THE CAR-MAN'S POEM: OR, ADVICE to a Nest of Scribblers.  
Carmen turn Poets now, why may not I?  
Then Horse, and Cart, and Whip, stand you three by:  
Nay, but I lack my Whip to lash those cattle,  
That by their Scribbling bid the Kingdom Battle.  
Would I could lash you with such mighty force,  
As I have used to lash my drudging Horse.  
〈…〉 the dull Satyrs of this envious Age,  
〈…〉 t puts my Fancy in so great a rage;  
Thy swarm in every Street, in every Shop,  
They are the Froth of every idle Fop.  
He that has nought to do, takes Pen and Ink,  
Calls for some Paper, and a Pot of Drink,  
And then the Maggot works, and Noddle rings,  
And they'll not spare the best of British Kings:  
Malice, and Pride, and Drink are all agreed,  
Then drive on, Car-man: but none cries, God speed.  
●heir wicked Wit's on wheels, but why so fast?  
●…m afraid you'll pay for this at last:  
●or headstrong Fancy must be curbed e'er long,  
The Judge will make you sing another Song,  
King's a puny thing in your conceit;  
And all by reason of a snallow Pate:  
Duke's a Trifle, and a Queen's a Toy;  
●●…'s death to you to sing out Viv ' le Roy.  
And a grave Bishop, or a learned Dean,  
You do abhor as much as King and Queen:  
judges are next to nothing in your eye.  
So boldly from all Government you fly,  
That with your dirty, frothy, hare-brained Pen,  
You lash our Kings, even like our Common men,  
Touch not the Lords Anointed, it is said;  
But when with Ale and Beer you're muddy made,  
When with a little Drink your heads are warm,  
You touch the King, and do his Prophet's harm:  
You rail, abuse, contemn, despise and jeer,  
You lash them like your Horses, without fear:  
It matters not for Sense, be they but Rhimes,  
Then there is hopes they'll suit with these sad Times.  
Away they run to Smith, and he corrects them;  
That's a mistake, he Prints, and he Protects them:  
From Friend to Friend they march about the Street,  
And every Baptised Brother's glad to feeed:  
Oh how they shrug their Elbows with delight,  
To see such dangerous things appear in sight.  
He's wise that's bold, the fittest man for th' Times,  
That dare presume to write the worst of Rhimes:  
Hang Sense, that's out of fashion, so is Reason;  
Come let us see you write Sedition, Treason,  
Move for a Commonwealth, cry down the King,  
Another Royal Head to th' Block let's bring;  
Rail at the Bishops, and the Common-Prayer,  
Abuse the Papists, this is past compare:  
Let us beat down all these too Loyal Elves,  
Then we may hope we shall set up ourselves.  
This is the language of the Baptised Beast,  
The heart of every Presbyterian Priest.  
Did they but fear a God, they'd love a King,  
They seldom Harp on such a pleasant String:  
They make long Prayers your Houses to devour,  
They'll pray for half a day, and preach an hour;  
They'll Fast in earnest; turn up th' white o'th' eyes,  
Even like a Paraketto to the Skies:  
They'll walk demurely, chatter like a Saint,  
Their language is so zealous, smooth and acquaint,  
You would not think that they could act aught ill,  
Much less that they their sovereign Lord would kill.  
Give them but power, you'll find them greater Cheaters,  
Then old Nol Cromwell, or his Chaplain Peter.  
What has our Law no limits for our words?  
And shall our Pens cut like twoedged Swords,  
And none regard them? shall our Libels swarm,  
And will no Judge take notice of the harm?  
Seditious Libels surely have a Charm,  
There's not one Judge that dare put forth his arm.  
Then let our Pamphlets swarm about the City,  
Be deaf and do not show Conformists pity;  
satire them unto death, the day's our own,  
Our Judges now we find are weary grown:  
Spare neither King nor Subject, let all share  
Alike that love the Mass and Common-Prayer:  
Come, drive on, Car-man, set thy brains to work,  
And write as if it were against the Turk.  
Puddle-dock Coachman, hold thy Dung-Cart Pen,  
Spurn not against such great and powerful men;  
They do but let you run to your wit's end,  
Now you must pay for what you wrote, my Friend.  
Thou that didst sin against both Judge and King,  
And stole the Honey, now must feel the Sting:  
Thy Libels now are all upon the File,  
That swarm like Hornets in a pleasing Isle.  
Imprimis, Answer thy Tom Ticklefoot,  
I fear that that will put thee hardly to't:  
Item, remember thy late New-years-Gift,  
Thy Neek thou from this Noose canst no way shift,  
Unless it from a twisted Halter be,  
Unto a Wooden Noose called Pillory:  
And thy late satire will not be forgotten,  
When Smith and Anvil are decayed and rotten.  
Judgement has Leaden heels, but without doubt  
At the long run 'twill find the Rabble out:  
Then woe be to you, better you were choked,  
Then deal with Judges that you have provoked;  
My life for yours they'll stick upon your Skirts,  
And pay you home for all your Jeers and Flirt's:  
You and your hireling Scribblers will repent,  
That they their Time, and you your Money spent.  
One witty Dolben, and a sharp Recorder,  
Will timely bring you all to better order:  
A Pillory will tell us you were Rogues,  
To write against a Judge so just as Scroggs,  
Whose Worth and Judgement, Wit and Justice flies  
With far more Fame, thanks to your Scribbling Lies.  
FINIS.