THE CAR-MAN'S POEM: OR, ADVICE to a Nest of Scriblers.
CAR-men turn Poets now, why may not I?
Then Horse, and Cart, and Whip, stand you three by:
Nay, but I lack my Whip to lash those Cattel,
That by their Scribling bid the Kingdom Battel.
Wou'd I cou'd lash you with such mighty force,
As I have us'd to lash my drudging Horse.
[...] the dull Satyrs of this envious Age,
[...]t puts my Fancy in so great a rage;
Thye[?] swarm in ev'ry Street, in ev'ry Shop,
They are the Froth of ev'ry idle Fop.
He that has nought to do, takes Pen and Ink,
Calls for some Paper, and a Pot of Drink,
And then the Maggot works, and Noddle rings,
And they'l not spare the best of
British Kings:
Malice, and Pride, and Drink are all agreed,
Then drive on, Car-man: but none cries, God speed.
[...]heir wicked Wit's on wheels, but why so fast?
[...]m afraid you'll pay for this at last:
[...]or head-strong Fancy must be curb'd e're long,
The Judge will make you sing another Song,
King's a puny thing in your conceit;
And all by reason of a snallow Pate:
Duke's a Trifle, and a Queen's a Toy;
[...]'s death to you to sing out
Viv' le Roy.
And a grave Bishop, or a learned Dean,
You do abhor as much as King and Queen:
Iudges are next to nothing in your eye.
So boldly from all Government you fly,
That with your dirty, frothy, hair-brain'd Pen,
You lash our Kings, even like our Common men,
Touch not the Lords Anointed, it is said;
But when with Ale and Beer you're muddy made,
When with a little Drink your heads are warm,
You
touch the King, and
do his Prophets harm:
You rail, abuse, contemn, despise and jeer,
You lash them like your Horses, without fear:
It matters not for Sence, be they but Rhimes,
Then there is hopes they'l suit with these sad Times.
Away they run to
Smith, and he corrects them;
That's a mistake, he Prints, and he Protects them:
From Friend to Friend they march about the Street,
And ev'ry Baptiz'd Brother's glad to fee't:
Oh how they shrug their Elbows with delight,
To see such dang'rous things appear in sight.
He's wise that's bold, the fittest man for th' Times,
That dare presume to write the worst of Rhimes:
Hang Sence, that's out of fashion, so is Reason;
Come let us see you write Sedition, Treason,
Move for a Commonwealth, cry down the King,
Another Royal Head to th' Block let's bring;
Rail at the Bishops, and the Common-Prayer,
Abuse the Papists, this is past compare:
Let us beat down all these too Loyal Elves,
Then we may hope we shall set up our selves.
This is the language of the Baptiz'd Beast,
The heart of ev'ry
Presbyterian Priest.
Did they but fear a God, they'd love a King,
They seldom Harp on such a pleasant String:
They make long Pray'rs your Houses to devour,
They'l pray for half a day, and preach an hour;
They'l Fast in earnest; turn up th' white o'th' eyes,
Ev'n like a Paraketto to the Skies:
They'l walk demurely, chatter like a Saint,
Their language is so zealous, smooth and quaint,
You wou'd not think that they cou'd act ought ill,
Much less that they their Sov'reign Lord wou'd kill.
Give them but pow'r, you'l find them greater Cheaters,
Then old
Nol Cromwell, or his Chaplain
Peters.
What has our Law no limits for our words?
And shall our Pens cut like two-edged Swords,
And none regard them? shall our Libels swarm,
And will no Judge take notice of the harm?
Seditious Libels surely have a Charm,
There's not one Judge that dare put forth his arm.
Then let our Pamphlets swarm about the City,
Be deaf and do not shew Conformists pity;
Satyr them unto death, the day's our own,
Our Judges now we find are weary grown:
Spare neither King nor Subject, let all share
Alike that love the Mass and Common-Prayer:
Come, drive on, Car-man, set thy brains to work,
And write as if it were against the
Turk.
Puddle-dock Coach-man, hold thy Dung-Cart Pen,
Spurn not against such great and powerful men;
They do but let you run to your wits end,
Now you must pay for what you wrote, my Friend.
Thou that didst sin against both Judge and King,
And stole the Honey, now must feel the Sting:
Thy Libels now are all upon the File,
That swarm like Hornets in a pleasing Isle.
Imprimis, Answer thy
Tom Ticklefoot,
I fear that that will put thee hardly to't:
Item, remember thy late
New-years-Gift,
Thy Neek thou from this Noose canst no way shift,
Unless it from a twisted Halter be,
Unto a Wooden Noose call'd Pillory:
And thy late
Satyr will not be forgotten,
When
Smith and
Anvil are decay'd and rotten.
Judgment has Leaden heels, but without doubt
At the long run 'twill find the Rabble out:
Then woe be to you, better you were choak'd,
Then deal with Judges that you have provok'd;
My life for yours they'l stick upon your Skirts,
And pay you home for all your Jeers and Flirts:
You and your hireling Scriblers will repent,
That they their Time, and you your Money spent.
One witty
Dolben, and a sharp
Recorder,
Will timely bring you all to better order:
A Pillory will tell us you were Rogues,
To write against a Judge so just as
Scroggs,
Whose Worth and Judgment, Wit and Justice flies
With far more Fame, thanks to your Scribling Lies.
FINIS.