Lucida Intervalla: Containing divers Miscellaneous Poems, Written at Finsbury and Bethlem BY THE Doctors Patient EXTRAORDINARY.
—semel Insanivimus omnes.
LONDON, Printed Anno Dom. 1679.
TO THE Kings Majesty.
Great Sir,
BOth in Your
Navy, and
Gods Church, the
Ark,
One
Storm pursues the
Parson and the
Clark:
But now I see the
Harbour; on a
Rock
Defie the
Seas, and
Fortunes further
Shock:
Kind
Providence casts into Your
Sacred Armes
The
Shipwrackt Man; bids fear no future
Storms.
To You, great
Noah, me it doth entrust,
That You secure my
Bark from
Wave and
Gust;
For Your
Experience hath worse
Billows broke,
And dangers greater stemm'd in
Royal Oak:
Shew then, by giving me a quiet
Station,
Your Thanks to
Heaven for Your
Preservation;
That it works
Miracles throughout the Year:
To sum them up, were to recount the
Waves,
Or the
Trees Leaves, where You it kindly saves:
The foot of the
Account, is this late
Plot,
In cold Blood,
Charles to
Murder on the
Spot;
But the
Defender of our
Faith and
Hope,
Guarded by
Providence, defies the
Pope;
The
Pope, and all his
Iesuites, conspiring;
Their own defeat, with
Terrour, now admiring.
The Head of
England's Church, Sate in the
Chair
Of
Parliament, Rome's Conclave cannot fear;
More safe, than
Pope Infallible, I'm sure,
Whom both the
Houses Loves, not
Walls, secure
Th'Embrace when mutual,
Interests when they twist
Ignatius will fall by
Loyalist.
TO THE DUKE, GENERAL OF THE Artillery Ground, Overlookt by Finnes-burrough Mad-house, Where I was Confin'd.
YOur glitt'ring Arms propitiously shine,
On me made
Prisoner here by
Hells design;
For
Satans Agents, my
false Friends, combine
A Minister to Silence and confine.
I'm forc'd (though Sober)
Bedlam to inherit,
When they, who put me here, the
Prison merit;
For they're possest, not I, by th'
Evil Spirit:
Then
Soldiers send this
Burrough, Sir, to
Ferret.
Call me from
Finnes-burrough, to th'
Artillery Ground;
For tho there's
War Proclaim'd 'twixt
Armes▪ and
Gown,
Yet here
It does receive the deeper Wound.
Better be Kill'd, than
Slavery endure;
Thus the Sword's
Weapon-Salve, and serves to Cure:
To this Restraint my Self I can't inure;
Where you are
General, in the Field I'm sure▪
A
Trick was plaid me, to requite the
Cheat,
A
Mad-man I have
Acted, as a
Feat:
Relieve me; hold! my Suit I won't Repeat
T' a Prince so
Generous: Muse, sound a
Retreat
To His Royal Highness.
FRom
Finnes-burrough, to
Bedlam I am come,
To be a
Sober man, not Act mad
Tom:
My name is
Iames, not
Nokes, and yet an
Actor;
But now,
Mad Devil, seek another
Factor:
I am a Minister of God's holy Word,
Have taken up the
Gown, laid down the
Sword;
That of the
Holy Spirit I must weild,
And Conquer
Satan in the open Field:
He's the
Strong man, who must be
bound, disarm'd,
And so cast out; by
Preaching he is
Charm'd:
Get thee behind me then,
Dumb Devil, be gone;
The Lord hath
Epphatha said to my
Tongue:
Him I must
Praise, who open'd hath my
Lips,
Sent me from
Navy, to the
Ark, by
Pepys;
By Mr.
Pepys, who hath my
Rival been
For the
Dukes favour, more than years
thirteen:
But I excluded, he High and Fortunate;
This
Secretary I could never Mate:
But,
Clark of th' Acts, if I'm a
Parson, then
I shall prevail; the
Voice out-does the
Pen:
Though in a
Gown, this
Challenge I may make,
And Wager win: save, if you can, your stake.
To th'
Admiral I all submit, and vail
My
Ambition's Topmast: Muse, now
furl your
Sail.
TO THE DUKE After my Enlargement.
I'M ready, Sir, t'obey your great
Command,
But find it dangerous to Kiss your
Hand:
No sooner I this
Honour had assum'd,
But
Folly me, and
Envy Mad presum'd:
On me forthwith they laid, with ill intent,
Their Poison'd
Fangs, and unto
Finnesbury sent;
Where
Dungeon, Chains, and
Physick me did wait,
My Mad-suppos'd
Ambition to abate:
But ne're the less She yet survives, nay grown
Much stronger, all Opposers has o'rethrown:
And hoping from such
Enemies you'l save her,
She's bold to beg, you would
repeat the
favour:
Yet
Honour here all
Danger so out-vies,
She
Finnes-bury, and
Bedlam too defies.
Presented to the DUKE ON NEW-YEARS-DAY.
LEt all the Birds, pair by pair,
As well the
Crane, as the
Stork,
Sing and Chatter in the Air,
God Bless the DUKE of
YORK:
The
Duke and his
Lady God bless,
Let every
Tongue and
Pen,
With Devotion
mickle express;
As well the
Maids, as the
Men.
The
Humorous Lieutenant, he
So fondly did Love the KING,
He bought all his Pictures in the City,
Was not that a pritty thing?
[Page 8]Why, I am down-right such a stark
Staring Lover of Royal
IAMES,
Cause he thinks of his
Parson and
Clark,
Among the more Noble Names.
The Passion's great I discover,
My affection it such is,
That you will forgive the
Mad-Lover,
If he Rival the very
Dutchess.
May the Prince of
Orange and
Dame
Command the
VVhite and the
Tawny,
And extend their
Royal Name,
O're the
Delicate and
Brawny.
May they be
Hogan Mogan,
When the Mighty States are pull'd down;
And the
Boors, that drink in a
Nogan,
Assist to put on their
Crown.
Thus the Poet did Write and Talke,
At
Bedlam clad in
Freese;
Where his Pen and Ink, it was
Chalk;
Boards, Paper; and Diet,
Cheese.
THE Poetical History OF Finnesbury Mad-house.
THe Dr—of
Finnesbury-House
Knows, how to dissect an
Oyster;
Whether
Man, no more than a
Mouse,
Be fit for
Bedlam, or
Cloyster.
I'le tell you his way of Proceeding,
All you, that here shall enter;
Purges, Vomits, and
Bleeding,
Are his method of Cure, at a Venture.
