A COLLECTION Of the Best English Poetry, BY Several HANDS. (Viz.)
Duke of
Devon,
Lord
Rochester,
Mr.
Dryden,
Sir
John Denham,
Lord
Roscommon,
Earl of
Mulgrave,
Sir
Robert Howard,
Mr.
Phillips,
Dr.
South,
Bp.
Spratt,
Mr.
Waller,
Dr.
Swift,
Mr.
Addison,
Sir
Richard Blackmore,
Mr.
Milton,
Mr.
Congreve,
Sir
John Beaumont,
&c.
In Two Vol's
Octavo.
LONDON: Printed, and Sold by
T. Warner,
at the
Black Boy
in
Pater-Noster-Row,
1717. (Price 10 s.)
The True-Born English-Man. A SATYR.
Statuimus Pacem, & Securitatem, & Concordiam Judicium & Justitiam inter
Anglos
&
Normannos, Francos,
&
Britones Walliae
&
Cornubiae, Pictos
&
Scotos Albaniae,
similiter inter Francos & Insulanos Provincias, & Patrìas, quae pertinent ad Coronam nostram, & inter omnes nobis Subjectos, firmiter & inviolabiliter observari.
Charta Regis Willielmi Conquisitoris de Pacis Publica,
Cap.
1.
Printed in the Year 1708.
(Price Three Pence.)
THE PREFACE.
THE End of Satyr is Reformation: And the Author, tho' he doubts the Work of Conversion is at a general Stop, has put his Hand to the Plow.
I expect a Storm of Ill Language from the Fury of the Town, and especially from those whose
English
Talent it is to Rail: And without being taken for a Conjurer, I may ven
ure to foretel, That I shall be Cavil'd at about my
Mean Stile, Rough Verse,
and
Incorrect Language;
Things I might indeed have taken more Care in. But the Book is Printed; and tho' I see some Faults, 'tis too late to mend them: And this is all I think needful to say to them.
Possibly Somebody may take me for a
Dutchman;
in which
hey are mistaken: But I am one that would be glad to see
Englishmen
behave themselves better to Strangers, and to Governors also; that one might not be reproach'd in Foreign Countries, for belonging to a
Nation that wants Manners.
I assure you,
Gentlemen,
Strangers use us better abroad;
nd we can give no reason but our Ill Nature for the contra
y here.
Methinks an
Englishman,
who is so proud of being call'd
Goodfellow,
shou'd be civil: And it cannot be denied but
e are in many Cases, and particularly to Strangers, the hurlishest People alive.
As to Vices, who can dispute our
Intemperance,
while an
Honest Drunken Fellow
is a Character in a Man's Praise?
ll our Reformations are Banters, and will be so, till our Magistrates and Gentry Reform themselves by way of Example; then, and not till then, they may be expected to punish others without
blushing.
As to our
Ingratitude,
I desire to be understood of that particular People, who pretending to be Protestants, have all along endeavour'd to reduce the Liberties and Religion of this Nation into the Hands of King
James
and his Popish Powers: Together with such who enjoy the Peace and Protection of the present Government, and yet abuse and affront the King who procur'd it, and openly profess their Uneasiness under him: These, by whatsoever Names or Titles they are dignified or distinguish'd, are the People aim'd at: Nor do I disown, but that it is so much the Temper of an
Englishman
to abuse his Benefactor, that I could be glad to see it rectified.
They who think I have been guilty of any Error, in exposing the Crimes of my own Countrymen to themselves, may among many honest Instances of the like nature, find the same thing in Mr.
Cowly,
in his Imitation of the second Olympick Ode of
Pindar:
His Words are these;
But in this Thankless World the Givers
Are envi'd even by th' Receivers:
'Tis now the Cheap and Frugal Fashion,
Rather to hide than pay an Obligation.
Nay, 'tis much worse than so;
It now an
Artifice
doth grow,
Wrongs
and
Outrages
to do,
Lest Men should think we
Owe.
THE INTRODUCTION.
SPeak,
Satyr,
for there's none can tell like thee,
Whether 'tis Folly, Pride, or Knavery,
That makes this discontented Land appear
Less happy now in Times of Peace, than War:
Why Civil Feuds disturb the Nation more
Than all our Bloody Wars have done before.
Fools out of Favour grudge at Knaves in Place,
And Men are always honest in Disgrace:
The Court-Preferments make Men Knaves in course:
But they which wou'd be in them wou'd be worse.
Tis not at Foreigners that we repine,
Wou'd Foreigners their Perquisites resign:
The Grand Contention's plainly to be seen,
To get some Men put out, and some put in.
or this our S—rs make long Harangues,
nd florid M—rs whet their polish'd Tongues.
tatesmen are always sick of one Disease;
nd a good Pension gives them present Ease.
hat's the Specifick makes them all content
ith any King, and any Government▪
ood Patriots at Court-Abuses rail,
nd all the Nation's Grievances bewail:
t when the Sovereign Balsam's once appli'd,
he Zealot never fails to change his Side.
nd when he must the Golden Key resign,
e Railing Spirit comes about again.
Who shall this Bubbl'd Nation disabuse;
While they their own Felicities refuse?
Who at the Wars have made such mighty Pother,
And now are falling out with one another:
With needless Fears the Jealous Nation fill,
And always have been sav'd against their Will:
Who Fifty Millions Sterling have disburs'd,
To be with Peace and too much Plenty curs'd.
Who their Old Monarch eagerly undo,
And yet uneasily obey the New.
Search,
Satyr,
search, a deep Incision make;
The Poyson's strong, the Antidote's too weak.
'Tis pointed Truth must manage this Dispute,
And down-right English
Englishmen
confute.
Whet thy just Anger at the Nation's Pride;
And with keen Phrase repel the vicious Tide.
To
Englishmen
their own beginning show,
And ask them why they slight their Neighbours so.
Go back to Elder Times, and Ages past,
And Nations into long Oblivion cast;
To Old
Britannia
's Youthful Days retire,
And there for
True-Born Englishmen
enquire.
Britannia
freely will disown the Name,
And hardly knows her self from whence they came:
Wonders that They of all Men should pretend
To Birth and Blood, and for a Name contend.
Go back to Causes where our Follies dwell,
And fetch the dark Original from Hell:
Speak,
Satyr,
for there's none like thee can tell.
The True-Born English-Man. PART I.
WHere-ever God erects a House of Prayer,
The Devil always builds a Chapel there:
And 'twill be found upon Examination,
The latter has the largest Congregation:
For ever since he first debauch'd the Mind,
He made a perfect Conquest of Mankind.
With Uniformity of Service, he
Reigns with a general Aristocracy.
No Nonconforming Sects disturb his Reign,
For of his Yoak there's very few complain.
He knows the Genius and the Inclination,
And matches proper Sins for ev'ry Nation.
He needs no Standing-Army Government;
He always rules us by our own Consent:
His Laws are easy, and his gentle Sway
Makes it exceeding pleasant to obey.
The List of his Vicegerents and Commanders,
Outdoes your
Caesars,
or your
Alexanders.
They never fail of his infernal Aid,
And he's as certain ne'er to be betray'd.
Through all the World they spread his vast Command,
And Death's Eternal Empire's maintain'd.
They rule so politickly and so well,
As if they were L— J— of Hell.
Duly divided to debauch Mankind,
And plant Infernal Dictates in his Mind.
Pride,
the first Peer, and President of Hell,
To his share
Spain,
the largest Province, fell.
The subtile Prince thought fittest to bestow
On these the Golden Mines of
Mexico
;
With all the Silver Mountains of Peru;
Wealth which would in wise hands the World undo:
Because he knew their Genius was such;
Too Lazy and too Haughty to be Rich.
So proud a People, so above their Fate,
That if reduc'd to beg, they'll beg in State.
Lavish of Money, to be counted Brave,
And proudly starve, because they scorn to save.
Never was Nation in the World before,
So very Rich, and yet so very Poor.
Lust
chose the Torrid Zone of
Italy,
Where Blood ferments in Rapes and Sodomy:
Where swelling Veins o'erflow with livid Streams,
With Heat impregnate from
Vesuvian
Flames:
Whose flowing Sulphur forms Infernal Lakes,
And human Body of the Soil partakes.
There Nature ever burns with hot Desires,
Fann'd with Luxuriant Air from Subterranean Fires▪
Here undisturb'd in Floods of scalding Lust,
Th' Infernal King reigns with Infernal Gust.
Drunk'ness,
the Darling Favourite of Hell,
Chose
Germany
to rule; and rules so well,
No Subjects more obsequiously obey,
None please so well, or are so pleas'd as they.
The cunning Artist manages so well,
He lets them Bow to Heav'n, and Drink to Hell.
If but to Wine and him they Homage pay,
He cares not to what Deity they pray,
What God they worship most, or in what way.
Whether by
Luther, Calvin,
or by
Rome,
They sail for Heav'n, by Wine he steers them home.
Ungovern'd Passion settled first in
France,
Where Mankind lives in haste, and thrives by Chance.
A Dancing Nation, Fickle and Untrue:
Have oft undone themselves, and others too:
Prompt the Infernal Dictates to obey,
And in Hell's Favour none more great than they.
The Pagan World he blindly leads away,
And Personally rules with Arbitrary Sway:
The Mask thrown off, Plain Devil his Title stands;
And what elsewhere he Tempts, he there Commands.
There with full Gust th' Ambition of his Mind
Governs, as he of old in Heav'n design'd.
Worshipp'd as God, his
Painim Altars
smoke,
Embru'd with Blood of those that him Invoke.
The rest by Deputies he rules as well.
And plants the distant Colonies of Hell.
By them his secret Power he maintains,
And binds the World in his Infernal Chains.
By Zeal the
Irish
; and the
Rush
by Folly:
Fury the
Dane
: The
Swede
by Melancholly:
By stupid Ignorance, the
Muscovite
:
The
Chinese
by a Child of Hell, call'd Wit:
Wealth makes the
Persian
too Effeminate:
And Poverty the
Tartars
Desperate:
The
Turks
and
Moors
by
Mah'met
he subdues:
And God has giv'n him leave to rule the
Jews:
Rage rules the
Portuguese
; and Fraud the
Scotch
:
Revenge the
Pole
; and Avarice the
Dutch.
Satyr
be kind and draw a silent Veil,
Thy Native
England
's Vices to conceal:
Or if that Task's impossible to do,
At least be just, and show her Vertues too;
Too great the first, Alas! the last too Few.
England
unknown as yet, unpeopled lay;
Happy, had she remain'd so to this Day,
And not to ev'ry Nation been a Prey.
Her Open Harbours, and her Fertile Plains,
The Merchants Glory these, and those the Swains,
To ev'ry Barbarous Nation have betray'd her,
Who conquer her as oft as they Invade her.
So Beauty guarded but by Innocence,
That ruins her which should be her Defence.
Ingratitude,
a Devil of Black Renown,
Possess'd her very early for his own.
An Ugly, Surly, Sullen, Selfish Spirit,
Who Satan's worst Perfections does inherit:
Second to him in Malice and in Force,
All Devil without, and all within him Worse.
He made her First-born Race to be so rude,
And suffer'd her to be so oft subdu'd:
By sev'ral Crouds of Wandring Thieves o'er-run,
Often unpeopl'd, and as oft undone.
While ev'ry Nation that her Pow'rs reduc'd,
Their Languages and Manners introduc'd.
From whose mix'd Relicks our compounded Breed,
By Spurious Generation does succeed;
Making a Race uncertain and unev'n,
Deriv'd from all the Nations under Heav'n.
The
Romans
first with
Julius Caesar
came,
Including all the Nations of that Name,
Gauls, Greeks,
and
Lombards
; and by Computation,
Auxiliaries or Slaves of ev'ry Nation.
With
Hengist, Saxons; Danes
with
Sueno
came,
In search of Plunder, not in search of Fame.
Scots, Picts,
and
Irish
from th'
Hibernian
Shore:
And Conqu'ring
William
brought the
Normans
o'er.
All these their Barb'rous Offspring left behind,
The Dregs of Armies, they of all Mankind;
Blended with
Britains
who before were here,
Of whom the
Welsh
ha' blest the Character.
From this Amphibious Ill-born Mob began
That vain ill-natur'd thing, an
Englishman.
The Customs, Sirnames, Languages, and Manners,
Of all these Nations are their own Explainers:
Whose Relicks are so lasting and so strong,
They ha' left a
Shiboleth
upon our Tongue;
y which with easy search you may distinguish
Your
Roman-Saxon-Danish-Norman
English.
The great Invading
William
the Conqueror.
Norman
let us know
What Conquerors in After-Times might do.
To ev'ry
Or
Archer.
Musqueteer
he brought to Town,
He gave the Lands which never were his own.
When first the
English
Crown he did obtain,
He did not send his
Dutchmen
home again.
