A SATYR Against the FRENCH.
—Dent ocius omnes, Quas meruere pati (sic stat sententia) poenas.
LICENS'D,
December 6. 1690.
LONDON Printed, and are to be Sold by Randal Taylor, near Stationers-Hall. 1691.
The Epistle Dedicatory to the Admirers of the FRENCH.
SINCE the Sale of Paintings by Auction is grown so fashionable, I thought the Picture of a Frenchman might be no unacceptable Curiosity to some Persons. It is an Original, I assure you, and drawn as near to the Life as a Limner could take the Features of one dancing the Rigadoon; for, the French, like the Sea, are perpetually in Motion.
When the Sword is drawn, 'tis not fit the Pen should lie Idle; the tenderest hand on board a Vessel, must lend its assistance in case of a Leak, and I think it the Duty of every Man to arm against the Common Enemy.
It is not unknown by what Arts the [Page] French have gain'd so great a Reputation in England; with the Gentlemen they can Insinuate, and Flatter the Ladies better than the thick Skull'd English; for, were there a Court consisting of but one single Person of each Country in the Ʋniverse, the French Man would stand the fairest Candidate for the Office of Master of the Ceremonies.
Oh the Vertues of Shrug and Grimace, and the Charms of loud Laughter! Clark, the Posture-master, never knew half so many Distortions of Body, as they do; only the difference is this, his he acquired by Labour, and theirs is Natural to 'em.
An honest blunt Freedom of Speech and Carriage, has by our modern Acceptation, so much of the Clown in it, that Irish breeding has not more; but to be tickled to Death with Complements, is certainly the finest way of dying that can be.
By these various Arts of Flattery, the French are grown into Esteem: And, I am the rather confirm'd in the Truth of my Opinion, because I heard a Woman of Quality once say, — That an ordinary French Footman had more Breeding and Civility, than an English Gentleman.
He who can calmly hear his own Countrymen so vilified, without some Emotion, deserves better to be toss'd in a Blanket, than the Mayor of Scarbrough. For, with Asper, in a Play of Ben Johnson's, it becomes every English Man to say,
Who can behold such Prodigies as these,
And have his Lips seal'd up? Not I. My Soul
Was never ground into such Oily Colours,
To Flatter Vice, and Daub Iniquity.
But with an armed and resolved Hand,
I'll strip the ragged Follies of the Times
Naked, as at their Birth. —
I profess, the Design of this Paper is only to give a right Idea of the French Humour. What is Generous and Noble in them, I honour; but am something mortified, to see Quality doat upon a Dressing, Cringing, Complementing Monfieur; yet I am so Charitable, as to believe some esteem them as People do Merry Andrews, because they excite Laughter; or, by a Rule of Contraries, love them as Ladies do Shock-Dogs, for their Ʋgliness.
A SATYR Against the FRENCH.
HOW bold's the Man, who dares attempt to write
'Gainst any thing that Charms the Appetite?
Who dares affirm, that Oysters are not Fish?
Or that Fry'd Frogs make not a dainty Dish?
Who dares find fault with any Lap-dogs Features?
Or say that Monkeys are not pretty Creatures?
He that against the Tide of Custom rows,
Will find the Waves afford him sawcy blows.
A Bishop once was made a Sacrifice,
For writing that there were Antipodes.
I never yet could Flatter, nor did e'er
Write Odes in Praise of bright Clarinda's Hair:
In Songs of Love I never yet had Skill;
My Muse is blunt, and rugged like my Quill.
Speak then, thou Solace of my vacant Hours,
Speak, Satyr, quickly, what shall we Discourse?
The Town has been already lash'd enough;
The Town, alas, is now grown Satyr-proof:
The noisie Fop, startch'd Cit, and jilting Whore,
Are Subjects have been handled o'er and o'er.
The Arts of Priestcraft, and the Tricks of State,
Did for the angry Muse, large Themes create;
No sort of Mankind having found the Skill,
To Ward the Blows intended by the Quill.
What if some common Grievance, known to all,
Should under thy Poetick Fury fall?