By the way you must know, this
Elfe
Both
Bedlams does haunt, like the
Louse;
And sways, as
Chair-man himself,
Both upper and lower
House.
[Page 10]Let him therefore be trusted by none,
But Fools, that are Fortunes
Minions;
For, to Rule both these Houses alone,
Is to halt between two
Opinions.
Mrs.
Bish—then shut up your Shop,
And another
Diocess get;
Bid adieu to the
Mad and the
Fop,
No
Fish are for
Finnesbury Net.
To this
Colledge was brought by force,
A
Parson, that shall be nameless;
The
Doctor, he takes the same Course,
Though the Man be sober and blameless:
For he, both
Fool and
Physitian,
At all no difference made,
Betwixt a
Senseless condition,
And
Madness in
Mascarade.
He Reports to the KING and the Court,
That
Learning had made the Man
Mad:
To observe, was the
Patient's sport,
How little the
Doctor had.
Then
Mad he was concluded;
Hold,
Good Sir, there's no harm in't,
Your
Senses are deluded:
You for your Mad
Meeting-House stickle,
And publick
Bedlam cry down;
But I pray, in a
Conventicle,
Who
Sober would wear a
Gown?
Oh but,
Parson, you break the
Wall,
And
Burglary you commit;
If I must not this
Madness call,
I am sure, 'tis want of Wit.
Religio Medici's left in the lurch;
He knows not
Good from
Evil:
For surely, the way to Build up the
Church,
Is to pull down the
Chappel o'th'
Devil.
Then throw the House out at Window,
And lay it flat with the Ground;
For undoubtedly they Sin do,
That keep it another Year round.
This
Parson must needs be
Mad,
For on him, neither
Vomits nor
Purges,
Any Influence have had.
Fond
Doctor, you beg the
Question,
And you might have spar'd your pains;
For my
Blood's from a good digestion,
And your
Physick is lost in my
Veins.
Nay, I prescrib'd Chains of
Iron,
To take him off of his Mettle;
But
Brass did him environ,
He had rub'd his Face with a
Kettle.
My
Fetters they were but
Straw,
To the Sinews of his Armes;
And he burst Bars and Doors, as I saw,
By I know not what mighty Charmes.
Moreover I him in the
Hole,
As under a Bushel, confin'd;
Lest God's Word, the Light of the Soul,
In my Mad-house should have Shin'd:
[Page 13]Ne're the less into the
Dungeon,
He let in the Rayes of the
Sun,
And i'th' Pit, where him I did plunge in,
Made Night and Day meet in one.
In a place I did him stow,
Where
Rats and
Mice do swarm;
These by Instinct the Madmen know,
And therefore do them no harm.
Now as
Weasel, Squirrel, and
Ermine
Are, then
Rats of a higher strain▪
Rats and
Mice, the nobler
Vermine,
Might awe the
Worm in his
Brain.
Yet he fear'd, lest the
Rats and
Mice,
Of his Senses should bereave him;
Therefore I taking good advice,
Sent
Catmore in to Relieve him.
I laid him in
Straw for a Bed,
Lest
Feathers should make him
light-headed;
That there his wild Oats he might shed,
And again to his Wits be wedded.
[Page 14]Without either Shirt, or Cloaths,
I lodg'd my merry Mad Youth;
For of Kin we may well suppose,
The
Sober to
Naked-Truth.
His
Diet was most of it
Milk,
To reduce him again to a
Child;
And
Butter as soft as
Silk,
To smooth the
Fierce and the
Wild.
My
Potions he turn'd into
Drenches,
For he freely would take ne're a jot;
But by
Thomas and the
Wenches,
They were forced down his Throat.
To feel his
Pulse, I never thought;
I a Month I see him but once:
And how my Mad
Physick has wrought,
If I know in the least I'm a
Dunce.
For, in Truth and sober sadness,
This
Parson I found so smart,
That I fear'd his
Wit, more than his
madness,
The
March-Hare I never dare start.
[Page 15]My Chirurgeon he fiercely withstood,
And he led him such a Dance;
That to let this same Gown-man
Blood,
A
Sword was more fit than a
Lance.
I order'd his
Keeper, at Large,
On occasion to ply him with Blows,
That what
Iugular did not discharge,
The mad
Blood might come out at his
Nose.
Enough:
Doc has done his Endeavour,
It must be confest, though a weak one;
His Wits gather
Wool for a
Beaver,
But he's no
Fool to speak on.
However, I'le
Sue out his
Pardon,
The man's not so much to be blam'd;
For to make a
Swan white is unheard on,
And
Sobriety never was tam'd.
Then pray all, the
mad-Devil ne're touch you,
Nor yet the
Cholick or
Tissick;
Pray, MUFTI and MAMAMOUCHI,
Mr.
Parson and
Doctor of
Physick.
His Apology.
Doctor, you must, where I severely Gibe,
To my
Poetick Fury, Gall ascribe;
And Pardon, that I make in this
New Trance,
Among your
Rats and
Mice, my
Satyre Dance.
Quod medicum mordace tuum mea Carmina vellant
Dente, tuus Vati donet,
Apollo, furor:
Nec
Mures inter, poterit culpare
Machaon,
Si Satyram jubeat jungere
Musa Choros.
On his being Seiz'd on for a Madman, only for having endeavoured to reduce Dissenters unto the CHURCH.
WHen
Zeal for
God inspires the
Breast,
Says the
Blind world, the Man's
possest;
And flattering their own cold desire,
Call
Lunacy, the
Heavenly Fire:
But though their
Eyes are by the
Flame
So dasled, they mistake the
Name;
Know, that 'twas born with Christ at first
In
Bethlehem, and at
Bedlam Nurst.
To God the
Father, and the
Son,
And
Holy Spirit, three in one,
By
Men and
Angels, be there given
All
Glory, both in
Earth and
Heaven.
On the late Horrid Plot.
OF this late
Hellish, Damnable, and (to joyn
Both in one word)
Papistical Design,
What
Purgatory can wash out the
Spot?
It
shames, and even blows up the
Powder-Plot▪
We therefore hope, it is the last effort
Of
Popery, dying in
City and in
Court;
And in this juncture that She times her end
The Martyr
Godfrey's Funeral to attend:
Fanaticism too (which kept her
Ground,
By
Popish Policy) dies o'th' self-same
Wound:
Thus
Martyrs Blood, of old the
Churches Seed,
In Corn grown up, kills every noisom
Weed
May then the
Church of
England, spight of
Rom▪
Receive new Life and Vigour from his
Tomb
And
Conquering the joynt force of
Her and
He
To
Catholick Christian World with
Triumph tell
Infallibility is her self mistaken,
And treacherous
Peter now by
Christ forsake
The Cross Match.