No Reassumptions in his Reign were known,
D'avenant
might there ha' let his Book alone.
No Parliament his Army cou'd disband;
He rais'd no Money, for he paid in Land.
He gave his Legions their Eternal Station,
And made them all Freeholders of the Nation.
He canton'd out the Country to his Men,
And ev'ry Soldier was a Denizen.
The Rascals thus enrich'd, he call'd them
Lords,
To please their Upstart Pride with new-made Words;
And
Doomsday-Book
his Tyranny records.
And here begins the Ancient Pedigree
That so exalts our Poor Nobility:
'Tis that from some
French
Trooper they derive,
Who with the
Norman
Bastard did arrive:
The Trophies of the Families appear;
Some show the Sword, the Bow, and some the Spear,
Which their Great Ancestor, forsooth, did wear.
These in the Heralds Register remain,
Their Noble mean Extraction to explain.
Yet who the Hero was, no Man can tell,
Whether a Drummer or a Colonel:
The silent Record blushes to reveal
Their Undescended Dark Original.
But grant the best, How came the Change to pass;
A
True-Born Englishman
of
Norman
Race?
A
Turkish
Horse can show more History,
To prove his Well-descended Family.
Conquest,
as by the
Dr.
Sherl. de Facto.
Moderns 'tis exprest,
May give a Title to the Lands possest:
But that the longest Sword shou'd be so Civil,
To make a
Frenchman English,
that's the Devil.
These are the Heroes that despise the
Dutch
;
And rail at new come Foreigners so much;
Forgetting that themselves are all deriv'd
From the most Scoundrel Race that ever liv'd.
A horrid Croud of Rambling Thieves and Drones,
Who ransack'd Kingdoms, and dispeopl'd Towns.
The
Pict
and Painted
Britain,
Treach'rous
Scot,
By Hunger, Theft, and Rapine, hither brought.
Norwegian
Pirates, Buccaneering
Danes,
Whose Red-hair'd Offspring ev'ry where remains.
Who join'd with
Norman-French,
compound the Breed
From whence your
True-Born Englishmen
proceed.
And lest by Length of Time it be pretended,
The Climate may this Modern Breed ha' mended,
Wise Providence, to keep us where we are,
Mixes us daily with exceeding Care:
We have been
Europe
's Sink, the Iakes where she
Voids all her Offal Out-cast Progeny.
From our Fifth
Henry
's time, the Strolling Bands
Of banish'd Fugitives from Neighb'ring Lands,
Have here a certain Sanctuary found:
The Eternal Refuge of the Vagabond.
Wherein but half a common Age of Time,
Borr'wing new Blood and Manners from the Clime,
Proudly they learn all Mankind to contemn,
And all their Race are
True-Born Englishmen.
Dutch, Walloons, Flemmings, Irishmen,
and
Scots,
Vaudois
and
Valtolins,
and
Hugonots,
n good Queen
Bess
's Charitable Reign,
Suppli'd us with Three hundred thousand Men.
Religion, God we thank thee, sent them hither,
Priests, Protestants, the Devil and all together:
Of all Professions, and of ev'ry Trade,
ll that were persecuted or afraid;
Whether for Debt or other Crimes they fled,
David
at
Hackelah
was still their Head.
The Offspring of this Miscellaneous Croud,
ad not their new Plantations long enjoy'd,
ut they grew
Englishmen,
and rais'd their Votes
t Foreign Shoals of Interloping
Scots.
The
K.
J.
I.
Royal Branch from
Pict-land
did succeed,
With Troops of
Scots
and Scabs from
North-by-Tweed.
The Seven first Years of his Pacifick Reign,
Made him and half his Nation
Englishmen.
Scots
from the
Northern
Frozen Banks of
Tay,
With Packs and Plods came
Whigging
all away:
hick as the Locusts which in
Egypt
swarm'd,
With Pride and hungry Hopes compleatly arm'd:
With Native Truth, Diseases, and No Money,
under'd our
Canaan
of the Milk and Honey.
ere they grew quickly Lords and Gentlemen,
nd all their Race are
True-Born Englishmen.
The Civil Wars, the common Purgative,
Which always use to make the Nation thrive,
ade way for all that strolling Congregation,
hich throng'd in Pious
K.
C.
II.
Ch—s
's Restoration.
e
Royal Refugee
our Breed restores,
ith Foreign Courtiers, and with Foreign Whores:
nd carefully repeopled us again,
hroughout his Lazy, Long, Lascivious Reign.
ith such a blest and True-born
Englsh
Fry,
much Illustrates our Nobility.
A Gratitude which will so black appear,
As future Ages must abhor to hear:
When they look back on all that Crimson Flood,
Which stream'd in
Lindsey
's, and
Caernarvon
's Blood:
Bold
Stafford, Cambridge, Capel, Lucas, Lisle,
Who crown'd in Death his Father's Fun'ral Pile.
The Loss of whom, in order to supply
With True-Born
English
N—ty,
Six Bastard Dukes survive his Luscious Reign,
The Labours of
Italian C—n,
French P—h, Tabby S—t,
and
Cambrian.
Besides the Num'rous Bright and Virgin Throng,
Whose Female Glories shade them from my Song.
This Offspring, if one Age they multiply,
May half the House with
English
Peers supply:
There with true
English
Pride they may contemn
S—g
and
P—d,
new-made Noblemen.
French
Cooks,
Scotch
Pedlars, and
Italian
Whores,
Were all made L—ds, or L—ds Progenitors.
Beggars and Bastards by his new Creation,
Much multipli'd the P—ge of the Nation;
Who will be all, e'er one short Age runs o'er,
As True-Born L—ds as those we had before.
Then to recruit the Commons he prepares,
And heal the latent Breaches of the Wars:
The pious Purpose better to advance,
H' invites the banish'd Protestants of
France
:
Hither for God's sake and their own they fled,
Some for Religion came, and some for Bread:
Two hundred thousand Pair of Wooden Shooes,
Who, God be thank'd, had nothing left to lose;
To Heav'n's great Praise did for Religion fly,
To make us starve our Poor in Charity.
In ev'ry Port they plant their fruitful Train,
To get a Race of
True-Born Englishmen
:
Whose Children will, when riper Years they see,
Be as Ill-natur'd, and as Proud as we:
Call themselves
English,
Foreigners despise,
Be Surly like us all, and just as Wise.
Thus from a Mixture of all Klnds began,
That Het'rogeneous Thing,
An Englishman:
n eager Rapes, and furious Lust begot,
etwixt a Painted
Britton
and a
Scot
:
Whose gend'ring Offspring quickly learnt to bow,
nd yoke their He
fers to the
Roman
Plough:
rom whence a Mongrel half-bred Race there came,
ith neither Name nor Nation, Speech or Fame.
whose hot Veins new Mixtures quickly ran,
fus'd betwixt a
Saxon
and a
Dane.
hile their Rank Daughters, to their Parents just,
eceiv'd all Nations with Promiscuous Lust.
his Nauseous Brood directly did contain
he well-extracted Blood of
Englishmen.
Which Medly canton'd in a Heptarchy,
Rhapsody of Nations to supply,
mong themselves maintain'd eternal Wars,
nd still the Ladies lov'd the Conquerors.
The Western Angles all the rest subdu'd;
bloody Nation, barbarous and rude:
ho by the Tenure of the Sword possest
ne part of
Britain,
and subdu'd the rest.
nd as great things denominate the small,
he Conqu'ring Part gave Title to the Whole.
he
Scot, Pict, Britain, Roman, Dane
submit,
nd with the
English-Saxon
all unite:
nd these the Mixture have so close pursu'd,
he very Name and Memory's subdu'd:
Roman
now, no
Britain
does remain;
les
strove to separate, but strove in vain:
he silent Nations undistinguish'd fall,
d
Englishman
's the common Name for all.
te jumbl'd them together, God knows how;
hat e'er they were, they're
True-Born English
now.
The Wonder which remains is at our Pride,
value that which all wise Men deride.
For
Englishmen
to boast of Generation,
Cancels their Knowledge, and lampoons the Nation.
A
True-Born Englishman
's a Contradiction,
In Speech an Irony, in Fact a Fiction.
A Banter made to be a Test of Fools,
Which those that use it justly ridicules.
A Metaphor invented to express
A Man
a-kin
to all the Universe.
For as the
Scots,
as Learned Men ha' said,
Throughout the World their Wandring Seed ha' spread;
So open-handed
England,
'tis believ'd,
Has all the Gleanings of the World receiv'd.
Some think of
England
'twas our Saviour meant,
The Gospel should to all the World be sent:
Since when the blessed Sound did hither reach,
They to all Nations might be said to Preach.
'Tis well that Virtue gives Nobility,
Else God knows where we had our Gentry;
Since scarce one Family is left alive,
Which does not from some Foreigner derive.
Of Sixty thousand
English
Gentlemen,
Whose Names and Arms in Registers remain,
We challenge all our Heralds to declare
Ten Families which
English-Saxons
are.
France
justly boasts the Ancient Noble Line
Of
Bourbon, Mommorency,
and
Lorrain.
The
Germans
too their House of
Austria
show,
And
Holland
their Invincible
Nassau.
Lines which in Heraldry were Ancient grown,
Before the Name of
Englishman
was known.
Even
Scotland
too her Elder Glory shows,
Her
Gourdons, Hamiltons,
and her
Monroes
;
Dowglas, Mackays,
and
Grahams,
Names well known,
Long before Ancient
England
knew her own.
But
England,
Modern to the last degree,
Borrows or makes her own Nobility,
And yet she boldly boasts of Pedigree:
epines that Foreigners are put upon her,
nd talks of her Antiquity and Honour:
er
S—lls, S—ls, C—ls, De — M—rs,
—ns
and
M—ues, D—s,
and
V—rs,
ot one have
English
Names, yet all are
English
Peers.
our
H—ns, P—llons,
and
L—liers,
ss now for True-Born
English
Knights and Squires,
nd make good Senate-Members, or Lord-Mayors.
ealth, howsoever got, in
England
makes
ords of Mechanicks, Gentlemen of Rakes
ntiquity and Birth are needless here;
is Impudence and Money makes a P—r.
Innumerable City-Knights we know,
om
Bluecoat Hospitals
and
Bridewell
flow:
raymen and Porters fill the City Chair,
nd Footboys Magisterial Purple wear.
ate has but very small Distinction set
etwixt the Counter and the Coronet.
arpaulin L—ds, Pages of high Renown,
ise up by Poor Mens Valour, not their own.
reat Families of Yesterday we show,
nd Lords, whose Parents were the Lord knows who.
The True-Born English-Man. PART II.
THE Breed's describ'd: Now,
Satyr,
if you can,
Their Temper show, for Manners make the Man▪
Fierce as the
Britain,
as the
Roman
Brave;
And less inclin'd to Conquer than to Save:
Eager to fight, and lavish of their Blood;
And equally of Fear and Forecast void.
The
Pict
has made 'em Sowre, the
Dane
Morose;
False from the
Scot,
and from the
Norman
worse.
What Honesty they have, the
Norman
gave them,
And That, now they grow old, begins to leave them▪
The Climate makes them Terrible and Bold;
And
English
Beef their Courage does uphold:
No Danger can their Daring Spirit pall,
Always provided that their Belly's full.
In close Intriegues their Faculty's but weak,
For gen'rally whate'er they know, they speak:
And often their own Councils undermine
By their Infirmity, and not Design.
From whence the Learned say it does proceed,
That
English
Treasons never can succeed:
or they're so open-hearted, you may know
Their own most secret Thoughts, and others too.
The Lab'ring Poor, in spight of Double Pay,
re Sawcy, Mutinous, and Beggarly:
o lavish of their Money and their Time,
hat want of Forecast is the Nation's Crime.
ood Drunken Company is their Delight;
nd what they get by Day, they spend by Night▪
ull Thinking seldom does their Heads engage,
But Drink their Youth away, and hurry on Old Age.
Empty of all good Husbandry and Sense;
nd void of Manners most, when void of Pence.
heir strong Aversion to Behaviour's such,
hey always talk too little or too much.
dull, they never take the pains to think;
nd seldom are good-natur'd, but in Drink.
In
English
Ale their dear Enjoyment lies,
or which they'll starve themselves and Families.
n
Englishman
will fairly drink as much
s will maintain Two Families of
Dutch
:
ubjecting all their Labours to the Pots;
he greatest Artists are the greatest Sots.
The Country Poor do by Example live;
he Gentry lead them, and the Clergy drive!
hat may we not from such Examples hope?
he Landlord is their God, the Priest their Pope
Drunken Clergy, and a Swearing Bench,
as giv'n the Reformation such a Drench,
wise Men think there is some cause to doubt,
ill purge Good Manners and Religion out.
Nor do the Poor alone their Liquor prize,
he Sages join in this great Sacrifice.
he Learned Men who study
Aristotle,
orrect him with an Explanation Bottle;
aise
Epicurus
rather than
Lysander,
d
The Drunkards Name for Canary.
