THE Fourth (and Last) COLLECTION OF Poems, Satyrs, Songs, &c. CONTAINING,
- I. A Panegyrick on O. Cromwell, and his Victories: By E. Waller, Esquire.
- II. Oceana & Britannia.
- III. An Essay upon the E. of Shaftsbury's Death.
- IV. A Satyr in Answer to a Friend.
- V. An Historical Poem.
- VI. The Rabble.
- VII. The Fourth Satyr of Boileau, to Mr. W. R. Jan. 1687.
- VIII. A Letany for the Fifth of November, 1684.
- IX. A short Letany: To the Tune of Cook-Laurel.
- X. An Essay upon Satyr. By Mr. J. Dr—den.
- XI. The City-Ballad. 1682.
Most of which never before Printed.
LONDON, Printed Anno Dom. 1689.
A Panegyrick on O. Cromwel, and his Victories. By E. Waller, Esq;
WHile with a strong, and yet a gentle Hand,
You bridle Faction, and our Hearts Command.
Protect us from our selves, and from the Foe;
Make us Unite, and make us Conquer too.
Let partial Spirits still aloud complain,
Think themselves injur'd that they cannot Reign;
And own no Liberty, but where they may
Without comptrole upon their fellows prey.
Above the Waves as Neptune shew'd his Face
To chide the Winds, and save the Trojan Race.
So has your Highness (rais'd above the rest)
Storms of Ambition tossing us represt.
Your drooping Country, torn with Civil hate,
Restor'd by you, is made a glorious State:
The seat of Empire, where the Irish come,
And the unwilling Scot, to fetch their Doom.
The Sea's our own, and now all Nations greet
With bending Sails, each Vessel of our Fleet.
Your Power resounds as far as Wind can blow,
Or swelling Sails upon the Globe may go.
Heaven that has plac'd this Island to give Law,
To ballance Europe, and her States to awe.
In this Conjunction does our Britain smile,
The greatest Leader to the greatest Isle.
Whether this Portion of the World were rent
By the wide Ocean from the Continent,
Or thus created, it was sure design'd
To be the sacred Refuge of Mankind.
Hither the opprest shall henceforth resort
Justice to crave, and succour of your Court,
And shew, your Highness, not for ours alone,
But for the World's Protector shall be known.
Fame, swifter than your winged Navy, flies
Through every Land that near the Ocean lies:
Sounding your Name, and telling dreadful News
To all that Piracy and Rapine use.
With such a Chief the meanest Nation blest,
Might hope to lift her Head above the rest.
What may be thought impossible to do
For us, embrac'd by the Sea and you?
Lords of the World's great Wast, the Ocean, we
Whole Forests sends to Reign upon the Sea.
And every Coast may trouble or relieve,
But none can Visit us without your leave.
Angels and we know this Prerogative,
That none can at our Happy Seat arrive;
While we descend at pleasure to invade
The bad with Vengeance, or the good to Aid.
Our little World, the Image of the great,
Like that amidst the boundless Ocean set,
Of her own growth has Nature all that craves,
And all that's rare, as Tribute from the Waves.
As Egypt does not on the Clouds rely,
But to the Nile owes more than to the Sky;
So what our Heaven, or what our Earth denies,
Our ever constant Friend, the Sea, supplies.
The taste of hot Arabia's Spice we know,
Free from the scorching Sun that makes it grow.
Without the Worm in Persian Silks we shine,
And without Planting, drink of every Vine.
To dig for Wealth we weary not our Limbs;
Gold, though the heaviest Metal, hither swims.
Ours is the Harvest, where the Indians Mow,
We plough the Deep, and Reap what others Sow.
Things of noblest kind our own Soyl breeds,
Stout are our Men, and Warlike are our Steeds.
Rome, though her Eagle through the World had flown,
Could never make this Island all her own,
Here the Third Edward, and the Black Prince too:
France-Conquering Henry flourisht, and now you.
For whom we staid, as did the Grecian State,
Till Alexander came to urge their Fate.
When for more Worlds that Macedonian cry'd,
He wist not Thetis in her Lap did hide
Another yet, a World reserv'd for you,
To make more great than that he did subdue.
He safely might Old Troops to Battel lead▪
Against the unwarlike Persian, or the Mead,
Whose hasty flight did from a bloodless Field
More Spoil than Honour to the Victor yield.
A Race unconquer'd by their Clime—made bold,
The Calydonians arm'd with want and cold,
Have by a Fate indulgent to your Fame,
Been from all Ages kept for you to tame:
Whom the old Roman Wall so ill confin'd,
With a new Chain of Garisons you bind.
Here Foreign Gold no more shall make them come,
Our English Iron holds them fast at home.
They that henceforth must be content to know
No warmer Region than their Hills of Snow,
May blame the Sun, but must extol your Grace,
Which in our Senate hath allow'd them place.
Prefer'd by Conquest, happily o'rethrown;
Falling they rise, to be with us made one.
So kind Dictators made, when they came home,
Their vanquish'd Foes free Citizens of Rome.
Like favour find the Irish, with like Fate
Advanc'd to be a Portion of our State,
While by your Valour, and your courteous Mind,
Nations divided by the Sea, are joyn'd.
Holland to gain your Friendship, is content
To be our Out guard on your Continent.
She from her fellow-Provinces would go,
Rather than hazard to have you her Foe.
In our late Fight, when Cannons did diffuse,
Preventing Posts, the terror of the News,
Our Neighbour-Provinces trembl'd at their roar,
But our conjunction makes them tremble more.
Your never-failing Sword made War to cease,
And now you heal us with the Arts of Peace;
Our Minds with bounty and with awe engage,
Unite Affections, and restrain our Rage.
Less pleasures take brave minds in Battel won,
Than in restoring such as are undone.
Tygers have courage, and the rugged Bear,
But Man alone can whom he conquers spare:
To pardon willing, and to punish loath,
You strike with one hand, but you heal with both.
Lifting up all that prostrate lye, you grieve
You cannot make the dead again to live.
When Fate or Error had our Age misled,
And o're these Nations such Confusion spread,
The only Cure which could from Heaven come down,
Was so much Power and Clemency in one;
One whose Extraction is from an Ancient Line,
Gives hope again that well-born Men may shine:
The meanest in your Nature, mild and good,
The noble rest secur'd in your Blood.
Oft have we wonder'd how you hid in Peace
A Mind proportion'd to such things as these:
How such a Ruling Spirit could restrain,
And practice first o're your own self to Reign.
Your private Life did a just Pattern give,
How Fathers, Husbands, Pious Sons should live.
