THE Poet's Ramble AFTER RICHES.  
WITH REFLECTIONS UPON A Country Corporation.  
ALSO The AUTHOR's Lamentation in the Time of ADVERSITY.  
The Second Edition.  
By the Author of The Trip to JAMAICA.  
LONDON, Printed and Sold by J. How, in the Ram-Head-Inn-Yard, in Fenchurch-Street, 1699.   

PREFACE  
Gentlemen.  
TO me there is nothing more Contemptible, than the Applause of Fools or Flatterers; and a Reputation gained, before it is truly deserved, lay always beneath my Notice. I here declare myself free from the usual vanity of Writers, and will no more thank the World for its Praise, then Blame it for its bad Opinion, since I neither Expect from it what I Deserve, or Covet what I do not Merit. And tho' Nature hath unluckily furnished me with a Scribbling Genius, yet nothing should have forced it into practice, but the severe usage of my blind Stepmother Fortune, who hath always shut her Hands Towards me (as close as her Eyes) from the disposal of her Bounty. I envy not her Darlings, since she commonly bestows her Favours upon those who most want them, tho' least deserve 'em.  

For should not Fortune be so kind to give  
Estates to Fools, they'd starve ere they could Live.  
The Purblind Jilt I utterly decline,  
And Scorn she should a Mistress be of mine;  
Now should she Court me, I'd her Suit refuse;  
And Stallion-like, take Pension of my Muse.   
Observing the present Age much troubled with the Hypochondry, I have ventured of late to endeavour to divert its Melancholy; and Emprick-like, Question not with the help of Providence, but in at little time to find success.  
I have already Experienced what operation my Papers have upon the Public; some they Please, some they Vex; some Praise 'em; some Damn 'em; some Treat me, some Thank me, others Threaten me; Thus have I made in a Month or two, as much Noise in the Town, as if this Seven Years I had scribbled Drolls to Bartholomew-Fair, and had been the Renowned Author of Whittingtons-Cat or Bateman.  
I Question not but in a little time, to raise to myself a most wonderful Reputation; and be famed among Fools, as much for a Wit, as Jack adam's of Clerkenwel was amongst Wits for a Fool; and then I shall have this happiness to be set up as an Oracle by every Beau and Booby, and enjoy the Liberty of talking Nonsense, in their Company, with as much Authority as a Church Warden at a Parish Feast, or a Country Justice at a Quarter Sessions.  
The Main Design of this Preface I have hitherto forborn, which indeed is, to take Notice of the Scandalous and Base Practice now on foot amongst some Printers, who (having not honesty enough to live by a Lawful way of Trade) Catch up other men's Copies as soon as they are Published, and Cram four or five sheets into one, some left out, the rest so Mangled and full of Faults, that the Sense in many places is quite Perverted and unintelligible, to the great abuse and discredit of the Author, the great injury of the Bookseller, the disappointment of the Reader, and to the Shame of themselves. I therefore use these measures as a means to prevent their further Fraud; and if they deal by me in this, as they have done in other of my Copies, I shall oblige them by this Preface to Record themselves Knaves in their own Letter. For if they Omit th●s Frontespiece in their Counterfeit, I hope but few Persons will encourage their Piracy; and if they are so hardened in their Villainous practice, as upon this warning not to put a stop to their base proceed, I will expose them to the World in the next thing I do, after such a manner as such Drones (who feed upon the Labours of the Industrious Bee) shall in strict Justice deserve.   

THE Poet's Ramble, 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 bragon,  
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 I in doleful Cogitation,  
Have viewed, with mighty Admiration,  
The Circled Earth and misty Sky,  
Where Fairies Dance, and Witches Fly;  
With Pleasure hearing harmless Wenches,  
Complain of Hags, and Fairy Pinches;  
And Ralph with Hands o'er flaming Cow-turd,  
Turn Tales and Stories inside outward;  
Where Dames whose pretty Eyes would pierceye,  
Will turn up Tails for God have mercy;  
And think no greater obligation,  
Than the sweet Tie of Copulation.  
But lest I tyre your kind Complaisance,  
By thus Haranguing on your Patience,  
No more By-Crotchets will I scatter,  
But come with speed unto the matter.   