Aristippus
more than
Alexander.
The Doctors too their
Galen
here resign,
And gen'rally prescribe Specifick Wine.
The Graduates Study's grown an easier Task,
While for the Urinal they toss the Flask.
The Surgeons Art grows plainer ev'ry Hour,
And Wine's the Balm which into Wounds they pour.
Poets long since
Parnassus
have forsaken,
And say the Ancient Bards were all mistaken.
Apollo
's lately abdicate and fled,
And good King
Bacchus
governs in his stead;
He does the Chaos of the Head refine,
And Atom-Thoughts jump into Words by Wine:
The Inspiration's of a finer Nature;
As Wine must needs excel
Parnassus
Water;
Statesmen their weighty Politicks refine,
As Soldiers raise their Courages by Wine.
Caecilia
gives her Choristers their Choice,
And lets them all drink Wine to clear the Voice.
Some think the Clergy first found out the way,
And Wine's the only Spirit by which they pray.
But others less prophane than so, agree,
It clears the Lungs, and helps the Memory:
And therefore all of them Divinely think,
Instead of Study, 'tis as well to drink.
And here I wou'd be very glad to know,
Whether our
Asgilites
may drink or no.
Th' Enlightning Fumes of Wine would certainly
Assist them much when they begin to fly:
Or if a Fiery Chariot shou'd appear,
Inflam'd by Wine, they'd ha' the less to fear.
Even the Gods themselves, as Mortals say,
Were they on Earth, wou'd be as drunk as they:
Nectar would be no more Celestial Drink,
They'd all take Wine, to teach them how to Think.
But
English
Drunkards, Gods and Men out-do,
Drink their Estates away, and Senses too.
Colon
's in Debt, and if his Friends should fail
To help him out, must dye at last in Gaol:
His Wealthy Uncle sent a Hundred Nobles,
To pay his Trifles off, and rid him of his Troubles:
ut
Colon,
like a
True-Born Englishman,
rank all the Money out in bright Champaign;
nd
Colon
does in Custody remain.
runk'ness has been the Darling of the Realm,
er since a Drunken Pilot had the Helm.
In their Religion they are so unev'n,
That each Man goes his own By-way to Heav'n.
Tenacious of Mistakes to that degree,
hat ev'ry Man pursues it sep'rately,
nd fancies none can find the Way but he:
shy of one another they are grown,
s if they strove to get to Heav'n alone.
igid and Zealous, Positive and Grave,
nd ev'ry Grace, but Charity, they have:
his makes them so Ill-natur'd and Uncivil,
hat all Men think an
Englishman
the Devil.
Surly to Strangers, Froward to their Friend;
ubmit to Love with a reluctant Mind;
esolv'd to be ungrateful and unkind.
by Necessity reduc'd to ask,
he Giver has the difficultest Task:
or what's bestow'd they aukwardly receive,
nd always Take less freely than they Give.
he Obligation is their highest Grief;
nd never love, where they accept Relief.
sullen in their Sorrows, that 'tis known,
hey'll rather dye than their Afflictions own:
nd if reliev'd, it is too often true,
hat they'll abuse their Benefactors too:
or in Distress their Haughty Stomach's such,
hey hate to see themselves oblig'd too much.
ldom contented, often in the wrong;
ard to be pleas'd at all, and never long.
If your Mistakes their Ill Opinion gain,
o Merit can their Favour reobtain:
And if they're not Vindictive in their Fury,
'Tis their unconstant Temper does secure ye:
Their Brain's so cool, their Passion seldom burns:
For all's condens'd before the Flame returns:
The Fermentation's of so weak a Matter,
The Humid damps the Fume, and runs it all to Water.
So tho' the Inclination may be strong,
They're pleas'd by Fits, and never angry long.
Then if Good Nature shows some slender Proof,
They never think they have Reward enough:
But like our Modern Quakers of the Town,
Expect your Manners, and return you none.
Friendship, th' abstracted Union of the Mind,
Which all Men seek, but very few can find:
Of all the Nations in the Universe,
None talk on't more, or understand it less:
For if it does the Property annoy,
Their Properry their Friendship will destroy.
As you discourse them, you shall hear them tell
All things in which they think they do excel:
No Panegyrick needs their Praise record;
An
Englishman
ne'er wants his own good Word.
His Long Discourses gen'rally appear
Prologu'd with his own wondrous Character:
But First to illustrate his own good Name,
He never fails his Neighbour to defame:
And yet he really designs no wrong;
His Malice goes no further than his Tongue.
But pleas'd to Tattle, he delights to Rail,
To satisfy the Lech'ry of a Tale.
His own dear Praises close the ample Speech,
Tells you how Wise he is; that is, how Rich:
For Wealth is Wisdom; he that's Rich is wise▪
And all Men Learned Poverty despise.
His Generosity comes next, and then
Concludes that he's a
True-Born Englishman
;
And they 'tis known, are Generous and Free,
Forgetting, and Forgiving Injury:
Which may be true, thus rightly understood,
orgiving Ill Turns, and Forgetting Good.
Chearful in Labour when they've undertook it;
ut out of Humour, when they're out of Pocket.
ut if their Belly and their Pocket's full.
They may be Phlegmatick, but never Dull:
And if a Bottle does their Brains refine,
makes their Wit as sparkling as their Wine.
As for the general Vices which we find
They're guilty of in common with Mankind,
atyr,
forbear, and silently endure;
e must conceal the Crimes we cannot cure.
or shall my Verse the brighter Sex defame;
or
English
Beauty will preserve her Name.
eyond dispute, Agreeable and Fair;
And Modester than other Nations are:
or where the Vice prevails, the great Temptation
s want of Money, more than Inclination.
n general, this only is allow'd,
They're something Noisy, and a little Proud.
An
Englishman
is gentlest in Command,
Obedience is a Stranger in the Land:
Hardly subjected to the Magistrate;
or
Englishmen
do all Subjection hate.
Humblest when Rich, but peevish when they're Poor;
nd think whate'er they have, they merit more.
The meanest
English
Plowman studies Law,
And keeps thereby the Magistrates in Awe:
Will boldly tell them what they ought to do,
And sometimes punish their Omissions too.
Their Liberty and Property's so dear,
They scorn their Laws or Governours to fear:
o bugbear'd with the Name of Slavery,
They can't submit to their own Liberty.
estraint from Ill is Freedom to the Wise;
ut
Englishmen
do all Restraint despise.
laves to the Liquor, Drudges to the Pots,
The Mob are Statesmen, and their Statesman Sots.
Their Governours they count such dangerous things,
That 'tis their Custom to affront their Kings:
So jealous of the Power their Kings possess'd,
They suffer neither Power nor Kings to rest.
The Bad with Force they eagerly subdue;
The Good with constant Clamours they pursue:
And did King
Jesus
reign they'd murmur too.
A discontented Nation, and by far
Harder to rule in Times of Peace than War:
Easily set together by the Ears,
And full of causeless Jealousies and Fears:
Apt to revolt, and willing to rebel,
And never are contented when they're well.
No Government cou'd ever please them long,
Cou'd tye their Hands, or rectify their Tongue.
In this to Ancient
Israel
well compar'd,
Eternal Murmurs are among them heard.
It was but lately that they were opprest,
Their Rights invaded, and their Laws supprest:
When nicely tender of their Liberty,
Lord! what a Noise they made of Slavery.
In daily Tumults show'd their Discontent;
Lampoon'd their King, and mock'd his Government.
And if in Arms they did not first appear,
'Twas want of Force, and not for want of Fear.
In humbler Tone than
English
us'd to do,
At Foreign Hands for Foreign Aid they sue.
William
the Great Successor of
Nassau,
Their Prayers heard, and their Oppressions saw:
He saw and sav'd them: God and Him they prais'd;
To This their Thanks, to That their Trophies rais'd.
But glutted with their own Felicities,
They soon their New Deliverer despise;
Say all their Prayers back, their Joy disown,
Unsing their Thanks, and pull their Trophies down▪
Their Harps of Praise are on the Willows hung;
For
Englishmen
are ne'er contented long.
The Rev'rend Clergy too! and who'd ha' thought,
That they who had such Non-Resistance taught,
Should e'er to Arms against their Prince be brought?
Who up to Heaven did Regal Pow'r advance;
Subjecting
English
Laws to Modes of
France.
Twisting Religion so with Loyalty,
s one cou'd never live, and t'other dye.
And yet no sooner did their Prince design
Their Glebes and Perquisites to undermine,
ut all their Passive Doctrines laid aside;
The Clergy their own Principles deny'd:
npreach'd their Non-resisting Cant, and pray'd
To Heav'n for Help, and to the
Dutch
for Aid.
The Church chym'd all her Doctrines back again,
nd Pulpit-Champions did the Cause maintain;
lew in the Face of all their former Zeal,
nd Non-Resistance did at once repeal.
The
Rabbies
say it would be too prolix,
To tye Religion up to Politicks:
The Church's Safety is
Suprema Lex.
nd so by a new Figure of their own,
Their former Doctrines all at once disown.
s Laws
Post Facto
in the Parliament,
urgent Cases have obtain'd Assent;
ut are as dangerous Presidents laid by;
Made Lawful only by Necessity.
The Rev'rend Fathers then in Arms appear,
nd Men of God became the Men of War.
he Nation, fir'd by them, to Arms apply;
ssault their Antichristian Monarchy;
To their due Channel all our Laws restore,
nd made things what they shou'd ha' been before.
ut when they came to fill the Vacant Throne,
nd the Pale Priests look'd back on what they'd done;
ow
English
Liberty began to thrive,
nd Church of
England
Loyalty out-live:
ow all their persecuting Days were done,
d their Deliv'rer plac'd upon the Throne▪
The Priests, as Priests are wont to do, turn'd Tail;
They're
Englishmen,
and Nature will prevail.
Now they deplore the Ruins they ha' made,
And murmur for the Master they betray'd.
Excuse those Crimes they cou'd not make him mend;
And suffer for the Cause they can't defend.
Pretend they'd not ha' carry'd things so high;
And Proto-Martyrs make for Popery.
Had the Prince done as they design'd the thing,
Ha' set the Clergy up to rule the King;
Taken a Donative for coming hither,
And so ha' left their King and them together,
We had, say they, been now a happy Nation.
No doubt we had seen a Blessed Reformation:
For Wise Men say 't's as dangerous a thing,
A Ruling Priest-hood, as a Priest-rid King.
And of all Plagues with which Mankind are curst,
Ecclesiastick Tyranny's the worst.
If all our former Grievances were feign'd,
King
James
has been abus'd, and we trepann'd;
Bugbear'd with Popery and Power Despotick,
Tyrannick Government, and Leagues Exotick:
The Revolution's a Phanatick Plot,
W
— a Tyrant,
S
— a Sot:
A Factious Army and a Poyson'd Nation,
Unjustly forc'd King
James
's Abdication.
But if he did the Subjects Rights invade,
Then he was punish'd only, not betray'd;
And punishing of Kings is no such Crime,
But
Englishmen
ha' done it many a Time.
When Kings the Sword of Justice first lay down,
They are no Kings, though they possess the Crown.
Titles are Shadows, Crowns are empty things,
The Good of Subjects is the End of Kings;
To guide in War, and to protect in Peace;
Where Tyrants once commence, the Kings do cease:
For Arbitrary Power's so strange a thing,
It makes the Tyrant, and unmakes the King.
If Kings by Foreign Priests and Armies reign,
nd Lawless Power against their Oaths maintain,
hen Subjects must ha' reason to complain.
If Oaths must bind us when our Kings do ill;
o call in Foreign Aid is to rebel.
y force to circumscribe our Lawful Prince,
wilful Treason in the largest Sense:
nd they who once rebel, most certainly
heir God, and King, and former Oaths defy.
we allow no Male-Administration
ould cancel the Allegiance of the Nation;
et all our Learned Sons of
Levi
try,
his Eccles'astick Riddle to unty:
ow they could make a Step to call the Prince,
nd yet pretend to Oaths and Innocence.
By th' first Address they made beyond the Seas,
hey're perjur'd in the most intense Degrees;
nd without Scruple for the time to come,
May swear to all the Kings in
Christendom.
And truly did our Kings consider all,
hey'd never let the Clergy swear at all:
heir Politick Allegiance they'd refuse;
or Whores and Priests will never want excuse.
But if the Mutual Contract was dissolv'd,
The Doubtss explain'd, the Difficulty solv'd:
That Kings, when they descend to Tyranny,
Dissolve the Bond, and leave the Subject free.
The Government's ungirt when Justice dies,
And Constitutions are Non-Entities.
The Nations all a Mob, there's no such thing
As Lords or Commons, Parliament or King.