Born to Command, your Princely Vertues slept
Like humble David, whilst the Flock he kept;
But when your troubled Country call'd you forth,
Your flaming Courage, and your matchless Worth▪
Dazling the Eyes of all that did pretend
To sow Contention—gave a prosperous end
Still as you rise, the States exalted too,
Finds no Distemper while it's chang'd by you:
Chang'd like the World's great Scene, when without noise
The rising Sun Night's vulgar Lights destroys.
Had you some Ages past this Race of Glory
Run, with amazement we should read your Story.
But living Vertue all Atchievements past,
Meets Envy still to grapple with at last.
This Caesar found, and that ungrateful Age
With losing him, fell back to Blood and Rage.
Mistaken Brutus thought to break their Yoak,
But cut the Bond of Union at that stroke.
That Sun once set, a thousand meaner Stars
Gave a dim light to Violence and Wars.
To such a Tempest as now threatens all,
Did not your mighty Arm prevent the fall.
If Rome's great Senate could not wield the Sword,
Which of the conquer'd World had made them Lord,
What hope had ours, while yet their power was new,
To Rule victorious Armies, but by you?
You that had taught them to subdue their Foes,
Could Order teach, and all their Hearts compose.
To every Duty could their Minds engage,
Provoke their Courage, and commend their Rage.
So when a Lion shakes his dreadful Main,
And angry grows, if he that first took pain
To tame his Youth, approach the haughty Beast,
He bends to him, but frights away the rest.
As the vext World, to find repose at last
It self into Augusta's Arms did cast.
So England now does, with like Toyl opprest,
Her weary Head upon your Bosom rest.
Then let the Muses with such Notes as these
Instruct us what belongs unto our Peace:
Your Battels they hereafter shall indite,
And draw the Image of our Mars in Fight.
Tell of Towns storm'd, of Armies over run,
And mighty Kingdoms by your Conduct won:
How while you thunder'd, clouds of dust did choak,
Contending Troops and Seas lay hid in Smoak.
Illustrious Arts high raptures do infuse,
And every Conqueror creates a Muse.
Here in low strains your milder deeds we sing,
But there, my Lord, we'll Bays and Olives bring▪
To Crown your Head, while you in Triumph ride▪
O're vanquish'd Nations, and the Sea beside;
While all your Neighbour-Princes unto you,
Like Joseph's Sheaves, pay Reverence, and bow.
Oceana. Britannia. Non ego sum vates, sed prisci Conscius aevi.
Oceana.
WH [...]ther, O whither wander I forlorn?
Fatal to Friends, and to my Foes a scorn.
My pregnant Womb is labouring to bring forth
Thy Off-spring Archon, Heir to thy just worth.
Archon, O Archon, hear my groaning Cries;
Lucina, help, asswage my Miseries.
Saturnian spight pursues me thro' the Earth,
No corner's left to hide my long wisht Birth.
Great Queen of the Isles, yield me a safe retreat
From the crown'd Gods, that would my Infants eat.
To me a Delos on my Child-Bed smile,
My happy Seed shall fix thy floating Isle.
I feel fierce pangs assault my Teeming Womb,
Lucina, O Britannia, Mother, come.
Britan.
What doleful shrieks pierce my affrighted Ear!
Shall I ne'r rest for this lewd Ravisher?
Rapes, Burnings, Murthers are his Royal Sport,
These Modish Monsters haunt his perjur'd Court.
No tumbling Player so oft e're chang'd his shape,
As this Goat, Fox, Wolf, timerous French Ape.
True Protestants in Roman Habits drest,
With Frogs he baits that Ravenous Butcher's Beast.
Tresilian J—s, that fair-fac'd Crocodile,
Tearing their Hearts, at once doth weep and smile.
Neronian Flames at London do him please,
At Oxford Plots to Act Agathocles.
His Plot's reveal'd, his Mirth is at an end,
And's fatal hour shall know no Foe nor Friend.
Last Martyr's day I saw a Cherub stand
A-cross my Seas, one Foot upon the Land,
Th' other on the enthralled Gallick Shore,
Aloud Proclaim their Time shall be no more.
This mighty Power Heav'ns equal Ballance sway'd,
And in one Scale Crowns, Crosiers, Scepters laid.
I'th' other a sweet smiling Babe did lye,
Circled with Glories, deck'd with Majesty.
With steddy hand he pois'd the Golden pair.
The gilded Gew-Gaws mounted in the Air.
The ponderous Babe descending in its Scale,
Leapt on my Shore—
Nature triumph'd, Joy echo'd thro' the Earth,
The Heav'ns bow'd down to see the blessed Birth.
What's that I hear? A new-born Babe's soft Cries,
And joyful Mother's tender Lullabies!
'Tis to behold my Daughter past all harms,
Cradeling an Infant in her fruitful Arms.
The very same th' Angelique Vision show'd
In Mein, in Majesty how like a God.
What a firm Health does on her Visage dwell?
Her sparkling Eyes Immortal Youth fore-tell.
Rome, Sparta, Venice never could bring forth
So strong, so temperate, such lasting worth.
Marpesia from the North with speed advance,
Thy Sisters Birth brings thy Deliverance.
Terquesian Founders this just Babe exceeds
I'th' Arts of Peace and mighty Martial deeds.
Ye Panopeians kneel unto your equal Queen,
Safe from the Foreign Sword, and Barbarous Skeen.
Transports of Joy divert my yearning Heart
From my dear Child, my Soul, my better
Heav'n show'r her choicest Blessings on thy Womb,
Our present help, our stay in time to come.
Thou best of Daughters, Mothers, Matrons, say,
What forc'd thy Birth, and got this Glorious Day?
Oceana.
Scap'd the slow Jaws o'th' grinding Pensioners,
I fell i'th' Traps of Rome's dire Murtherers;
Twice rescu'd by my Loyal Senate's Power,
Twice I expected my Babe's happy hour.
Malignant force twice check'd their Pious Aid,
And to my Foes as oft my State betray'd.
Great, full of pain, in a dark Winter's Night,
Threatned, pursu'd, I scap'd by sudden flight.
Pale fear gave speed to my weak trembling feet,
And far I fled e're Day our World could greet.
That dear-lov'd Light which the whole Globe does chear,
Spurr'd on my flight, and added to my fear;
Whilst black Conspiracy, that Child of Night,
In Royal Purple clad, out-dares the Light.
By Day her self the Faith's Defender stiles,
By Night digs Pits, and spreads her Papal Toyls.
By Day he to the Pompous Chappel goes,
By Night with York adores Rome's Idol-shews:
Witness ye Stars and silent Powers of Night,
Her Treacheries forc'd my innocent flight.
With the broad day my danger too drew near,
Of help, of Counsel void, how should I steer?
Ith' Pulpit damn'd, Strumpet at Court proclaim'd,
Where should I hide, where should I rest defam'd?
