THE Poet's Ramble AFTER RICHES, OR, A Night's Transactions Upon the ROAD BURLESQUED; With Reflections on a Dissenting Corporation: TOGETHER, With the Author's Lamentation, in the time of Adversity.  
Licenced and Entered according to Order.  
LONDON, Printed by I. Millet, at the Angel in Little-Brittain, MDCXCI.   

THE POET's Ramble AFTER RICHES, etc.  
I SING of neither Hogan Mogan,  
Of Ancient Greek, or Trusty Trojan;  
Or is my Muse disposed to Babble  
Of some strange Antiquated Fable,  
In blust'ring Strains to Boast, or Brag on,  
How George for England slew the Dragon;  
Or do I Sing, in flattering Phrases,  
Fair Helen, or Queen Dido's Praises;  
Or in a Whining Cant discover  
The Fate of some poor slighted Lover,  
Who Raves and Sighs, Laments and Wanders,  
And on disdainful Phillis Ponders.  
I Treat you with a merry Tale,  
Spun o'er a Cup of Nappy Ale;  
For Custom's sake excuse Preamble,  
I'll Sing you o'er a Country Ramble;  
Where l, in doleful Cogitation,  
Have viewed, with mighty Admiration,  
The Circled Earth, and Misty Sky,  
Where Fairies Dance, and Witches fly;  
And oft have heard the Country Wenches  
Complain of Hags, and Fairy Pinches:  
And Ralph, with Hands o'er flaming 
* They burn Cow-turd for Fuel.  Cow-Turd  
Turn Tales and Stories inside outward;  
Where Dames, whose pretty Eyes would pierce ye,  
Will turn up Tales for God have Mercy,  
And think no greater Obligation,  
Than the sweet Tie of Copulation:  
But lest l tyre your kind Complaisance,  
By thus Haranging on your Patience,  
No more bye-Crochets will I scatter,  
But come with speed unto the Matter.  
In an Age blest with no great Plenty,  
When Wit and Money both grew Scanty,  
I then, with quiet mind possessing  
The Poets ancient Threadbare Blessing,  
Lodged in a Place, I must declare it,  
I think, for Neatness, called a Garret;  
Where, as I pensively lay thinking,  
One Morning, after Night's hard Drinking;  
Up comes a Man with Hasty Look,  
And opens me his Pocket-Book;  
At that my Heart began to fail me,  
I thought of nought but who should Bail me▪  
Good Sir, says he, I'm come to tell you,  
Of an Estate of late befell you;  
Your Grandmother is, Sir, Departed;  
Pleased with the News, than up I started:  
And is my Granny Dead? quoth I;  
He answered me, Yea, verily;  
Thou may'st believe me without Swearing,  
She is as dead as any Herring:  
Well, if the News be true, said I,  
Excuse me that I do not Cry,  
Since 'tis appointed all must Die;  
For Grief, you know, will neither save,  
Or call Relations from the Grave.  
I lugged on Hose, and fell to dressing,  
Few Tears let fall, small Grief expressing;  
From thence we'djourned to the Alehouse,  
Where Credit seldom used to fail us,  
And there I made the Bumpkin Fuddle,  
Till Muddy Ale had seized his Noddle,  
And then was forced to call two Porters,  
To lead the Lubber to his Quarters,  
My Landlord, as I passed the Bar,  
Gryed out, Who pays the Reckoning here?  
Said I, pray take it not amiss,  
Remember I must pay you this:  
Said he, pray, to prevent mistakes,  
Will you remember what this makes;  
Landlord, let no Ill Thoughts be harboured,  
I'll soon be rubbed from off your Bar-board;  
I'll pay you in a little time;  
I doubt, says he, 'twill be in Rhyme,  
For whatsoe're we Trust a Poet,  
Our Bar for seven years may show it;  
And than if Dunned, all that they say to't,  
Poh, that Debts Cancelled by the Statute.  
From thence I went to th' City Crest,  
In Pasty-Nook, to hire a Beast,  
Where one I got on Reputation,  
To prevent tedious Ambulation;  
Girt with a Sword, which in old Wars,  
Made many Bloody Wounds and Scars,  
Whose Blade was so experiencive,  
Of't self it knew to be defensive:  
A pair of Boots then on I Garters,  
The Owner said had been King Arthur's,  
With Spurs, whose inlaid Gallantry  
Were Types of great Antiquity:  
