THE Anti-WEESILS.

A POEM. GIVING An Account of some Historical and Argu­mental Passages happening in the LYON'S Court.

Mark those who dote on Arbitrary Power,
And you shall find 'em either hot-brain'd Youth,
Or needy Bankrupts servile in their greatness,
And Slaves to some to Lord it o're the rest.
Vid. Mr. Dryden 's Spanish Fryer.

LONDON, Printed, and are to be Sold by Randal Taylor, near Stationers-Hall. 1691.

THE PREFACE.

ON reading the famed piece of Banter (for I can't call it a Poem) lately published against the Re­verend Doctor, I had perhaps different thoughts from most others on that Subject, and do still believe that 'twill conduce more to his Honour than Disgrace with any thinking Men; both because it shows his Enemies Arguments are all spent, and their Ammunition done, when they come to charge him with such Pot-gun weapons, and that they find 'tis im­possible fairly to answer what he asserts, because they take the easier way of ridiculing it; that way which has been most blasphemously used against the best of Books, and best of Beings; and which, without the Fatigue of thinking, tick­les a man out of an argument: for 'tis easie to imagine, if we once cou'd dress up even an Apostle in a Fools Coat, none would either believe or mind a word he says. 'Tis al­so an honour to the Doctor, that he has Persons of such Re­ligion and Morals, as this appears to be, for his Antagonists, who in the very fourth line laughs at Christians expecting the [Page]Resurrection; who gives Preaching no better a Title than Bubbling Fools, and would perswade us that Religion is good for nothing but to make the World Block-heads, though he being one of the more refined and wise ones, it seems has the happiness to see through the Milstone, though others can't.

Indeed, I can't imagine how any English-man can with patience read himself there called a Free-born Brute, or be pleased with the many palpable Reflections on the present Government; to have the taking the Oaths call'd no better a name than Perjury, and to be told that 'twas on­ly a politick Faction drove out the late King James; who, poor Prince was betrayed by his own Subjects—thô I fancy those Honourable, and Noble, not to add Royal persons, who left his Party, when they must either have left that or their Religion, won't think themselves much oblig'd to him for the Name of Traytors. Just as handsome is his Insinuation, that those who yet stand out, do it for Conscience, those who come in, only for Pay; full as ci­vil as his calling the Doctor a wavering Brute, for his horrid Apostacy from King James.

Let him after this pretend as long as he please, as he does in his Preface at the wrong end of his Book, (that it might be all surprizing,) that he has a Veneration for the Church of England; I suppose Dodwells Church, or the late Bishop of Chester's; whereas we must have more Faith than the Author has, and full as little knowledge, to believe he is a Church of England Man, who is not so much as a Christian; of which Character, its notoriously [Page]known are many of King James's few Friends; that many who see what Blockheads Religion has made e'm in this Authors phrase, and who are better known than they suspect: Who have just as much Veneration for Almighty God, as this Gentleman for the present Mo­narchical Government of England, which here he pre­tends to flatter, though he dares not mention Their Gra­cious Majesties, for fear, in his own phrase, lest the late Lyon should return. And for the same Reason, since I find him very cautious and reserv'd, I'll not ask the Gentleman what he means by those admirable, thô plain Principles of the Church of England, which some Men, byass'd by Interest, wink at or forget.

For the Poem it self, I have nothing to say to't, being such a natur'd thing as will bear nothing. — Who can an­swer the loud Laughter of a Fool? or the unlucky Grin of that Creature that looks so like a Man? Full as wisely would any one pretend to ridicule an Antick, or outmock a Scaramouch, all whose Wit lies in Impudence and Grimmace; in whose Company let's now let him alone to enjoy his sweet self as long as he pleases, though we pos­sibly may meet him agen before we part, and only observe this of the dress of his Poem, (for he shall still think the Arguments on't unanswerable,) that it lies obnoxious to all the Objections the ingenious Mr. Montague has made a­gainst the Hind and Panther; that he shifts Scenes un­sufferably, and makes his Weesils excellently well acquaint­ed with Divinity, Politicks, or what else he pleases; and [Page]yet in the very next moment sets 'em a nibbling upon their old Cheese and Bacon.

I shall say yet less of my own Poem, whereof 'twill be enough to tell the Reader, that I have endeavour'd to avoid this fault in it which I blame in the Weesils, though there­by 'tis plain I lose a great advantage, that 'tis a hasty thought of a few hours Writing; and that (if he'll please to believe me) he can't think much more meanly on't, than I do my Self. Farewell.

The Anti-WEESILS. A POEM.