Tortur'd in thought, I rais'd my weeping Eyes,
And sobbing voice to th' all-helping Skies;
As by Heav'n sent, a Reverend Sire appears,
Charming my Grief, and stopping my flood of Tears.
His busie circling Orbs (two restless Spies)
Glanc'd to and fro, out-ranging Argos Eyes.
Like fleeting Time on's Front one Lock did grow,
From his glib Tongue torrents of words did flow.
Propose, Resolve, Agrarian Forty One,
Lycurgus, Brutus, Solon, Harington.
He said, he knew me in my swadling-bands,
H [...]d often danc'd me in his careful hands.
He knew Lord Archon too, then wept and swore,
Enshrin'd in me, his Fame he did adore.
His Name I ask'd, he said, Politico,
Descended from the Divine Nicholo.
My state he knew, my danger seem'd to dread,
And to my safety vow'd Hand, Heart, Head.
Grateful Returns I up to Heaven send,
That in Distress had sent me such a Friend.
I ask'd him where I was? Pointing, he shew'd
Oxford's Old Towers, once the Learned Arts aboad.
(Once great in Fame, now a Piratick Port,
Where Romish Priests and Elvish Monks resort)
He added near a new-built Colledge stood,
Endow'd by Plato for the Publick good.
Thither allur'd by Learned Honest Men,
Plato vouchsaf'd once more to live again.
Securely there I might my self repose,
From my fierce Griefs and my more cruel Foes
Tyr'd with long flights, e'ne hunted down with fear,
The welcome News my drooping Soul did chear.
His pleasing words shortned the time and way,
And me beguil'd at Plato's House to stay.
When we came in, he told me (after rest,)
He'd shew me Plato and's Venetian Guest,
I scarce reply'd, with weariness opprest.
To my desir'd Apartment I repair'd,
Invoaking Sleep and Heaven's Almighty Guard.
My waking Cares and stabbing frights receed,
And nodding Sleep dropt on my drowsie Head.
At last the Summons of a busie Bell,
And glimmering Lights did Sleeps kind Mists dispel.
From Bed I stole, and creeping by the Wall,
Thro' a small Chink I spy'd a Spacious Hall.
Tapers as thick as Stars did shed their Light
Around the place, and made a day of Night.
The curious Art of some great Master's hand,
Adorn'd the Room—H—C—P—stand
In one large piece, next them the two Dutch Wars,
In bloody Colours paint our fatal Jars.
Here London Flames in Clouds of smoke aspire,
Done to the life, I'de almost cry'd out Fire.
But living Figures did my Eyes divert
From those, and many more of wondrous Art.
There entred in three Mercenary Bands,
(The different Captains had distinct Commands)
The Begger's desperate Troop did first appear,
Littleton led, proud Seymore had the Rear.
The disguis'd Papists under Garroway,
Talbot Lieutenant (none had better pay)
Next greedy Lee led Party colour'd Slaves,
Deaf Fools i'th' right, i'th' wrong sagacious Knaves.
Brought up by M—grave, then a Nobler Train,
(In Malice mighty, impotent in Brain)
The Pope's Solicitor brought into th' Hall,
Not guilty Lay much guilty Spiritual.
I also spy'd behind a private Skreen,
Colebert and Portsmouth, Y—k and Mazarine.
Immediately in close Cabal they joyn,
And all applaud the Glorious Design.
'Gainst me and my lov'd Senates Free-born Breath,
Dire threats I hear'd, the Hall did Eccho Death.
A Curtain drawn, another Scene appear'd,
A tinckling Bell, a mumbling Priest I heard.
At Elevation every Knee ador'd
The Baker's Craft, Infallible's vain Lord.
When Cataline with Vipers did conspire,
To Murther Rome and bury it in Fire,
A Sacramental Bowl of Humane Goare,
Each Villain took, and as he drank he swore.
The Cup deny'd, to make their Plot compleat,
These Catalines their conjur'd Gods did eat.
Whilst to their Breaden Whimseys they did kneel,
I crept away, and to the door did steal.
As I got out, by Providence I flew,
To this close Wood, too late they did pursue.
That dreadful night, my Child-Bed throws brought on,
My Cryes mov'd yours and Heaven's Compassion.
Britania.
Oh happy day! a Jubilee Proclaim,
Daughter adore the unutterable name.
With grateful Heart breath out thy self in Prayer
In the mean time thy Babe shall be my care.
There is a man my Island's Hope and Grace,
The chief Delight and Joy of humane Race.
Expos'd himself to War, in tender Age,
To free his Country from the Gallick Rage,
With all the Graces blest his Riper years,
And full blown Vertue wak'd the Tyrant's fears.
By's Sire rejected, but by Heaven call'd,
To break my yoke, and rescue the Enthral'd.
This this is he who with a stretch'd out hand,
And matchless Might shall free my groaning Land.
On Earth's proud Basilisks he'll justly fall,
Like Moses Rod, and prey upon them all.
He'll guide my People through the Raging Seas,
To Holy Wars and certain Victories.
His spotless Fame, and his immense Desert,
Shall plead Loves cause, and storm this Virgins Heart.
She like Aegeria shall his Breast inspire,
With Justice, Wisdom, and Celestial fire.
Like Numa he her Dictates shall obey,
And by her Oracles the world shall sway.
An Essay upon the E. of Shaftsbury's Death.
WHenever Tyrants fall, the Air
And other Elements prepare
To combat in a Civil War,
Large Oaks up by the roots are torn,
The Savage Train
Upon the Forest or the Plain
To a procession through the Sky are born,
Sulphureous Fire displayes
Its baneful Rayes,
Then from the hollow Womb
Of some rent Cloud do's come
The Blazing Meteor or destructive Stone,
Distant below the Grumbling Wind
Pent up in Earth, a Vent would find;
But failing, roars
Like broken Waves upon the rocky Shores.
The Earth with Motion rowls,
Those Buildings which did brave the Sky,
Now in an humble posture lye,
While here and there
A subtile Priest and South-sayer
The Fatal Dirges howl.
Thus when the first Twelve Coesars fell,
A Jubilee was kept in Hell;
But when that Heav'n designs, the Brave
Shall quit a Life to fill a Grave,
The Sun turns pale and courts a Cloud,
From Mortals sight his Grief to shroud,
Shakes from his face a showre of Rain,
And faintly views the World again.
The Tombs of Ancient Heroes weep,
Hard Marble Tears lets fall:
The Genii, who possess the Deep,
And seem the Islands Fate to keep,
Lament the Funeral.
Silence denotes the greatest Wo,
So Calmes precede a Storm,
Deep Waters smoothest are, we know,
And bear the evenest Form.
So 'tis when Patriots cease to be,
And haste to immortality;
Their Noble Souls blest Angels bear
To the Ethereal Palace there,
Mounting upon the ambient Air,
While wounded Atomes press the Ear
Of Mortals, who far distant are.
