THE POETS ADDRESS To the Honourable Sir Charles Duncomb.   

The POET'S ADDRESS To the Honourable Sir Charles Duncomb, Knight, and Alderman OF THE CITY of LONDON.  
LONDON: Printed in the Year MDCC.   

THE POETS ADDRESS To the Honourable Sir Charles Duncomb.  

THE fair Augusta of all Lands the Pride,  
And Wonder of the Gazing World beside;  
The fair Augusta heretofore could Boast,  
Of noble Praetors at their proper Cost:  
Men Wise in Council, as for Wealth renowned,  
And with the Praises of their People crowned.  
Whose well-spread Tables Dishes did a●●●d,  
Equal in Plenty to a Potent Lord:  
Whose kitchens were no Ordinarys then,  
To Treat at their own Charge the Liv'ry Men.  
Who for the Dinner they had got at Noon  
Pay in the Evening with a Silver Spoon;  
As finely Guilt as Dr. Quack's famed Pills,  
Which fills so many of our Weekly Bills.  
They were not open-handed to receive,  
But their ennobl'd Talent was to give.   

And such is yours whose brighter Virtues are  
Of the same Stamp, your Predecessors were;  
I mean not those of a more Modern Date,  
Who kept their Feasts upon a single Plate  
Whose Shreival Board produced a Bill of Fare,  
Nine Pence per Diem thro' the gaudy Year;  
Who chewed the Cud instead of wholesome Meat,  
And thought it was Original Sin to Eat;  
Lord! What a goodly Time had Cocks and Hens,  
The Calves were safe within our Smithfield Pens.  
No Foes from City Halls did them Invade,  
The Butchers had almost forgot their Trade.  
The Godly Folk deemed every Man a Beast,  
A Wicked Glutton, who proclaimed a Feast.  
The Bucks grew wilder and forsook their Mounds,  
And quiter unlearnt the Opening of the Hounds▪  
These Pious Times in which dark Plots were rife,  
And Men Eat ●●●ion to support their Life;  
To open Venison pastry no Man durst,  
For fear of Plotters underneath the Crust.  
So cautious were they of preserving Life,  
They quiter forgot the Use of Fork and Knife.  
Self-Preservation did Improve their Skill,  
theyed use no Weapons which would wound or kill.  
Still in their Food some hidden Mischief smoked,  
They would not Eat for fear they should be choked.  
Their Cupboard foundered does to pieces fall  
And Good boiled Beef becomes Apocryphal.  
No racy Wine their duller Hearts united,  
And honourable Sir-Loyn was Unknighted;  
They were to any honest Mortals thinking,  
Green schismatics in Eating and in Drinking.   

Now Vilest Avarice usurped the Place  
Of Charity, and 'vice supplanted Grace.  
Frugality's a Grace they never did want,  
For every Niggard was esteemed a Saint.  
That sober Party, who did others Mock;  
And never were drunk but on the public Stock,  
At their own Tables are extremely Nice,  
And make Good Eating an Enormous 'vice;  
Can when on Free-Cost gormandize the Best,  
And feed as much like Gluttons as the rest.   

But you pursue the Methods as of old,  
When Men did use, not Idolize their Gold,  
When City May'rs, and Sheriffs of Request,  
dissolved the Winters in continual Feast;  
Whose kitchens Heat did shivering Mortals Warm,  
What the far distant Sun could not perform.  
You on their Dressers every Day might see,  
The Nations Wealth in an epitome.  
Nor only did our Dainties fill their Board,  
But generous Wines Imported from abroad,  
Their daily Revels and their Banquets crowned,  
Whilst fair Augusta's Health went round.   

If you when Sheriff did such Feasts prepare,  
What will you do when once elected May'r?  
If such great Treatment from the Sheriff comes  
We from the May'r expect whole Hecatombs?  
The Sober Party say, you will undo 'em,  
And sad Example of Profuseness show 'em;  
For should you ever thus debauch their Gullets,  
You'l make a Dearth of Capons and of Pullets:  
We'll by such Slaughters with Destruction meet,  
And want both Beef and Pork to serve the Fleet;  
Your Wine and Meat will cause a double Pain,  
over charge their Stomachs, and disturb their Brain.  
For Wine in Noddle as in Ship is tost,  
And bounced alas from Pillow unto Post;  
Cast on the Rocks by Seas which loudly Roar,  
And here disgorged into the Common shore:  
Wine makes Indentures, and what's worst of all,  
Makes the most upright Mortal downward fall,  
When tho' no Limbs are broken, or skulls are torn,  
It often Damage does to strongest Horn;  
For sad Disasters happen in the Fight,  
Where Head's too heavy, and the Heells too light.  
Thus who's beholding for a Sumptuous Dinner,  
Which turns a Saint into a very Sinner.  
Who after such Insatiate Wicked Poring,  
Forgets the Wife, and runs to Miss a Whoring,  
Or by replenished Nature is beguiled,  
At his own Charge gets his own Wife with Child.   