HAppy those peaceful Lands, thrice happy they
Propitious Heaven has freed from Beasts of Prey!
Where the rich fleecy Housholds safely go,
And graze all day, fearless of any Foe,
Nor spoted Pard, nor nimble Tygar know.
Pan guards their Folds, by no fell Wolf distrest,
Both Sheep and Shepherd lay them down to rest.
Not so of old rich Albion's fertile Soyl,
E're just severity had purg'd the Isle;
A Wast there was, its Arms out-stretching wide,
Ardenna call'd, by Royal Severn's side;
Where, in deep dismal Groves, untrod by Men,
Coucht the Wild Beasts in many a gloomy Den;
The Kingly Lyon Lord and Sovereign there,
The Fox, the Pard, the Tygar and the Bear.
All in the midst of the most secret shade,
Close in an unfrequented gloomy glade,
The Sovereign kept his Court, but late his own,
His dying Brother newly left the Throne,
(Fairly or not, to Jove is only known.)
From Caledonian Woods their Lineage came,
Proud of their Ancestors long purchas'd Fame:
Two Ages past to warmer Worlds they run,
And bask in Southern Brittains kinder Sun.
Where the Wild Nations them their Lords confess,
New robb'd by Fate of their lov'd Lyoness:
E're since they held our Forrests wide command,
Now with a fix'd, now with a trembling Hand:
Sometimes wou'd on their Free-born Subjects fall,
Grasping too much they'd venture losing all.
This cost a Life, the best of all their Blood,
Torn by the furious Rabble of the Wood:
Two of whose hapless Race their Countrey chang'd,
And long, far off, in Forreign Desarts rang'd,
'Till pittying Jove, when all their hope was past,
To their own Realms restor'd 'em both at last;
Where in soft Joys they quickly drown'd their Pain,
And little less than share an equal Reign:
But Prodigies can never long remain:
Two Suns are one too many for the Skyes,
And that must set, that this more bright may rise:
His sudden Fall was ne're well understood,
He sets, at least in Clouds, if not in Blood.
What Brutal Joy thro' all the Wild was shown,
When next his Brother Lyon fill'd the Throne!
The Beasts get drunk to wish their Lord success,
What reeling Loyalty did they express!
Than Restauration Triumphs only less.
Whilst the Wise few walk unobserved by,
To some lone Covert hast, and steal a sigh.
For they too well their Prince's Genius knew,
Or lov'd the Old too well to wish a New:
They knew his Inclinations harsh and curst,
As one had been by old Lycisca nurst;
That with his Milk he suckt inveterate hate,
And Malice deep against the Sylvan State;
Enough they though to bear, too much to wish their Fete.
Not so the giddy thoughtless multitude,
Whose Joy's all muddy like themselves and rude:
Thus Jove was blest by every grateful Frog,
When o're the Fans King Stork succeeds King Log:
Their deep hoarse Notes they to his Honour raise,
And croak loud hollow Anthems in his Praise.
Thus the New King of Ardens ancient Grove
Is Crown'd, with all the Forrests Fear or Love:
The Muses Birds themselves, which seldom fail
To build near Thrones, loud sung their — Caesar, Hail!
The Brooks of distant Cam and Isis vye,
Which most shall please him with their Harmony.
Who with a surly pride the officious kindness bore,
All was his due and they cou'd give no more,
'Tis true, nor we his memory wou'd wrong,
None but the Wolves cou'd please him with a song.
Who flockt from old Jerne's sacred Soil,
And in full heards assault our trembling Isle;
From Graves, and half torn Carcasses they fled,
From lone Church-yards among the mangled dead.
Here a young Whelp comes ore, and there appears
Some hoary Murderer of fifty years,
Of those who erst Jerne's Plains orepour'd,
Husbands, and Wives, and Maids, and helpless Babes devour'd,
And long before alone he fill'd the place
The King had a strange love for all their Race:
A Sympathy so violent and strong,
That shou'd we not his spotless Mother wrong,
Who knew no shame because she knew no sin,
We'd think his Sire of wild Sir Isgrims kin,
The very same the howl, the very same the grin.
With these, when young, he'd always hunt and sport,
With these, when old, he fill'd his Royal Court;