Hence sudden Grief do's seize the Mind,
For Good and Brave agree;
Each Being moves unto his Kind
By Native Sympathy.
So 'twas when mighty Cooper dy'd,
The Fabius of the Isle,
A sullen Look the Great o're-spread,
The Common People lookt as dead,
And Nature droop't the while.
Living; Religion, Liberty,
A mighty Fence he stood,
Peers Rights and Subjects Property
None stronglier did maintain than he,
For which Rome sought his Blood.
Deep Politician, English Peer,
That quash't the Power of Rome,
The Change of State they brought so near,
In bringing Romish Worship here,
Was by thy Skill o're-thrown:
'Less Heav'n a Miracle design'd,
Sure it could never be
One so Gigantick in his mind,
That soar'd a-pitch 'bove humane kind,
So small a Corps should be
Time was the Court admir'd thy Shrine,
And did, thee Homage pay;
But wisely thou didst countermine,
And having found the black Design,
Scorn'd the Ignoble way.
Having thus strongly stem'd the Tide,
And set thy Country free:
Thou, Cato like, an Exile prid'st,
'Mongst Enemies belov'd resid'st,
Whilst Good men Envy thee.
And as the Sacred Hebrew Seer
Canaan to view desir'd;
So Heav'n did show this Noble Peer
The End of Popish Malice here,
Which done, his Soul Expir'd.
A Satyr in Answer to a Friend.
'TIS strange that you, to whom I've long been known,
Should ask me why I alwaies rail at th' Town?
As a good Hound when he runs near his Prey,
With double eagerness is hard to Bay,
So when a Coxcomb doth offend my fight,
To ease my Spleen, I straight go home and write.
I love to bring Vice ill conceal'd to light.
And I have found that they that Satyr write,
Alone can season the useful with the sweet.
Should I write Songs, and to cool Shades confin'd,
Expire with Love, who hate all Woman kind!
Then in my Closet, like some fighting Sparks,
Thinking on Phillis Love upon my works!
I grant I might with bolder Muse inspir'd,
Some Hero sing worthy to be admir'd.
Our King hath Qualities might entertain,
With Noblest Subjects Waller's losty Pen.
But then you'l own no man is thought his Friend,
That doth not love the Pope and York commend.
He who his Evil Counsellors dislikes,
Say what he will still like a Traytor speaks.
Now I Dissimulation cannot bear,
Truth and good Sence my lines alike must share.
I love to call each Creature by his Name,
H—a Knave, S—an honest Man.
With equal scorn I alwaies did abhor,
The Effeminate Fops and bustling man of War.
The careful Face of Ministers of State,
I alwaies judg'd to be a downright cheat.
The smiling Courtier, and the Counsellour Grave,
I alwaies thought two different Marks of Knave.
They that talk loud, and they that draw i'th' Pit,
These want of Courage shew, those want of Wit.
Thus all the world endeavours to appear,
What they'd be thought to be, not what they are.
If any then by most unhappy choice,
Seek for content in London's crowd and noise.
Must form his words and manners to the place,
If he'll see Ladies must like Villers dress.
In a soft tone without one word of Sence,
Must talk of Dancing and the Court of France.
Must praise alike the ugly and the fair,
Buckly's good Nature, Feltons shape and Hair,
Exalt my Lady Portsmouth's Birth and Wit,
And vow she's only for a Monarch fit.
Although the fawning Coxcombs all do know,
She's lain with Be—fort and the Count de Leau.
This method with some ends of Plays,
Basely apply'd, and drest in a French Phrase
To Ladies favour, can e'ne He—t raise.
He that from Business would Preferment get,
Plung'd in the Toyls and Infamies of State.
All Sence of Honour from his Breast must drive,
And in a course of Villanies resolve to live.
Must cringe and flatter the King's Owls and Curs,
Nay worse, must be obsequious to his Wh—s.
Must alwaies seem to approve what they commend,
What they dislike, by him must be contemn'd.
And when at last by a thousand different Crimes,
The Monster to his wisht-for Greatness climbs,
He must in his continu'd greatness wait,
With Guilt and Fears, the Imprison'd D—Fate
This Road has P—and Spen—r gone,
And thus must answer for the Ills they've done.
Who then would live in so deprav'd a Town,
Where Pleasure is by Folly, Power alone
By Infamy obtain'd?—
Wise Heraclitus, all his life-time griev'd,
Democritus in endless Laughter Liv'd;
Yet to the first no fears of Plots were known,
Nor Parliaments remov'd to Popish Town,
Murthers not favour'd, Vertues not supprest,
Laws not derided, Commons not opprest.
Nor King, who Claudius like, expels his Son,
To make the Imperious Nero Prince of Rome;
Nor yet to move the others merry vane,
Did Cuckolds (who each Boy i'th' street could name)
Most learned Proof in publick daily give,
That they themselves do their own shame contrive;
While their Lewd Wives scouring from place to place,
T' expose their secret Members, hide their Face.
But Lo! how would this Sage have burst his spleen,
Had he seen Whore and Fool with merry King,
And Ministers of State at Supper sit,
Mistaking Bawdy Ribaldry for Wit;
Whilst C—s with tottering Crown and empty Purse,
(Derided by his Foes, to's Friends a Curse)
Abandon'd now by every Man of Wit,
Delights himself with any he can get.
Pimps, Fools, and Parisites, make up the Rout,
For want of Wedding Garments, none's left out.
But I shall weary both my self and you,
To tell you all the Follies that I know.
How a great Lord, in numbers soft, thought fit,
(Though void of Sense, to set up for a Wit.)
And now with wondrous Spirit, he and's Friend
An Epitaph to Cruel Cloris pen'd;
His Name (I think) I hardly need to tell,
For who should be, but the Lord Ar—l.
But should I here waste Paper to declare,
The senseless Tricks of every silly Peer,
I'd as good tell how many several ways,
The trusty Duke his Country still betrays.
How full the World is stufft with Knave and Fool,
How to be very Honest is counted dull.
How to speak plain, and greatness to despise,
Is thought a Madness, but Flattery is Wise,
Dissimulation excellent, to cheat a Friend
A very Trifle, provided still our end
Be but the Snare we call our Interest,
Then nothing is bad, but that is best;
I'le therefore end this vain Satyrick rage,
And leave the Bishops to reform the Age.
AN Historical Poem.
OF a Tall Statue, and of Sable Hue;
Much like the Son of Kish, that Lofty Jew.
Twelve years compleat he suffered in Exile,
And kept his F—thers Asses all the while.
At length by wonderfull Impulse of Fate,
The People call him Home to help the State.
And what is more, they send him Money too,
And Cloath him All, from Head to Foot, a-new.