A great promiscuous Croud the Hydra lies,
Till Laws revive, and mutual Contract ties:
A Chaos free to chuse for their own share,
What Case of Government they please to wear:
f to a King they do the Reins commit,
All Men are bound in Conscience to submit:
But then that King must by his Oath assent
To
Postulata
's of the Government;
Which if he breaks, he cuts off the Entail,
And Power retreats to its Qriginal.
This Doctrine has the Sanction of Assent,
From Nature's Universal Parliament.
The Voice of Nations, and the Course of Things,
Allow that Laws superiour are to Kings.
None but Delinquents would have Justice cease,
Knaves rail at Laws as Soldiers rail at Peace:
For Justice is the End of Government,
As Reason is the Test of Argument.
No Man was ever yet so void of Sense,
As to debate the Right of Self-Defence;
A Principle so grafted in the Mind,
With Nature born, and does like Nature bind:
Twisted with Reason, and with Nature too;
As neither one nor t'other can undo.
Nor can this Right be less when National;
Reason which governs one, should govern all.
Whate'er the Dialect of Courts may tell,
He that his Right demands, can ne'er rebel.
Which Right, if 'tis by Governours deny'd,
May be procur'd by Force, or Foreign Aid.
For Tyranny's a Nation's Term for Grief;
As Folks cry
Fire,
to hasten in Relief.
And when the hated Word is heard about,
All Men shou'd come to help the People out.
Thus
England
groan'd,
Britannia
's Voice was heard;
And Great
Nassau
to rescue her appear'd:
Call'd by the Universal Voice of Fate;
God and the Peoples Legal Magistrate.
Ye Heav'ns regard! Almighty
Jove
look down,
And view thy Injur'd Monarch on the Throne.
On their Ungrateful Heads due Vengeance take,
Who sought his Aid, and then his part forsake.
Witness, ye Powers! it was our Call alone,
Which now our Pride makes us asham'd to own.
ritannia
's Troubles fetch'd him from afar,
o court the dreadful Casualties of War:
ut where Requital never can be made,
cknowledgment's a Tribute seldom paid.
He dwelt in Bright
Maria
's Circling Arms,
efended by the Magick of her Charms,
om Foreign Fears, and from Domestick Harms.
bition found no Fuel for her Fire,
e had what God cou'd give, or Man desire.
ll Pity rous'd him from his soft Repose,
s Life to unseen Hazards to expose:
ll Pity mov'd him in our Cause t' appear;
ty! that Word which now we hate to hear.
t
English
Gratitude is always such,
o hate the Hand which does oblige too much.
Britannia
's Cries gave Birth to his Intent,
d hardly gain'd his unforeseen Assent:
s boding Thoughts foretold him he should find
he People Fickle, Selfish and Unkind.
Which Thought did to his Royal Heart appear
ore dreadful than the Dangers of the War:
or nothing grates a generous Mind so soon,
s base Returns for hearty Service done.
Satyr,
be silent, awfully prepare
ritannia
's Song, and
William
's Praise to hear.
and by, and let her chearfully rehearse
er Grateful Vows in her Immortal Verse.
oud Fame's Eternal Trumpet let her sound;
sten ye distant Poles, and endless Round.
ay the strong Blast the welcome News convey
s far as Sound can reach, or Spirit fly.
o Neighb'ring Worlds, if such there be, relate
r Hero's Fame, for theirs to imitate.
o distant Worlds of Spirits let her rehearse:
or Spirits without the helps of Voice converse.
ay Angels hear the gladsome News on high,
ix'd with their everlasting Symphony.
And Hell it self stand in Suspence to know
Whether it be the Fatal Blast, or no.
BRITANNIA.
The Fame of Virtue 'tis for which I sound,
And Heroes with Immortal Triumphs crown'd.
Fame built on solid Virtue swifter flies,
Than Morning-Light can spread my
Eastern
Skies.
The gath'ring Air returns the doubling Sound,
And loud repeating Thunders force it round:
Ecchoes return from Caverns of the Deep:
Old Chaos dreams on't in Eternal Sleep.
Time hands it forward to its latest Urn,
From whence it never, never shall return,
Nothing is heard so far, or lasts so long;
'Tis heard by ev'ry Ear, and spoke by ev'ry Tongue.
My Hero with the Sails of Honour furl'd,
Rises like the great Genius of the World.
By Fate and Fame wisely prepar'd to be
The Soul of War, and Life of Victory.
He spreads the Wings of Virtue on the Throne,
And ev'ry Wind of Glory fans them on.
Immortal Trophies dwell upon his Brow,
Fresh as the Garlands he has won but now.
By different Steps the high Ascent he gains,
And differently that high Ascent maintains.
Princes for Pride and Lust of Rule make War,
And struggle for the Name of Conqueror.
Some fight for Fame, and some for Victory:
He Fights to Save, and Conquers to set Free.
Then seek no Phrase his Titles to conceal,
And hide with Words what Actions must reveal.
No Parallel from
Hebrew
Stories take,
Of God-like Kings my Similies to make:
No borrow'd Names conceal my living Theam;
But Names and Things directly I proclaim.
is honest Merit does his Glory raise;
hom that exalts, let no Man fear to praise,
f such a Subject no Man need be shy;
irtue's above the Reach of Flattery.
e needs no Character, but his own Fame,
or any flattering Titles, but his Name.
William
's the Name that's spoke by ev'ry Tongue:
illiam
's the darling Subject of my Song.
sten ye Virgins to the Charming Sound,
d in Eternal Dances hand it round:
ur early Offerings to this Altar bring;
ake him at once a Lover and a King.
ay he submit to none but to your Arms;
or ever be subdu'd, but by your Charms.
ay your soft Thoughts for him be all sublime;
d ev'ry tender Vow be made for him.
ay he be first in ev'ry Morning-Thought,
nd Heav'n ne'er hear a Pray'r where he's left out.
ay ev'ry Omen, ev'ry boding Dream,
e Fortunate by mentioning his Name.
ay this one Charm Infernal Powers affright,
nd guard you from the Terrors of the Night.
ay every chearful Glass as it goes down
o
William
's Health, be Cordials to your own.
et ev'ry Song be Chorust with his Name,
nd Musick pay her Tribute to his Fame▪
et ev'ry Poet tune his Artful Verse,
nd in Immortal Strains his Deeds rehearse.
nd may
Apollo
never more inspire
he Disobedient Bard with his Seraphick Fire▪
ay all my Sons their grateful Homage pay;
is Praises sing, and for his Safety pray.
Satyr,
return to our Unthankful Isle,
cur'd by Heaven's Regard, and
William
's Toil.
o both Ungrateful, and to both Untrue;
ebels to God, and to Good Nature too.
If e'er this Nation be distress'd again,
o whomsoe'er they cry, they'll cry in vain.
To Heav'n they cannot have the Face to look;
Or if they should, it would but Heav'n provoke.
To hope for Help from Man would be too much;
Mankind would always tell 'em of the
Dutch
:
How they came here our Freedoms to maintain,
Were Paid, and Curs'd, and Hurry'd home again.
How by their Aid we first dissolv'd our Fears,
And then our Helpers damn'd for Foreigners.
'Tis not our
English
Temper to do better;
For
Englishmen
think ev'ry Man their Debtor.
'Tis worth observing, that we ne'er complain'd
Of Foreigners, nor of the Wealth they gain'd,
Till all their Services were at an end.
Wise Men affirm it is the
English
way,
Never to Grumble till they come to pay;
And then they always think their Temper such,
The Work too little, and the Pay too much.
As frighted Patients, when they want a Cure,
Bid any Price, and any Pain endure:
But when the Doctor's Remedies appear,
The Cure's too Easie, and the Price too Dear.
Great
Portland
ne'er was banter'd when he strove
For Us his Master's kindest Thoughts to move.
We ne'er lampoon'd his Conduct, when employ'd
King
James
's Secret Councils to divide:
Then we caress'd him as the only Man,
Which could the doubtful Oracle explain:
The only
Hushai
able to repel
The dark Designs of our
Achitophel.
Compar'd his Master's Courage to his Sense;
The Ablest Statesman, and the Bravest Prince.
On his wise Conduct we depended much,
And lik'd him ne'er the worse for being
Dutch.
Nor was he valu'd more than he deserv'd;
Freely he ventur'd, faithfully he serv'd.
In all King
William
's Dangers he has shar'd;
In
England
's Quarrels always he appear'd:
The Revolution first, and then the
Boyne
;
both his Counsels and his Conduct shine.
is Martial Valour
Flanders
will confess;
nd
France
Regrets his Managing the Peace.
aithful to
England
's Interest and her King:
he greatest Reason of our murmuring.
en Years in
English
Service he appear'd,
nd gain'd his Master's and the World's Regard:
t 'tis not
England
's Custom to Reward.
he Wars are over,
England
needs him not;
ow he's a
Dutchman,
and the Lord knows what.
Schonbergh,
the Ablest Soldier of his Age,
With Great
Nassau
did in our Cause engage:
oth join'd for
England
's Rescue and Defence,
The Greatest Captain, and the Greatest Prince.
With what Applause his Stories did we tell?
ories which
Europe
's Volumes largely swell.
We counted him an Army in our Aid:
Where he commanded, no Man was afraid.
is Actions with a constant Conquest shine,
rom
Villa-Vitiosa
to the
Rhine.
rance, Flanders, Germany,
his Fame confess;
nd all the World was fond of him, but Us.
ur Turn first serv'd, we grudg'd him the Command▪
itness the Grateful Temper of the Land.
We blame the K— that he relies too much
n Strangers,
Germans, Hugonots,
and
Dutch
;
nd seldom does his great Affairs of State,
o
English
Counsellors communicate.
he Fact might very well be answer'd thus▪
e has so often been betray'd by us,
e must have been a Madman to rely
n
English
G—ns Fidelity.
or laying other Arguments aside,
his thought might mortifie our
English
Pride,
hat Foreigners have faithfully obey'd him,
nd none but
Englishmen
have e'er betray'd him.
They have our Ships and Merchants bought and sold,
And barter'd
English
Blood for Foreign Gold.
First to the
French
they sold our
Turky
-Fleet,
And Injur'd
Talmarsh
next at
Camaret.
The King himself is shelter'd from their Snares,
Not by his Merit, but the Crown he wears.
Experience tells us 'tis the
English
way,
Their Benefactors always to betray.
And lest Examples shou'd be too remote,
A Modern Magistrate of Famous Note,
Shall give you his own History by Rote.
I'll make it out, deny it he that can,
His Worship is a True-born
Englishman,
In all the Latitude that empty Word
By Modern Acceptation's understood.
The Parish-Books his Great Descent record,
And now he hopes e'er long to be a Lord.
And truly as things go, it wou'd be pity
But such as he shou'd represent the City:
While Robb'ry for Burnt-Offering he brings,
And gives to God what he has stole from Kings.
Great Monuments of Charity he raises,
And good St.
Magnus
whistles out his Praises.
To City-Goals he grants a Jubilee,
And hires Huzza's from his own Mobilee.
Lately he wore the Golden Chain and Gown,
With which Equipp'd he thus harangu'd the Town.
His Fine Speech,
&c.
WITH Clouted Iron Shooes and Sheep-skin Breech
More Rags than Manners, and more Dirt than Rich
From driving Cows and Calves to
Layton
-Market,
While of my Greatness there appear'd no Spark yet,
Behold I come▪ to let you see the Pride
With which Exalted Beggars always ride.
Born to the Needful Labours of the Plow,
he Cart-Whip grac'd me as the Chain does now▪
ature and Fate in doubt what course to take,
Whether I shou'd a Lord or Plough Boy make;
indly at last resolv'd they wou'd promote me,
nd first a Knave, and then a Knight they vote me.
hat Fate appointed, Nature did prepare,
nd furnish'd me with an exceeding Care.
o
it me for what they design'd to have me;
nd ev'ry Gift but Honesty they gave me.
And thus Equipt, to this proud Town I came,
quest of Bread, and not in quest of Fame.
ind to my future Fate, an humble Boy,
ree from the Guilt and Glory I enjoy.
The Hopes which my Ambition entertain'd,
ere in the Name of Foot-Boy all contain'd.
The Greatest Heights from Small Beginnings rise;
The Gods were Great on Earth, before they reach'd the Skies.
B.—well,
the Generous Temper of whose Mind,
as always to be bountiful inclin'd:
hether by his ill Fate or Fancy led,
irst took me up, and furnish'd me with Bread.
The little Services he put me to,
eem'd Labours rather than were truly so▪
ut always my Advancement be design'd;
or 'twas his very Nature to be kind.
arge was his Soul, his Temper ever free;
The best of Masters and of Men to me.
nd I who was before decreed by Fate,
o be made Infamous as well as Great,
With an obsequious Diligence obey'd him,
ill trusted with his All, and then betray'd him.