In an Age Blest with no great Plenty,  
When Wit and Money both were scanty,  
I then, with quiet Mind, possessing  
The Poets ancient Threadbare Blessing,  
Lodged in a Room (I must declare-it)  
Was called, for Lofty Sound, a Garret.  
Where as I Pensively lay Thinking,  
One Morning, after Night's hard Drinking;  
Up came a Man with hasty look,  
And opened me his Pocket-Book;  
At which my heart began to fail-me;  
I thought of nought but who should Bail-me:  
Good Morn (quoth he) I'm come to tell-ye  
Of an Estate of late befell-ye;  
Your Grannum is this Life departed.  
Pleased with the News, than up I started:  
And is my Grannum 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:  
Yet my heart ached; but I protest,  
Through fear the News should prove a Jest.   

When ready we adjurned to Alehouse,  
Where Credit seldom use to failus;  
And there I made the Bumkin 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,  
Cried 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 what so e'er we trust a Poet,  
Our Bar for Seven Years may show-it;  
And than if Duned, 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:  
A pair of Boots then on I Garters,  
The Owner said had been King Arther's;  
With Spurs whose inlaid Gallantry,  
Were Types of great Antiquity.  
Gird with a Sword who in old Wars,  
Made many bloody Wounds and Scars,  
Whose Blade was so Experiensive;  
Of't self it knew to be Defensive;  
Hung in a Belt of Bufflers Hid,  
I think at least eight Inches wide;  
It was good Armour, let me tell-ye,  
To Guard from Wounds both back and belly.   

Thus mounted I my Noble Steed,  
In this brave order to proceed;  
But by the way my Muse intentis,  
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 he far surpasses,  
The Courser of Sir Hudibrass'.  
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 this much in his Praise I'll say,  
I never knew him Run Away.  
Three Legs he'd Gallop like a Racer,  
But still the Forth would be a Pacer.  
Yet when he Ambled, sure as cou'd-be,  
That self same Leg a Trotter wou'd-be  
What Pace so e'er he'd into enter,  
One Leg would still be a Dissenter,  
Which makes me apt to think (Plague rot-him!)  
Some Presbyterians Carthorse got-him;  
With Whip and Spur he might be beat-up,  
Into a Canterbury Tit-up,  
But then on's Knees, he'd be 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 nor. 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 Trudg-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 Spaniards Motion,  
For Whip and Spur at any rate,  
Would 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 soon Expended.  
Thus on I Travelled, Hey-gee- Dobbin,  
Exempted from the fear of Robbing,  
Till it grew Dark—  
And then thro' fear of being assaulted,  
Into an Inn my Prancer Haulted,  
With me upon his Back axalted.  
Where I put up my Steed i'th' 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:  
It's Pretty Cold, Sir; d'ye desire  
To warm you by the Kitchen Fire?  
Here Jack, Tom, Harry, Will, who's there?  
Pray set the Gentleman a Chair.  
What News, I pray, good Sir, from London?  
I told him now King James was Undone,  
For that the French had made a Peace,  
Had turned to Swans some People's Geese;  
And that the Catholic King of Spain,  
Was Well and Sick, and Well again:  
Which if, said I, the News be true,  
'Tis very bad for you know who;  
My host replied, Marry good Speed,  
This is rare dainty News indeed.  
Here Thomas take four Cans and fill 'em,  
Efack we'll drink thy Health; brave William;  
And If, good Sir, you will permit me,  
I with a Can or two will Treat you.  
I Thanked him—  
And 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 good picking,  
As Fat and good as Knife could stickin.  
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 Button to her Loophole.  
As she came in to show, her Breeding,  
She dropped a Cur'sie most exceeding.  
I risen and Kissed her as I shou'd-do,  
And gave her earnest what I wou'd-do.  
With fine white Hands late 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 Codpiss.   

By this time she had brought in 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,  
Ere 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,  
Each gave the word for Drink and Funk;  
Then nasty Cans well lined with Ro●m,  
Where brought us in by the whole Dozen.  
An Alderman both grave and wise,  
Did from his Elbow Chair arise,  
Plucks off his Hat from his bald Noddle,  
And thus towards me presents his Fuddle;  
Here Honest Master, here's to thee;  
To England Church Prosperity;  
And he's a Rogue, and he'd maintain-it,  
That dare to speak a Word again-it.  
After we'd Cuffed about the Ale,  
And each in's turn had told his Tale,  
The following Point we chanced to pitch-on,  
(Being half Fuddled) was Religion.   

Than one gins in a great Rapture,  
And runs a Gleaning through the Scripture,  
To prove it most Divinely True,  
That Balaam and his Ass were Two;  
At which then I clapped in a word,  
And swore by the L— 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 bitten his Nails and there's an Endoned.   