Those who are now the Plagues of Christendom,
And scatter Mischief wheresoe'er they come;
Whom angry Nature seem'd to have design'd
To be the common Pest of Humane Kind;
The noisie, empty, fluttring French I mean,
Who should have justly our Aversion been;
Whom yet we fondly Cherish and Embrace,
Pleas'd with their modish Shrugs, and damn'd Grimace.
These Apes, these Echo's, and these shews of Men,
Shall be the present Subject of my Pen.
But hold — e'er my Intentions I pursue,
Methinks I hear a Voice, cry — Gardez vous,
Begar me quickly make you shange your Note,
You write 'gainst me, Begar me cut your Troat.
Pardon me, Monsieur, whosoe'er thou art,
I at no private Person throw my Dart:
This anger on no single Head does fall,
My Bombs are thrown promiscuously at all.
If what I say can no Belief create,
But you're the very Person pointed at;
And when I paint a Fop to some degree,
Cry out, this Character intended me;
Believe so still, and in your thoughts fret on,
You give your self the Wounds, I meant you none.
If all be true, that common Fame does Tattle,
Of the most famous Stag'rite Aristotle;
Who did himself into the Ocean throw,
Because its Flux and Ebb he could not know;
He would have much more puzled been to find,
The various Motions of a French Man's mind:
So fickle, that he thinks of nothing twice;
All Rage and Fury now, and in a trice
The Scene is chang'd, and he that just before
Confusion and Revenge in Passion swore,
Now is all tender, and his whole Discourse
Is of Intrigue, Appointments and Amours;
Honour and Love, those Darlings of his Breast,
So struggle and afford so little rest;
That, like Prince Volscius in a modern Play,
He every minute inwardly does say,
Shall I to Honour; or to Love give way?
Go on, crys Honour, tender Love says, Nay:
Honour aloud commands, Pluck both Boots on;
But softer Love does whisper, Put on none.
Thus roving and unconstant is his Thought,
Which when into the shape of Words is brought;
So quick they tumble from his opening Mouth,
They one another bruise in coming forth:
Not scolding Bawds, nor Gossips when they prate,
Nor all the female Tribe of Billinsgate;
Women at Christnings, Fairs, or in a Croud,
Can e'er be half so clamorous and loud,
As half a dozen French Men when they meet:
Their Tongues not only wag, but Hands and Feet.
Each part about them seems to move and walk;
Their Eyes, their Noses; nay, their Fingers talk.
So very quick they speak, that one almost
Would swear perpetual Motion were not lost.
But when a greater number meet together,
To talk of News, of Fashions, or the Weather,
With such a noise they fill each others Ears;
Like Dover Court—all speak, and no Man hears,
Their various Arts of Dress we next survey,
In which they bear so very great a sway:
All Europe to their Fashions bends the Knee,
In that they 've gain'd the Ʋniversal Monarchy.
Oh Custom, Custom! how dost thou prevail?
Make us neglect the Head, but dress the Tail.
Their Modes so strangely alter humane Shape,
What Nature made a Man, they make an Ape.
The Faults of hers which they pretend to cure,
Burlesque God's Image with their Garniture.
'Tis to that Foppish Nation that we owe
Those antick Dresses that Equip a Beau:
So many sorts of Rigging dress the Elf,
Himself sometimes does hardly know himself.
What Habit's thought too costly, what too dear,
To make a Man appear en Chavalier?
All the fantastick Arts of Dress we know
Did first from France, that impure Fountain, flow.
They taught our Sparks to strut in Pantaloons,
And look as fiercely as the French Dragoons:
They made 'em cut off Ornamental Hair,
A damn'd long cherdreux Periwig to wear.
For which the Wearer is respected more
Than for grey Hairs and baldness heretofore.
A Dress thought Ominous in former Time,
Till a French Patent authoriz'd the Crime.
No Gloves but those from Blois will fit our Hand,
Our English Kid we cannot understand:
Our Home-made Lace we do not think is fine,
We doat upon French Point and Colbertine,
The richest Silks we with regret put on,
If made by skilful Artists of our own:
The various Choice we value not a Farthing,
Of Pater-noster-Row and Convent Garden.
But to a tawdry Stuff in Paris made,
Such store of Praise, and Moneys often paid;
Not richest Purple from the Tycian Shore,
Nor Robes from Persia are esteemed more:
Nay, we are grown so arrogantly vain,
Our Stockings must be Mill'd, our Shooes Campaign.
