An Epistle to Mr. Dryden.  

DRYDEN, thy Wit has catterwauld too long,  
Now Lero, Lero, is the only Song.  
What Singing, Dancing, Interludes of late  
Stuff, and set off our goodly Farce of State?  
Not Abbevil can turn a deep intrigue,  
Till first well warmed with Bishop Talgol's Jig.  
Wem cannot sleep, or if a Nap he takes,  
His Dream some old Tressilian Ballad breaks.  
But was e'er seen the like, in Prose or Metre,  
To this mad Play, or work of Father P?  
At Court no longer Punchionello takes,  
Each Scene, Part, Cue, misshapen to the Mac's.  
Sucli Plot, and the Catastrophe is such,  
We must be either Irish all, or Dutch.  
Our very Judges in Westminster-Hall,  
Like their old Roof, are Irish Timber all.  
And (bless us!) Irish Wolves are brought to keep  
The Nation, grown now all such silly Sheep;  
Such errand Asses, errand Cattle made,  
Or to be yoked, or saddled, fleeced, or flayed.  
O Martyrs Son! thy destiny is shown,  
Such props are for a Scaffold, not a Throne:  
So juno, in her impotence of rage,  
By Heaven denied, did Hell's black Powers engage;  
Yet sped the Hero: jove and Fate were strong;  
Religious care! He took his Gods along:  
But hark, O hark, the Belgic Lion roars,  
And shakes afar the French and British Shores:  
One Brandy drinks, one mad with Prophecies:  
Lord! what they tell us of some Prince from Freeze;  
Arms, and the Man they sing, no French finess,  
But hearty Blows, and Brandenburg Address.  
Hence Vigour, and our Figure come again,  
We rise, and walk, all true erected men.  
The force of those Circaean Cups subdued,  
And the wild Charms our new Armida brewed,  
The Witchcraft he (our true Rinaldo) broke,  
And grubs the base pretenders to his stock.   

But oh, what Spirit of Deceit afar,  
Possessed our Pulpits, and bewitched the Bar?  
What Bane, what Mischief on poor Mortals shed  
By Vermin, from the Laws corruption bred?  
Tho to their Irish Roof no Cobwebs cleave,  
Below what strife and endless toils they wove:  
Wanting brave Strength to strangle men to death;  
What Frauds they hid! What Venom underneath!  
And when some shorter course to Murder's shown,  
Cry, O that (luscious) Point! they gained the Crown.   

Sons of the Pulpit the same measures keep,  
And of that same stummed Cup have drunk as deep.  
Agog for some odd transubstantiate thing,  
Chimaera reign, and Metaphysic King,  
Sublimed to School Divinity texreams,  
Their Brains would crow with Patriarchal Dreams.  
So high from solid honest wisdom blown,  
They'd have some Hippo-Centaur on the Throne.  
Not Law-ordained, but by some God appointed,  
Not Lay-elected, but be Priest-anointed.  
Away this Goblin Witchcraft, Priestcraft-Prince;  
Give us a King, Divine, by Law and Sense.   

Now Bar and Pulpit to Dragoons a sport,  
Their Cause is carried to the last Resort.  
Princes in more compendious method teach,  
Force is their way; let old Apostles preach.  
What's established Law, where standing Armies come;  
Or who'll talk Gospel to a Kettle Drum?  
When God would hear, where Giants did oppress,  
The several Nations had their Hercules.  
So were the Horns of grizly violence broke,  
So People freed from triple Geryon's yoke.  
The various Snake in Lerna Lough that bred,  
That lolled and hissed to death, at every head.  
Nemaean Lion, Erymanthian Boar,  
In Bogs that wallow, and on Hills that roar:  
All by his Godlike Prowess done away,  
Their lawless rule, and that Gigantic sway.   

In vain whilst this high Virtue Nations sought,  
The Nassau-House were never yet without.  
Nor is confined to Provinces their care,  
Their generous labour neighbouring Kingdoms share.  
Here the foul Herd flee from his lifted hand,  
That long had made a Stable of the Land.  
The Monster of the Lough, new Lerna-Plague  
(But scarce in head) the Bog-begotten Teague,  
The ravenous kind, the Harpies sharp for prey,  
With Birds obscene, and uncouth to the day.  
No Den, no Ditch, no rousting for'em more,  
Now, now is come our Hercules ashore.  
Vile Fraud dispelled, and superstitious Mists:  
He from our Temple drives all knavish Priests.  
Then warmer Wallop, in due Scarlet shown,  
To Coffee- Dick bequeathes his rusty Gown.   

Oh Dryden, if this Hercules were thine,  
How would his Club, and Atlas-shoulders shine:  
How wouldst thou all our Maids of Honour fright,  
With naughty Tale, of Fifty in a night?  
However, no more let Xavier mat thy Pen,  
No Miracle to Forty thousand Men.   

When Law, and bald Divinity gins,  
Why then, the marvel that a Poet sins?   
Exeter, Nou. 5. 1688.  
FINIS.