Another he Breathes forth an Hiccup,  
And gravely then gins to speak-up,  
That he'd before the World maintain,  
Eve Damned herself with a Permain.  
I told him no, 'twas Fruit much sweeter,  
Of a more Noble Charming Nature,  
That made her Liqu'rish Chaps to water.  
At which he Skip'd, to make Evasions,  
From Genesis to th' Revelations.  
At last to th' Clouds his fancy tost-him,  
Like Doctor S—ley there we lost-him.   

A Third, who being more sedate,  
And seemed not much to care to prate;  
Would now and then by Chance refine-us,  
Some godly Phrase, from Tom Aquinus:  
And then began to tell a Story  
Of Limbo, and of Purgatory:  
And Quoted much St. Gregory.  
My Landlord who had long sat silent,  
At this poor St. grew very Vi'lent  
Saying he was (excuse mistaking)  
A Popish Saint o'th' Devils making.  
And then railed furiously on,  
Against the Whore of Babylon.  
Telling as many dreadful Stories,  
Of Massacres and Purgatories;  
And how their Bloody Priests would Broil-us,  
Stew, Frigasie, nay Bake or Boilus;  
And where so Exquisite in Evil,  
In wicked Snares they'd Trap the Devil.   

Then one whose Argumental Fire,  
Spoke him some Jesuit or Friar,  
Arose and Cried he was a Roman,  
Professed the same, and valued no-man;  
He Huffs and Puffs, looks big and Blusters,  
Speaking great words to my Host by Clusters;  
And staggering Swore, his Brains being mellow,  
St. Greg'ry was an honest Fellow.  
And as for Baking, Boiling, Frying,  
He vowed to G—d, 'twas all Damned Lying.  
Than one, a Church Clerk in the Town,  
At that same Word began to Frown,  
He smartly took him 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:  
That no such power to him is given,  
With's Bull's to toss a man to Heaven.   

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-bating:  
Noise through the whole Society, went  
For th' better part of Argument.  
He that Bawled loudest, we all cried,  
Had the most Reason on his side.  
Than one he made a loud Oration,  
Thumping the Table, ' n Vindication  
O th' Pope and Transubstantiation.  
At which the Psalmist grew so angry,  
He roared like one perplexed with Strang'ry.  
At last, being raised (thro' Indignation)  
To th' highest pitch of Disputation,  
Each-Learned Point to tell you truly,  
Ended in Youly Sir, and Youly.   

Thus Fired by heat of Argument,  
The Disputants to Boxing went;  
That Blows might give Determination,  
To their deep Point in Disputation.  
To it they fell and Banged each other,  
Amidst the Spittle, 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 (though they oft by Writing  
Breed Quarrels) seldom care for Fight.  
Both Spurred with Honour, in Bravado,  
Each boldly stood the Bastinado.  
One Scratched and Clawed like any Ferret,  
‛ Last t'other gave him such a wheret,  
Who b'ing astonished at the Cuff,  
Cried out, O L— d I have enough.  
The mighty Conqu'rer than sat down,  
With torn Clothes and broken Crown.  
His Victim from the Ground arose,  
First blowed, and then he wiped his Nose;  
Which truly much revived the Noddy,  
To find 'twas Snotty more then Bloody.   

The Clerk who stood in Vindication  
Of England's People, Church, and Nation,  
With painful threshing let us see,  
How he could Maul down Popery.   

When the smart Combat thus was ended,  
And the Clerk's Courage much commended;  
To make the Champions both amends,  
We all agreed they should be Friends,  
Provided they would each be willing,  
On that Account to spend a Shilling,  
They answered yes, if it were Ten,  
And so shook hands like honest men.  
The Tapster we began to call-on,  
To fill the Jug that held a Gallon.  
Who should step in, from out the Gate-way,  
But our Church- Cesar's, Cleopatra;  
Who Ent'ring in a mighty Passion,  
Gave her great Lord this Salutation.  
You Rogue, you Rascal, are you not  
A Silly, Sorry, Saphead, Sot,  
To thus sit hugging of a Pot;  
And let your poor young Infants mutter,  
At home, for want of Bread and Butter?  
You'll find, you Beast, your Guzzling Ale  
Will one day bring you to a Goal.  
Be Judge yourself; would it not vex-one,  
To see how hadnsomely the Sexton  
Maintains his Wife and Family,  
In all her Silks and Bravery:  
When I, 'tis well known, since my Marriage,  
Have wanted Bread to Crumb my Porridge,  
And you that are the Clerk o'th' Parish,  
In Ale (you Sot) to be so Lavish?  
I will appeal, is't not a hard thing,  
No one will trust us for a Farthing?  
Nay, don't you Grin, and thus perplex-me:  
I Vow to gad, 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 go home, or by my Soul,  
I'll split your Noddle with the Bowl.   