Ragged they came, with loud complaints and moans,
No Coat to hide their Flesh, no Flesh to hide their Bones.
Tho' soon they Battend here, for not a place
But now is fill'd with some of Wolvish race;
How sleek their Coat, how plump their side, how full their Face.
This all the other Beasts unkindly bore,
Keep in their Dens, and fill the Court no more;
Yet not so high as since were their resentments flown,
Because their Liberty was still their own;
Their Rights, by antient Forest-Laws secur'd
Which had from immemorial times endur'd
In mounds as firm as Soveraign Power immur'd:
All yet injoy'd their own, by none opprest,
Each in his native Den could safely rest.
Tho' this last blessing must not long remain,
And every freeborn Subject's doom'd to wear the Chain:
The manner thus — the Court its Toyls had set,
And taken a young vigorous Lyonet;
(To their late Soveraign born, who did compress
In Forreign wilds a lovely Leopardess.)
So like the Royal Race, so goodly grown,
What Prince wou'd blush so fair a Son to own?
Hopes of a Crown, and t'was a glorious prize
Had seiz'd too soon on his unwary Eyes;
Nor longer Forreign Courts he'll now endure,
But sowses down on the deceitful Lure,
And landing on the fatal Western Coast,
Was by his false Jackal betray'd and lost.
And now the useless Vizard is cast by
Which was before seen thro' with half an Eye,
The Panther shows his Face, the Court begins
To dare the Day, and boast unblushing Sins:
What can a fairer happier juncture be
Than a Rebellion crusht to hatch a Tyranny?
Least Rebel Sheep shou'd harmless Wolves surprize,
Or the young Lyon from the Dead shou'd rise;
A standing Army must the Groves secure
Of Bears, and Boars, and Wolves, a Heard impure.
Now they the old Grand Forrest-Charter seize,
And Liberties are only what they please:
Those are kind Thieves who half your Gold restore,
You can't but thank 'em that they take no more.
Some Beasts, 'tis true, when tamed were freed again,
But none beyond their Circle and their Chain:
All were, without exceptions, teddered down,
Tho' some had larger Plats to graze upon:
A Peace indeed proclaim'd with show of Grace,
Tho' 'twas alone t' oblige the Wolvish Race.
The publick quiet can't too high be priz'd;
These snarling Mastives must be sacrific'd.
Those Shepherds who their Folds woul'd not betray,
From Sheep and Folds at once were dragg'd away;
Their Folds to Thieves, their Flocks to Wolves, a prey,
In Dens and Darkness to expect their doom,
And Goats and Swine exalted in their room.
This was to much, yet this they suffer'd too,
And now indeed they little else cou'd do;
Tho' they beyond a Camels patience bore,
The Passive Beasts must still prepare for more.
Must they pretend to feel whose sence was gon,
Among their other Rights, who now must still bear on?
They laid on load as fast as at the first,
Nor must they kick it off altho' they burst.
Nor wou'd one Age suffice for their disgrace,
The Slave must be entail'd on all their Race.
This Fate denys, but Fate in vain says nay,
And Heaven, as well as Earth, the Lyon must obey.
Tho' hateful Age came hastning on amain,
And what Promiscuous Loves had mist to drain,
Lickt the last drops of moisture from each shrivling Vein,
Yet did he not of the success despair,
And rather than have none, wou'd make some Wolf his Heir.
Blest Heir, foretold by every dreaming Fowl,
The long-liv'd Crow, and Sage Prophetick Owl,
Who, e'er his Birth, described each matchless Grace,
And knew each Line in his Majestick Face.
The Lyoness consents, a Whelp is found,
Who all their most Luxuriant Wishes crown'd.
'Twas safely to the Royal Den convey'd,
And with vain Vows, she crys,— Lucina aid!
Miraculous Birth! No Grief nor Pangs succeed,
By Proxy sure, a Lyoness may breed.
So sound, so firm, so like the Royal Race,
The World might spell his Father in his Face.
VVen the last Stake, e'en hope it self was gone,
He must be a double Brute that still bears on.
The Forrest sent repeated Envoys o'er,
And prest for succour at the Belgic shoar,
VVhere they the bold Nassovian Lyon find,
Made for the Saviour of the Sylvan kind.