When
Abigail, by mistake, had
Layman Married,
In
State Affairs, 'twas seen, he oft miscarried;
Yet a long time
Nub's Spouse put on no
Gown,
But
Hector'd it, with
Sword and
Muff, in
Town:
Convinc'd at last, though
Poets him made a
Farce on,
He'd turn his
Coat, that
Nab might have her
Parson:
This done, her
Mar-text she suppos'd she had,
And, when he talk'd of
Preaching, thought him
Mad:
Down to the
Conventicle brisk he goes,
Resolv'd to Rout the
Church of
Englands Foes:
But words were th' only
Weapons of his
War;
Love and
Zeal led the
Van; no
Wound or
Scar
Where
Church is nam'd for common
Rendezvous;
Where
Peace alone is aim'd at, not a
Fight,
Both sides to
Yield, and
Forces Re-unite:
That
England may for
Caesars Triumphs hope
A late
Revenge on
Rome, by Conquer'd
Pope.
But th'
Enemy, to frustrate this Designe,
Contrive
Nab's Spouse to silence and confine:
This
Trumpeter's
Horn-mad they strait give out,
And making
Nab o'th'
Plot, her
Martext rout:
To
Mad-Quack, all agreed, they him commit,
By
Hellebore to restore his ne're lost Wit.
Quack hugs himself with the conceit, secure,
He should great credit get, by
Parson's Cure:
To work he goes;
Proclaims him Mad at
Court,
And spreads the
Noise, to make the
City sport:
Then half a year the
Patient keeps in hand
(A
Chirurgeon's Son he is, pray, understand)
But now observe how basely
Doc's defeated,
And for
Mad-Parson with a
Poet cheated;
[Page 21]By whom
Lampoon'd, mad-Quack is forc'd to say,
Madness and
Wit act one part in the
Play:
And thus these three,
Fanatick, Wife, and
Doctor,
In
Bedlam me to keep, make up the
Proctor.
Jackstraws Progress.
When
Publican, in
Pharisees old house,
Shut doors on me, and
Finnesbury Mad Louse;
With
Arms in sleeve of
Gown redoubled stroke,
To open
Bedlam-gates, I windows broke:
Then in my Charet Triumphant Rode away,
As well assur'd that I had got the day;
That this had
storm'd the
Castle call'd
Iackstraws,
Arch-Traytor unto
Reason and her
Laws.
'Tis nam'd from
Bethlehem, now possest by
Turk;
'Therefore in's way the Priest of
Englands Kirk
'Takes
Coffee-House; where drinks a sober dish,
Goes thence to
President, then to
Porter Pish:
[Page 22]But to avoid suspition of all force,
This, moving towards my
Palace, was my
course.
Their
violent hands I quitted, who
approacht me,
With their
officious rudeness to have
Coach'd me.
Alone a
Volunteere I Rode along,
Prince like, attended with a
Lacquay throng:
The
Metaphor to pursue, as I did pass,
I arm'd my hands in
Coach with
broken Glass;
Threatning the
Slaves, which waited on my
wheel,
That if they touch'd me, they should find 'twas
steel,
Th'
affrighted multitude observe their
distance,
Without their
help I enter, or my
resistance:
But the great
Tumult, and such solemn state,
Amus'd the Officers of
Bedlam-Gate:
So well I
Acted, that they did not stick,
Me to receive as their
Arch-Lunatick:
Madder than
Prince o'th'
East, that
Iack a dandy▪
Out-huffing both
Nolls Porter,
King, &
Landy▪
Their
Emperor they conduct to his
Bed-chamber▪
And lodge his
Majesty in
Straw, like
Amber.
By which to
Rule, publisht this sober
Law:
Porter and
Keepers, look to't, be you
Civil,
The
Parson then will
Conjure down
Mad-Devil;
But as a
Madman if you him entreat,
All
Bedlam he'l out-do by many a feat:
Maugre this
charge, the
self-will'd Slaves Rebel,
And
Bedlam make with
chains and
darkness, Hell:
Here Hellish Physick Quack down my Throat does pour,
The foam of
Styx, and
Acherons black shoar;
Administred by second
Cerberus,
Matthews and
Keepers here which govern us:
Only in this the just resemblance fails,
Hells Porter has three
heads, but ours three
tails;
Of which are fierce, the two from
York &
Wales;
On third, 'cause 't has no
sting, the
Monster rails:
All the
three tails have
head, and
tongue their
own,
But
two wag only, and on their
Master fawn.
Hold!
Verse grows
Monstrous too,
and they the nail
Must hit, that say,
't has neither Head nor Tail.
Nullum Magnum Ingenium (absit verbo invidia) sine mixturâ dementiae.
It goes for
current truth, that ever some
madness
Attends much Wit,
'tis strange in sober sadness:
But now this Riddle I'le explain,
Sir Quack;
And pray suppose I do it for your sake.
Within the
Banks Wit flows with
Moderation,
But
Pride a deluge makes and Inundation:
This with the
world, know, is your
common case;
And that with
Pride, Envy keeps equal pace:
Hence they are call'd, by
Plot of
poor and
rich,
Madmen, whose
wit's above the standard pitch:
This makes a Carcase with an
Eagles Eye,
Be thought a Fit-for-
Bedlam Prodigy.
But sure, when
Friends & you me
Mad concluded,
'Twas you your
senses lost, by th'Moon
deluded:
Then take advice; with
Physick, of
Apollo
Pray ask more Wit, and 'twill in
reason follow;
You'l think me fit, cure but your self o'th'
Fool,
Not only you to
Lash, but
Boys at
School.
THE Duke of Grafton, Looking into his Cloyster, And kindly asking him; How he did.
WHen
Graftons Duke to
Bedlam came,
The Sober Walls resound his
Name;
The
Echo charms the
Evil Spirits,
And the
Mad Devil dis-inherits:
Thus (as from the Poets you know)
To
Pluto's Court descending
Iuno,
To ev'ry
Fiend new pleasure yields,
And
Hell turns to
Elysian Fields:
When to my
Cell his
Grace drew near,
And kindly me saluted there;
An Angel seem'd to bring Advice,
And
Moorfields strait were
Paradise:
[Page 26]He once withdrawn, that very Even
Vanish'd the New-created Heaven;
Bedlam came to it self, and I
Fell from my pleasing Extasie.