The Ladies too are much oblig'd to France,
For all their Modes and Fashions come from thence.
If at the Court of France a Tawdry Whore,
(Of Quality I mean) has something wore;
Though never so ridiculously odd,
Her putting of it on creates the Mode;
And by next Post 'tis known at our Exchange.
Top-knots were first invented by Frontange.
The Ribband which is call'd the Maintanon,
Was by an old French Mistrefs thought upon;
The Looking-glasses, Essences, Perfumes,
Patches, Paints, Washes, Ornaments for Rooms;
And all those Trinkets which the Ladies prize,
If not from France as Trifles they despise.
Yet stay awhile, my overhasty Muse,
Whiles French you blame, the English you accuse:
And while you would expose th'Original,
You too severely on the Copy fall.
'Tis so—and who the Method discommends?
Shooting at Foes I chance to hit my Friends.
But ah so like to Enemies they seem;
No wonder that my Satyr aim'd at them.
Yet th'English (justly hope) we may reclaim,
But French, past Grace, are likewise void of Shame.
'Twas once (I think) a Question in the Schools,
Whether that Women were indu'd with Souls?
That Query once may be reviv'd again,
For he who shall observe the numerous Train
Of French, who daily for Preferment wait,
Crouding like Bees before his Lordship's Gate:
How tamely patient, slavishly servile
They mind each Nod, and fawn at every smile,
Must think that Nature by some other Art
Supply'd the want of that immortal Part.
To basest Offices they'll condescend,
To make the meanest Courtier be their Friend,
And can outwatch a Pimp to gain their End.
If they but wriggle in his Lordship's Ear,
Their Project gain'd, they learn to domineer:
For none so vainly haughty, proudly brave,
As who before Preferment was a Slave.
Their abject Souls no moderation know;
Preferr'd they swell, in Misery they bow;
They're always else too high, or else too low.
Their levity of Mind is such, that none,
Came ever near 'em in comparison,
Frisking they gaze on every Face they meet,
And dance a Galliard when they walk the Street.
If any serious thinking seize their Mind,
A Violin will chase away the Fiend.
For Persons bit by the Tarantula,
Cannot be half so frolicksom as they.
They never yet could time for thinking find,
They never look before, nor yet behind:
If but this moment they with Ease are blest,
Let over-ruling Fate secure the rest.
Such Slaves they are to Arbitrary Power
(Which like a sweeping Plague does all devour)
That let their Prince command their whole Estate,
Their Persons, Lands, Wives, Children, and what not,
They tamely passive, quietly submit,
And part with what by Nature was their Right.
They'd rather live in Want and Slavery,
Then make one bold Attempt for Liberty.
Like Hebrew Servants when their Ears were bor'd,
They then for ever were to serve their Lord.
Oh France! how feebly happy is thy State?
What daily Blessings on thy Country wait?
Thy King with all those noble Vertues blest,
Which ever yet adorn'd a Tyrants Breast:
One, who against all the World has drawn his Sword,
And thinks it Childish for to keep his Word:
That treats his Subjects worse than they their Dogs;
He, like to Aesop's Stork, and they the Frogs.
The Bully of Mankind, all Europe's Rod;
The worst of Tyrants, and the Scourge of God:
Thy Nobles beggar'd both in Mind and Purse,
Thy Clergy Blockheads, and thy Laymen worse:
Thy Country ruin'd, destitute of Treasure,
And all to please a haughty Tyrant's Pleasure.
Who but his Will, no other Law does know;
It shall be thus, because he'll have it so.
His Subjects ruin'd, and by Wrongs opprest,
To different Countries fly to seek for rest.
Some Thousands to our Island find their Way.
Ah! had they sailed to America!
On all our Shores our Charity reliev'd 'em,
And as our suffering Brethren we receiv'd 'em.
But as the Snake benumb'd with Winter's cold,
Made warm by heat grows impudently bold;
And at that bosom darts his pointed Sting,
Which did him to his former Vigour bring.
So they returns of Gratitude have made,
By undermining of our Nations Trade:
So cheap they Work, as if they were design'd,
Chameleon like, to feed upon the Wind.