From Britain he deduced his noble stem,
Only not nearest to the Diadem.
Rich in well-purchas'd Fame, and high Renown,
Fit for, below, and yet above a Crown:
He left his sweet repose, and calm recess,
And sighing left his lovely Lyoness.
Indues his Hide, dreadful with many a Scar,
And many an Honest Mark, of many a Glorious War,
When erst with Gallic Wolves almost opprest,
Whole Groves of Spears were broke against his ample Breast,
He shook 'em off, and with a furious bound.
Leapt o'er the Toils, and scatter'd Fate around.
Thus went he to glad Albions cluster'd Shoar,
And with himself wafted Salvation o'er.
The Forrest trembled at his Kingly roar,
Whilst all the Coward Wolves —
Whom ev'n his Name did of their prey prevent,
With blood-shot Eyes glared backward as they went.
They spared his Arms, with fear already dead,
Swift fled the amazed King, his Guards before him fled.
So when the cheerful Harbinger of day,
Claps his bright Wings, and warns the Shades away.
The Birds obscene, flie from the ghastful Light,
And howling guilty Ghosts sink back to Conscious Night.
The Royal Signs, in hasty flight thrown by,
Scepter and Crown, the Marks of Majesty,
A full convention of the Forrest meet,
And offer at their great Deliverer's Feet.
This never was with greater merit worn,
Nor that, with steddier Justice ever born.
He lends 'em Light, nor does from theirs receive,
They borrow better Glorys than they give.
But shou'd high Heaven it sels a King provide,
And drop him down from Jove's Illustrious side,
Palladian-Form, all wou'd not like him well,
And some wou'd rather wish him sent from Hell.
Like these, a Discontented, Murm'ring Crowd,
VVho dared not their Resentments snarl aloud:
Nay, joyn'd at first ith' general Applause,
To him who had retriev'd their Forrest Laws,
And pacify'd their Tails, and lickt their Frothy Jaws,
Yet steal from Court, in Coverts to complain:
They were indeed, unworthy such a Reign.
The Hound, the Ass, the Badger, Goat, and Swine,
These gladly did the unlucky Monkey joyn,
And some yet left o'th' Ancient Wolfish Line.
The Hound, produc'd, 'tis thought, from mingled strains,
He had Isgrims Blood, at least in half his Veins.
With him had oft, form some lone Vale, or Wood,
By early Morn return'd, his Muzzle dipt in Blood.
A Dog with Dogs, a Wolf whth Wolves wou'd be,
Never before o'th' weakest side was he,
Well verst in all the Tricks of Currish Flattery:
Oft welcome to the Mastiffs splendid board,
And while they flourish'd, treared like a Lord.
But when the Lyon frown'd, and they declin'd,
With all the holing Herd against 'em joyn'd.
Oft he at Court wou'd humbly begging stand,
As oft advanc'd to Ladys Lap and Hand.
Nay, t' has by some, been in loud Whispers said,
He staid not there, but crept into their Bed.
Unnatural Crime! — Tho' I'd believe as soon,
That the fair Sex shou'd doat on a Babboon;
Tho 'scaped from many a Branch, his Fate holds fast,
He has still an itching to be Hang'd at laft.
Next him, and not unlike, the Badger came,
So near their Form, their Species thought the same.
His Fangs unmerciful, so curst his spite,
They never fail to meet, where e'er they bite,
The Soveraign gags him, when he can't asswage
His madness — This the Cause of all his Rage.
The Swine, foul Epicure; whose all desire,
To feast on Grains, and roll on Beds of Mire.
The only Beast intemperate Draughts disgrace,
Degenerate from the sober Brutal Race,
And justly angry he to 'velost the sport
Of former Reigns — There's now no Mud at court,
Levees and Couchees pass without the Swines resort.
For the same reason did the Goat forbear,
To afford, as once, his Savory Presence there:
By Pan, and all his Kingred Gods, he swore,
He'd never serve a Prince that wou'd not Whore.
Nor did the Monkey his Confederates fail,
Tho' he in old Adventures, lost his Tail;
Since, tho' in other Reigns, a useful Tool,
The Court's too busie now to play the Fool.
But how, i'th' Name of Dullness, came't to pass,
They to their Party won the plodding Ass?
Neither for Council, nor for Action made,
So bold, he's even of his own Ears afraid;