My loss fit to Repair, what is it?
If Deputy Angels here me Visit:
My Soul, on such Wings if you mount her,
Will save my Carcase from the Counter:
But I my Prison must change i'th' end,
Unless such
Guardians you me send.
The Doctors Advice.
PArson, leave off the
Poet and
Lampoon,
You'l
Sober be, and may defie the
Moon:
This seems at first mysterious
Paradox,
But I will prove't, as round as
Iuglers Box.
Phoebus and
Luna, Sister are and Brother,
And understand for certain one another:
I, of their
Privy-Council, as a
Doctor,
Tell you your
Case without a
Fee or
Proctor:
Unless the
Moon assist him, I well know it,
Apollo never singly made a
Poet.
Then
Wit forswear, and like me prove but
Dunce;
The
Sun and
Moon will quit you both at once.
The Patient Replies.
Faith,
Doctor, what you say, is very prity;
Ine're before (nor now) thought you so witty:
But if't be thus, your
Phys: I'le spill o'th'
ground,
Vomit up
Helicon, and then I'm
sound.
The New Distinction.
TWo sorts of Patients
Quack in
Bedlam has▪
The one, that
witty is; t'other, that was▪
Mad both: in
frost and
snow hence
Pot does come▪
To cool hot
Lunatiques, and Wits benumme.
By contraries to Cure, thus
Doc takes pains,
Our much,
with different heat, distemper'd
brains▪
But howso'ere the
Moon he may controll,
By
Muses he's defy'd, and by their
Droll.
'Tis true for want of Fire, as if grown old,
My joynts are stiff, and I'm opprest with cold▪
But influence of
Apollo still is strong,
My
Satyr brisk, lively my
Muse and
Song.
You that should
Fury cure, and
Poet save,
Are sending Post your
Patient to the
Grave:
For he (not frighted out of's Wits by
Physick▪
To your new Madness,
Palsie adds and
Tissick▪
An Inscription To Madam Frazer, When he sent her some of his Verses.
YOur Father is
Alexander,
And You his
World-Conquering Daughter
(See the difference 'twixt Him and Her)
By Beauty, and not by Slaughter.
Among the rest, on your Charet,
Your Captive
Poet does wait;
And in asking if he don't Mar it,
Expects from you a kind Fate.
I have sent you the Copies of Verses,
Presented by me to the
Duke;
They are fit for the micklest of Herses,
I'le swear it upon a Buke.
If then you will make him but Witty,
By incouraging the
Poet;
Your Praises he'l Sing in the City,
And the Conquer'd World shall know it.
Pronounc'd at the taking of a VOMIT.
SUre the
Stars raign not now, but some dire
Comet
Sends
Mad-quack to me with this
Poison'd Vomit;
But thanks to
Apollo, who is on my side,
And hath with
Antidote me fortify'd:
He hath not yet forgot, since
Python fell
By his sure hand, all
Poison to expel.
Then
Mithridates like, if not secur'd,
By being to its mischief long inur'd:
T'elude the needless
Physicks ill effect,
Purges and
Vomits, Helicon shall correct.
A Dose for the Doctor.—facit indignatio versum.
SO little
Wit, so much of
Phlegm and
Rheume
Our
Mad-Quack has, that I may well
presume
Hither as
Patient he'l ne're be prefer'd,
To fill the number of the
Madamens Herd:
Who e're is
Mad, he first had
Wit to lose;
Betwixt
Fool and
Physitian wink and chuse.
Was ever Man of Sense so great a
Sot,
In half a year, not to smell out the
Plot?
(By's leave I here shall call a
spade a
spade)
You
Sot, I say, don't you know
Mascarade
From down-right
Madness? I, the
scorn &
sport
Will make you, e're I've done of
Cit and
Court.
Blush for your folly,
Fop, or timely say,
Revenge for my
Lampoons has made the
Play:
Not? then pray judge, if he, whom want of wit
Excludes from
Patient here, be
Doctor fit.
[Page 32]But don't I
Dream, and all this while am slave,
Not to a
Fool, but a designing
Knave?
Who either thinks the
Sober too to tame,
And Cure of
Madness to advance his
Fame;
Or, snips with
Pot, does
Bedlam make for chink,
The
Ditch o're
which'tis
Built with
Phys t'
out-stink.
And thus, for ought I know, my Doctor
A-
May, without Poetry, prove Doctor
K-
The Riddle.
DOctor, this Pusling
Riddle pray explain;
Others your
Physick cures, but I complain
It works with me the clean contrary way,
And makes me
Poet, who are
Mad they say.
The truth on't is, my
Brains well fixt
condition
Apollo better knows, than his
Physitian:
'Tis
Quacks disease, not mine, my
Poetry
By the blind
Moon-Calf, took for
Lunacy.
PRESENTED TO HER GRACE, THE DUCHESSE of PORTS MOVTH.
THe
Gauls first
Conquer'd, to make up the sum
Of
Beauties Triumphs, you to
Britaine come;
Where all admiring Your
Triumphant Face,
Do with amazed Eyes your
Victory grace.
You them survey unmov'd, as is the Center;
But none, to make
attaque on you, dare
venture:
Till
Charles, like
Caesar, you o'recame at sigh
And all Your charming forces put to flight.
Monsieur will now in vain to
England dance;
This
Conquest does renew our claim to
France.
HIS Rule of Behaviour: If you are Civil, I am Sober.
POrter and Keepers, when they're Civil
They charm in me the
Madmens Devil;
The Roaring
Lyon turns to
Lamb,
Lies down and couches wondrous Tame:
For though at
Bedlam Wits ebb and flow,
As wandring Stars move swift or slow;
My Brains not rul'd by the Pale Moon,
Nor keep the Sphears my Soul in Tune;
But she observes, and changes notes
With th'
Azure of Sky-coulour'd Coats.
Ad Apollinem Poeseos & Medicinae Praesidem.
J Am Furor Humanos nostro de Pectore sensus
Expulit, & numen sentio,
Phoebe, tuum:
Cede, Soror, Fratri; cum vellit
Cynthius Aurem,
Quid mihi cum vestris, Pallida
Luna, Rotis?
Carmina de Coelo possunt deducere
Lunam;
Parce,
Pater, Medicas frustrà adhibere manus.
Poet no Lunatick.
WHat's mortal
Phoebus chasing, does inspire
My breast with breath of a diviner fire:
Yield
Luna to your
Brothers more
powerful rays;
My
Muse her
Father first, not
Aunt, obeys.