They live upon such Course and Homely Fare,
As if they Hermits of the Mountains were.
A Pound of Bacon and a Bunch of Leeks
Will serve a French Man's Family some Weeks:
But when they would Regale and dine in State,
Cow-heels and Onions does effect the feat.
Our English Artists cannot live so mean,
Nor think a wild-fill'd Table is a Sin;
Yet they must sell as cheap as Monsieur does,
Or beg or starve, which they will please to chuse.
Hard Fate, that Fugitives should have the Rule,
And to the French the English go to School,
To learn the Arts of Thrift, which is no more,
To be content though Indigent and Poor.
Mistake me not, I do not Vertue blame,
Nor on Content affix an odious Name;
But yet in them it seems to be a Vice,
They grovling lie, because they dare not rise.
Ambition is a Vertue duely us'd;
It then becomes a Vice when 'tis abus'd.
Their Ancestors they say were Slaves before 'em,
And they'll be so, because their Mother bore 'em.
If from small things to greater we ascend,
When did we ever find of France a Friend?
When we our ancient Histories turn o'er,
And ask our Fathers what was done before;
They'll tell us of their cursed Breach of Leagues,
State Artifice and Politick Intrigues.
But if to nearer Times we make approach,
When in our late Engagements with the Dutch;
Their promis'd Friendship greedily we sought,
And they their Squadrons on the Ocean brought,
When Dutch and English were engag'd in view,
They tack'd about and modestly withdrew,
Standing at distance to observe the Fight,
And not advance to help us when they might.
It was by their Advice the War begun,
And when engag'd, 'twas they who set us on,
And cry'd Halloo — much pleas'd to think how far
Their Interest gain'd by that Unnat'ral War.
How fatal since has all their Friendship been,
The sad Effects of which who has not seen?
The English Court in Luxury and Eafe,
They by new Projects and Inventions please;
Debauch'd with Idleness, and with Plenty drunk,
We sent our Guinneas, and they sent us Punck.
Oh Po—th, Po—th, first of all thy Trade,
Hadst thou at Nurse been starv'd or over-laid;
With Reverence to thy once admir'd Bum,
Half of those Ills we felt had never come:
Thy Triumphs no mean Presents must adorn,
A Thousand Guinneas every Monday Morn,
Bow'd to the Magick of thy Charming Face,
Our own, thy Sex's, and the World's Disgrace.
With thee there did a num'rous Train resort;
The French, those Frogs and Locusts of the Court.
The Plague of Lice in Aegypt made no stay,
Moses but wav'd his Wand — they went away:
But yet those Vermine of the Gallick Shore,
The more they are suppress'd, increase the more.
We shortly must our Native Speech forget,
And every Man appear a French Coquett.
Upon the Tongue our English sounds not well,
But — O Monsieur la langue Francoise est belle.
Their Language (say they) has such pretty Airs,
And ours is Gothick, if compar'd with theirs.
The French by Arts of smooth insinuation
Are now become the Darlings of the Nation;
That Gentleman does much himself forget,
Who in his Chamber has not French Vallet:
The English are all Clowns without pretence,
But Monsieur Dresses a La-Negligence;
Careens a Wig with so divine a Grace,
What Lady can withstand a well-drest Face?
For English Blockheads are in Dress so Course,
They're fit for nothing but to rub a Horse.
She must be thought ill-manner'd or ill-bred
Whose Woman, Confident, or Chambermaid.
Did not in France suck in her first-breath'd Air,
Or did not gain her Education there.
Our Cooks in dressing have no Skill at all,
They're only fit to serve an Hospital,
Or to prepare a Dinner for a Camp;
The French are only of the modish Stamp.
There was a time, the jolly English Board
Was with plain drest, but various plenty stor'd;
But ah! that Custom's vanish'd, and supply'd
With Dishes which few Mankind knew beside;
With Soops and Fricasies, Ragou's, Pottage,
Which, like to Spurs, do Nature urge to Rage,
Provoke the Blood, which gently boil'd before,
So to ferment, as ready to run o'er.
Their poignant Sauces do old Age prevent,
And we are poison'd with our own Consent.