All his past Kindnesses I trampled on,
uin'd his Fortunes to erect my own.
o Vipers in the Bosom bred, begin
To hiss at that Hand first which took them in.
With eager Treach'ry I his Fall pursu'd,
And my first Trophies were Ingratitude.
Ingratitude's the worst of Humane Guilt,
The basest Action Mankind can commit;
Which like the Sin against the Holy Ghost▪
Has least of Honour, and of Guilt the most,
Distinguish'd from other Crimes by this,
That 'tis a Crime which no Man will confess.
That Sin alone, which shou'd not be forgiv'n
On Earth, altho' perhaps it may in Heav'n.
Thus my first Benefactor I o'erthrew;
And how shou'd be to a second true?
The Publick Trust came next into my Care,
And I to use them scurvily prepare:
My Needy Sov'reign Lord I play'd upon,
And lent him many a Thousand of his own;
For which, great Int'rests I took care to charge,
And so my Ill-got Wealth became so large.
My Predecessor
Judas
was a Fool,
Fitter to ha' been whipt, and sent to School,
Than sell a Saviour: Had I been at hand,
His Master had not been so cheap trepann'd;
I would ha' made the eager
Jews
ha' found,
For Thirty Pieces, Thirty Thousand Pound▪
My Cousin
Ziba,
of Immortal Fame,
(
Ziba
and I shall never want a Name:)
First-born of Treason, nobly did advance
His Master's Fall, for his Inheritance.
By whose keen Arts old
David
first began
To break his Sacred Oath to
Jonathan
:
The Good Old King, 'tis thought, was very loth
To break his Word, and therefore br—ke his Oath—
Ziba
's a Traytor of some Quality,
Yet
Ziba
might ha' been inform'd by me:
Had I been there, he ne'er had been content
With half th' Estate, nor half the Government.
In our late Revolution 'twas thought strange,
That I of all Mankind shou'd like the Change,
But they who wonder'd at it, never knew,
That in it I did my old Game pursue▪
or had they heard of Twenty thousand Pound,
hich ne'er was lost, nor never yet was found.
Thus all things in their turn to Sale I bring,
od and my Master first, and then the King:
ill by successful Villainies made bold,
thought to turn the Nation into Gold;
nd so to Forg—ry my Hand I bent,
ot doubting I could gull the Government;
ut there was ruffl'd by the Parliament▪
nd if I scap'd th' Unhappy Tree to climb,
Twas want of Law, and not for want of Crime.
But my
The Devil.
Old Friend,
who printed in my Face
needful Competence of
English
Brass,
aving more Business yet for me to do,
nd loth to lose his trusty Servant so,
Manag'd the Matter with such Art and Skill,
s sav'd his Hero, and threw out the B—l.
And now I'm grac'd with unexpected Honours,
or which I'll certainly abuse the Donors:
ighted, and made a Tribune of the People,
Whose Laws and Properties I'm like to keep well:
he
Custos Rotulorum
of the City,
nd Captain of the Guards of their
Banditti.
rrounded by my Catchpoles, I declare
gainst the Needy Debtor open War.
hang poor Thieves for stealing of your Pelf,
nd suffer none to rob you, but my self.
The King commanded me to help Reform ye,
nd how I'll do't, Miss
M—n,
shall inform ye.
keep the best Seraglio in the Nation,
nd hope in time to bring it into Fashion.
o Brimstone Whore need fear the Lash from me,
hat part I'll leave to Brother
Jeffery.
ur Gallants need not go abroad to
Rome.
I keep a Whoring Jubilee at Home.
Whoring's the Darling of my Inclination;
A'n't I a Magistrate for Reformation?
For this my Praise is sung by ev'ry Bard,
For which
Bridewell
wou'd be a just Reward.
In Print my Panegyricks fill the Street,
And hir'd Gaol-Birds their Huzza's repeat.
Some Charities contriv'd to make a show,
Have taught the Needy Rabble to do so:
Whose empty Noise is a Mechanick Fame,
Since for Sir
Belzebub
they'd do the same.
THE CONCLUSION.
THEN let us boast of Ancestors no more,
Or Deeds of Heroes done in Days of Yore,
In latent Records of the Ages past,
Behind the Rear of Time, in long Oblivion plac'd.
For if our Virtues must in Lines descend,
The Merit with the Families would end:
And Intermixtures would most fatal grow;
For Vice would be Hereditary too;
The tainted Blood wou'd of Necessity,
Involuntary Wickedness convey.
Vice, like Ill Nature, for an Age or two,
May seem a Generation to pursue:
But Virtue seldom does regard the Breed;
Fools do the Wise, and Wise Men Fools succeed.
What is't to us, what Ancestors we had?
If Good, what better? or what worse, if Bad?
amples are for Imitation set,
et all Men follow Virtue with Regret.
Cou'd but our Ancestors retrieve their Fate,
nd see their Offspring thus degenerate;
ow we contend for Birth and Names unknown,
nd build on their past Actions, not our own;
hey'd cancel Records, and their Tombs deface,
nd openly disown the vile degenerate Race:
or Fame of Families is all a Cheat,
'Tis Personal Virtue only makes us great.
FINIS.
A Catalogue of Poems,
&c.
Printed and Sold by
H. Hill
in
Black-Fryars,
near the
Water-side;
where seven more may be had that are not here Inserted.
A Congratulatory Poem on Prince
George
of
Denmark,
&c. on the Success at Sea.
Marlborough
Still Conquers.
The Flight of the Pretender.
Honesty in Distress, a Tragedy.
The Kit-Cats a Poem,
&c.
Wine, a Poem,
&c.
Cyder, a Poem, in 2 Books, with the Splendid Shilling,
&c.
The Pleasures of a Single Life,
&c.
Faction Display'd.
Moderation Display'd.
The Duel of the Stags.
&c.
Coopers-Hill, by Sir
J. Denham.
An Essay on Poetry, by the Earl of
Murlgrave.
Absalom
and
Achitophel.
The Plague of
Athens.
A Satyr against Man and Woman.
The Forgiving Husband.
Instructions to
Vanderbank.
The Temple of Death.
An Essay on Translated Verse, by the Earl of
Roscomon.
Horace
: Or the Art of Poetry.
The History of Insipids.
The Swan-Trip-Club.
Lucretius
on Death,
&c.
The Medal against Sedition.
Bellizarius
a great Commander.
Daphnis,
or a Pastoral Elegy,
&c.
A Poem on the Countess of
Abingdon.
Nundinae Sturbrigiences.
Tunbrigialia.
An Ode on the Incarnation,
&c.
Hoglandiae Descriptio.
Milton
's, Sublimity on Cyder.
Bosworth-feild,
a Poem, by Sir
John Beaumount
Bar.
Milton
's Sublimity asserted, in a
swer to Cyder, a Poem.
Canary Birds Naturaliz'd.
Baucis
and
Philemon,
&c.
Circus,
a Satyr: Or the Ring
Hide Park.
St.
James
's
Park,
a Satyr.
The Spleen, a Pindarique Ode,
Philips
's, Pastorals.
A Letter from
Italy,
to my Lo
Halifax,
with other Poems.
Blenheim,
a Poem, by
Phillips
Mac-Flecknoe,
by
J. Dryden
;
Spencer
's Ghost, by
J. Oldham
The Female Reign, an Ode,
Sam. Cobb.
The Upstart, a Satyr.
A Poem on the Taking St.
Mar
▪
Windsor Castle,
a Poem.
The Servitor, a Poem.
The Pulpit War.
The Campaign, a Poem, by
Addison.
The Counter-Scuffle, a Poem.
Don
Francisco Sutorioso.
Consolation to
Mira
mourning▪
A Panegyrick on
Oliver Cromw
with three Poems on his Deat
A Poem in Defence of the Chur
of
England.
The Apparition, a Poem.
The
Hind
and
Panther
Transve
to the Story of the Coun
Mouse and City Mouse.
Dr.
Gath
's Dispensary.
The Memoirs on the Right V
lainous
John Hall,
the late Fam
and Notorious Robber,
&c.
Mr
Shaftoe
's Narrative giving Account of the Birth of the P
tended Prince of
Wales,
&c.
An ELEGY ON THE AUTHOR OF THE True-Born-
English-Man.
WITH AN ESSAY On the Late STORM.
By the AUTHOR of the HYMN to the PILLORY.
LONDON: Printed in the Year 1708.
The PREFACE.
THO' these Sheets have been Wrote several Months, and in a time that seem'd to make them something more suitable than now: Yet the Occasion renewing it self every day, who can refrain from speaking?
Had the scribling World been pleas'd to leave me where they found me, I had left them and
Newgate
both together; and as I am metaphorically Dead, had been effectually so, as to Satyrs and Pamphlets.
'Tis really something hard, that after all the Mortification they think they have put upon a poor abdicated Author, in their scurrilous Street Ribaldry, and Bear Garden Usage, some in Prose, and some in those terrible Lines they call Verse, they cannot yet be quiet, but whenever any thing comes out that does not please them, I come in for a share in the Answer, whatever I did in the Question, every thing they think an Author deserves to be abus'd for, must be mine.
Several plentiful Showers of Railery I have quietly submitted to, an thought I had a Talent of Patience as large as might serve me in common with my Neighbours, but there is a time when a Man can bear n
longer, and if the Man is in a little Passion, he thinks he ought to b
born with.
I tried Retirement, and banish'd my self from the Town: I thought as the Boys us'd to say, 'twas but fair they should let me alone, while did not meddle with them.
But neither a Country Recess, any more than a Stone Doublet, on secure a Man from the Clamour of the Pen.
In the following Sheets I endeavour to state the Case in order to Truce; for shame, Gentlemen, let him alone, why the Man's Dead: 't
a Cowardly Trick to beat a Man when he's down, but to fight a Dea
Man is the Devil.
And with Submission, Gentlemen, the Allegory is just: for if bei
tied under Sureties and Penalties not to write, at least not to write wh
some People may not like, be not equivalent to being Dead, as to the P
I know not what is.
But how do these People treat Mankind, that they pretend to Indict
Man for every thing they please, as if they had Power to Read his Cou
tenance in Letters, and swear to a Stile as they would to his Face?
'Tis easie to prove the Authors of Books, and no Man can be conceal
in such Cases; but for a Man to be charged with other Mens Faults, w
has too many of his own,
is a method newly practis'd, and more up
me than any Body; and yet the Grief of this Usage does not stick so
upon me, but that I may tell my Antagonists,
if any think themselv
deserving that Name,
that they are very welcome to go on their own w
and use me as they please, I shall always be ready to reply, or by my
lence let them see I do not think it worth my while.
An
ELEGY
on the
Author
of the True-Born
English-Man.
SATYR sing
Lachrime,
thou'rt dead in Law,
Thy fatal Hour draws on,
The Lines of thine own
Exit
draw,
And tell how thou'rt undone.
end for the Priest, and ask Advice,
Reflect upon thy Time mispent;
When Wit upon its Death-B
d lies,
'Tis high time to repent.
What canst thou say old
Pluto
to appease?
hy Hymns in that dark World will never please:
ilence, eternal S
lence is thy Lot,
nd all thy Rhymes and all thy Hymns forgot:
ury'd in dark Oblivion, there thou'lt lie
or seven long Years,
a Wit's Eternity.
Little thou thought'st in Verses past,
hose Songs of thine would be thy last:
'Tis hard thy vigorous Muse should lie,
all her Strength of Thought, condemn'd to dye:
Tis hard to have her perish in her Prime,
nd most Men think she dy'd before her time.
With Patience, Satyr, to thy Fate submit,
nd show thy Courage can out-do thy Wit;
With Calmness meet the Sentence of thy Death,
nd yield with Temper thy Poetick Breath.
hat tho' to Silence they condemn thy Rhymes,
en that Silence shall condemn the Times.
The World shall blush when e'er they Read,
nd thou be still a Satyr, tho' thou'rt Dead.
When Malefactors come to dye,
They claim uncommon Liberty:
Freedom of Speech gives no distaste,
hey let them talk at large, because they talk their last;
'Tis hard thy dying Words should give Offence,
And neither please in Language nor in Sense;
He that must never open more,
Dearly attones for what he said before.
Departed Satyr!
let thy Ghost appear,
To keep the vicious Town in fear;
Verses shall from thy injur'd Ashes rise,
And Satyrs always pointed at their Vice:
No Man shall sin in peace,
And Virtue only shall thy Shade appease.
But since, dear Satyr▪ 'tis thy Lot
Thus to dye upon the spot,
In softest Notes sing thine own Elegy,
Be silent Dead, but never silent dye.
The
ELEGY.
Circled in
Newgate
's cold Embrace,
And reconcil'd to Death by such a place,
I from the horrid Mansion fled,
And,
as concerning Poetry,
am dead:
To seven long Years of silence I betake,
Perhaps by then I may forget to speak:
And thus I dy'd, and yield Satyrick Breath,
For to be Dumb,
in Poetry is Death.