Apollo may spare his other Art; no fear,
His Poetry alone can rule thy Sphear.
When Priests of
Delphi, and
Parnassus Hill,
With
Oracle or
Verse, the God doth fill;
[Page 36]Prophets and Poets Mad are (in a sense)
And Sober grow, as they their gift dispense
One vents his Rage by words in open Air,
By Ink on Paper He drops his with care.
Physitian,
heal thy self, we say; but know it,
In earnest said to the Self-curing Poet.
To a Tinmans Wife, Visiting him when he lay in Chains.
Mistress, the Chains on me which you put on▪
When first I saw you, are outdone by none:
They are the strongest, but they need no foil▪
They're all pure
Gold, and
Bracelets them I call▪
Another obligation of
Tinne,
Your Husband me designs to Shackle in;
Iron locks my Leg fast: thus a treble chain
Me
different pleasure gives, and
different pain
Relieve in part; for me too close environ,
And heavy are, your
Gold, his
Tin, my
Iron.
Ad Medicum de praescripto Vomitu.
RVctantis
Vomitum quicun
(que) relambit
Homeri,
Castalias frustrà, jam Satur, haurit aquas:
Inde
Poetarum nata est numerosa Propago,
Ingenio quorum vivit,
& ore Pater.
Si mihi contingat similis Fortuna
Vomenti,
Nonnè manet
Medicum, Funis,
Apollo, tuum?
To Mr. Doctor, on his giving him A VOMIT.
What
Homer our Great
Grandfather did
Vomit,
We licking up, turn sucking
Poets from it:
Doctor, if this be my Fate, when I
Spue,
That Lapping Curs rise, all
Lampooning you;
Your
Physick you must save, and past all hope,
With
Crocus Metallorum buy a
Rope▪
To the Worshipful Sir William Turner, President of the Hospital of Bethlem.
I Two new
Purgatories have of late
discover'd;
And from 'em both,
thank God, I am
recover'd:
One
Finnesbury, the other
Bedlam nam'd;
Whether successively me to be Tam'd,
My Shrewish Wife and her Relations send:
But I grown fiercer, cheat 'em of their End.
Each with this
difference shews a
Middle State;
To
Hell that's nearer, this to
Heavens Gate:
Would we the reason of this difference know?
Sure from our
President it needs must flow:
Iudges all three in him their Vertues joyne;
There singly governs
Bishop Proserpine.
THE Patients Advice TO THE DOCTOR.
SAys He, who more
Wit than the
Doctor had,
Oppression will make a wise man Mad;
One in his senses, fierce, untame, and vext,
Means
Solomon the Preacher in the Text:
Therefore,
Religio Medici (do you mind?)
This is not Lunacy in any kind:
But naturally flow hence (as I do think)
Poetick Rage, sharp Pen, and Gall in Ink.
A sober Man, pray, what can more oppress,
Then force by Mad-mens usage to confess
Himself for Mad? Reduc'd to this condition,
He may defie the Rack and Inquisition.
Beyond all
darkness, chains, and
keepers blows,
Sir Madquack, is the
Physick you impose;
[Page 40]Threatning, because my
Satyres frisk & dance,
With
Purge and
Vomit them to tame and
Lance.
Quack, you're deceiv'd; thus lies the
argument;
One God (the
Antients say) is
President
Of
Poetry and
Medicine too; one Father
Of
Esculapius, and the
Nine together:
If Verses then can't
Doctors Bills defie,
And
Helicon all Potions else out-vie;
If Poets are not Physick proof,
Apollo
At War is with himself, 'twill plainly follow:
But
Phoebus holds the Scale with equal hand,
And does, to keep his
own bounds, each
command.
Hence
Poets, when
Quack dares
Physick in their rage,
They vent more sharply choler on the Stage:
Poison, the Body only does torment;
This strangely makes the very Soul ferment.
Let me prescribe then;
Phys withdraw, & soon
You'l my
new Madness cure, you call
Lampoon.
Presented to His Grace the Duke of Monmouth.
THough
Pegasus does willingly obey
My
Fancy's
rains, and rul'd is in the way
To
Muses Hill; yet cannot I perswade him,
To draw a
Charet; that's a
Task will
Iade him:
Horses there are,
Sir, in your
Royal Stable,
More than
Poetically for it able:
A
pair give to your
Poet, and he'l pray,
That
Fortunes Wheel may ever you obey;
That on your Charet
Captive Slaves may wait,
And
French King Chain'd, expect from you his Fate.
On Report of the Duke of Monmouth coming to see the Place.
To
Bedlam when the
General came from
Flanders,
Fools-Cap &
Mad-Cap were
Cashier'd Commanders:
Each a considering
Monmouth-Cap did put on;
Turn'd
Grave and
Wise, as
Hospital of
Sutton.
Ad Medicum, se ab oculis omnium removeri, jubentem.
Clauserat obscuro cùm me
Medicaster in Antro,
Luce novâ
Tenebras ecce
Puella fugat!
Formoso Angustas extendit lumine Rimas:
I nunc, & Solem,
Doctor inepte, nega.
On the Ladies looking into his Cell.
When
Doctor Mad-Quack me i'th'
Dark had put,
And a close
Prisoner in my
Cloyster shut;
A Lady chanc'd peep in, whose
Beauty bright
Enlarg'd the crannies, and let in new light:
Quack, I'm now
pleas'd, without the
Sun, confin'd
See how he
Blushes, by my
Star, out-shin'd.
To a Lady, who was very kind to him in the place.
MAdam, when first your
Beauty shin'd
Into my
Cell, on me confin'd,
I grew in Love with my dark
Cloyster;
Slighted (poor and hungry)
Pearl and
Oyster:
The
Apricotts which you me threw,
The thoughts of
Paradise renew;
In
Edens Garden sure they grew,
Transplanted to
Moorfields by you.
You gave me
Silver; whence I hold,
I ought not to Envy
Danae's Gold;
For though on her
Iove rain'd a Shower,
Twant real, but
Poetick Oar.
You me with
Paper, Pen, and
Ink,
Madam, supply'd, as well as Chink;
This my
Muse studies to requite
In part, to you when she does Write.
[Page 44]Your Charity sent me a
Shirt, each thread
Whereof, to you me fast does Wed;
And thus from your extended hand,
The
Shirt in mine, turns to a
Band.
At Night in
Straw, Lying a long,
To th'
Oaten Pipes this was my
Song.
To a Friend that sent him a Box.
