THE POETS Address TO KING JAMES II. Surnamed the Just  
— Illius aram  
Saepe tener nostris ab ovilibus imbuet agnus.  Virg. 

POETS in Vice challenge an equal share,  
With those they from the Stage so pertly jeer;  
They'll Whore, Drink, Lie, Quarrel perhaps & Swear:  
Sad truths we own, unhappy Men, who must,  
If to our Laws and Calling we'd be just;  
Like the bold Man, who went himself and saw  
A Battle's bloody Scene, to learn to draw:  
For nothing takes, as Canting Tubsters Teach,  
More than when Men their own Experience Preach.  
Would POETS Edify by what they Writ;  
They must Intrigue by Day, and Drink by Night,  
Would they strike home, and have their satire by't.  
Yet in this Roll of pure convenient Crimes,  
Which learn us how with Art to lash the Times.  
(Record the Fact to our Immortal Fame;)  
Rebellion ne'er did slain the Muse's Name:  
Character-Settle, if you please to bate,  
Who, Judas-like, Repent when too late.  
Beaumo●● and Fletcher (that exalted pair)  
Once with their Muse went down to take the Air;  
Beneath a Hedge, close by the Road, they lay,  
Moulding the Figure of an unborn Play.  
At winding up of the well-laboured Scene,  
It was Resolved, the King must die; but then,  
About the How, and Where, Debates arose:  
One was for Stabbing, t'other Poison chose.  
A Country Fellow overhearing this  
(As every Subject bound in duty is)  
Had 'em secured, and up to Town he Spurred,  
and swore the same before the Council-Board.  
Daggers and Poison, Plots against the King,  
O'er all the Kingdom, Town, and Court does ring.  
Well! up the bold Intriguers both are brought;  
Bold, because guilty never in Dream or Thought.  
Our Country Wagg, from Arguments of Sense,  
His dreadful Affidavit does commence:  
He pleads his Eyes and Ears, and thence does urge:  
They from each Tittle strive themselves to purge.  
In short, the thing was scanned, and furnished sport  
For the whole Kingdom, Country, Town and Court.  
Upon the Stage fitly these things appear;  
Killing no Murder, is safe Doctrine there:  
Would our State-Poets used but half the care.  
The Monarch, who but now for pity calls,  
Is Stabbed or so, stay till the Curtain Falls,  
Behind the Scenes we straight reverse his doom;  
You'll see him fooling in the Tyring-Room.  
These are the harmless ways that Poets take,  
We but present those Tales that others make.  
Our Faith and Duty's pure without allay;  
As our Apollo, we our Kings obey;  
To both Implicit Homage always pay.  
When the God moves, we seldom reasoning stand,  
But fearless march wherever he does command.  
And thus we treat all Mortal Majesty,  
And never put the saucy Question, Why?  
The Muse to suffer with the Crown, content,  
We know, went into wilful Banishment.  
Cowley, that living and embodied Muse,  
'Fore prosperous Vice, unhappy Virtue chose,  
In Foreign Air he sighed, and did complain,  
And followed still the Royal Exiled Train,  
Where beauteous Seine divides its noble way;  
'Twas there the Melancholy Cowley lay:  
Upon those banks the inspired Mortal slept,  
And when he thought of Sion's woes, he wept.  
His Harp neglected on a Willow hung,  
And ne'er, till CHARLES in Triumph came, was strung.  
Nay, till blessed Years brought Caesar home again,  
Dryden to purpose never drew his Pen:  
He, happy Favourite of the Tuneful Nine,  
Came with an early offering to your shrine,  
Embalmed in deathless Verse the Monarch's Name;  
Verse, which shall keep it fresh, in Youthful prime,  
When Rustats sacred gift must yield to time.  
Thus we, the humbler Fry, our mite have brought,  
By him at once duty and numbers taught.  
Our Lives— What's that? and our Estates are less:  
When Watermens and Poets e'er address,  
Not the least word of Fortunes they express.   

Thus much, dread Sir, accept.  
Poets are Seers; in Fates Dark Journal skilled,  
We find each Page with glorious Actions filled:  
Till unfledged Years bring on the happy Date,  
Our Pens on your Victorious Sword shall wait.   
FINIS.   

LONDON, Printed for Luke Meredith, at the King's Head at the West End of St. Paul's Churchyard, 1685.