Grave Soul-less thing, to Slavery inur'd,
He fears his Back shou'd be from Loads secur'd,
Brays at the Court, because no Burden's there,
And thinks the sweetest thing on Earth's to bear.
A Cave there was, far in the wildest waste,
It's Mouth with luckless Ivy round embrac'd.
Which Fame reports, no Mortal Foot invades,
But restless Sprights, and discontented Shades,
Or, drawn by Dragons thro' the mirksome Air,
Canida foul, to keep her Sabboths there;
With many a secret Charms, forbidden sound,
Calling the shackled Daemons from the ground,
By fearful Traveller shunn'd, who near it trace,
Loud Shrieks, and hollow Groans oft ecchoing from the place,
Yet meet these discontented Murmurers there,
The fittest Court for Mischief and Despair.
Grinding their Teeth, they here consult in vain,
How the old Lyon might his Throne regain,
And fill the Court again with all his Wolvish Train.
Clearly foreseen by th' Sage Prophetick Ass,
Expecting what will never come to pass.
Here, while the rest discourse their grand concern,
The Monkey's sent abroad some News to learn,
Where both we'll leave —
And, Ah! That it were such as these alone,
Did the new Soveraigns happy Sway disown!
O Grief! O Shame! That others won't come in!
Only Mistaken Loyalty their Sin.
They pay the Belgian Lyon just esteem,
And own the Forrest, owe their Lives to him;
Wish they cou'd give him more, and yet be true,
But their Allegiance think to their old Soveraign due.
Of these some Mastiffs were, who whilom stood
Ready for their dear Flocks to loose their Blood.
For these undaunted Bravery had shown,
To save their Liberties they lost their own.
With these a Generous Steed in Friendship ty'd,
For the same Cause in fiercest Battle try'd,
From the new Sovereign the same Fears divide.
How did the Wolfish Crew rejoyce the while,
And spite of their Misfortunes grin'd a Smile.
Mistaken Malice thus it self to please,
Tho none so near, eyt none so far from these;
They wisht the Old Lion back, he pray'd to Jove
So great a Curse from Albion to remove.
The Chrystal Streams that drench the thirsty Land,
(Miraculous Streams, they flow'd at Pan's Command)
Ungrate they scorn'd, and gazing from the Brink,
Or troubling with their Feet, refus'd to drink:
He, like the thirsty Hart, compell'd to go
From Horns and Hounds, and winged Deaths below,
To some old hoary Mountain, vast and high,
Whose Shoulders, Atlas-like, support the Sky;
Looks from the Brim, whose distant Prospect yields
Fair Brooks, Sweet Groves, safe ever-smiling Fields,
Looks down with longing Eyes views all around,
But ah! the Leap's too large, he cannot reach the ground.
They leave the Light, in secret Caves to vent
Their Rancor deep, and festring discontent,
He open Walks, his Vertue his Defence,
What need of Coverts where is Innocence?
Argu'd, discours'd to gain his doubtful Mind
That Satisfaction yet it could not find;
The greatest Favourites of the new Sovereign's Court,
To his not seldom gladly did refort
Who fain would give what he so much did need,
They the Yong Lion lov'd, yet lov'd the Steed.
Of these an aged Hart for Worth prefere'd,
Who sixty Summers now had rul'd the Herd.
Aged and Wise, than him none better knew,
Where the sharp Dittany, and Jove's own Moly grew;
Against bleak Storms and Rain, the surest Fence,
Where Serpents lurk, and how to drive 'em thence.
A pleasant Vale there was, with Woods embrac'd,
With purling Streams, and Riv'lets interlac'd,
Where oft sweet Zephyr to his Chloris brings
Panchean Odours on his Balmy Wings:
Not far from Cows, where wont the Steed to pass
His thoughtful hours, revolving on the Grass,
Him here he meets —
Neither unwelcom, nor perhaps unsent,
And press with Kingness and with Argument;
(For rarely Reason's Darts successless prove,
When edg'd with Friendship, & when wing'd with Love.)
He entertain'd him with a chearful Face,
And did his Offer willingly embrace:
By a small Hilleck with thick Osiers crown'd
They couch'd 'em soft upon the verdant Ground;
Near a fair Brook, which gently murmuring ran,
Where soon the kind Adviser thus began.