Nor did he such small Favours then Disdain,
But in his Thirtieth year began his Reign:
In a slasht Doublet then he came ashore,
And dubb'd poor P—mer's Wife his Royal Wh—.
Bishops and Deans, Peers, Pimps, and Knights he made,
Things highly fitting for a Monarch's trade;
With Women, Wine, and Viands of Delight,
His Jolly Vassals feast him Day and Night:
But the Best Times have ever some allay,
His younger Brother dy'd by Treachery.
Bold Y—k survives to be the Nation's Curse,
Resolv'd to Ruine it by Deceit or Force.
Now the Court-Sins did every place defile,
And Plagues, and War, fell heavy on the Isle.
Pride nourisht Folly, Folly a Delight,
With the Battavian Common-wealth to fight:
But the Dutch Fleet fled suddenly with Fear,
Death and the Duke so dreadfull did appear.
The dreadfull Victor took his soft Repose,
Scorning pursuit of such Mecannick Foes.
But now Y—k's Genitals grew over-hot,
With D—ham and C—eige's infected Pot;
Which, with Religion, so inflam'd his Ire,
He left the City when 'twas got on Fire:
So Philip's Son, inflamed with a Miss,
Burnt down the Palace of Persepolis.
Foil'd thus by Venus, he Bellona woo's,
And with the Dutch a second War renews.
But here his French-bred Prowess prov'd in vain,
De Ruyter claps him in Sole's Bay again.
This Isle was well reform'd, and gain'd Renown,
Whilst the brave Tudor's wore th' Imperial Crown;
But since the Race of St—ts came,
It has recoyl'd to Popery, and Shame.
Misguided Monarchs, rarely Wise or Just;
Tainted with Pride, and with impetuous Lust.
Should we the Black-Heath Project here relate,
Or count the various Blemishes of State,
My Muse would on the Reader's Patience grate.
The poor Priapus K—led by the Nose,
Looks as a thing set up to scare the Crows;
Yet in the Mimicks of the Spinstrian sport,
Out-does Tiberius, and his Goatish Court.
In Love's Delights none did him e'er excell,
Not Tereus with his Sister Philomel.
As they at Athens, we at Dover meet,
And gentlier far the Orleans Dutchess treat.
What sad Event attended on the same,
We'll leave to the Report of Common Fame.
The Senate, which should head-strong Princes stay,
Let loose the Reins, and give the Realm away;
With lavish hands they constant Tributes give,
And Annual Stipends for their Guilt receive;
Corrupt with Gold, they Wives and Daughters bring
To the Black Idol for an Offering.
All but Religious Cheats might justly swear,
He true Vicegerent to old Molock were.
Priests were the first Deluders of Mankind,
Who with vain Faith made all their Reason blind;
Not Lucifer himself more proud than they,
And yet perswade the World they must obey;
'Gainst Avarice and Luxury complain,
And practice all the Vices they arraign.
Riches and Honour they from Lay-men reap,
And with dull Crambo feed the silly Sheep.
As Killigrew Buffoons his Master, they
Drole on their God, but a much duller way;
With Hocus Pocus, and their Heavenly slight,
They gain on tender Consciences at Night.
Who ever has an over-zealous Wife,
Becomes the Priests Amphitrio, during life.
Who would such Men Heavens Messengers believe,
Who from the Sacred Pulpit dare deceive.
Baal's wretched Curats Legerdemain'd it so,
And never durst their Tricks above-board show.
When our first Parents Paradise did grace,
The Serpent was the Cardinal of the place;
Fond Eve did for this subtil Tempter's sake,
From the Forbidden Tree the Pippin take.
His God and Lord this Preacher did betray,
To have the weaker Vessel made his Prey.
Since Death and Sin did humane Nature blot,
The chiefest Blessings Adam's Chaplain got.
Thrice wretched they, who Nature's Laws detest,
And trace the ways fantastick of a Priest;
Till native Reasons basely forc'd to yield,
And Hosts of upstart Errors gains the Field.
My Muse presum'd a little to digress,
And touch her Holy Function with my Verse.
Now to the State again she tends direct,
And does on Giant L—dale reflect.
This haughty Monster, with his ugly Claws,
First temper'd Poyson to destroy our Laws;
Declares the Councils Edicts are beyond
The most Authentick Statutes of the Land:
Sets up in Scotland A-la-mode de France;
Taxes, Excise, and Armies does advance.
This Saracen his Country's Freedom broke,
To bring upon our Necks the heavier Yoke:
This is the Savage Pimp, without dispute,
First brought his Mother for a Prostitute.
Of all the Miscreants that e'er went to Hell,
This Villain-Rampant bares away the Bell.
The Royal Evil so malignant grows,
Nothing the dire Contagion can oppose.
In our Weal-publick scarce one thing succeeds,
For one Man's weakness a whole Nation bleeds,
Ill-luck starts up, and thrives like evil weeds.
Let Cromwell's Ghost fmile with contempt to see
Old England strugling under Slavery.
His Meager Highness now has got a-stride,
Does on Britannia, as on C [...] Ride.
White-liver'd P— for his swift Jack-call,
To hunt down's Prey, and hopes to Master all.
T. C— and H— before had lost the Day;
One hang'd himself, and the other run away;
'Twas want of Wit and Courage made them fail,
But O—ne and the D—ke must needs prevail.
The D—ke now vaunts with Popish Mermydons,
Our Fleets, our Ports, our Cities, and our Towns,
Are Man'd by him, or by his Holiness,
Bold Irish Ruffians to his Court Address:
This is the Collony to plant his Knaves,
From hence he picks and culls his Murthering Braves.
Here for an Ensign, or Lieutenant's place,
They'll kill a Judge or Justice of the Peace;
At his Command Mac will do any thing,
He'll burn a City, or destroy a King.
From Tibur came th' Advice-Boat monthly home,
And brought new Lessons to the Duke from Rome.
Here with curs'd Precepts, and with Councils dire,
The godly Cheat-King (would be) did inspire;
Tells him the Holy Church demands his Aid,
Heaven had him Chieftain of Great Britain made;
Bad him be bold, all Dangers to defy,
His Brother, sneaking Heretick, should dye:
A Priest should do it, from whose sacred stroke
All England streight should fall beneath his Yoke.
God did Renounce him, and his Cause disown,
And in his stead had plac'd him on his Throne.
From Saul the Land of Promise thus was rent,
And Jess's Son plac'd in the Government:
The Holy Scripture vindicates his Cause,
And Monarchs are above all humane Laws.
Thus said the Scarlet Whore to her Gallant,
Who streight design'd his Brother to supplant:
Fiends of Ambition here his Soul possest,
And wish't of Empire Calentur'd his Breast.