Thus mounted I my Noble Steed,  
In this brave order to proceed;  
But by the way, my Muse intent is,  
To Sing my Horse's Excellencies;  
A short Encomium on his Paces,  
With all his Comely Looks and Graces.  
Don Quixot's Steed ne'er moved so nimble,  
When he advanced against the Windmill;  
And as for Shape, mine far surpasses  
The Courser of Sir Hugh de Brasses;  
He was, if I am not mistaken,  
As fat as any Hock of Bacon;  
He'd all his Ribs, I'll boldly Swear on't,  
I told them, they were so apparent;  
No Curb he needed, whose will ride him,  
Instead of that, a Thread would guide him;  
For thus much in his Praise I'll say,  
I never knew him run away;  
Three Legs he'd Gallop, like a Racer,  
But still the fourth would be a Pacer;  
Yet when he Paced, as sure as could be,  
That self same Leg a Trotter would be;  
What Place so e'er he'd into enter,  
One Foot would still be a Dissenter,  
Which makes me apt to think, Plague Rot him,  
Some Presbyterian's Carthorse got him;  
With Whip and Spur▪ he might be beat up  
Into a Canterbury Tit-up;  
But then on's Knees, he was so humble,  
Each other step would be a Stumble;  
Then would I Spur, Whip, Curse, and Mumble,  
And he, poor Jade, so Groan and Grumble,  
That 'twould have made you laugh to've seen us,  
Such work sometimes there was between us:  
He ne'er would Sweat, or Tired be,  
Confound him, but he Tired me;  
Hail, Rain, or Shine, he'd in all Wether,  
Trot, Stumble, Gallop, altogether;  
So fierce he'd look, when he was Prancing,  
With Pendant Ears, and Tail advancing,  
And through both thick and thin would trudge it,  
As fast as Ass with Tinker's Budget;  
He'd rarely serve some Country Parson,  
To clap his Laziness' Arse on;  
Or truly to exchange my Notion,  
He'd finely fit a Spaniard's Motion;  
For Whip and Spur at any rate,  
Will never make him change his Gate:  
Poor Poet ne'er was mounted thus  
Sure, on so Damned a Pegasus.  
And Madam Fortune, she to double,  
Like an Old Purblind Bitch, my Trouble,  
And that my Case might be amended,  
My little Coin was all expended:  
Thus on I Travelled, hay je▪ Dobbin,  
Exempted from the fear of Robbing,  
Till it grew late, and to be short, Sir,  
I forced was to take up Quarter,  
Where I put up my Steed in Stable,  
Who scarce to crawl to th' Rack was able:  
Then, to look Big, I Cocked my Caster,  
And bid the Ostler call his Master,  
Who when he came, cried welcome, Sir,  
You're welcome into Leicester;  
Here, Jack, Tom, Harry, Will, who's there?  
Pray set the Gentleman a Chair:  
What News, I pray, Good Sir, from London?  
Then I replied, King I— s was undone;  
For that our Royal, Brave King William,  
He did so hack, so hue, and kill 
* The King was just gone to Ireland.  'em,  
That lest he soon was reconciled,  
He'd slay them every Mother's Child;  
And that some Troops, near Inneskillen,  
Had drowned themselves for fear of killing;  
Nay, and King james, by his Men forsaken,  
But that they missed him, had been taken:  
My Host replied, Marry, Good speed,  
This is rare, dainty News indeed!  
Here, Thomas, take four Cans and fill'em,  
Ifac, well drink thy Health, Brave William;  
And if, good Sir, you will permit me,  
I with a Can or two will Treat ye:  
I thanked him—  
Then, undaunted as a Trooper,  
I asked him what he had for Supper?  
He answered me rare Duck, or Chicken,  
Or Ribs of Beef, where was fine picking,  
As sweet and good as Knife could stick in.  
In than he called his pretty Daughter,  
In truth, which made my Chaps to water;  
That I should scarce have made a scruple  
To've lent her Buttons to her Loophole:  
When she came in to show her breeding,  
She dropped a Cout'sie most exceeding;  
I'rose and kissed her, as I should do,  
And gave her earnest what I would do;  
With fine white Hands laid cross her Belly,  
She looked so tempting, let me tell ye;  