THE Anti-Weesils.
PART II.

So may great Neptune ever grant increase
Of happy Years, and long unenvy'd Peace,
So kind Apollo your lost Health restore,
And hardly love his own wing'd Courser more;
As I design your Happiness; as you
Believe my kind Intentions just and true.
But say, by all our ancient Friendship, say
So long what makes you from the Pallace stray?
Why never yet did you at Court appear?
And why this close retirement holds you here?
Nor sullen Malice is't, nor vain Desire
Of Rich Caparisons, or mounting higher,
Has kept me thence, replies the generous Steed,
Nor this I have, nor those I ask or need:
Let the proud Mule on golden Trappings doat,
Embroidered deep to hide his ragged Coat;
These Plains afford enough, and when they're gon,
Worst hap that may, the Common's still my own:
But to be free, and tell you in a Word,
Allegiance to my last unhappy Lord
Still chains me here, and holds my Captive Mind
Stronger than Links of Adamant can bind;
That Gordion Knot I now almost despair
My self to unty, and less to break it dare,
Tho either soon would make me free as air.
If that be all, rejoyn'd the Hart, you're free,
Trust your own Eyes, unless amiss they see,
You are long since at perfect Liberty.
Those fatal Links whereof you thus complain,
Are only an Imaginary Chain:
Did not th' Old Lion with enraged Claws
Rend that at once, and all the Forest Laws?
Level'd each Fence, and every ancient Hold,
And Garison'd with Wolves each trembling Fold;
The faithful Mastives too were dragg'd away
From their lov'd Folds at once, and chearful Day,
And in the Royal Dungeon Fetter'd lay.
And worse than all, curst Isgrim's Whelp design'd,
Posterity as well as us to blind,
To fill the Throne, and Lord it o're the Sylvian kind.
Was ever stupid Goodness more abus'd,
So much we gave, he thought we'd nothing have refus'd.
Of such Success may ne're such Masters fail,
As he who sent the Dog to fetch his Tail.
Of Love repeat the Story, quoth the Steed,
The courteous Hart consenting, did proceed.
A Yeoman once near Arden was possess'd
Of three fair Farms, and liv'd upon the best;
In all his Vertues list, (not over-large)
Too much good Nature ne're was laid t'his charge;
His Servants he'd forgive, when first he'd bang'd 'em,
And pardon all Offenders, when h'had hang'd 'em.
A Dog he had, with dreadful Teeth and Paws,
Who right or wrong would fight his Masters Cause;
True Spaniel Breed, did those that beat him love;
He was a right old Dog at Stick or Glove;
To run, to fetch and carry, or seek out,
To swim or dive, or range the Fields about;
Nimble as ever Juglers Dog was seen,
And would as fast come o're for King and Queen:
Besides an House-dog true— Heavens! how he'd roar,
If Friend or Foe came near his Masters Door?
The more ungrateful he such Faith t'abuse,
So tame, so true a Slave, so ill to use.
It chanc'd as on a day they went abroad,
His Master met some Friends upon the Road.
Or Friends they were, or such at least they seem,
Tho more 'tis thought, they lov'd his Flocks than him;
For this the Dog they hate, whose watchful Cry
At midnight oft reveal'd when Theeves were nigh,
And ask his Master why the Cur he'd keep,
For nothing fit but worrying harmless Sheep.
Friends, your mistaken Guess, says he, is lost;
Then his good Qualities begins to boast:
The cheif, that he might kick him like a Ball,
Yet durst he not refuse his Beck or Call;
To a revengeful Snap did ne're incline,
His worst Resentments were a gentle whine.
But I'll convince you all beyond dispute
My Power and his Subjection's absolute.
His Hanger drawn, he with a grisly Wound
Cuts off his Tail, and throws it on the ground;
Then, thinking Spaniel-Love would still prevail,
He gives the Word— There Fray, go fetch thy Tail!
Anger, and Pain, and Shame at once Surprize,
The wounded Cur, he rolls his bloody Eyes,
And scarce forbears, but at their Throats he flies.
How're no more with such a Lord will stay,
But at the next Cross-road runs quite away.
Now let his Master walk from France to Spain,
He'll never such a Spaniel find again;
Who if he e're returns from whence he fled;
Will give 'em leave after his Tail to send his Head.
The sober Steed kept Countenance a while,
But at the Stories end indulg'd a Smile;
Then answer'd thus—The Moral I confess
Is but too plain for any one to guess,
As clear our Patience has too far been try'd,
And what vvas felt, in vain would be deny'd;
That Right or Wrong no longer were observed,
Nor Property, nor Oaths, nor Laws preserv'd:
That the Old Lion by his Wolves misted,
Resolv'd on all our Liberties to tread;
Resolv'd our Spacious Forest to enslave,
And took those Charters which he never gave.
But is not here Obedience more Divine?
If he has broke his Oaths, must I break mine?
No need, return'd the Hart, 'tis loos'd before,
The Chain's unlink'd, and holds you now no more.
He has his End unty'd, and sets you free,
VVou'd you be won to use your Liberty?
Nor with such airy Chains your Conscience bind
And drag an useless Load of Links behind.
I by your Judgment might perhaps abide
Did any Forest Law the Case decide,
But this I ne're could see, the Steed reply'd.
To this the Hart— Tho such there once might be,
Expect not now those Sacred Rolls to see,
Destroy'd long since by wolfish Policy.
Yet Footsteps of a Contract still remain,
Nor sure are our Consents yet askt in vain,
The first glad day of each new Sovereigns Reigh:
And Contracts fastned with a mutual Oath