Hence Ruine and Destruction had ensu'd,
And all the People bin in Blood imbru'd,
Had not Almighty Providence drawn near,
And stopt his Malice in its full career.
Be wise you Sons of Men, tempt God no more,
To give you Kings in's wrath to vex you sore:
If a King's Brother can such Mischiefs bring,
Then how much greater Mischiefs such a King,
The RABBLE. 1680.
THE Rabble hates, the Gentry fear,
And Wise men want support:
A rising Country threatens, There;
And Here, a starving Court.
Not for the Nation, but the Fair,
Our Treasury provides;
Bu—ly's Go—in's only care,
As M—ton is H—de's.
R—ly too late will understand,
What now he shuns to find;
That nothing's quiet in the Land,
Except his careless Mind.
England is now 'twixt Thee and Y—k,
The Fable of the Frog:
He is the fierce devouring Stork;
And Thou, the lumpish Log.
The Fourth SATYR of BOILEAU, To Mr. W. R. Jan. 1687.
BElieve me, Will, that those who have least sence,
Think they to Wisdom have the sole Pretence;
And that those Wretches who in Bedlam are,
Deserve it less, than those who put 'em there.
The haughty Pedant, swoln with the frothy Name
Of a learn'd Man, big with his Classick Fame,
A thousand Books, read o'er and o'er again,
Does word for word most perfectly retain,
Heap'd in the Lumber-Office of his Brain;
Yet this cramm'd Skull, this indigested Mass,
Does very often prove an arrant Ass:
Believes all Knowledge is to Books confin'd,
That Reading only can inform the Mind;
That Sence must err, and Reason ramble wide,
If Sacred Aristotle be'nt their Guide.
While, on the other hand, a Fluttering thing,
With a full Roll, and three-pil'd Cravat string;
Whose Life's a Visit, who alone takes care
To say fine Things, write Songs, and Court the Fair;
Laughs at the musty Precepts of the School,
Calls the learn'd Writer an Authentick Fool;
Swears, that all Learning is a thing unfit,
A well-bred Person, or a Man of Wit;
Names proper only to the Sparks o'th' Town,
And Damns the Scholar to his Colledge-Gown.
The fierce Bigot, who vainly do's believe,
His Bant'ring Zeal can Heav'n it self deceive;
With Saint-like Looks the Blear-ey'd Croud do's blind,
And the Tilt-Villain damns all Humane kind.
While the Wild Libertine, that Beast of Prey,
Who bears down all that stops him in his way;
Ranges o'er all, and takes his Savage fill
In the wide Forest of a boundless Will:
Swears, that Heav'ns Joys, and Hells Eternal pain,
Are the sick Dreams of a distemper'd Brain;
Tales fit for Children; a meer holy Test,
To starve the People, and to glut the Priest.
The sharpest Saty'rist, with Poetick Rage,
Strives to reform the Vices of the Age;
Laughs at the Fools, and at the Villain rails;
Yet Folly thrives, and Villany prevails:
While the crack'd Skull shows all that has been said,
Leaves marks on nothing, but the Poet's head;
For partial Man, try'd by himself alone,
Protesting every Sentence but his own;
Severe to all Men, to himself too kind;
Sees others Faults, but to his own is blind.
The sordid Miser, a meer lump of Clay,
Form'd into Man, e'er from its gross allay
It was refin'd by the Souls heav'nly Ray;
Whose thirst of Wealth increases with his store,
And to spend less, still covets to have more;
Who, Midas-like, to feed his Avarice,
Starves in th' enjoyment of a golden Wish:
Thinks himself Wise, boasts of being Provident,
And down-right Scraping, calls good Management.
The Love of Wealth, is Madness; and I hate
The very Trouble of a great Estate:
'Tis perfect Dirt, cries the vain Prodigal,
Mad till it's gone; and, when he has spent all,
The Begger'd Fool, calls himself Liberal.
Now weigh 'em both, and tell me, if you can,
Which of the Two seems the most Prudent Man:
The Gamester swears, both shou'd in Bedlam be,
That Fortune-monger, maddest of the Three,
Whose Life, whose Soul, whose very Heav'n is Play,
At which the Bubble throws 'em all away:
Who every moment waits his Destiny,
From the uncertain running of a Dye;
And if he chance to lose, then how he stares!
Then how the Fury, with his frisled hairs,
Curses his Fate! Earth, Hell, and Heav'n defies,
And, with Oaths, heap'd on Oaths, he storms the Skies.
I cou'd name Thousands more; but to draw all
The shapes of this false Reas'ning Animal,
Wou'd be as hard, as to count all that dye
Each Spring and Fall, by Lower, and Mercury:
Or say, how oft the Impatient Heir, to have
The Old man's Wealth, has wish'd him in his Grave:
A drudgery so great, my Pen declines,
Content to sum up all in these four Lines.
Greece boasts seven Sages, but the Story lyes;
For the whole World ne'er saw one truely Wise:
All Men are mad; and the sole difference
Lyes in the more, or the less want of Sence.
A LETANY for the Fifth of November, 1684.
FRom all Popish Treasons, and the Gun-powder Plot,
From a Perjur'd French Tyrant, out-done by a S—
And from a Progeny whose Coats are distinguisht by blot,
Libera, &c.
From a Popish Head o'er a Protestant People,
From breaking of Leagues either double or Tripple,
From destroying the Church, and adoring the Steeple,
Libera, &c.
From new Corporations, with expedient Charters,
From Gates dress'd up with Old Royalists Quarters,
From Omers Plot expiate by Abchurch-Lane Martyrs,
Libera, &c.
From a Justice that Statute-Law over-rules,
From Juries compounded of Knaves and Fools,
And from Mercenary Evidence Tools,
Libera, &c.
From broken Scotch Covenants, and Sham Declarations,
From Loyala's fatal insinuations,
And from such as again would blow up Three Nations,
Libera, &c.
A Short LETANY,
To the Tune of Cook-Laurel.
FRom an old Inquisition, and new Declaration,
From Freedom of Conscience, and Whig-Toleration,
'Gainst Conscience imposing upon the whole Nation,
For ever good Heaven deliver me.
From Knaves wou'd set up a Dispensative Power,
To pull down the Test unto which we have swore,
By Imposing a greater than any before,
For ever, &c.
From the Court's Triumvirate's Council in vain,
The Father Confessor, that Cheater of Men,
The Hypocrite Lobb, and that Jesuit Pen,
For ever, &c.
From losing the Sett in a Passion and Flame,
By taking Seven Men up, and hoping the same,
To recover by playing an after-back Game,
For ever, &c.
From a Schismatick State, and a Catholick Court,
From packing a Jury in hopes to be for't,
From shopping the Bishops, the Church to support,
For ever, &c.