THus as I lie, I Fancy I'm
Iack-straw,
And to
Rebellious Bedlam give the
Law;
Yet though a Prince, so low my
Fortune's sunk,
That I do want, which you supply, the
Trunk:
And for my
Verses writ on
Apricocks,
You kindly make
Iack-straw, Iack-in-a-Box.
To another sending him a Chair.
We
Greet you well, and as well 'tis resented,
That you
Iackstraw with
Chair of State presented:
But we shall yet be more considerable,
If your Companion
Carpet send or
Table.
A Bethlehemite in Bedlam, one of the small Prophets, and a minor Poet to the Lady Sheriffesse Beckford, Mrs Catherine Heywood, and Mrs Johnson, requesting them to make his Cloyster fit for their Reception, and then to allow him the Honour to kiss their hands, in the too close embraces of his Prison.
YOu three
Graces, and
Nine Muses are a
Iury;
Do these agree, mine's fit for
Bedlam fury?
No; nor am I
Mad, but with design for certain:
Acting the Part, my
Name-sake's not
Sir Martin.
The
Bedlam Quack, dissector of an
Oyster,
Me as his
Patient, Physicks in this
Cloyster:
I sleep in
Stubble, where I'm bid to
Sow
My wilder
Oats (may
Ceres speed the
Plough)
There as I lie, I second am
Iack-straw,
And all the
Bedlamites do over-awe:
Fair Ladies, you the
Posse Comitatus,
With
Beauties force, can
quell the
Slaves that hate us.
[Page 46]But pray hence forward see, I lie in
Feather;
With
Quils pickt out, I'le
praise all
three together:
To this the
Poet better you'l enable,
If his dark
Cell you hang with brighter
Sable;
And when your
goodness hath
prepar'd the
place,
Come
challenge here the
Glory of your
Grace.
To the same.
By
Vertue's
Temple, Honour's you approach,
And from this
Cloyster go I to a Coach:
In lieu of hanging
It, since I am well,
A
Charet give, to take me from my
Cell.
In windy
Nights my
House both
rocks and
reels;
Then
Scythian-like, you'l
Build me one on
wheels:
Each of the Ladies may, by your connivance,
Bestow a
Horse; for this is the contrivance,
That
People, seeing me ride, may call these forces,
The
Posse Comitatus Coach and Horses▪
ON Madam Gwyn's Saying of Her Self, She was the only Protestant Mistress.
I Sing a
Ladies Praise, whose true
Religion,
Rome's
Eagle does defy, &
Mahomet's
Pidgeon:
Pens, that can't here exceed an
Enchiridion,
Come not from
Pegasus, but a
senseless Widgeon.
She's true to
Church of England, and its
King,
A subject fit for dying
Swans to Sing;
To be
writ with Quils pluckt from an
Angels wing,
Her
Beauty's so
Celestial a thing.
When for the
Curtain, she the
Stage did change,
Cum Privilegio 'twas,
Roger l'Estrange:
The Mystery's not easily reveal'd;
Contents must guest at be, when
Letter's
Seal'd:
[Page 48]This is in part the Case; Unto St.
Helen
A
Church there's
Consecrate, and rul'd by
Pelling
She sure must be that
Saint: who can
disprove it
To her
Greek Name-sake sure you
won't remove it
If then the true
Church Catholick she own,
And
Christians to her
Shrine vow
That of
Stone,
A double Claim she to the
Title hath
Of
Mistress, to
Defender of the Faith.
TO Mr. Stackhouse, Presenting me with a PERIWIG.
OUr Souls, into a Mansion-House of Clay,
Are thrust by
Heaven, there,
while we live, to stay:
Therefore I must, from what you me present,
You
Thatch-house call of
Iackstraws Tenement:
I did it want, e're since my coming hither,
My upper Room to
Skreen from
wind &
weather:
For though I'm thought
hot-headed, I find no harm,
In keeping with your gift my
Noddle warm:
I thank you then, to dance my
Bedlam Gigg,
For furnishing
Hair-brain with
Huffing-Wigg;
And pay you for't the current Coin, he uses,
These curled locks and tresses of the
Muses.
Poets are Mad.
IN
Bedlam, best of Universities,
The
Poet, not the
Parson, takes degrees:
Among the common
Herd at first he's enter'd,
After into a Room, with windows ventur'd:
That
Sermons may not want a
Psalm, the
Droll
Lives fitly with
Nolls Porter,
Cheek by
Iowl:
One end
Musitian Thamar, thought the milder
T'other extreme
Poet takes up, that's wilder;
For his
Wits rampant, and 'tis
Mad-quacks pleasure
To say, his
Madness hath no other measure:
Nay, to the
Governors this
Fool declares,
Him fit for
Bedlam, 'till he
Wit forswears.
Poets and
Players, now pack up your
Awls,
To
Bedlam you aloud,
Fop Mad-Quack calls;
And 'till he cures you of
Poetick Rage,
Our
Galleries you must fill, quit
Pit and
Stage
On the Doctors telling him, that 'till he left off making Verses, he was not fit to be discharg'd.
DEsiring his Imprison'd
Muse t'enlarge,
The
Poet, Mad-quack mov'd, for his
discharge.
He angry answer'd,
Parson, 'tis too soon,
As yet I have not Cur'd you of
Lampoon;
For know,
New Bedlam, chiefly for th' infected
With this new sort of
Madness, was erected:
Bucks both and
Rochester, unless they mend,
Hither the
King designs forthwith to send:
Shepherd and
Dreyden too, must on 'em wait;
For he's resolv'd at once to rid the State,
Of this
Poetick, Wanton, Mad-like Tribe,
Whose
Rampant Muse does
Court and
City Gibe.
Thus
Bedlam may be cur'd perchance, if't hits,
After despair of
Physick, by the
Wits.
The answer pleas'd; yet I have cause to fear,
The
Doctor flatter'd, as 'tis usual here:
But if my
Brethren come, I've learnt this
Lesson,
In such good Company,
Bedlam is no
Prison.
On the Doctors letting him Blood.
Doctor, my
Rhythmes on you which do reflect,
Know, of
Poetick fury are th'effect;
To let me
Blood then, you're but
Fool in
grain,
Unless your
Lance prick my
Poetick Vein:
No longer now, for shame, pretend the
Moon,
For
Phoebus rules my
Madness and
Lampoon.
The Mistake.
TH' Occasion of this Error, who can tell?
I
Bedlam Heaven thought, but find it Hell:
Darkness and Chains are here, and Porter too
Of
Pluto's Court; for without more ado,
Mathews the
Body; three Keepers, three Heads mate,
And
Cerberus make up at
Bedlam-Gate:
Here I must treated be like,
Mad and
Fop,
'Till to the
Monster I can give a
Sop.