Her Lips so melting soft and tender,  
They did so sweet a Kiss surrender;  
That Pego, like an upstart Hector,  
Finding how much I did affect her,  
Would fain have Ruled as Lord Protector:  
Inflamed by one so like a Goddess,  
I scarce could keep him in my Codpiece.  
By this time she had brought up Supper,  
Then at the Tables end that's upper,  
My Landlord set his Brawny Crupper;  
With Eyes towards Heaven devoutly cast,  
As if it were to be his Last;  
He said a Grace, as I Conjecture,  
As long as any Evening Lecture:  
His next Oration being then,  
Fall on, you're welcome Gentlemen;  
Which he had spoke, but I no sooner  
Fell on as fierce as a Dragooner:  
I Cut and Slashed, and Carbonadoed;  
The Meat being cold, had some grilliadoed:  
We sat not long upon our Haunches,  
E'er we had all well stuffed our Paunches;  
Hiding with's Hat an ugly Face,  
My Landlord then said After Grace;  
And so in order to be Drunk,  
We each Man called for Pipe of Funk;  
Then Nasty Cans well lined with resin,  
Were called for in by the whole dozen.  
An Alderman both Grave and Wise,  
Did from his Elboe-Chair arise;  
Plucks off his Hat from his bald Noddle,  
And thust ' wards me begins his Fuddle:  
Here, Honest Master, here's too to thee,  
To England's Church Prosperity:  
Then up starts one, and Swears aloud,  
For England's Church he'd lose his Blood,  
And he's a Rogue, and he'd maintain it,  
That dares to speak a word again it.  
The following Point we chanced to pitch on,  
Being half Drunk, it was Religion:  
Then one begins in a great Rapture,  
And goes a Gleaning through the Scripture,  
Divinely for to prove it true,  
That Balaam and his Ass were two;  
At which, than I clapped in a word,  
And Swore by G—d he made the Third;  
Then up starts he in mighty Anger,  
And Swore, but that I was a Stranger,  
Or else he further would Contend on't,  
Then bit his Nails, and there's an end on't,  
Another he breathes forth a Hiccup,  
And gravely then begins to speak up,  
That he'd before the World maintain,  
Eve Damned herself with a Paremane;  
I told him, No, 'twas a Boon-Critting,  
The Lord preserved for his own Eating;  
At which he skip'd, to make Evasions,  
From Genesis to th' Revelations;  
At last, to th' Clouds his Fancy tossed him,  
Like Doctor should Sh —y, there we lost him.  
A Third, who being more Sedate,  
That seemed not much to care to Prate,  
Would now and then, by chance, refine us  
Some Godly Phrase from Tom Aquinus,  
Or else would tell us some strange Story  
Of our Old Father St. Gregory.  
My Landlord, who had long sat silent,  
At this poor Saint grew very Violent,  
Saying, if he wasn't much mistaken,  
He was a Saint of Rome's own making,  
And then railed furiously on  
Against the Whore of Babylon,  
Telling us many dreadful Stories  
Of Massacres, and Purgatories;  
And how their bloody Priests would Broil us,  
Stew, Frigasie, nay, Bake and Boil us;  
And were so exquisite in Evil,  
In Wicked Snares they'd trap the Devil:  
Then one whose Argumental Fire,  
Spoke him some jesuit or Friar,  
Huffs, Puffs, and Sweats, looks Big, and blusters,  
Speaking great Words to my Host by Clusters,  
And Stagg'ring Swore, his Brains being mellow,  
St. Greg'ry was an Honest Fellow;  
And as for Baking, Boiling, Frying,  
He Swore, by jove, 'twas all Damned Lying;  
Saying, to th' Pope a Power was given,  
With's Bulls, to toss a Man to Heaven.  
Then one who's Church-Clark in the Town,  
At that same word began to Frown,  
And takes him smartly up, and short,  
Which, truly, made us pleasant Sport:  
Says he, I'll hold you, Sir, a Shilling,  
I'll prove the Pope to be a Villain;  
With that such Noise we had a while,  
Loud as the Cataracts of Nile;  
Each strained his Lungs, to keep on prating,  
No sweeter Music at Bear-beating;  
Noise through the whole Soci'ty went,  
For th' better part of Argument;  