The Noddy feared to disobey,  
Arose, took leave, and went away.  
The rest, as well as he, god-wot,  
Being Governed by the Petticoat,  
Fearing their Wives in indignation,  
Should blow up our Association.  
With Sparkling Eyes, and Flaming Noses,  
They all reeled home unto their Spouses:  
Leaving my Host and I to prate,  
Of some affairs Concerning State.  
Says he, What if the King of Spain  
Should die? I pray you, Sir, what then?  
Why then said I, to tell you true,  
The Lord knows what will then ensue,  
To the great Good of God knows who.  
Then one Man very high would grow,  
Another Tumble down as low.  
The same thing as it was you know,  
About a Hundred Years ago,  
Which Bakers Chronicle, will Show.  
Truly, says he, 'tis mighty Strange,  
Lord send us then a better Change.  
By this time we were got so Fuddled,  
That both our Brains, in truth were adled.  
Thus like true Sots we neither started  
Till Drunk and so to Bed departed.  
A drowsy Tike who born far North,  
From Chimney Corner then stepped forth:  
His bunch of Keys gins to handle,  
And kindles up a farthing Candle.  
Then rubs his Eyes, and Scratches Head,  
And lights me blundering up to bed;  
Into a Room not large but little,  
Well lined with Cobwebs, Dirt, and Spittle:  
Where several Buggy-Beds stood up,  
As close as Looms in Weavers Shop.  
Where Snoring in black Shirts there lay-men,  
Whose Sweaty Toes stunk worse than Dray-men;  
Ad's-wounds, said I, you Rogue you Dog,  
Why what dost take me for a Hog,  
A Pedlar, Drover or a Carman,  
To here Pig in, amongst such Vermin?  
Pray know, you Rascal, you're mistaken;  
I feed not upon Rusty Bacon.  
I do believe thou thinkest to day,  
I'm got thus Drunk with Curds and Whey.  
Show me, you Whip-shire Northern Clown,  
His Worship's Room, with Bed of Down,  
Kept locked against he comes to Town,  
Or I shall crack your addled Crown.  
By'r Lady, Sir, (quo' he) by th' Mass,  
Ise show you that, 'tis all a Case,  
For if his Worship comes to morrow:  
He's do the like, the meere's my sorrow:  
Marry Ligones there, or where it please-ye,  
God-take-me, Sir, Ise no sike Nisey,  
To stand a Drub; I can delay,  
As well until another day.   

With this my Lank-haired Chamber Groom,  
Conveyed me to a Noble Room,  
Wherein all Night I Slept and Snored,  
Spewed, Belched, and Farted, like a Lord.  
Waking i'th' Morning very dry  
(Drunk over night, the Reason why)  
I thumped and roared like any Dragon,  
Till quenched my Drought, with double Flagon.  
Than ' risen (and that which made me Titter)  
As stiff as Stone-Horse from his Litter;  
For merry Wives will say by stealth,  
It is a Noble Sign of Health;  
Although ashamed to let us here-'em,  
Lest we, unlucky Wags, should Jear-'em.  
My Obsolete Accoutrements,  
Disfigured much with Holes and Rents,  
I then put on, my Tilter hanging  
Like Beau, of very ancient standing.  
Then with a bold, not brazen Face,  
Did to my Host make known my Case.  
In down right Words (t' avoid suspicion)  
I opened plain my Job's Condition.  
My Landlord grinned, scratched, hummed, and hawed,  
And then his Fingers-ends he gnawed,  
Replyipg thus—   

To me you know, Sir, you're a Stranger,  
And yet I hope there is no Danger,  
But that your Moneys and your Lands  
Will quickly come into your hands;  
And then, I pray Sir, when you can,  
Take care to prove an honest Man.  
Since 'tis, as 'tis, all I can say,  
Your Welcome, though you cannot Pay.   