If you demand a Reason of my Fate,
Whether it came too soon, or came too late;
Whether Wise Heaven did this permit,
For want of Manners, or else for want of Wit;
Whether I said too little or too much,
Or loaded any with too just Reproach,
If you would know the latent Cause,
Go search the hidden Secret in the Laws.
Let not my Verse my Verses Crimes debate,
Go ask the powerful Engines of the State.
Besides he must be void of Sense,
Who dare stand up in my Defence:
Behold that Power, which Men call Law,
Can keep even Innocence in awe.
Let it suffice this Elegy to read,
And tho' you see the Man,
All his Poetick Fancy's dead,
Nothing but Carcass can remain:
The Shadow of the Poet may appear,
No Substance can be there:
A walking
Spectrum,
with his Fancy fled,
And he that rais'd the Devil, the Devil has laid.
Yet I have Reason to complain,
I can not quiet in my Grave remain:
The World's disturb'd about my Memory,
They'll neither let me live, nor let me dye.
If an ill-natur'd Muse
Attempts the Nation to abuse,
If some unhappy Truths they tell,
hich might have been conceal'd as well,
My Ghost's arraign'd,
and I am said
ready to be Risen from the Dead.
The Mob of wretched Writers stand
With Storms of Wit in every Hand,
hey bait my Mem'ry in the Street,
nd charge
me
with the Credit of their Wit;
I bear the scandal of their Crimes,
y Name's the Hackney Title of the Times;
some new Wit in
Satyr
lies conceal'd,
And lately in Lampoon reveal'd,
y silent Ashes
are disturb'd to know
Whether it's dated from below;
Whether it's
mine
or no.
some in Pasquinades affront the State,
d tempt their yet unpity'd Fate,
willing to be cautious till too late,
e subtil Mimicks to this Shadow fly,
Conceal their Guilt,
and say 'tis I
:
Man can Satyrize a Man of Fame,
t daily Curses rise against
my Name.
mn, Song, Lampoon, Ballad, and Pasquinade,
My recent Memory invade;
Muse must be the Whore of Poetry,
d all
Apollo
's Bastards laid to me.
If any Poet has but writ,
With an Exuberance of spight,
s he the mighty Vices of the Age,
d mighty Men too, brought upon the Stage;
As who can with his Pen forbear
dress the S—s M—n in the Robes they're fond to wear?
ey search the deep Recesses
of my Grave,
en to hear the sleeping Genius rave:
Such is the Folly of their hate,
at Death cannot their Jealousies abate;
Such is the Force of Guilt,
they see
h Reason to expect Reproach from me,
Their Fancy harbours the Mistake,
eam in Death, and send my Ghost to speak.
Yet undisturb'd I safely sleep,
And calm as Death my Silence keep;
gh at all the Anger of Mankind,
loth to bear the T—, my Pen confin'd:
smile at Human Policy,
o always stop that Mouth, whose words they can't deny:
Yet let them not their Crimes conceal,
New Satyrs will their Crimes reveal;
More Poets from my Monument shall rise,
Who shall like me their Power despise.
Who shall condemn a vicious Court,
And make the Nation's Knaves the Nation's sport.
Naked as Nature's first Original
Vice shall before the Bar of Truth appear,
Keen Satyrs shall to Judgment call,
And Power shall not protect them there;
Satyr shall mighty Crimes rehearse,
No Rogue's above the Quality of Verse.
Satyr shall keep those Knaves in awe,
Who are too cunning for the Law;
And shall at least expose the Cheat
Of those that think themselves too great.
Fleets shall not spend a Seventeen Months advance,
To take the Air upon the Coast of
France
;
No sham Descents shall e'er be made,
The Money spent, and Majesty betray'd,
But lasting Verse shall make the matter clear,
And what the Nation feels, the World shall hear.
Nor will there e'er be wanting to this Age,
Poets to spread their Errors on the Stage;
Oppression makes a Poet
; Spleen Endites,
And makes Men write by force, as
G—n
fights.
Was e'er such broken Voyages made?
Was ever War so much a Trade?
If Fleets to
Italy
shall go,
And hardly tell the Foe
Whether they have been there or no:
Come back to let us know the Mony's spent,
And hardly knew for what they went;
The Nation ne'er can want a Poet long,
To turn such juggling into Song.
When Traytors creep into th' Affairs of State,
Poets will always prophesie their Fate;
When Villains serve the Queen by halves,
And fleece the Nation to enrich themselves;
Her Majesty may strive in vain,
Make Peace with
Portugal,
and War with
Spain.
Fit Armies out, send Fleets to Sea,
The Mony's all but thrown away:
Unless the Heroes who command
Would learn to do as well as understand.
When the new Leagues with
Portugal
appear,
All honest Men rejoyce;
ut had they been secur'd before the War,
'T had been at half the price:
Had not the Nation been betray'd,
isbon
had long ago embrac'd
Madrid
;
he
Bourbon
Lawrels had abandon'd
Spain,
And
Anjou
's Triumphs been in vain.
Were I alive again, and could but hear
he hopes we have of this
Algarvian War,
My Satyr could no more forbear
o pay the due
to William's Character
;
he early Measures of this War he laid,
But 'twas his Fate to be betray'd;
e form'd the League the Queen has now retriev'd,
And had he been believ'd,
he Queen had not been now embroil'd with
Spain,
nd forc'd to purchase
Portugal
again.
ain
had long since an
Austrian
Monarch known:
d rightful Princes had possest their own.
If some bold Satyr does not soon revive,
let them know that Poetry's alive;
we must always be embrac'd by Knaves,
nd all the Nation's Work be done by halves;
every Year endeavouring to be poor,
always mending what we marr'd before;
ave always something to retrieve,
nd always doing something to deceive;
Vast Navies fitted out to Fight
A Foe that's always out of fight;
nd yet the
French
in flying Squadrons Reign,
sult our Trade, and Bully all the Main,
nd bravely dare our Ships to fight in vain:
If our Sea Captains when they run away,
Shall only forfeit three Months Pay;
If no new Genius rises up to show,
And let the injur'd Nation know
By whom they're thus betray'd, and how;
fear, in spight of all that has been said,
hall be forc'd to speak, altho' I'm Dead,
ean while let Mercenary Poets strive
o make their Malice my Decease out-live.
Let them reproach my Memory,
nd write;
for now they're sure of no Reply
:
et them their True-Born
English
Temper show,
en in distress are always treated so:
et them with wretched Satyrs glut the Town,
xpose my Morals, and forget their own;
This shall my Quiet never discompose,
Contempt's a Cure which present help bestows;
Silence shall answer their Reproach,
For Silence is a Debt to such.
But if some Satyrs shall assault my Hearse,
And raise my frighted Ghost with their more frightful Verse,
Let such revengeful Wretches understand
I'll answer, when they'll satisfie my Bond:
If they my Pledges will defend,
I'll from this Grave arise,
I'll Reassume my Satyrs, and
Leave off those Elegies;
The World shall have their Errors plainly shown,
I'll blast their Vices, and Reform my own.
Of all the Men that ever dy'd before,
Mine's the severest Case,
The Grave till now was always taken for
A place of Peace:
But I, as if some secret Power I had,
Give Bond to be at quiet when I'm dead;
My Enemies are not content to kill,
But take Security that I'll lie still:
Jealous, it seems, my busie Head
Should make me talk when I am dead.
Here's all the Reason I can make them give,
That tho' the Poet's dead, the Man's alive.
To which, as gravely I have said,
That tho' the Man's alive, the Poet's dead.
He's bad indeed, who when he dies
Has none to mourn his Obsequies;
And of the Virtuous find me one,
But some rejoices when he's gone;
So I have Mourners who lament my Verse,
And some Triumph upon the Satyr's Hearse:
Some think I die without a Crime,
Some like my Fate, and think 'twas time.
But this Just Calculation I can make,
And there I think I can't mistake,
The Wise and Virtuous Sorrow's Tribute pay,
And Vice alone keeps Holy-day;
This does my Judgment satisfie,
For so would every wise Man die:
So let the Censure of my Works be past,
So let me die, when I must die my last;
Let wise Mens Sorrow be my Choice,
And let the Knaves and Fools rejoice.
'Tis true there is some Reason in the case,
Vice now has room to shew her Face;
or now my walking Ghost is laid,
The Grand Contagion may the Nation spread;
Reproofs may cease,
And all Men be as wicked as they please.
Cities may Magistrates Elect,
That may the Crimes they practice, there protect;
That all their
D
—men may out-swear,
And with exalted Drunk'ness Grace the Chair.
No more departed Satyr can reproach,
No more the Crimes or Persons touch.
S
—May blast the Root from whence he came,
nd load his Family with Pride and Shame.
The high exalted wretch untouch'd may live,
ide in his Coach, and make his Father drive:
nd lest his Insolence shou'd ever fail,
as laid his own Progenitor in Jail.
Let future Poets blame the Law,
That keeps less Villains more in awe:
ut suffers such a Wretch to brave the State,
nd sin above the reach of Magistrate:
My
Satyr,
Silenc'd by the Times,
ill cease to Check the most unnatural Crimes.
Degenerate
M
— may now disown
is Mother's Sense,
in hopes to show his own.
ut sure the Devil must be in the Chear,
o tell him he could make it pass
for Wit,
nd make him prove with such excessive pains,
is want of Manners by his want of Brains.
he young unnatural Fop has strove too long,
ith empty Head, and inconsistent Tongue.
ature to make amends for want of Sense,
as throng'd his Head with clear Impertinence.
is Gay Out-side's a
Satyr
on
the Fair,
nd let us know what's most obliging there.
The Ladies who in Beaus delight,
ake shift by Day, so they're but pleas'd at Night.
The Charms which please a vicious Bed,
Lie somewhere else than in the Head;
nd if the suited Blockheads parts will hit,
They'll always bear with want of Wit.
is own dear Jest he labours to enjoy,
nd studies how to live and die a Boy.
ature that left the unfinish'd Fop too soon▪
st lent him Sense enough to be undone;
And now he keeps a mighty pother,
And for Hereditary Wit indicts his Mother:
Rails that he's of his Brains bereft,
And yet pretends that she has little left.
Bedlam
some Title to him had,
But Fools, they say, are never Mad.
Were not my
Satyr
lately dead,
His juster Character should here be read;
Mean time would but his Mother take advice,
The vile unnatural Monster to despise:
Nature the viperous Wretch would soon discard,
And in his Vices show him his Reward.
G
— may his weighty Sense prepare,
G—'s
An Elbow of the City Chair.
He boasts himself the Churches chief support,
I think the Church her self should thank him for't:
Tho' most suppose his Notions were but wild,
To fetch the
Jew
to Gospellize his Child.
The
Hebrew
Rake from Synagogue dismist,
Came in to Circumcise the Feast,
And made the God-Father, but spoil'd the Jest.
Some say 'twas look'd upon as a Reproach,
And interloping on the Church:
But others say the
Jew
was rathet
A better Christian than the
D
— Father,
And all agree
The Babe well Taught may be the best of all the three.
Let the uncircumcis'd alone,
The
Israelite
and he are much at one;
Both their Religions now they shew,
The
Hebrew
Christian, and the Christian
Jew,
Some say my former
Satyrs
show,
The Ebb of vicious Characters run low;
But if they'll please to think agen,
They'll find I never Tyth'd the Men,
Nor never throng'd my Verse with one in Ten.
Why else should
S.
and
T.
escape,
This for his Parricide, that his Incestuous Rape,
How came prodigious
D
— to be un-nam'd,
For Crimes unheard of lately fam'd.
Of all the Beaus and Brutes that croud the Town,
My modest
Satyr
chose but one,
And he to all Men but himself unknown.
I never touch'd great
M
—
Whose Follies have not been a few;
Nor told the World of half the Crimes,
Which a fine House can harbour from the Times.
L
— and
W—t
in spight of me,
ave been as Lewd as
R
— and
D
—
I spar'd them for their Modesty:
Because their Vice was something new,
nd made one Whore between them serve the two.
Old lying
B
— ne'er met with my Reproof,
Tho' he gave always room enough.
My
Satyr
strove to whet her Pen
Against the Crimes, and spar'd the Men:
But now the Fashion of the Times,
Makes Poets Damn the Men without the Crimes.
If I have been too backward here,
To make the Vices of the Times appear,
If e'er I come to rise again,
I'll make ye all amends, and name the Men.
Young
S—t
shall not the House of God debauch▪
And meet with neither Censure nor Reproach.
If e'er my
Satyr
should revive,
They shall reform, or be asham'd to live.
But now my sleeping
Satyr
quits the Stage,
And leaves untouch'd the vicious Age.
The eager Rakes may unreprov'd sin on,
There's time enough to be undone.
No more my
Satyr
shall those Follies touch,
No more the Crimes, no more the Men reproach.