Have mutual Bands, whoe're breaks one breaks both.
If his Condition bee'nt therein declar'd,
'Tis so invidious, it might well be spar'd;
But Reason wills it should be still imply'd,
As 'tis betwixt the Bridegroom and his Bride.
VVhat Reason dictates none can disapprove?
The Laws of Reason are the Laws of Jove,
VVho gave the Kingly Lion Sovereign Sway,
Obliging all the Forest to obey;
For what but all the furry Nations Good,
Not that he still should revel in their Spoils and Blood.
Their dear-bought Prey by Force and Rapine seize,
And by his Lawless Lust do what he please,
For our Defence, and not Destruction sent:
Protection is the end of Government,
The Reason why o're many, one prevails;
And when that Ground-work sinks, the Superstructure fails.
Better the General than his Army fall,
Tho more than one he be, he's less than All.
All this I grant, might Reason be the Rule;
But here, alas! we leave her humble School.
The Steed rejoyn'd— Pan's Followers must aspire
To something vastly more sublime and higher.
Tho Reason Light in common walks supply,
Tis sometimes Reason Reason to deny.
I'd Sacrifice my self at Pan's Commands,
And who can strike when he has ty'd their Hands?
That Pan has free'd 'em now, the Hart rejoyn'd,
And who dares knit what he'll himself unbind?
From Pan at first, 'tis true, all Power did rise,
Laws are the measures of its Exercise;
These our Obedience must direct alone,
These bid submit to him that fill the Throne.
But these strange Doctrins sure, reply'd the Steed,
VVill hallow Villany if it succeed.
False Robbers and Ʋsurpers will defend,
Nay ev'n the Titans too, shou'd they attend,
And Jove's own Diadem from his shoulders rend.
High Heav'ns Decree nought of Injustice knows,
And what it does not will, it may dispose,
Replys the Hart— But tho' we cannot see
Into the Councils of the Deity,
By the Event at least they're understood,
Guided by that great Law, the Publick Good.
To that Asylum Robbers cannot fly,
We justly them resist, they justly die;
As justly we Ʋsurpers may disown,
Till settled by Consent, by Law secur'd i'th' Throne.
Those Sacred Beasts no other Title knew,
Who all the World ot their Obedience drew.
They Rul'd at first, because they overcame,
And willing Nations yielded to the same:
What settled else the Goat, the Bear, the Ram?
What all the four, whose sway was stretcht so wide,
And every Kingdom in the Earth beside?
But thanks to Jove, our case is much more fair,
The vacant Throne is fill'd by the immediate Heir,
Who to th' young Lion yields the better share.
To all the Forrest who such Love had shown,
Such Valour for her Title and his own,
Such Mercy as must melt and conquer quite,
All but a Devil or a Jacobite.
Who clear'd the Wolves from Brittains pester'd Shore,
We hear 'em howl their Vespers here no more;
Whose Whelps did all our Sacred Groves profance,
Nor spar'd the Temples of immortal Pan.
Strong Arguments for the young Lion move
Honour, Religion, Gratitude and Love.
Return'd the Steed, the chiefest I must own
Our Altars had long since been overthrown,
Had he not propt 'em. But since you began,
This once yet more I'll mention mighty Pan,
Who will his Pow'r, who will his Priests believe,
Or to their Oracles just Reverence give;
If as the Wind their Conscience changes so,
If hot and cold with the same Breach they blow,
If thus their practice give their words the Lie,
If Oaths they take, and Oaths again deny?
Ev'n Pan himself we hardly cou'd defend
If we all change should rashly discommend
The Hart rejoins, tho' thro' false Lights we see,
And think he changes when 'tis only we:
Thus shou'd his Followers act, the way he has shown,
Tho' after all 'tis no disgrace to own
Immortal is immutable alone.
That Change we may's by all the World confest,
The question's only whether 'tis for th' best?
And here 'tis plain, for shou'd we still teach on
Allegiance due when the old Soveraign's gone;
No Hope, no Remedy, but all must bear
Such Miseries as drive 'em to despair;
Nay e'en refuse Salvation when it came,
And press all this in Pans adored Name;
How soon wou'd then the Irreligious Crew
Conclude what was not Good could ne're be true,
And laugh aloud at once at Pan and you?
Revenge shou'd rather to the Fiends be given,
For Mercy is the Darling Name of Heav'n;
Let's then despise the Rabble's rude complaints,
There wou'd be Atheists tho' all Priests were Saints.
One heavy prejudice, the Steed rejoin'd
Hangs with dead weight on my emerging mind.
I know not how to think this Doctrine true,
To me it looks so singular and new;
Was't ever in the Forrest taught before?
Show me but that, and I desire no more.
Then that you're ours I now no longer fear,
Replies the Hart— See what you ask is here!
With that unfolds a Scroul, whose Date did show
It had been Writ at least Five Reigns ago.
When first the Royal Caledonian Line
Forsook cold Albany, and pass't the Tyne,
In Concourse of the Furry Race decreed,
And by concurring Suffrages agreed,
Whence what he urg'd did plainly taught appear
Beyond Objections evident and clear.
I yield, I yield, the chearful Steed reply'd
And am henceforth of yours and Reasons side.
This Hour I'll to the Court— be you my Guide.
Gladly he the wisht Office did embrace,
For now indeed 'twas time to leave the place.
Since the fair Rising Moon bright Silver Beams
Began to Gild the softly curling Streams;
The Bear around his shining Stake did rome,
And lengthning Shadows becken'd Shepherds Home.
End of the Second Part.

