THE CABAL.  

NOw the Reformer of the Court and Stage,  
The common Beadle of this wilful Age,  
Has with impartial hand whipped sovereign Sin,  
In me it is but manners to begin.   

To correct Vice keen satire may prevail,  
Beyond the Law, when preaching Blockheads sail;  
For Law and satire from one Fountain flow,  
Were not men vicious there would be no Law:  
And to cry up this saucy Cant a Rule  
For lawful satire, proves a Wit a Fool;  
To rail at State, and Monarches ill entreat,  
They cry, 'tis good, because the Subject's great;  
As Man was only placed in Paradise,  
To nibble on the Fruit for which he dies.  
Can Owls and Woodcocks with the Eagle play,  
And not in danger to become a prey?  
What is't to lash a King, and Council-Table,  
When I myself am kicked by the Town-rabble?  
Nor do I covet, matters for my Rhimes,  
The greatest Persons; but the greatest Crimes.  
What is't to me who keeps a Miss, who's Wed,  
Or who got costly Carwell's Maidenhead?  
Who got the better on't, the Peer or Knight?  
What Lord was drunk, or Lady sw— last night?   

These are the crying Crimes; yet one may do  
All these, and be an honest Subject too:  
But to supplant the Government, and cry  
Allegiance down, and rail at Monarchy;  
To make Cabals, and by a bold Petition  
Imbroil the Nation in a new Sedition;  
To souse Rebellion, lay up Plots in pickle,  
And make each Tavern-bar a Conventicle:  
This would become a Muse's excellence,  
To whip the Club into Allegiance.   

Who Would not be affected as Sir Car,  
As proud as Mulgrave, dull as de la Ware;  
As poor as Fish, who lost himself and Prince  
In one Debauch, and ne'er was sober since:  
Rather than that insatiate Beast of prey  
Worries the Flock to make himself away?  
Those harmless men find a more safe abode,  
Who quit unlawful paths to keep the Road.   

'Tis strange, that Humane wisdom ever should  
Err most, under pretence of doing good:  
And those wise men that would prescribe us Rules  
For Government, prove either Knaves or Fools.  
Witness the Catiline that left Whitehall  
To be made Precedent of the Cabal:  
So he's in play, (provided there's no blows)  
It matters not, the New, or the Old Cause:  
Has through all points of Government run his rounds,  
As Gore the Compass did, with Blood and Hounds:  
But sooner may you fix the Northern wind,  
Than hope this Weathercock will be confined.  
Nature made him a perverse wight, whose Nose  
Extracts the Essence of his Gouty Toes;  
Double with Head to Tail he crawls apart:  
His Body's th' Emblem of his double Heart.  
In the Court-Sun he wriggles like a Snail;  
Touch but his Horns, he shrinks into his Shell.  
Rolled like a Hedgehog up, he shows his Snout,  
And at the Council-Table makes a rout,  
'Gainst Charleses and the Succession domineers;  
If ought oppose him, he has Forks and Spears:  
Like a vile Scullar, he abjures the Realm,  
And sinks the Bark, 'cause he's not chief at Helm;  
Then cries, All hands to pump a Leakish Keel,  
And stops it up with Julian's Conger-eel,  
That when a Ball pierced the Broadside, even than  
Clapped in the hole, and saved Sir Edward's men.  
The way's to keep him there; if he get through  
Secure himself, he drowns the Ship and Crew.  
If to the Ocean back again he's bend,  
The Rabble, he's in his own Element.  
There let him Plot, and ne'er behold the Sun,  
Till he has through all Seas of Folly run,  
Under pretext of Wit to be undone.   

Like the late Duke, who, from a glorious Bully,  
Retired from Court, to be the City's Cully;  
The City's Minion now their scorn and sport,  
There more despised, than once adored at Court:  
Who did his Fall so wittily contrive,  
In acquaint disguise to Riot, Rant, and sweet—;  
And when h has lost himself in Infamy,  
Revile the State, and ●ail at Monarchy;  
The only means true Glory to pursue,  
And must be the best way, because 'tis new.  
Would any Hewson from the Court retreat  
To th' Stall, under disguise of being Great,  
And only for to merit Vulgar praise;  
Rather than not be popular, be base?  
So once an Emperor, as Stories say,  
Exchanged his Sceptre for a Ferula,  
And, only proud to prove himself a Fool,  
Did quit the Throne, to keep a petty School;  
Yet this was great, while only for the noise  
Of sovereign power, he Lords it o'er the Boys:  
Look to it, York; the Nation first shall bleed,  
ere the two Kings of Brainford shall succeed.  
Put him aside,— as he has done, I'll lay;  
For should I more upon this Subject say,  
It were, like his Estate, but thrown away.   