M
— may hug
the Shortest Way,
And for its Execution pray:
Next to the Sacred Books he plac'd the Scheme,
And lov'd the Practice better than the Theme.
He always for his Sovereign pray'd,
But 'twas to have her be a Tyrant made;
To have her dip her hands in Blood,
And ruin all the Nation for their good.
But when the Hair-brain'd Zealot found
The Plot lay deeper under ground;
When he first felt the
Satyr
bite,
And found 'twas writ t' expose, and not excite,
He chang'd his Ecclesiastick Look,
And damn'd the Author, tho' he lov'd the Book.
My
Satyr
has the hardest Fate,
Her Book's the Contradiction of the State.
Riddle Aenigma double Speech,
Dark Answers, doubtful Scriptures, which
Puzzle the Poor, and pose the Rich:
Are plain Explicite things to these,
Who punish Authors, when the Subjects please.
Nothing but this can such dark Steps explain;
They like the Doctrine, but they hate the Man▪
Grave Authors now may write Essays,
That with one Face look several ways,
Of Peace at home, and War abroad,
And damn the Subject which they wou'd applaud.
Banter the Queen with Dedications,
And call that Peace which will embroil three Nations.
S
— may new Harangues endite,
To set Conformity in clearer Light:
Learned Quotations bring by Rote,
Wise as the Nations he thought fit to Quote,
Whose Laws he knew, but had their Names forgot.
'Twas his strong Fore-cast which foresaw,
To damn Dissenting by a Law,
Would make our fatal Quarrel cease,
And bring the Nations all to Peace.
Ye Sons of Vice advance your Wit,
'Tis now your turn to reign;
Satyr
's subdu'd, and must submit,
And never like to raise again:
My Fate will dictate to the rest,
In me, they know how they shall be opprest
My Doom will learn 'em to be wise,
And ne'er attempt Impossibilities.
The Magistrate may now be lewd,
The saucy Satyr shall no more intrude:
A Vicious Clergy may the Church supply,
Debauch the Gown, and give their Text the Lye▪
Smother their Morals in the Vine,
And prove the Bottle's Origine Divine.
Religion may be in a Blanket tost,
From Hand to Hand, 'till 'tis as good as lost▪
'Till Fate restore some Justice to the Times,
Satyr
shall leave 'em to grow Old in Crimes.
Atheists
may, unmolested, now Blaspheme,
Slight Human Power, and banter the Supreme:
Allmighty Drunkenness bear Imperial Sway,
And Mankind be debauch'd th'
Shortest Way.
The Poor, alone, find in their Crimes their Fate▪
And mock the Duty of the Magistrate;
They suffer for the Crimes the Rich commit,
For want of Mony, not for want of Wit.
Guilt may in splendor thro' the City ride,
With all the Court of Elders by her side;
Those true Reformers need not fear,
A silent
Satyr
can do nothing here.
Their sham of Reformation they may Print,
With much of Canting Nonsense in't;
Cajole the People to believe they care
What Lewder Scenes are drawn in
Smithfield
Fair.
For having damn'd Prophaneness first,
Then they proclaim the Fair, and bid them do their worst.
In grand Procession to the place they go,
Was ever God Almighty banter'd so?
Let 'em go on, absurdly act,
First Vice condemn, then Vice protect;
My bury'd
Satyr
can no more reprove,
Leave them to Justice from above;
Refer them to their Orders for the Fair,
Prophaneness sinks beneath the City Chair;
But rais'd by Proclamation lives again,
And every
Booth
's a Libel on the Men.
Yet let young Poets Reverence the Chair,
or God's
Vicegerent's Deputy
sits there:
With Annual Pomp, and Majesty Enthron'd,
But how does Vice conniv'd his Seat surround!
What tho' no personal Crimes there could appear.
To soil the Brightness of his Character:
His weak pursuit of Vice the Law defeats,
For Negatives are Crimes in Magistrates.
Yet from my Ghost take this Prophetick Curse,
The next the City chuses shall be worse.
Let 'em expect those days to come.
When Vice shall be embrac'd, and Satyr dumb.
My Verse beneath this Tomb contented lies,
eproof's a Blessing none but Fools despise,
And they that hate it, never will be wise.
Ye Men of Might and
muckle Power,
Who Rule Mankind, and all Mankind devour;
f you would have my quiet Ghost remain,
Lock'd in the Laws too mighty Chain,
Obey the Nation's Interest and your own,
Learn to protect, and not betray the Throne.
Witness ye Powers! I promise now,
For ever Sacred be the Vow!
As long as Magistrates forbear,
In Crimes they punish to appear.
While Parsons cease to Drink and Whore,
P—s
to be Proud, Debauch'd, and Poor▪
While Lawyers cease to talk Mankind to Death▪
nd Murther Men with mercenary Breath.
While
C—rs
Promises regard,
And Princes Men of Faith reward.
My
Satyr
shall in quiet sleep,
Her Sentenc'd silence keep;
With-hold her Rage,
No more disturb the Age;
No more the mighty Vices of the mighty Men engage.
When Soldiers hasten to dispatch the War,
Their Country's Service to their Pay prefer;
Cease to give thanks for Victory when they fly,
And give Almighty Truth the Lye.
As long as Navies, Fleets, and Men,
Come shatter'd home, and hasten out again:
While they protect our Trade, defend our Coast,
And bravely fight, what e'er it cost.
While Actions good or ill have due regard,
The Coward Punishment, the Brave Reward.
While all our Publicans are just,
And faithfully discharge the People's Trust;
Receivers due Accounts give in,
And duly pay it out again.
While needful Charges are defraid,
The Navy Mann'd as well as paid.
And no Commission Officers presume,
To take the Nation's Pay and stay at home.
When e'er these happy Articles appear,
There'll be no business for a Satyr here.
I may lie still without Security,
There can be no occasion then for me;
I shall have nothing left to say,
For this would stop my Mouth
the Shortest Way.
I was in hopes with this Poetick Death.
Slander would die, and let me take some Breath:
But Envy never sleeps, Report begins
To charge my Memory with my Neighbours sins,
As if they had not known
I have too many of my own:
They tell me how the Party did combine
To bear my Charges, and to pay my Fine.
Malice is always Retrograde to Sense,
And judges things without their Consequence;
Willing her mischievous Intent to show,
She always goes too fast, or else too slow.
They that this empty Notion rais'd,
Not me, but all the Party Satyriz'd.
Since all Men that know how to judge by Rules,
Know that the Men they mean were never Fools.
And their worst Enemies would never try,
To brand them with the blame of Generosity.
But to remove this modern Doubt,
'll give
five hundred Pound
they'll make it out.
Thus like Old
Strephen
's Virtuous Miss,
Who, foolishly too coy,
Dy'd with the scandal of a Whore,
And never knew the Joy.
So I, by Whigs abandon'd, bear
The
Satyr
's unjust Lash,
Dye with the Scandal of their help,
But never saw their Cash.
No Man of Crime that suffer'd Death
Was ever us'd like me,
n Thefts and Treasons, Rapes and Blood,
All Men have leave to die.
No Sentence sure was half so hard as mine,
That could not die till I had paid my Fine.
Methinks to make me poor had been enough,
For when they had my Pelf,
Perhaps if they had given me Time
I might ha' hang'd my self:
But this, and I should think they needs must know it,
s not
The Shortest Way
to kill a Poet.
In vain they spend their Time and Breath
To make me starve, and die a Poet's Death:
Butler
's
Garret
I shall ne'er appear,
Neither his Merit nor his Fate I fear.
Heavens keep me but from Bullet, Sword and Gun,
I'm not afraid of being undone;
'm satisfy'd it never shall be said,
But he that gave me Brains, will give me Bread.
Some People ask if I was fairly stain?
Tho' I think not, I shan't complain
Till I ha' slept my Time, and rise again.
But they that are concern'd at this
Are freely left to guess
Why I am doom'd to write no more,
f something wan't too true I wrote before.
Why should they thus deny
To let me write my Truer History?
Why seven long Years of Silence now impose,
f I had nothing to disclose,
Nothing to make appear,
Nothing to say they cannot bear to hear.
But 'tis enough I lost my Life by Law,
And still by Rules am kept in Awe.
The Manner all Exact and Regular.
Whate'er the Consequences are,
Never demand if it were Just,
For if the Forms are right, the Matter must.
Law is a great Machine of State
With Hooks and Screws to make it Operate;
Which as they are wound up by Art,
With ease perform the Fatal Part;
Exactly answer to the Workman's Skill,
This way 'twill work to save, or that to kill.
Crime in this Management has no Concern,
No Man can Right from Wrong discern.
The Movement is so subtle, and so sure,
And does such certain Fate procure.
The Mathematicks are in vain,
Defensive Study useless must remain.
This Monster, whom it pleases will devour,
For Law is but a Heathen Word for Power;
A Metaphor, invented to confess
The Methods by which Men Oppress;
By which with Safety they destroy Mankind,
While Justice stands before, and Fraud behind.
Thousands of little Wheels, and unseen Parts
Of perjur'd Promises, and wheedling Arts,
This mighty Thing compose,
And no Man half its crooked Turnings knows.
The wild Meanders none can Trace,
Nor no Man knows it by its Face.
It learns to change with every Turn of Times,
And rings the Tune 'tis set to,
like the Chimes.
'Tis by this Engine I thought fit to die,
And so has many a wiser Man than I;
And by their broken Promises betray'd,
Satyr
is thus upon its Death-Bed laid.
If e'er I come to Life again,
Coleman
for that; I'll put no Faith in Man:
I that did on fair Quarter yield,
Laid down my Arms, and left the Field,
Did from my own Defence withdraw,
Thinking that Honesty was Law,
Have lost my Rhiming Life by this Deceit,
And I deserve it for my want of Wit.
Had I remembred Days of Yore,
When we complain'd of Arbitrary Power,
When Lawyers were the Tools of State,
And hurried Men to hasty Fate.
When the great Engine was screw'd up too high,
And Men were hang'd they knew not why;
Had I remember'd
Scrogg
's Fame,
And known that Lawyers are in ev'ry Reign the same,
I ne'er had ventur'd to believe
Men, whose Profession's to deceive.
Memento Mori
here I stand
With Silent Lips, but Speaking Hand;
A walking Shadow of a Poet,
But bound to hold my Tongue, and never show it:
A Monument of Injury,
A Sacrifice to Legal T—y.
I beckon to Mankind to have a Care,
And pointing, tell how I was lost, and where;
I show the dangerous Shore,
Where I have suffer'd Shipwrack just before.
If among Poets there remains a Fool,
That scorns to take this Notice for a Rule,
But ventures the Fidelity
Of those whose Trade and Custom 'tis to L—,
Let Men no Pity to him show;
Let him to
Bedlam,
not to
Newgate,
go.
The STORM. An ESSAY.
I'M told,
for we have News among the Dead,
Heaven lately spoke, but few knew what it said;
The Voice, in loudest Tempests spoke,
nd Storms, which Nature's strong Foundation shook,
felt it hither,
and I'd have you know
eard the Voice, and knew the Language too.
Think it not strange I heard it here,
Place is so remote, but when
he speaks,
they hear.
Besides, tho' I am dead in Fame,
I never told you where I am.
Tho' I have lost Poetick Breath,
I'm not in perfect State of Death:
m whence this
Popish Consequence
I draw,
I'm in the
Limbus
of the Law.
me be where I will I heard the Storm,
m every Blast
it eccho'd thus, REFORM
;
t the mighty Shock, and saw the Night,
hen Guilt look'd pale, and own'd he Fright;
And every time the Raging Element
ok
London
's lofty Towers, at every Rent
e falling Timbers gave,
they cry'd, REPENT.
I saw, when all the stormy Crew,
Newly commission'd from on high,
Newly instructed what to do,
In Lowring, Cloudy, Troops drew nigh:
They hover'd o'er the guilty Land,
As if they had been backward to obey;
As if they wondred at the sad Command,
And pity'd those those they shou'd destroy.
But Heaven, that long had gentler Methods tried.
And saw those gentler Methods all defied,
Had now resolv'd to be obey'd.
The Queen, an Emblem of the
soft, still, Voice,
Had told the Nation how to make their Choice;
Told them the only way to Happiness
Was by the Blessed Door of Peace.
But the unhappy Genius of the Land,
Deaf to the Blessing, as to the Command,
Scorn to the high Caution; and contemn the News,
And all the blessed Thoughts of Peace refuse.
Since Storms are then the Nation's Choice,
Be Storms their Portion, said the Heavenly Voice:
He said, and I could hear no more,
So soon th' obedient Troops began to roar:
So soon the blackning Clouds drew near,
And fill'd with loudest Storms the trembling Air:
I thought I felt the World's Foundation shake,
And lookt when all the wondrous Frame would break.