He that bawled loudest, we all cried,  
Had the most Reason on his side:  
The one he makes a loud Oration,  
Thumping the Table'n Vindication  
Of the Pope's Power of Dispensation;  
At which the Psalmist grew so angry,  
He Roared like one perplexed with Strangry;  
At last being raised, by Indignation,  
To th' highest pitch of Disputation,  
Each Learned Point, to tell you truly,  
Ended in, You Lie, Sir, and you Lie:  
Now, fired with heat of Argument,  
The Disputants to Boxing went,  
That Blows might give Determination  
To their deep Point in Disputation;  
Thus to't they fell, and banged each other,  
Amidst the spital, Spew, and Smother;  
The Pipes and Noggins flew about,  
And Candles soon were all put out,  
Whilst I at distance stole away,  
Not caring for the heat o'th' Fray,  
Yet stood where I could see Fair Play;  
For Poets, thoes they oft, by Writing,  
Breed Quarrels, seldom care for Fight:  
Both spurred with Honour in Bravado,  
Each bravely stood the Bastinado;  
One Scratched and Clawed, like any Ferret,  
Last t'other lent him such a wherret,  
Who being astonished at the Cuff,  
Cried out, O Lord, I have enough:  
The mighty Conqueror than sat down  
With torn clothes, and broken Crow;  
His Victim from the Ground arose,  
First blowed, and then he whipped his Nose,  
Which truly much revived the Noddy,  
To find 'twas Snotty, more than Bloody:  
The Clerk, who stood in Vindication  
Of England's People, Church and Natiou,  
With painful threshing, let us see  
How he could mawl down Popery:  
Now when the hot Dispute was ended,  
And the Clerks Courage much Commended,  
To make the Champions both amends,  
We all agreed they should be Friends,  
Provided they would both be willing,  
On that account, to spend their Shilling;  
They answered, Yea, if it were Ten,  
And so shook hands like Honest Men.  
The Tapster we began to call on,  
To bring the Jug that holds a Gallon:  
But who stepped in from out the Gate-way,  
But our Caesar's, 
* Wife to the Clerk, who had so manfuly thrashed the Papist.  Cleopatra,  
Who entering in a mighty Passion,  
Gave her Great Lord this Salutation:  
You Rogue, you Rascal, are you not  
A silly, sorry, sap-head Sot,  
Thus to sit hugging of a Pot,  
And let your poor young Infants mutter  
At home for want of Bread and Butter;  
You'll find, you Sot, this loving Ale,  
At last will bring you to a Goal:  
Be Judge yourself, would it not vex one,  
To see how handsomely the Sexton  
Maintains his Wife and Family,  
In all her Silks and Bravery?  
Whilst I, it's well known, since my Marriage,  
Have wanted Bread to crumb my Porridge,  
And you that are the Clerk o'th' Parish,  
In Pots of Ale to be so Lavish;  
I will appeal, is't not a hard thing,  
That none will Trust us for a Farthing?  
Nay, don't you grin, and thus perplex me,  
I vow to God, if once you vex me,  
You know I shall not be afraid  
To fling the Flagon at your Head:  
You're a fit Man to say God's Word,  
You say Amen, you say a Turd:  
These Practices you know are evil;  
You Clerk to th' Church, you Clerk to th' Devil;  
Rise and come Home, or, by my Soul,  
I'll crack your Noddle with the Bowl.  
The Noddy feared to disobey,  
Arose, took leave, and went his way;  
The rest, as well as he, God wot,  
Pay'ng Homage to the Petticoat;  
Fearing their Wives, in Indignation,  
Should blow up our Association;  
With Sparkling Eyes, and Flaming Noses,  
They all Reelled home to their dear Spouses,  
Leaving my Host and I to prate  
Of some Affairs concerning State:  
I told him 'twas not to be doubted,  
But that the French would soon be Routed;  
And that the Prince of Wales for certain,  
Was a mere Flame, a Shame, a Perkin:  
By this time we were got so Fuddled,  
That both our Brains in truth were addled;  
Thus, like true Sots, we neither started  
Till Drunk, and then to Bed departed.   