'tis not for Poets to dispute Elections,  
Or Troubles raise by Scandalous Reflections;  
We for Parnassus choose no Lordly May'r,  
Or ever vote to fill the vacant Chair;  
Tho in this Age we Schismatick's are grown,  
And would for Claret change our Hellicon.  
We love not money but to buy us Drink,  
And always Mump for Paper, Pens and Ink;  
With which, and of Canary a Good Cup,  
Is a Good Stock to set a Poet up.  
We know no difference 'twixt a Guild-hall Pole,  
And those round which the wandering Stars do Role;  
But yet we know th' Opinion of the Gods,  
Who give the Choice to him that has the Odds;  
Were we to Vote I certainly do think,  
We should Elect such as would make us Drink.  
Such as would give us Meat without Disdain,  
The fittest Props to fortify the Brain:  
Deny us such Assistance, Sirs, and then  
Poets as stupid are as other Men;  
They dully will the mazes Chariot draw,  
As for Example, Brother Elkanah;  
Who long Time has from Rules of Reason swerved,  
And underneath his glorious Pageants starved:  
Who mounts no higher than a few dull Speeches;  
Not from his Brain, but voided in his Breeches;  
And those the best upon a Poets Word,  
He can from such Encouragement Afford.   

How sad's the State of every Mortal Cit,  
A Dearth of Victuals, and a Dearth of Wit;  
While we such Good Accommodations want,  
Old London is again turned Troynovant.  
The Muses State is settled not at all,  
But like the Stocks, does either rise or fall;  
Sometimes we raise our Thoughts in Notes sublime,  
And half way up Parnassus Mount do climb;  
But then descending with uneven place,  
For want of Ammunition quit the Place.  
Time was, alas! but in the Days of Yore,  
When London's Soil sublimest fancies bore.  
When thence the Muses did their Minious take,  
And every apprentice could a Ballad make;  
And Songs composed by Poets Grave and Wise,  
At Christmas, plenty were as Christmas Pies.  
But now to Learning we have no pretence;  
Bankrupt in Trade, in Poetry and Sense.   

Will no kind Magistrate our Griefs redress,  
And vouchsafe Life unto Immortal Verse.  
How awkardly shall we a Christmas keep?  
Our Muse will slumber, and our Senses Sleep.  
If no Good Patriot at that time encourage,  
Islands of Meat in Oceans of Plumb-porridge;  
Which makes the Jolly Citizens rejoice,  
And tune their Throats in a melodious Noise.  
Instead of Meat we now must suck our Fingers;  
The Poets starved, and whipped the Ballad-singers.  
If once in London we should play the Fool,  
Our Land is grown incorrigibly dull.  
Now both the Universities are broken,  
And can't afford the Nine one tuneful stroke;  
Whose Songs of late on Dryden plainly  told,  
Their Wit is shrivl'd, and their Brains are could;  
No Verse exalted, and no Thoughts Divine,  
Th' Effects of Water-gruel not of Wine.  
Apollo now disowns 'em for his Sons,  
And from their disinspired Mansions runs:  
Yet would make London his most blessed Abode,  
Had he but Grace to entertain the God.  
Here would erect his high Imperial Seat;  
And as in Wealth, in Wisdom make us Great.   

It is resolved, and by the God decreed;  
The Times shall mend when Du●comb shall succeed.  
He Good Presages gave of peaceful Sway,  
And marked the Tract, where Virtue lead the Way.  
Enfeebl'd Charity, grown Stiff and could,  
He brought to Life by showrs of Liquid Gold;  
His Bounty more Extensive than the Sun,  
Did not over Hills and lofty Mountains run;  
But dark Recesses of the Prisons warmed,  
And drooping Spirits with his Bounty charmed.  
He Ludgate's Hell did Bless with Rays of Light,  
Where Shackl'd Souls keep an Eternal Night;  
caged up like Birds to sing the Infamy  
Of Creditors, and their own Elegy:  
These he let fly, and set upon the Wing,  
Who now for ever will his Praises Sing:  
In vain do Niggard Saints their Virtues Cant,  
While they extensive Charity do want.   

Methinks I see of his good Reign a Scene,  
Tho with a Space of Twelve sad Months between,  
In which Augusta is again in State,  
revived in Pomp, magnificently Great:  
In which her lively Children do appear,  
blessed with such Features as their Fathers were.  
Greaz'd with his oil, each Bacchus Cheeks does shine,  
Plump'd up with Bumpers of his Racy Wine;  
To grace his Court the wretched do advance,  
The Orphans Singing, as the Widows Dance.   

Poets like bats, this tedious Winter dwell,  
In some retired and melancholy Cell.  
But like the Swallows will Arise and Sing,  
At the Approach of his more fragrant Spring.  
When Duncomb gives to Gladness a new Birth,  
And like the Sun replenishes the Earth.   
FINIS.