From Puritans malice, and Jesuits spite,
From showing our Teeth, without power to bite,
Against our own Conscience from doing of right,
For ever, &c.
From making a Pannel the Prelates to blast,
In hopes with St. Peter their Lordships to cast,
And finding it all Ignoramus at last.
For ever, &c.
An ESSAY upon SATYR: By J. Dr—en, Esquire.
HOW dull, and how insensible a Beast
Is Man, who yet would Lord it o'er the rest:
Philosophers and Poets vainly strove
In every Age the lumpish Mass to move;
But those were Pedants, when compar'd with these,
Who know not only to instruct, but please.
Poets alone found the delightfull way,
Mysterious Morals gently to convey▪
In charming Numbers; so that as Men grow
Pleas'd with their Poems, they grew wiser too.
Satyr has always shone among the rest,
And is the boldest way, if not the best,
To tell Men freely of their foulest faults,
To laugh at their vain Deeds, and vainer Thoughts.
In Satyr too the Wise took different ways,
To each deserving its peculiar praise.
Some did all Folly with just sharpness blame,
Whilst others laugh'd and scorn'd them into shame.
But of these two, the last succeeded best,
(As Men aim rightest when they shoot in jest:)
Yet if we may presume to blame our Guides,
And Censure those who Censure all besides.
In other things they justly are preferr'd,
In this alone me-thinks the Ancients err'd;
Against the grossest Follies they disclaim,
Hard they pursue, but hunt ignoble Game.
Nothing is easier than such blots to hit,
And 'tis the Talent of each vulgar Wit;
Besides, 'tis labour lost; for who would preach
Morals to Armstrong, or dull Aston teach;
'Tis being devout at Play, wise at a Ball,
Or bringing Wit and Friendship to White-hall;
But with sharp Eyes those nicer faults to find,
Which lye obscurely in the wisest Mind;
That little speck, which all the rust does spoil▪
To wash off that would be a noble toil▪
Beyond the loose-writ Libels of this Age,
Or the forc'd Scenes of our declining Stage;
Above all Censure too, each little Wit
Will be so glad to see the greater hit:
Who judging better, though concern'd the most,
Of such Correction will have cause to boast.
In such a Satyr all would seek a share,
And every Fool will fancy he is there.
Old Story-tellers too must pine and dye,
To see their Antiquated Wit laid by;
Like her who miss'd her Name in a Lampoon,
And grieve to find her self decay'd so soon;
No common Coxcomb must be mention'd here,
Not the dull train of dancing Sparks appear;
Nor fluttering Officers, who never fight;
Of such a wretched Rabble who would write;
Much less half Wits, that's more against our Rules;
For they are Fops, the other are but Fools.
Who would not be as silly as Dunbarr?
As dull as Monmouth, rather than Sir Carr.
The cunning Courtier should be slighted too,
Who with dull Knavery makes so much adoe;
Till the shrew'd Fool, by thriving too too fast,
Like Aesop's Fox, becomes a prey at last▪
Nor shall the Royal Mistresses be nam'd,
Too ugly, or too easie to be blam'd;
With whom each rhyming Fool keeps such a pother,
They are as common that way as the other▪
Yet Santering Ch—s between his beastly Brace,
Meets with dissembling still in either place,
Affected Humour, or a painted Face.
In Loyal Libels we have often told him,
How one has Gilted him, the other Sold him.
How that affects to laugh, how this to weep;
But who can Rail so long as he can Sleep?
Was ever Prince by two at once mis-led,
False, foolish, old, ill-natur'd, and ill-bred?
Earnely and Aylesbury, with all that race
Of busie Block-heads shall have here no place;
At Council set as foils on D—'s score,
To make that great false Jewel shine the more;
Who all that while was thought exceeding wise,
Only for taking pains, and telling lyes.
But there's no medling with such nauseous Men,
Their very Names have tyr'd my lazy Pen;
'Tis time to quit their company, and chuse
Some fitter subject for a sharper Muse.
First, let's behold the merriest Man alive,
Against his careless Genius▪ vainly strive;
Quit his dear Ease, some deep design to lay,
'Gainst a set-time, and then forget the day:
Yet he will laugh at his best friends, and be
Just as good Company as Nokes and Lee.
But when he aims at Reason, or at Rule,
He turns himself the best in ridicule.
Let him at business ne'er so earnest sit,
Shew him but Mirth, and bait that Mirth with Wit;
That shaddow of a Jest shall be enjoy'd,
Though he left all Mankind to be destroy'd:
So▪ Cat transform'd, sat gravely and demure,
Till Mouse appear'd, and thought himself secure;
But soon the Lady had him in her eye,
And from her friend did just as odly fly;
Reaching above our Nature, does no good,
We must fall back to our old flesh and blood.
As by our little Matchiavel we find
(That nimblest Creature of the busie kind)
His Limbs are crippled, and his Body shakes,
Yet his hard Mind, which all this bustle makes,
No pity of its poor Companion takes.
What Gravity can hold from laughing out,
To see that drag his feeble Legs about;
Like Hounds ill coupled, Jowler lugs him still
Through Hedges, Ditches, and through all that's ill:
'Twere Crime in any Man but him alone,
To use a Body so, though 'tis ones own:
Yet this false comfort never gives him o're,
That whilst he creeps his vigorous thoughts can soar;
Alas, that soaring to those few that know;
Is but a busie groveling here below.
So men in rapture think they mount the Sky,
Whilst on the ground th' intransed Wretches lye;
So modern Fops have fancied they could fly:
Whilst 'tis their Heads alone are in the Air,
And for the most part building Castles there;
As the new Earl with parts deserving praise,
And with enough to laugh at his own ways;
Yet loses all soft days and sensual nights,
Kind Nature checks, and kinder Fortune slights;
Striving against his quiet all he can,
For the fine Notion of a busie Man;
And what is that at best, but one whose mind,
Is made to tire himself and all mankind;
For Ireland he would go, faith let him reign,
For if some odd fantastick Lord would fain
Carry in Trunks, and all my drudgery do,
I'll not only pay him but admire him too;
But is there any other Beast that lives,
Who his own harm so wittily contrives?
Will any Dog that has his Teeth and Stones,
Refin'dly leave his Bitches and his Bones?
To turn a wheel, and bark to be employ'd,
While Venus is by rival Dogs enjoy'd;
Yet this fond Man to get a Statesman's Name,
Forfeits his Friends, his Freedom and his Fame.