Nay, a French Boy, all Confidence, no Beard,
Before an English Stripling is preferr'd,
To be Supporter of my Lady's Train.
When shall we from Stupidity refrain?
To Solomon, tho' Apes and Peacocks came,
The Gold of Ophir too was sent with them.
But all the Lading which the French bring o'er
Are of all Complements a numerous store.
A sort of Speech so fashionable grown,
Who knows it not is reckon'd as a Clown:
A Gally with her Fifty Oars a side
Won't hold my humble Slaves who take a Pride
In the small space of two reputed Hours,
Meeting or Parting, or in mix'd Discourse,
Who loudly all protest, Oh, Sir, I'm your's.
'Twas from the French we learn'd the noble Art,
To make the Tongue to contradict the Heart.
One tells me he's my Servant to command,
Who the same moment wishes I were hang'd.
Another hopes to see me in my Grave,
Yet swears he is my most obedient Slave.
Plain-Dealing, whither, whither art thou fled?
If on some distant Shore thou hidst thy Head,
We in Exchange will all the Monsieurs send,
That we may so redeem our absent Friend.
'Tis not enough it seems we rev'rence shew
To our French Masters mimick, all they do,
But we must fansie their Diseases too.
He an accomplish'd Person cannot be,
Who knows not what it is to have chaud pisse.
Cordee and Shankers, and the painful Node
Are, be our Spark's reputed Alamode.
More Noble they esteem venereal Scars,
Than Wounds receiv'd in honourable Wars.
He to Gentility but vainly climbs,
Unless he has been Clapp'd a dozen Times:
And fallen Nose enobles a Man more
Than all those Arms which his Fore-fathers wore.
Forgive, Dear Countrymen, my Satyrs Rage;
But who does such a pow'rful Foe engage,
Must not with them alone commence a War,
But let no pity the Confederates spare;
Yet Quarter will to no one be deny'd,
If he in time forsakes the other side.
A Friend's Reproof we kindly should receive,
And not the Giver as our Foe believe.
As Surgeons, finding Lenitives prove vain,
Apply sharp Causticks to the growing Pain.
But now methinks I see a Youth advance,
Ready prepar'd to make the Tour of France.
Travel, 'tmust be confest without controul,
Is a most brave Ambition of the Soul;
Informs our Judgment, gratifies our Sence,
And on our Mind has general Influence:
But such false Mediums do our Fansy fill,
We rarely can distinguish Good from Ill.
If naturally vain, we can't suppose
A sight of France, will make us serious.
Whoe'er went thither, and return'd again,
But had a little of their frisking vein?
If not with Judgments pois'd our Minds will fly
To every new uncommon Vanity.
And he who to his Fansy puts no stop,
Goes out a Fool, and may return a Fop.
And after he Six Months in France has been,
Comes home a most accomplish'd Harlequin,
Drest in a tawdry Suit at Paris made,
For which he more than thrice the value paid;
Attended by a young petit Garçon,
Who from his Cradle was an arch Fripon.
Nothing but French is utter'd from his Mouth,
His Native Tongue is rugged and uncouth.
If to the Ladies he does make [...]vance,
His very Looks must have the Air of France.
The English are so heavy and so dull,
As with Lead, not Brains, their Heads were full.
But the brisk French Man, by his subtle Art
Soon finds the way to any Lady's Heart.
Pardon me, Beauties of the English Court,
If of your Thoughts I make a false Report:
Although of all my Satyr says not true,
Yet it must be confest it strikes a few;
Witness the Tears which some of you let fall
At th' Execution of the Thief Du Vall:
That High-way Villain had more blubber'd Eyes
Attend his just untimely Obsequies,
Than e'er were known to wash the Tomb of one
Who had good Service for his Country done;
While unobserv'd his worthy Ashes lie,
Du Vall remains still fresh in Memory.
Not fumes of Frankincense, nor odorous Myrrh,
Nor Indian Spices, nor the Tears of Firr,
Can half so please the Scent, as does the Name,
Du Vall—sound grateful to some pitious Dame
What Charms, i'th' Name of Wonder, can there be
In admired French Mens Company?
Of Love, they only understand the Name;
They've all the smoke, indeed, but not the flame.
Apish in Dress, Fantastick in Behaviour,
They Dance and Sing into a Lady's Favour.