Shall Perkin 'scape, whose early offering  
Invoked the Club, ere he atoned the King?  
What though he's Banished? yet the Rump may plead  
Old Magna Charta, though the House be fled.  
And though you will not make him King; yet he  
May justly claim a Subject's liberty:  
But this secures him from our sharpest shot,  
He was not Oats enough to make a Plot;  
And satire upon him is even almost,  
As well as preaching unto Armstrong, lost.   

halis— for Empire has as great an Itch,  
As ever Dog had for his salt swollen Bitch;  
His plumes imped with Ambition, up he flies,  
And to be something melts even in the Skies:  
While th' humble wretch at home lies prostrate down  
To all the barking Beagles of the Town.   

Young Devon too does in the Club intrude,  
To be applauded by the Multitude:  
With zeal to King and Country he abounds;  
Keep with the Hare, and open with the Hounds:  
Now of the Court, now of the City free;  
Mistakes Prerogative for Liberty.  
How well a Regiment would him become,  
If the loud Commons did but beat the Drum?  
My Masters, Vote it, Sirs; a Prohibition:  
I can't in Conscience brook the new Commissions:  
To levy Forces, and assign Commanders,  
Is Treason in the King 'gainst France or Flanders;  
But if the House command me, though I starve,  
I'll quit Wine, Whores, Allegiance, to serve.   

Grace Better far might flight his Sovereign's bounty,  
He had a Regiment within his County,  
And power enough besides to back his Cause,  
Would Rowley venture but a broken Nose.  
Appease this mouthing Cerberus with a Bone,  
Honour's a dainty Crust to pick upon:  
While his dear Doxy makes a shift to rub  
The business out with Monmouth; he the Club:  
And Rowlstone leads the Van, while they combine,  
And humbly beg their Sovereign to resign.   

How Faction, and the quenchless thirst of Rule,  
Hurries to ruin the Ambitious Fool;  
Whose busy Soul, puffed up with popular sway,  
Will scarce be ever humbled to obey!  
The Earl whose Spouse had such a spacious Poop,  
As swallowed up Ned Brab'zon, and his Troop,  
Who was lately Lord Lieutenant of the Realm,  
Seemed a good Pilot while he sat at Helm;  
But when he was deposed, he overthrew  
His Master's Cause, and sided with the Crew.   

Now Bedford found he had the worst o'th' lay,  
Having more wit or honesty than they,  
Sneaked off, and left the Club his Game to play;  
When he had also led 'em to the Perch,  
Like Buckingham, he left 'em in the lurch,  
At such a juncture of a time, and oddly,  
As Peyton for his Highness left the Godly;  
Or Escrick Howard, to become a bawler,  
Withdrew from Court to cry up busy Waller.  
These are the men that all the Bustle make,  
And Empire check merely for Empire's sake:  
They lay their Stamp on the Revolting Darling,  
And in that Club make Treason pass for Sterling.  
There are some other Beagles of the Pack,  
That make a noise the Royal Chase to back:  
As when a Mastiff opens in the dark,  
The little Dogs will shake their tails and bark;  
And though the foremost Hound but start the Hare,  
The rest will mouth it as they claimed a share,  
Who follow by the scent, and scarce have sense  
To judge 'twixt Treason and Allegience.  
As Fops meet in the Pit, to damn a Play,  
Not what they know, but by what others say:  
Unmeaning— Fools, who, something to be a●;  
Follow the leading Cuckoo, like the Bat,  
And justly merit, as they are despised,  
Rather to be rejected than chastised.  
So bawling Huntingdon, and Kent the mute,  
With noise and nonsense fill up the dispute:  
And while the Club proclaims the lawless strife,  
One is the Drum, and th' other is the Fife.  
What shall we say of Falconbridge, Bridgwater?  
Or Cherbury, or dull Denhigh shall I flatter?  
Who in the Synod drudge like Galleyslaves,  
And buy the Stock, to make a Gleek of Knaves:  
Like Beasts, insensible of wrong, they stray,  
And find a Pound, quitting the King's High way.   

And last, behold in Triumph to their Follies,  
In Nol's own Coach of State, comes Loyal Hollis,  
Who sold the Father by an old Commission,  
And purchases the Son with a Petition.  
Now whether has the better on't; the Club,  
Or the Five Members did the Royal job?  
This is the Baker's dozen makes the Rump,  
And little Waller's Leaven to the lump.  
When Bedford civilly had made his Leg,  
The Club engendered, and brought forth an Egg;  
Which, like Grand Cairo, for a quick dispatch  
Hot Monsieur Parliament must sit and hatch.  
Rowley began to puff, and shake his Noddle,  
And told 'em in plain terms their Brood was addle;  
That to a Rump he never more would give  
Away his Birthright, or Prerogative:  
Then, like a God which from his voice did leap,  
Dissolved that Chaos and confused heap.  
Bravely he spoke, and wisely he performed,  
While still the Club against the Council stormed:  
Who, rather than from Faction would be free,  
Or touch no more of the forbidden Tree,  
Would damn themselves, and their Posterity.   
FINIS.