PART III.

WHen Fame to Court did these Glad-tydings bear,
'Tis quickly guess't if they were welcom there.
Welcom as the two Friends, who closing their Debate,
Enter'd at once the Royal Palace gate;
The Soveraign saw, and nearer bid proceed,
Then stretcht his Scepter to the Convert Steed,
And bids his willing Officers restore
Those seemly Honours he enjoy'd before;
The while the News the tattling Goddess bore
In her swift flight to that unhappy place
Where met the Fav'rites of the Wolvish Race.
Where a free vent was to their Poyson given,
They Curst, they Bann'd, they Rail'd at Earth and Heaven.
But who can tell the rest— sure none can tell,
Unless they knew the wild Despair of Hell.
When this was added, by the Monkey found,
As Fame was busie to divulge it round,
Who mingling Truth with Lies, as 'tis her wont,
Beyond what was indeed inlarg'd the account
And told — (Ah that in this she had been true!)
The Generous Mastives were converted too.
Scarce was the rage of the Rebellious Crew
More black, more deep, more hideous or ferine
When late they heard the Wonders of the Boyne:
When Troops of Wolves upon the distant side
Did the young Lions Kingly wrath abide.
When all the Elements at once he stood,
And pass'd thro' Streams of Sweat, and Fire, and Blood,
Whilst the discolour'd Waves, a ghastly throng
Bodies and Shields, and Helms promiscuous roull'd along:
He wins the Bank, amidst their Troops he flies,
Shoots Thunder from his Arms, and Lightning from his Eyes;
They run, they fall, their well-known Bogs they find,
And leave long faint departing yells behind.
Scarce then more heartily than now they curst,
What help? the poisonous Creatures else must burst.
They throw their ghastly flaming Eye balls round,
And gnash their teeth, and lash their sides, and tare the ground.
But most the Hound his Enmity exprest,
If possible, more mad than all the rest;
From his wide Jaws, with fury doubly red,
He threw the poisonous Foam, and thus he sed.
And has he basely then thus left i'th' lurch,
Our poor distressed persecuted Church,
So small, so thin, so scorn'd by Beasts and Men,
Shut up within the corner of a Den?
What Vengeance merits such a foul disgrace?
Speak all ye Grandees of the Wolvish Race!
Ah! could I but my youthful Fangs regain,
When warmth and fury flow'd in every vein,
When like a Shaft I flew across the Plain,
And worry'd every Sheep that durst but stray
Beyond their bounds out of the Wolf's High-way,
Nor wou'd their Soveraigns Royal Will obey.
Like Aesons Age, cou'd mine renew-agen,
I'd quickly leave this melancholy Den,
And venture all my Teeth against his Pen.
For not content alone t'Apostatize
Others to damn for company, he trys.
But since I've nought but will, say which of you
Will with more strength the Noble game pursue?
Which will abate his Confidence and Pride?
Up starts the unlucky Ape, and thus reply'd,
By open War t'attempt him were but vain,
Perhaps disgrace and shame wou'd only gain
Some cunning Stratagems more likely sound,
And I've the very way this moment found.
Some pretty Picture wou'd the business do,
His Name beneath expos'd to publick view,
To which shall some Street-Rymer lend a Line or two.
Think but how pleasant such a sight appears;
A Weesels Trunk to a Horses Crest and Ears.
I with this monstrous sight about will go,
And be my self the Zany to the show:
For I have Merry-Andrews tricks good store,
And will for this invent a thousand more.
A brutal Hum ran round the horrid Cave,
And Acclamations to the project gave,
Like that some Fury from the Daemons wins,
When she her hateful Voy'ge to Earth begins.
Nor stay'd the Ape, but from the Cave did run,
And soon his worshipful design begun,
Which to a Miracle he did atchieve,
For 'tis a subtler Beast than you'd believe;
Witty and wild, well verst in female Arts,
And is, to say the truth, a Brute of parts:
Will show a thousand merry Tricks together,
Will bound i'th' Air as light as Cork or Feather,
Will vault or dance, or tumble, chuse you whether;
With his Rare Show he wanders up and down,
By Pence apiece picks up full many a Crown,
Amusing each poor silly Country Clown:
Perswading them where er'e the fight was shown,
'Twas a strange Beast was lately come to Town.
Thus far'd the vulgar, but the wiser few,
Who saw the signs of Wolvish Craft all thro',
Cou'd not but praise the Piece who er'e it made,
And own he was the Master of his Trade.
A witty Thief, more cunning than his Fellows,
Who, if 'twere possible would scape the Gallows,
But none admired the Inventer's lucky Vein,
Like those suspected of Sir Isgrim 's Strain.
They cluster round in Troops, they laugh, they grin,
Where e're the uncouth Monster's to be seen.
The Steeds true Friends with different passions gaz'd,
Some griev'd, some smiled, these angry, those amaz'd;
Some speedily took care to let him know
That 'twas the unlucky Monkey drest him so.
Ʋnmov'd he stands, the unequal War disowns,
Nor deigns a single stroke to crush his Bones.
The End.

This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Text Creation Partnership. Searching, reading, printing, or downloading EEBO-TCP texts is reserved for the authorized users of these project partner institutions. Permission must be granted for subsequent distribution, in print or electronically, of this EEBO-TCP Phase II text, in whole or in part.