Their Flatteries so nauseously they use,
That they the very Talent serve t'abuse:
And she must be but little Vertue-proof,
Who can be taken with such fulsom Stuff.
Their Souls unto their Mistresses they Pawn,
With Complements as thin as Cob-web Lawn.
Lean empty-Sence they make for Sterling pass,
Make that appear for Gold which is but Brass.
I pity from my Soul th'Unhappy Maid,
Who by such poor pretences is betray'd;
Like foolish Indians, she her Vertue sells
For painted Glass, and pretty colour'd Shells;
While he o'er all her Charms does wildly range,
And glories in the fortunate exchange.
For Words no Man can be at great Expence,
But ev'ry Man should take some pains for Sence:
For this the French do take but little Care;
If modish in the Phrase their Words appear,
They're satisfied if Sence is thin as Air.
With this, what Executions do they do
Amongst the Ign'rant and Unthinking few;
Who will no Wisdom but in Noise admit,
And think loud Laughter does denote a Wit.
Not Victors proud of all the Spoils they've won,
At storming of some Refractary Town,
More loudly cannot of their Conquests Glory;
Than will a French Man in a florid Story,
Relate the Favours of his Charming Fair;
How kind, how melting, and how sweet they were;
What Arts he us'd her Vertue to betray,
And how on such a lucky, lucky Day,
Or rather Night, he stole to her dear Arms;
And, like a God encircled round with Charms,
Revell'd in Bliss.—Nay more, perhaps, he tells
Her Name, and where th'obliging Goddess dwells.
Curst, doubly curst be him who makes pretence,
To Secresie — yet has for's Tongue no fence,
But's troubled with the Mouth's incontinence.
Rather to Crouds, the Echo, or the Wind
I'd trust my Thoughts, than to a French Man's Mind.
Who's not content my Vertue to undo,
Unless he spoils my Reputation too.
Inconstancy a Vice he so much loves,
Which daily by his Practice he approves;
That, if you will believe his own Report,
The mighty Sultan of the Turkish Court,
In his Seraglio, under Lock and Key,
Has not so many Mistresses as he.
For such a numerous store of Female Friends
He has, or else to have at least pretends:
That should one Day i'th' Year allotted be
For visiting of but one single She,
While Twelve pale Moons gave light to the dark Ball,
He could not have an interview with all.
As Romish Saints doe croud a Kalendar,
He has she-Saints for ev'ry Day i'th' Year;
To whom he offers up the Sacrifice
Of broken Vows and open Perjuries:
You may as well perswade him that two Eyes,
Two Ears, two Arms, are superfluities,
As make him think one Mistress can suffice.
To calm the raging of his fev'rish blood,
Dull Faith to one he never understood.
He, as if born the Women to command,
Scatters his Maker's Image through the Land.
Tir'd with City Pleasures, if he please,
His Suburb Mistress quickly gives him ease.
Thus in a Circle of variety,
He ev'ry day does some new Project try:
To each new Face he does his Top-sail strike;
As fickle things love always with their like.
Oh Oldham, Oldham, wonder of our Age,
Had Death but spar'd thy true Poetick Rage,
What biting Satyrs had thy Pen produc'd,
Which in the English Minds might have infus'd
A just true value for their Native Soil,
And not to Mud and Slime have ow'd a smile?
Which warm'd by Favour, instantly there springs
Insects of various Sorts, with Claws and Wings;
Who buzzing on all Parts about our Shore,
As th' Plague of Flies in Aegypt heretofore;
Wriggle in great Mens Ears, and hunt about
To find a merited Preferment out:
While needy Worth, and bashful Merit starves;
And he's alone unhappy that deserves
A better Usage from the Hand of Fate.
No wonder 'tis that Fools are fortunate:
Their Confidence, their want of Wit supplies;
He's born to be a Wretch who will be wise.
Thy Satyr, Oldham, would have scar'd 'em more
Than did our Arms their Fathers heretofore.
Happy would he be could a Vessel find,
From hence they'd fly as swift as thought or wind,
And leave not one poor Vallet here behind.
But ah! in vain their absence we implore,
So very well they love the English Shore;
As soon they'd go to China or Japan,
As willingly return to France again:
Though Nature has with Plenty blest their Soil,
They dare not taste of that for which they toil.