Made the 13. of November, Being a Fast-Day On Account of the Plot.
WHen
Heavens Frown, and
Clouds now big with
Thunder,
Direct the fatal
Bolt; I can't but wonder
We charge the Storm on
Iesuite and
Pope,
And fondly threaten
Tyburn and the
Rope:
Just as when
Tempest in the
Seas did rise,
And
Neptune tost both
Ships and them to
Skies;
The huffing
Xerxes lasht the
Winds in vain,
And order'd
Waves to fetter with a
Chain.
The God of
Heaven knows, our
sins, our
sins
Hatch all the
mischief; there the
Plot begins:
As they encrease, the blackness from a hand,
Darkens the Sphear by the
Almighty span'd:
[Page 54]Wash them away but with
Repentant Tears,
Such
flowing Streams an
Ebb make in our fears.
What e're we think, w'are in a safe condition,
By nothing more, than a strict Inquisition:
Examine well your
hearts, and
search your
mind,
Sins with
Granadoes chequer'd, there you'l find.
W'are
Traytors to our selves; our
Lusts conspire,
The
City new Rebuilt to set on fire:
Zeal for
Gods Glory, let it burn but high,
Destroying Flames will dwindle out and die:
Whatever ills we suffer, be we sure,
Sin's the Disease,
Repentance is the Cure.
That we may then,
Popes Bulls and
Plots defie;
That
Englands Church may
haughty Romes outvie:
Let this our
Ark in such a
Deluge Swim,
As may from
Weeping Eyes o'reflow the
Brim:
The strongest
Guardians, to assure our fears
Of
Peters Successor, are
Peters Tears.
ON A Fanatick Ropemaker.
REligion you put on, as
Knaves their
Cloak;
To hide your
base designs, you it
bespoke:
Thus we remember, how
Old Noll did Pray,
That unsuspected,
Charles he might betray.
In the
Lords Name, 'tis known, begins all
Evil;
His
Livery you wear, and serve the
Devil:
Witness your
heart and
mouths flat
contradiction,
By
Hell-bred lies,
Truth turning into
Fiction:
Witness poor
Orphans, hook't into your
Net,
And then devour'd with greedy
Appetite:
But,
my good friend, be sure
such Meat will choak you,
And
Iustice both from
God &
Man will
smoak you.
Witness the cheating Practice in your
Trade,
And selling
Ocum when for
Ropes you're paid.
Iniquity with
Cart-Ropes needs must draw.
The
Pilot now may justly fear the
Port,
And
Rocks and
Storms in open
Ocean court:
But could I dip my
Pen in
Gall and
Rancour,
I'de scratch this
Knave, makes
Ships unsafe at
Anchor:
The
Knave that's
Fool too, one of
fortunes minions,
A
Hypocrite, halting betwixt two
Opinions:
Unheard of
Villain, forsook and left i'th'
lurch,
Both by the
Devils-Chappel, and
Gods Church.
New-England too (that last and known retreat
Of all the
Brethren of the
Holy Cheat)
You have abus'd, they'l banish you, and
Swear,
Th'
Artificer's as rotten as his
Ware.
If then no Place nor Party him receive,
He's ripe for
Tyburn, that's not fit to live;
Where when he's
Hang'd, he may have some small hope,
To swing in one of's
Own, and crack the
Rope.
TO THE LADY IANE LEVISON GOWER, AND Mrs. CATHERINE NEWPORT, each giving him Six pence.
TWo
Ladies here me
Sixpence gave a piece;
I valued each above the
Golden Fleece:
In
One I made a hole, about my
Neck
Designing it to wear, to give a check
To
Bedlam Spirits, and to charm
Mad-Devil,
As
Angel Gold is us'd, to heal
Kings-Evil:
T'
other I bow'd, to take the faster hold;
Yet
Both slipt through my
fingers, as doth Gold:
My
Riches fled away on
Eagles Wing,
And for the
Honey in
Carcase left their
Sting:
But courage take,
Iackstraw; the
hands (
I'm sure)
That for thy
Wound made way, can
give thee Cure.
To a Friend, upon his sending him Venison to BEDLAM.
IF like be fed by like, what better meat
Can
Horn Mad, wild as
Buck, then
Venison eat
Sir, this
Philosophy you understood,
And sent a
Hanch to be our
Bedlam food:
Accordingly we it, for such like reason,
Did, 'cause
Hot-headed, well with
Pepper season
Madness and
Wit then, being all one (o'th' place
Sir Quack) much
Salt made proper in the
Case
And the truth is,
Deer must be
Diet fit
For
Horn-Mad equally, and nimble
Wit:
The
Vertue I feel, and this experience gain,
Venison i'th'
Blood swells the
Poetick Vein.
Now
Doc and
Pot, those
whiffling Curs, in couple
That always
Hunt, I'le keep at
bay and
bubble;
For
Goat and
Venison differ so small a matter,
That
Buck will lusty make my
Bedlam Satyre▪
And (
when with Rope Sir Quack has cur'd the sma
[...]
My
Brisk Lampoon, survive the long-liv'd
Ha
[...]
Presented to the Right Honourable EDWARD SEYMOUR, Esq His ever Honoured Master.
WHen
unfledg'd Orator, &
Tongue but
weaker,
For
Secretary chose by Mr.
Speaker,
I straitway got the knack of better talking,
And from
Clarks desk, to
Pulpit must be
walking:
For not
per saltum taken is
Degree,
When of a
Scribe, you're made a
Pharisee.
Would you then know, how
Clark became a
Teacher,
And how the
Speaker's man starts up a
Preacher;
My Master's
Spring, some drops on me
distills,
And in his
Ink I dipt my
Infant Quills.
His Petition to Mr. Speaker.
A Man of Sense in
Bedlam, I recount
Among our
Grievances, or
Tant-amount:
To Rescue me, then
Serjeant send at
Armes;
The
Circle in the Crown,
Mad-Devil charms:
And
Man in
Moon, so sure his
Bush at
Back,
Must fall by
Mace, as
fire by
Malaga Sack.
On his mistaking the Name OF Sir Gabriel Silvius, Presented to his Lady.
SIr
Gabriel I mistaking, call Sir
George;
And of an
Angel, thus a
Saint do forge:
Sure Jealous, lest you (at our Saviours Birth
Being of the
Quire of those that
Sang on
Earth)
Do from us
Mortals, when you
Mount and
Sing,
Your
Lady steal away upon your Wing.