Though Satyr nicely writ no humour strings,
But these who merit praise in other things;
Yet we must needs this one exception make,
And break our rules for folly Tropos sake;
Who was too much despis'd to be accus'd,
And therefore scarce deserves to be abus'd;
Rais'd only by his mercenary Tongue,
From railing smoothly, and from reasoning wrong:
As Boys on Holy-days let loose to play,
Lay waggish Traps for girls that pass that way;
Then shout to see in dirt and deep distress,
Some silly Cit in flowr'd foolish Dress;
So have I mighty satisfaction found,
To see his tinsel reason on the Ground:
To see the florid Fool despis'd (and know it)
By some who scarce have words enough to show it;
(For sence sits silent, and condemns for weaker,
The finer; nay, sometimes the wittiest Speaker)
But 'tis prodigious so much Eloquence,
Should be acquired by such a little Sence;
For words and wit do antiently agree,
And Tully was no Fool though this man be:
At Bar abusive, in the Bench unable,
Knave on the Woolsack, Fop at Councel Table;
These are the Grievances of such Fools as wou'd,
Be rather wise than honest, great than good.
Some other kind of wits must be made known,
Whose harmless Errours hurt their selves alone;
Excess of Luxury they think can please,
And laziness call loving of their ease;
To live dissolv'd in pleasures still they feign,
Though their whole Lifes but intermitting pain;
So much of Surfeits, Head-Aches, Claps are seen,
We scarce perceive the little time between;
Well-meaning men who make this gross mistake,
And pleasure lose only for pleasures sake;
Each pleasure has its price, and when we pay,
Too much of pain we squander life away.
Thus D—t purring like a thoughtful Cat,
Married but wiser, puss near thought of that:
And first he worried her with railing rhime,
Like Pembrook's Mastives at his kindest time;
Then for one night sold all his slavish Life,
A teeming Widow but a barren Wife;
Suckl'd by contract of such a fulsome toad,
He lugg'd about the matrimonial load;
Till fortune blindly kind as well as she,
Has ill restor'd him to his liberty;
Which he would use in all his sneaking way,
Drinking all night, and dozing all the day;
Dull as Ned Howard, whom his brisker Times,
Had fam'd for dulness in malicious Rhimes;
Mul—ve had much ado to scape the snare,
Though learn'd in those ill Arts that cheat the fair:
For after all his vulgar Marriage mocks,
With beauty dazled Numps was in the stocks;
Deluding Parents dry'd their weeping Eyes,
To see him catch his Tartar for his Prize;
Th' impatient Town waited the wisht for change,
And Cuckolds smil'd in hopes of sweet revenge;
Till Petworth Plot made us with sorrow see;
As his Estate his Person too was free:
Him no soft thoughts; no gratitude could move,
To Gold he fled from Beauty and from Love;
Yet failing there he keeps his freedom still,
Forc'd to live happily against his will:
'Tis not his fault if too much wealth and power,
Break not his boasted quiet every hour.
And little Sid—y for Simile renown'd,
Pleasures has always sought but never found:
Though all his thoughts on Wine and Women fall,
His are so bad sure he ne're thinks at all.
The flesh he lives upon is rank and strong,
His meat and mistresses are kept too long;
But sure we all mistake this Pious man,
Who mortifies his Person all he can:
What we uncharitably take for sin,
Are only rules of this old Capuchin,
For never Hermit under grave pretence,
Has liv'd more contrary to common sense;
And 'tis a miracle we may suppose,
No nastiness offends his skilful Nose;
Which from all stink can with peculiar Art,
Extract Persume, and Essence, from a F—t;
Expecting supper is his great delight,
He toils all day but to be drunk at night:
Then o're his Cups this night-bird chirping sits,
Till he takes Hewet, and Jack Hall for wits.
Roches—r I despise for his meer want of wit,
Though thought to have a Tail and Cloven Feet;
For whi [...] he mischief means to all mankind,
Himself alone the ill effects does find;
And so like Witches justly suffers shame,
Whose harmless malice is so much the same;
False are his words, affected is his wit,
So often he does aim, so seldom hit;
To every face he cringes while he speaks,
But when the Back is turn'd the head he breaks;
Mean in each Action, lewd in every Limb,
Manners themselves are mischievous in him:
A proof that chance alone makes every Creature,
A very Killing—w without good Nature;
For what a Bessus has he always liv'd,
And his own Kickings notably contriv'd:
For (there's the folly that's still mixt with fear)
Cowards more blows than any Heroe bear;
Of fighting sparks some may her pleasures say,
But 'tis a bolder thing to run away:
The World may well forgive him all his ill,
For ev'ry fault does prove his penance still;
Falsly he falls into some dangerous Noose,
And then as meanly labours to get loose;
A life so infamous is better quitting,
Spent in base injury and low submitting:
I'd like to have left out his Poetry;
Forgot by all almost as well as me.
Sometimes he has some humour, never wit,
And if it rarely, very rarely hit:
'Tis under so much nasty rubbish laid,
To find it out's the Cinder-womans trade;
Who for the wretched remnants of a fire,
Must toil all day in ashes and in mire;
So lewdly dull his idle works appear,
The wretched Texts deserve no Comments here;
Where one poor thought sometimes left all alone,
For a whole page of dulness to attone:
'Mongst forty bad, one tolerable line,
Without expression, fancy, or design.
How vain a thing is man, and how unwise,
Even he who would himself despise;
I who wise and humble seem to be,
Now my own Vanity and Pride can't see.
While the World's nonsence is so sharply shown,
We pull down others, but to raise our own;
That we may Angels seem we paint them Elves,
And are but Satyrs to set up our selves.
I who have all this while b [...]en finding fault,
Even with my Master, who first Satyr taught;
And did by that describe the task so hard,
It seems stupendious, and above reward.
Now labour with unequal force to climb
That lofty Hill, unreacht by former time:
'Tis just that I should to the bottom fall,
Learn to write well, or not to write at all.
The CITY-BALLAD. 168 [...]
PRepare now you Cits, your Charter to lose,
You're catcht in a Noose
That is laid;
You're betray'd, you're betray'd,
By those Lords you adored;
Your Sons shall be sold, and your Daughters be whored;
Your Wives turn'd to Bawds: who is that will pity
Such hungry Baboons, who have eat up a City.
Now open your Eyes,
See your Prentices rise,
Your Wives, and your Daughters obey;
For the Bucks which they eat,
Were provocative Meat,
For a Brace more their God they'll betray.
Hang Ruling by Law,
'Tis as weak as a Straw,
When the Sword its sharp point shall advance;
Then off with your Coats,
And put on your Boots,
For England is Modell'd by France.
A Catholick Prince,
With an Oath can dispence,
When ever his Measures shall alter;
Your Shrieves and Lord May'r,
Shall each have a share;
Of a Sanctify'd Popish Ha [...]ter.
Hark! hark! the time's come,
Sound Trumpet and Drum;
Do you wonder?
'Tis the Guards wh [...] doe wait
At the base City-Gate,
And want but the Word for to Plunder.
FINIS.