No wonder then our Canaan they preferr,
Before there fordid Entertainment there.
But hold, methinks I hear a Person prate,
They more deserve your Pity than your Hate.
Thanks to the Author of this good Advice;
But pity in Extremes becomes a Vice:
Because the Weather's cold must I, I pray,
St. Martin-like give half my Cloak away?
And cause I see my Neighbours feet are bare,
Pull off my Shooes and give 'em him to wear?
If Charity and Alms I must allow,
I'll be inform'd to whom, and when, and how.
I never yet could find the Law commands
Me fire my House, to warm by-standers Hands.
Besides, what Gratitude have they repaid,
For all the kind Civilities they've had?
If to debauch our Court, and spoil our Trade
Be suitable returns for Favours past,
I think indeed we're paid in full at last:
And he must have no Choler or no Brains,
Who, thinking on our two last Monarch's Reigns,
Against the French his just Resentment spares.
The first of these, who lov'd to feel no Cares,
But lead a Life of Softness mixt with Ease:
With Presents of French Mistresses they please.
These Dalilahs his Bosom Secrets knew,
And had the Cunning to improve 'em too.
What Mind can phansy, or what Pen rehearse
The Ruines done by these Smock-Privateers?
These Female Frigats did more Mischiefs scatter,
By their low tire of Guns 'twixt wind and water,
Than could the Fleet in Eighty-eight have done,
Had they effected what they had begun,
And with Success had push'd their Fortune on.
To build their Ships the French our Timber bought,
Which with such Pride upon the Ocean float;
And like their Makers Minds are still in Motion,
Whiles Lewis Glories in the empty Notion,
Of being stil'd, The Neptune of the Ocean.
Hearing his Name, my Satyr boyls with Rage,
Lewis the Plague and Firebrand of the Age,
Whom Nature in an angry Humour hurl'd
Down as a fit Fiend to vex the Christian World:
So much he of Hells Malice does partake,
He Mischief purely does for Mischiefs sake.
So exquisitely bad, so prone to evil,
He seems not like, but surely is the Devil:
For humane Wit could never so deceive,
Nor Princes of their Sences so bereave,
To make them contrary to known sworn Laws,
Hoodwink'd to second his most Hellish Cause.
This the Ʋnhappy James but knows too late;
James, who was once the Brave and Fortunate;
Belov'd at Home, and much esteem'd Abroad,
While he in Honours Paths securely trod:
But leaving them for some new uncouth ways,
His Subjects Ruines, and himself betrays;
Still he with Glory might have fill'd the Throne,
If by French means he had not plainly shown
Their Interest was much dearer than his own.
The Injur'd Leopold may next complain,
While Spire and Worms, besides a num'rous train
Of other Towns in heaps of Ruins bear
The favours of a French perfidious War;
Nor does the Duke of Savoy want his share.
Had Fistula in ano been but kind,
And took away this pest of Humane kind,
The Peace of Christendom had been secur'd,
And not have felt those ills she since endur'd.
Of what great Actions do they vainly boast,
Done by their Fleet upon our British Coast?
Not fam'd Lepanto's Fight was talk'd of more,
Or Wars of Cyprus in the Days of yore,
Than their late silly Action on our Shore.
Their Cannon beat a little Cottage down,
And they will swear that they destroy'd a Town.
Poets have sometimes been Prophetick thought,
By Lines which were in mystick numbers wrought.
Vainly I wish, tho' fain wou'd be inspir'd,
Yet with uncommon heat my Breast is fir'd.
Methinks with an unusual bravery,
I see our English Fleet upon the Sea,
Directly Sailing for the Coast of France,
To pay some Favours we receiv'd from thence:
With Roman Courage see our Souldiers Land,
All waiting with impatience the Command;
While the Confederate Forces all as one
Unite to pull the Tyrant from his Throne.
Cursing his Fate, methinks I see him fall,
And grin to hear the Furies for him call.
But this, you'll say, is like a Madman done,
To sound a Triumph ere the Fight is won;
Yet this I care not, did all Mankind know;
From th' bottom of my Heart I wish it so.
FINIS.