggs, and Sweets, How to Ferment, to Rack, to Mix and Fine, And all your pretty Knacks and Tricks with Wine, And shall you now in this presume to show Such Skill as we, who taught you what we know, Pretend Priority, take th'upper-hand, And think us servile Tools at your Command; No, you shall find that we have so much Wit, To reserve some things never told you yet: Such secret Tricks that with yourselves we play, Practised in Merchant's Cellars every Day. Since we in managing of Wines know most, You ought to give us the precedent Post. The Vintners to the Cooper's thus replied, Struting like Turkeycocks in all their Pride, Can you, proud Slaves, of us precedence ask, Whose business chief is to Hoop our Cask, Our Vaults and Cellars in due order keep, And watch our Pipes and Butts they do not sweep? Tho' you're thus Prodigal, we'd have you know, Our Station is above, and yours below; We use no Arts to adulterate our Wine, Or with pernicious Slip-Slops make it fine. We only mixed together Strong and Small, And gave 'em Nature's course to rise and fall. The Cooper's, what the Vintners urged, denied, And in a mighty Passion swore they Lied. Just as the swelling Feud thus high was grown, And pointed Words were at each other thrown, The Crier called the Prisoners to the Bar, The Vintners answered, Coming, Coming, Sir. When round the Court the Toping Crew were spread, Their sinful Charge was thus exhibited. May't please your Lordship— The numerous throng of Fuddle-Caps, that here Promiscuously before the Bar appear, On others ruin have themselves enriched, And with their charming Juice the World bewitched. Crowds of poor Mortals in a Year they slew, With base adulterated Stuffs they drew; Imposed on Customers when Drunk and Mad, And with good Words would put off Wine that's bad. If fault, altho' deservedly, was found, They'd tell ye, if they searched the Cellar round, They have no better, but with all their Heart, Will change it for a strong or smaller sort May please you better, but with some new Name Would bring the credulous Bubble back the same, And falsely swear his palate is amiss, If he finds fault with such kind Wine as this, For that to please his Taste he'd broached a fresher Piece. Kept Cider in their Vaults with ill Design, Yet vow they never mix but Wine with Wine; Bought Eggs by Hundreds for their Cellars use, The Yolks made Puddings, but the Whites for Juice. For common Wine, unreasonably would ask sixpence the more because 'twas in a Flask, Bound with large Wickers, filled with heavy Port, Sold for French Claret, wanting of a Quart. And that their Crimes a deeper dye should take, Ingratitude made all their Actions black; For him wh'amongst 'em his Estate had spent, When Poverty had brought him to repent His Follies past, the Gainers in the end, Would blame him most, and be the least his Friend. Thus, says Hell's Pleader, I my Charge conclude, And to your Lordship leave the Tippling Multitude. The Judge summed up, in a short Speech, their Sins, And then the Culprits Doom he thus gins. For Evils done above, from whence you came, Infernal Fevers shall your Souls inflame; Eternal Drowth upon your Tongues shall dwell, And all be fettered near an empty Well; Fine Rivers at a distance shall you see, Burnt Brandy shall your only Liquor be, And in this State remain to all Eternity. The End of the Second Part.