Reflections on a Dissenting Corporation.  

THE Town it is a Corporation,  
Where Women all have Toleration  
For Universal Copulation.   

Of what Degree so e'er, or Function,  
The Females never want Conjunction,  
Or that blessed Ointment, Humane Unction.   

Adultery, and Fornication  
Are Licenced through the Corporation,  
As proper Means for Generation.   

Cuckolds and Misers here are plenty,  
Many Mechanics, and few Gentry,  
Whose Bags are full, as Skulls are empty.   

Honest Men precious are as Rubies,  
Their Mayors Successively are Boobies,  
And Aldermen great Brawny Loobies.   

The Top o'th' Town are Pettifoggers,  
The Mean are Mercers and Corn-Jobbers,  
The Lowest Common Whores and Robbers.   

Their Justices, to speak the best on,  
Are Country 'Squires, the People rest on;  
But Fools enough, you need not question.   

As for Religions, there are many  
Professed, but few that practice any;  
They'd deny God to gain a Penny.   

The Puny sort are kind of frantics,  
Who Pray and Prate on Stools, like Antics,  
Followed by Spiritual Pedanticks.   

They Cackle Doctrine by the Spirit,  
Who Lie, and say they shall Inherit  
A Heavenly Kingdom, by the Spirit.   

Yea and Nay's their Communication,  
Swearing they holds Abomination,  
But Whoring, as a small Transgression.   

For all their Canting, Pious Prating,  
And Godly Humming at their Meeting;  
Yet, Lawyer like, they live by Cheating.   

The Rest are Presbyter-Dissenters,  
These are the Herd the Devil enters;  
They are all Sinners, no Repenters.   

This is the Godly Tribe we read of,  
Who Cut the Royal Martyr's Head off;  
These are the Rogues the Devil has need of.   

So fixed, their Principles ne'er alter,  
So Honest, each deserves a Halter,  
So Learned, scarce one can Read his Psalter.   

‛ IT is true, the Pastors of the Zealous,  
Such Doctrines will in Tub reveal us,  
You'd think 'twas Magic from Cornelius.   

At such deeping Notions they'll be reaching,  
That all the tedious hours they're Teaching,  
You'd think them Conjuring, not Preaching.   

Their Lawyers, by God's great Mercy,  
Enough of Latin can Rehearse ye,  
To fill up Nov'rint Vniversi.   

To give more ample Definition  
Of these, the Wedges of Sedition,  
We'll do't by way of Supposition.   

They th' Benefit of th' Clergy needing,  
I doubt, but few, for all their pleading,  
Could save their Necks by their right Reading.   

The Top of these the Town Relies on;  
I dare not say but he's a Wise Man,  
And Honest as their Fat Excise Man.   

What if they all were Fools, what then?  
They may be Wiser, God knows when,  
But Cuckolds still; Wives say Amen.    

The Author's Lamentation in time of Adversity.  

A Shirt I have on,  
Little better than none,  
In Colour much like to a Cinder;  
So Thin and so Fine,  
It is my design  
To present it the Muses for Tinder.   

My black Fustian Breeches,  
So fallen in the Stitches,  
You might see what my Legs had between'em;  
My Pockets all four,  
I'm a Son of a Whore,  
If a Devil a Penny is in 'em.   

A Hat I have on,  
Which so Greezy is grown,  
It remarkable is for its shining▪  
One side is stitched up,  
' Stead of Button and Loop,  
But the Devil a bit of a Lining.   

I have a long Sword,  
You may take't of my word,  
That the Blade is a Toledo Trusty;  
The Handle is bound,  
With a black Ribbon round,  
And the Basket Hilt damnable Rusty.   

My Coat it is turned,  
With the Lappets piss-burned,  
So out at the Armpits and Elbows,  
That I look as absurd,  
As a Seaman on Board,  
That has lain half a Year in the Bilboes.   

I have Stockings, 'tis true,  
But the Devil a Shoe,  
I am forced to wear Boots all Wethers;  
Till I lost my Spur-Rowls,  
And damned my Boot Souls,  
And Confounded the Upper Leathers.   

My Beard is grown long,  
As Hog's Bristles, and strong,  
Which the Wenches so woundily stare at;  
The Colour is Whey,  
Mixed with Orange and Grey,  
With a little small spice of the Carrat.   

As true as I live,  
I have but one Sleeve,  
Which I wear in the Room of a Cravat;  
In this plight I wait,  
To get an Estate,  
But the Devil knows when I shall have it.   

O had you but seen  
The sad State I was in,  
You'd not find such a Poet in Twenty;  
I had nothing that's full,  
But my Shirt and my Skull,  
For my Guts and my Pockets were empty.   
FINIS.