Tho he spoke fair, I knew he Lied;  
What his Tongue said, his Looks denied.  
How e'er I gave him thanks for Answer,  
And so bestrid my noble Prancer,  
Who having Crust and Ale devoured,  
Cocked Tail, and like a Dragon scoured.   

To my Attorneys then I rod,  
To ask of him how matters stood,  
Who told me Grany's Will (in fine)  
Was made quite opposite to mine:  
That my Pretensions all were nought,  
For she had given every Groat,  
T' her Laughter Doll who lived i'th' House,  
And had not left poor Ned a sauce,  
This balked my hopes of being Rich,  
And made me Scratch where't did not Itch.  
No Money lest, thought I, O sad!  
Nor Credit neither, that's as bad:  
A glandered, tired, foundered Horse,  
Ads-heartly-wounds! 'tis worse and worse;  
Was ever Wretch beneath this Curse?  
I asked the Scribe to lends a Guinea,  
He Sneesed, and said he had not any;  
I fell t' a Crown, and then he swore  
He'd Paid it all but just before;  
No borr'wing P-t-ls of a Whore.  
My Nag and I, then turned our Arses,  
And breathed out in revenge these Curses:  
The Gout afflict thy Hands and Toes,  
And may thy Reins be always Froze;  
May'st thee be Plagued with Cough all Night,  
And Hard bound when thou go'st to S—   

Thus Jade and I, for want of Pence,  
Became the care of Providence,  
Who brought us safely up to Town,  
But poor as when we first went down.  
Poets, I find, in spite of Fate,  
Are never to be Rich or Great:  
Their wealthy store consists in Thought,  
Born never to be worth a Groat.  
heavens Will shall ne'er want my Consent;  
What e'er's my Lot, I'll be Content;  
And bear with Patience, what I can't Prevent.    

Reflections on a Country Corporation.  

THE Town's an ancient Corporation,  
Were Women hold a Toleration,  
For Universal Copulation.   

Of what Degree so e'er, or Function,  
The Females never want Conjunction,  
So great's their Love towards Humane Unction.   

Adultery and Fornication,  
Are practised through the Corporation,  
As proper means for Generation.   

Cuckolds and Misers here are plenty,  
Many Mechanics, and few Gentry,  
Whose Bags are full, and Sculls are empty:   

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

Honest Men precious are as Rubies;  
Their May'rs 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.   

As for Religions there are many  
Professed, but few that Practise 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.   

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

They cackle Doctrine by the Spirit,  
Who lies, and says they shall inherit  
A Heavenly Kingdom, by their Merit.   

For all their Canting, Pious prating,  
And Godly Humming at their Meeting,  
Their Conscience lets them live by Cheating.   

Next these, there are two Leering Factions,  
Who rule the Roast, at all Elections,  
And with delight brew State-Distractions.   

These are the Godly Tribes we Read-of,  
Who cut the Royal-Martyrs Head-off;  
These are the Rogues Old-Nick has needof.   

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

'tis true, the Pastors of the Zealous,  
Such Doctrines will in Tub Reveal-us,  
You'd think 'twas Magic from Cornelius.   

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

Their Lawyers too, by God's great Mercy,  
Enough of Latin can rehearse-ye,  
To fill up Noverint Vniversi.   

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

They th' benefit o'th' Clergy needing,  
I doubt but few for all their pleading,  
Can save their Necks by their right Reading.   

The Chief of these the Town relies-on,  
And thinks he is a very Wise-one,  
But Honest as their Fat Excise-man.   

If all the Tribe were Fools what then?  
They may be Wiser, God knows when;  
But Cuckolds still, Wives say Amen.    

The Author's Lamentation.  

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 blue Fustian Breeches, so fallen in the Stiches,  
You may see what my Legs have between'em,  
My Pockets all four, I'm a Son of a Whore,  
If the Devil a Penny be in 'em.   

A Hat I have on, which so Greasy 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.   

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 Bored,  
Who 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 weathers,  
Till I've broke my Spur-Rowl's, and Damned my Boot Souls,  
And Confounded my 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 Carrot.   

I have a long Sword, you may take't on my word,  
For the Blade is a Toledo trusty,  
The handle is bound, with a black Ribbon round,  
And the Basket-hilt damnable rusty.   

O had you but seen, the sad state I was in,  
You'd not find such a Poet in Twenty,  
I'd nothing that's full, but my Shirt and my Scull,  
For my Guts and my Pockets were empty.   

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.    
FINIS.