Such Flight me robs of
Soul, and what I am,
More plainly must discover then my
Name
Our Life and Bliss secure then; lest we die,
Stay long on
Earth, and late to
Heaven flie.
But let me still you
Englands Champion call,
As
Omen of the
Beast's and
Dragon's fall.
The
Poet's modest and reasonable Expostulation, with the non-Infallible
Pope of the Lunatiques, on behalf of the sober
Parson, hitherto mistaken, and misjudged by
Religio Medici.
Humbly Presented to the Worshipful, the Treasurer, and other the Governors of the Hospital of
Bethlem.
A
Pollo, God and Father, you and I
Own, both in
Physick and in
Poetry:
Brother, because
Lampoon'd, what do you mean
A Son of
Phoebus Lunatick to feign?
Guilty, the
Verdict of a City Jury
Can bring him in, but of
Poetick Fury;
Whereof necessity must guilt abate,
For he, all madness, pleads, is kin to Fate▪
Since then,
right Reason says, he can't forego it,
Condemn his
Fury, but discharge the
Poet.
Doctor, I am (no ways, as worth
Remarque is,
Your
Patient, but)
Your humble Servant, Carkesse.
Mr. Dr. Mr. D▪
While I'gainst Keepers
Tyranny Rebel,
And with the
thought of
Mad-quacks Poison swell;
He gives it out, that he my
head can
Cure,
But my proud
heart from
Physick is secure:
Pray then take heed,
Sir Tinker Chirurgion Quack,
Lest mending one, you may another
Crack;
For I, whilst you prescribe so like a
Fool,
My own
Wit more admire, and you at
School
Expect among my
Boyes, by
Rod and
smart,
To learn, though late, the
Rudiments of
Art.
I find that my old
School-Boy cannot spell,
Nor
Satyre from familiar
Satan smell:
This makes the
Child, for
Poet, read
Possest
(A
Boy well
taught, might better sure have
guest)
This
Owl no
difference makes 'twixt
Sun &
Moon,
And calls at Random,
Lunacy, my
Lampoon.
THE Founders Intention.
HEnry the Eighth this Hospital Erected,
Madmen to Cure, with
Lunacy Infected:
But
Anger, a short
Madness call'd, and
Passion
Here to arraign was ne're th'intent nor
fashion:
This kind in
Porter and in
Keepers raigns,
And they should wear, who
fasten on our
chains:
This to be cur'd at
Bedlam, were it meant,
It's
Doctor should be his own
Patient;
Who, if in truth he be both
Fool and
Knave,
For saying so, shall I be kept a
Slave?
Is't
Lunacy to call a
spade, a
spade?
And,
Ladies, tell me, in your
Mascarade,
Are wit and senses lost? or doth this follow,
When
Poetry is given by
Apollo?
Short-sighted Friends, and
Madquack too,
beware,
For your
Mad Poet can with safety Swear,
[Page 64]Design procur'd him in this
Bay a birth,
To puzle, and make you all his
Muses
[...].
I must confess, what e're's absurd, and wide
Of truth, by
Bedlam may be justify'd;
But that its
Doctor these
Conclusions makes;
For
Lunacy, Lampoon and
Satyre takes:
To say no more, his case is very sad;
Such a great
A—can ne're hope to be
Mad.
THE Porter, a Prince.
AN
Hogan Mogan State we justly call,
The
Governors of
Bedlam Hospital;
For
Orange they elect
Prince Porter Blue
(
Trueman and
Knave in grain, are of one hue)
The
Gentlemen their
Servant him suppose;
But he's their
Head, and leads them by the
Nose.
This
Loyal Hollands common prayer must be:
May our
Nassau be absolute, as
He.
ON Mrs. Moniments Giving him a Visit at Bedlam.
HEaring, that
There was one, at sight,
Her
Praise or
Epitaph, could
Write,
Carkesse to Visit with intent,
From
Charing-Cross came
Moniment:
In such a
Tomb I chuse to lie,
And yield up
Ghost before I
Die:
She's
Kind, not
Proud; as
Both are faire,
To
Niobe I her compare;
To
Niobe, while
Flesh and
Bone,
Not her own
Moniment of
Stone;
For 'twould be her true
Lovers loss,
Were either
Marble she, or
Cross.
To his Friends, that gave in Security, according to the Custome of the Hospital.
A
Publican and
Stocking-Factor joyn,
In
Bethlem Hospital me to confine.
'Tis pleasant to observe, how both these tend,
By differing circumstances, to one end:
Clark of the
Rates, Error in casting makes,
And for a
Fraction, my
crackt Brain mistakes;
The
Hosier (fancying a Warehouse full)
Conceits, my
scatter'd Wits do gather
Wool:
But Poet,
Lunatick, is ill reckoned;
And Man's a Man, but with a Hose on's Head.
Then his mistake each to correct had best,
One in
Account, t'other in's
Interest;
And
Paper-Fetters to withdraw, take pains;
For
Bridewel Bonds give
strength to
Bedlam Chains.
On the late PLOT.
PEter thou art, and on this
Rock, my
Church
I'le
Build, says Christ: Interpreters i'th' lurch
This
Text has left, and puzl'd in every
Age,
E're since our
Saviour went off the
Stage:
Thousands of
Souls on it, alas! have split,
By their own
Folly, or others too much
Wit:
On these words, rackt by
Iesuite and
Pope,
Their
followers falsly ground their
faith &
hope:
On this
foundation their late
Plot did stand;
But
thanks to
heaven, that
turn'd the
Rock to
Sand:
That all their
high-built hopes has thrown to th'ground,
And
Babel-Builders fitter
Mansions found:
Peter himself (spight of their
Wit and
Power)
Huggs
Cloud, for
Iuno; for this
Rock, the
Tower.
Dr. Titus Oates, Anagramma, Testis Ovat.
Dicite, Jo Paean!
& Jo,
bis dicite, Paean!
Incidit in casses Itala
Turba suos.
Per Titum
Solymaea jacent, heu! Templa; ruinam
A Tito
expectes Vindice, Roma,
tuam.
Testis Ovat,
laeto canit omine Musa; Britannis
Vberior (spes est) indè Triumphus
eat.
England, Rejoyce; see fal'n into the Pit
Digg'd by himself, the subtle
Iesuite.
Titus destroy'd
Ierusalem; and
Rome
Her self, from
Titus, may expect her doom.
Grow,
Titus Oates, and thriving in this
Land,
A
Promise of our future
Triumph, stand.
FINIS.