Tho. Brown's RECANTATION OF HIS satire ON THE FRENCH KING.  Facit Recantatio versum. 

ANd has this Bitch my Muse trapan'd me,  
Then I'm as much undone as can be.  
I knew the gilded would never leave me,  
Till to a Prison she'd deceived me:  
cursed be the wretch, and sure he's cursed  
That taught the Trade of Rhyming first:  
'tis a damned Trade, and who pursues it,  
I'll pass my word at last he rue's it.  
Homer and Virgil were but Tools—  
Fit only for the use of Fools.  
And Horrace too with all his Art,  
To Men of sense not worth a Fart:  
Even Causabon for satire famous,  
Was but a jingling Ignoramus.  
And all the rest to Ben. and so forth,  
A Crew of useless things of no worth:  
But now I have no time to rail,  
The Hog hath got another Tail.  
My Wits are rather on the Wrack,  
To save my own poetic Back;  
Yet by the way, 'tis very hard  
Poets of all Men should be barred,  
From labouring in their proper Station;  
Why, Where's the Justice of the Nation?  
Believe me, Sirs, as I'm a Sinner,  
I writ this satire for a Dinner.  
And stamped it with the Parsons Name,  
Not as I meant them any shane.  
But since I must the Matter tell,  
I thought 'twould make the Paper sell.  
By all that's good, all that true is,  
I ever loved and honoured Lewis:  
He's Great and Wise, more could I say,  
But fear again to dis-obey.  
And for his Priests, I here protest,  
I value them as all the rest:  
And tho' I cursed them all, What then?  
The Men are honest harmless Men.  
Next for King James and Prince of Wales,  
I always wished them happy Gales;  
And for my saucy naming Molly,  
I own 'twas Impudence and Folly.  
Lastly, for naming the Non-Juror;  
Why, that was but poetic furor.  
I know I have ungrateful been.  
'twas raging hunger drew me in,  
To abuse those very Friends that have  
Almost preserved me from the Grave;  
There honest Men, mark what I say,  
If I love any Priests 'tis they.  
I now confess 'tis highly base,  
To insult over Men in such a Case:  
And could the thing be done again,  
I'd starve before I'd injure them.  
What shall I say? I here recant,  
And own myself a Sycophant:  
But Oh! I fear that will not do,  
A thousand dismal Thoughts pursue.  
I 'm all in pain, and let me tell you,  
My Back begins to curse my Belly.  
I 'm just as if at Cart-arss tide,  
With hang-man grinning by my side,  
And Mob of all sorts crowding round me,  
Advising Catch to swinge me soundly:  
And what torments me worst of all,  
Methinks that some among them bawl,  
'tis he that for a Crown to spend,  
Reviles crowned Heads, betrays his Friend.  
All this 'tis true I well deserve,  
And yet 'tis very hard to starve.  
So that if things were rightly stated,  
Part of my Sentence might be bated.  
I was of Poppins-Ally chief.  
Till forced from thence to seek relief:  
And to avoid some dangerous Rogues;  
Took shelter among Paedagogues;  
'twas then like the Sicylian King,  
Under strict Laws I Boys did bring:  
And tho' I was but a 〈◇〉- Roy,  
I could command the est Boy.  
But here a little Time was spent  
Before I left my Government.  
I 'm charged with Male Administration,  
And so pulled down from regal Station.  
To Town again disgraced I came,  
For now 'tis vain to hid my shane;  
Where since I sharp'd, and spung'd and ticked,  
Been always scorned, and sometimes kicked;  
And yet the worst is still behind,  
Oh! hear me out and you'll be kind.  
For three long Weeks my Muse and I,  
Had been shut up in Garret high:  
The Cause I think I need not tell,  
Poets with Pox convertible.  
While thus I lay in desperate state,  
In comes a bawd whose name was Kate;  
A Rampant Bitch where once I tabled,  
Who finding me of strength disabled;  
Not Vows nor Promises could save me,  
But off she bears the clothes she gave me.  
And thus of Coat, even Shirt bereft,  
Poor naked Tom. in Bed was left.  
In this most sharp and strange distress,  
T'was then I thought on Trusty Bess;  
Who tho' I knew she was but poor,  
I always found a faithful Whore.  
To her without a long Petition,  
I briefly  told my sad Condition.  
But I forget to tell you how,  
With hot Ox-cheek, and heel of Cow:  
With Trotters neat and Tripe like Jelly,  
She oft had filled my empty Belly.  
And one thing more I had forgot,  
Hot Furmety and Rice-milk hot.  
She never let me want, for why?  
It was her Trade the same to Cry.  
I thought( poor fool) she pitied me,  
And thus resolve's to set me free—.  
With twenty pence which she had got;  
And shillings four for loan of pot.  
To some convenient bulk she hies,  
And there a Coat and Breeches buys.  
The want of Shirt too to supply—,  
Sends me her Smock tho' hardly dry.  
And more to fit me out complete,  
For th'other three pence buys a Cheat.  
When thus equipped abroad I venture,  
hoping on projects new to enter:  
But all my hopes prove vain God wot;  
Bess still must want her porridge-pot.  
My belly too grows lank, for she  
Had no Rice-milk nor Furmety.  
All Friends I tried not one was willing,  
To credit me with one poor shilling.  
In this distress without adviseing,  
I fell to cursed Satyrising.  
Oh! pitty me or I am lost,  
Far worst than when in blanket tost.  
And if this time I'm spared from whipping,  
If e'er again you catch me tripping,  
May all the plagues that are befell,  
On Poet poor on this side Hell:  
Seize me at once, and may I be,  
A public mark of Infamy.  
May all my Whores and Dunes o'ertake me,  
And all my Friends even Bess forsake me.  
And may the Pox with which I struggle;  
joined with the Gout afflict me double:  
May I at Last by Inches Die,  
First loose my nose and then an Eye.  
And when I am dead, then may I have,  
This just Memento on my Grave:   

Here lies T. B. of Life and famed bereft:  
Here lies I mean all that the Pox hath left.  
There let him lye, a Wretch too mean for scorning,  
To all ungrateful scribblers a long Warning.    

LONDON: Printed, and are to be Sold by most Booksellers in London and Westminster, MDCXCVII.