I trembl'd as the Winds grew high,
And so did many a braver Man than I:
For he whose Valour scorns his Sence,
Has chang'd his Courage into Impudence.
Man may to Man his Valour show,
And 'tis his Vertue to do so.
But if he's of his Maker nor afraid,
He's not courageous then, but mad.
Soon as I heard the horrid Blast,
And understood how long 'twould last,
View'd all the Fury of the Element,
Consider'd well by whom 'twas sent,
And
unto whom
for Punishment:
It brought my Hero to my Mind,
William,
the Glorious, Great, and Good, and Kind.
Short Epithets to his Just Memory;
The first he was to all the World,
the last to me.
The mighty Genius to my Thought appear'd,
Just in the same Concern he us'd to show,
When private Tempests us'd to blow,
Storms which the Monarch more than Death or Battel fear'd.
hen Party Fury shook his Throne,
d made their mighty Malice known,
I have heard the sighing Monarch say,
The Publick Peace so near him lay,
It took the Pleasure of his Crown away.
It fill'd with Cares his Royal Breast;
ten he has those Cares Prophetickly exprest,
That when he should the Reins let go,
aven would some Token of its Anger show,
To let the thankless Nation see
w they despis'd their own Felicity▪
This robb'd the Hero of his Rest,
sturb'd the Calm of his serener Breast.
When to the Queen his Scepter he resign'd,
With a resolv'd and steady Mind,
o' he rejoic'd to lay the Trifle down,
pity'd Her to whom he left the Crown:
Foreseeing long and vig'rous Wars,
reseeing endless, private, Party Jarrs,
Would always interrupt Her Rest,
d fill with Anxious Cares Her Royal Breast.
For Storms of Court Ambition rage as high
Almost as Tempests in the Sky.
Could I my hasty Doom retrieve,
d once more in the Land of Poets live,
I'd now the Men of Flags and Fortune greet,
And write an Elegy upon the Fleet.
st, those that on the Shore were idly found,
hom other Fate protects,
while better Men were drown'd,
ey may thank God for being Knaves on Shore,
t sure the Q— will never trust them more.
They who rid out the Storm, and liv'd,
t saw not whence it was deriv'd,
sless of Danger, or the mighty Hand,
at could to cease, as well as blow, command,
Let such unthinking Creatures have a Care,
For some worse End prepare.
Let them look out for some such Day,
hen what the Sea would not,
the Gallows may.
ose that in former Dangers shunn'd the Fight,
met their Ends in this Disast'rous Night,
Have left this Caution, tho' too late,
That all Events are known to Fate.
wards avoid no Danger when they run,
d Cowards scapes the Death it would not shun;
T
e Nonsence from our Fate to fly,
Men must once have Heart enough to die.
Those Sons of Plunder are below my Pen,
Because they are below the Names of Men;
Who from the Shores presenting to their Eyes
The Fatal
Goodwin,
where the Wreck of
Navies
lyes,
A Thousand dying Saylors talking to the Skies.
From the sad Shores they saw the Wretches walk,
By Signals of Distress they talk;
There with one Tide of Life they're vext,
For all were sure to die the next.
The Barbarous Shores with Men and Boats abound,
The Men more Barbarous than the Shores are found;
Off to the shatter'd Ships they go,
And for the Floating Purchase Row.
They spare no Hazard, or no Pain,
But 'tis to save the Goods and not the Men.
Within the sinking Supplaints Reach appear,
As if they'd mock their dying Fear.
Then for some Trifle all their Hopes supplant,
W
th Cruelty would make a
Turk
relent.
If I had any
Satyr
left to write,
Cou'd I with suited Spleen Indite,
My V
rse should blast that Fatal Town,
And Drowned Saylors Widows pull it down;
No Footsteps of it should appear,
And Ships no more cast Anchor there.
The Barbarous Hated Name of
Deal
shou'd die,
Or be a Term of Infamy;
And till that's done, the Town will stand
A just Reproach to all the Land.
The Ships come next to be my Theme,
The Men's the Loss, I'm not concern'd for them;
For had they perish'd e'er they went,
Where to no Purpose they were sent,
The Ships might ha' been built again,
And we had sav'd the Money and the Men.
There the Mighty Wrecks appear,
Hic Jacent,
Useless things of War.
Graves of Men, and Tools of State,
There you lye too soon, there you lye too late.
But O ye Mighty Ships of War!
What in Winter did you there?
Wild
November
should our Ships restore
To
Chatham, Portsmouth,
and the
Nore,
So it was always heretofore,
For Heaven it self is not unkind,
If Winter Storms he'll sometimes send,
Since 'tis suppos'd the Men of War
Are all laid up, and left secure.
Nor did our Navy feel alone,
The dreadful Desolation;
It shook the
Walls of Flesh
as well as Stone,
And ruffl'd all the Nation.
The Universal Fright
Made Guilty
H
— expect his Fatal Night;
His harden'd Soul began to doubt,
And Storms grew high within, as they grew high without.
Flaming Meteors fill'd the Air,
But
Asgil
miss'd his
Fiery Chariot
there;
Recall'd his black blaspheming Breath,
And trembling paid his Homage unto Death,
Terror appear'd in every Face,
Even
Vile Blackbourn
felt some Shocks of Grace;
Began to feel the Hated Truth appear,
Began to fear,
After
he had Burlesqu'd a God
so long,
He should at last be in the wrong.
Some Power he plainly saw,
(And seeing, felt a strange unusual Awe;)
Some secret Hand he plainly found,
Was bringing some strange thing to pass,
And he that neither God nor Devil own'd,
Must needs be at a loss to guess.
Fain he would not ha' guest the worst,
But Guilt will always be with Terror Curst.
Hell shook, for Devils dread Almighty Power,
At every Shock they fear'd the Fatal Hour,
The Adamantine Pillars mov'd,
And Satan's
Pandemonium
trembl'd too;
The tottering
Seraphs
wildly rov'd,
Doubtful what the Almighty meant to do;
For in the darkest of the black Abode,
There's not a Devil but believes a God.
Old
Lucifer
has sometimes try'd
To have himself be Deify'd;
But Devil nor Men the Being of God deny'd,
Till Men of late found out New Ways to sin,
And turn'd the Devil out to let the Atheist in.
But when the mighty Element began,
And Storms the weighty Truth explain,
Almighty Power upon the Whirlwind Rode,
And every Blast proclaim'd aloud
There is, there is, there is,
a God.
Plague, Famine, Pestilence, and War,
Are in their Causes seen,
The true Originals appear
Before the Effects begin:
But Storms and Tempests are above our Rules,
Here our Philosophers are Fools.
The
Stagyrite
himself could never show,
From whence, nor how they blow.
'Tis all Sublime, 'tis all a Mystery,
They see no manner how, nor Reason why;
All Sovereign Being
is the amazing Theme,
'Tis all resolv'd to Power Supreme;
From this first Cause our Tempest came,
And let the Atheists spight of Sense Blaspheme,
They can no room for Banter find,
Till they produce another Father for the Wind.
Satyr,
thy Sense of Sovereign Being declare,
He made the Mighty Prince o'th' Air,
And Devils recognize him by their Fear.
Ancient as Time, and Elder than the Light,
E'er the first Day, or antecedent Night,
E'er Matter into settl'd Form became,
And long before Existence had a Name;
Before th' Expance of indigested Space,
While the vast
No where
fill'd the Room of Place.
Liv'd
the First Cause
The First Great
Where
and
Why,
Existing
to and from
Eternity,
Of His Great Self, and
of Necessity.
This I call God,
that One great Word of Fear,
At whose great Sound,
When from his Mighty Breath 'tis ecchos'd round,
Nature pays Homage with a trembling bow,
And Conscious Men would faintly disallow;
The Secret Trepidation racks the Soul,
And while he says, no God, replies, thou Fool.
But call it what we will,
First Being it had,
does Space and Substance fill.
Eternal Self-existing Power enjoy'd,
And whatsoe'er is so,
That same is God.
If then it should fall out, as who can tell,
But that there is a Heaven and Hell,
Mankind had best consider well for fear
'T should be too late when their Mistakes appear;
Such may in vain Reform,
Unless they do't before another Storm.
They tell us
Scotland
scap'd the Blast;
No Nation else have been without a Taste:
All
Europe
sure have felt the Mighty Shock,
'T has been a Universal Stroke.
But Heaven has other Ways to plague the
Scots,
As Poverty and Plots.
Her Majesty confirms it, what She said,
I plainly heard it, tho' I'm dead.
The dangerous So and has rais'd me from my Sleep,
I can no longer Silence keep,
Here
Satyr
's thy Deliverance,
A Plot in
Scotland,
Hatch'd in
France,
And Liberty the Old Pretence.
Prelatick Power with Popish join,
The Queen's just Government to undermine;
This is enough to wake the Dead,
The Call's too loud, it never shall be said
The lazy
Satyr
slept too long,
When all the Nations Danger claim'd his Song.
Rise
Satyr
from thy Sleep of Legal Death,
And reassume Satyrick Breath;
What tho' to Seven Years Sleep thou art confin'd,
Thou well may'st wake with such a Wind.
Such Blasts as these can seldom blow,
But they're both form'd above and heard below.
Then wake and warn us now the Storms are past,
Lest Heaven return with a severer Blast.
Wake and inform Mankind
Of Storms that still remain behind.
If from this Grave thou lift thy Head,
They'll surely mind one risen from the Dead.
Tho'
Moses
and the Prophets can't prevail,
A Speaking
Satyr
cannot fail.
Tell 'em while secret Discontents appear,
There'll ne'er be
Peace and Union
here.
They that for Trifles so contend,
Have something farther in their End▪
But let those hasty People know,
The Storms above reprove the Storms below,
And 'tis too often known,
That Storms below do Storms above Forerun;
They say this was a High-Church Storm,
Sent out the Nation to Reform;
But th' Emblem left the Moral in the Lurch,
For't blew the Steeple down upon the Church.
From whence we now inform the People,
The Danger of the Church is from the Steeple.
And we've had many a bitter stroke,
From Pinacle and Weather-Cock,
From whence the Learned do relate,
That to secure the Church and State,
The Time will come when all the Town
To save the Church, will pull the Steeple down.
Two Tempests are blown over, now prepare
For Storm of Treason and Intestine War.
The High-Church Fury to the North extends,
In haste to ruine all their Friends.
Occasional Conforming led the Way,
And now Occasional Rebellion comes in Play,
To let the Wond'ring Nation know,
That High-Church Honesty's an Empty Show,
A Phantosm of Delusive Air,
That as Occasion serves can disappear,
And Loyalty's a sensless Phrase,
An Empty Nothing which our Interest sways,
And as that suffers this decays.
Who dare the Dangerous Secret tell,
That Church-men can Rebel.
Faction we thought was by the Whigs Engross'd,
And
Forty One
was banter'd till the Jest was lost.
Bothwel
and
Pentland-Hills
were fam'd,
And
Gilly-Cranky
hardly nam'd.
If Living Poets dare not speak,
We that are Dead
must Silence break;
And boldly let them know the Time's at Hand,
When Ecclesiastick Tempests shake the Land.
Prelatick Treason from the Crown divides,
And now Rebellion changes sides.
Their Volumes with their Loyalty may swell,
But in their Turns too they Rebel;
Can Plot, Contrive, Assassinate,
And spight of Passive Laws disturb the State.
Let fair Pretences fill the Mouths of Men,
No fair Pretence shall blind my Pen,
They that
in such a Reign as this
Rebel
Must needs be in Confederacy with Hell.
Oppressions Tyranny and Pride,
May give some Reason to Divide;
But where the Laws with open Justice Rule,
He that Rebels
Must be both Knave and Fool.
May Heaven the growing Mischief soon prevent,
And Traytors meet Reward in Punishment.
FINIS.
A HYMN TO THE PILLORY.
LONDON: Printed in the Year 1708.
A HYMN TO THE PILLORY.
HAIL
Hi'roglyphick
State
Machin,
Contriv'd to punish Fancy in:
n that are Men, in thee can feel no Pain,
d all thy
Insignificants
Disdain.
Contempt, that false New Word for shame,
Is without Crime an empty Name,
A Shadow to Amuse Mankind,
never frights the Wise or Well-fix'd Mind▪
Vertue despises Human Scorn,
And Scandals Innocence adorn.
Exalted on thy
Stool of State,
at Prospect do I see of Sov'reign Fate;
How th'
Inscrutables
of Providence,
Differ from our contracted Sense;
Hereby the Errors of the Town,
The Fools look out and Knaves look on.
Persons or Crimes find here the same respect,
And Vice does Vertue oft Correct,
The undistinguish'd Fury of the Street,
Which Mob and Malice Mankind Greet:
No Byass can the Rable draw,
But
Dirt
throws
Dirt
without respect to Merit, or to Law.
Sometimes the
Air of Scandal
to maintain,
Villains
look from thy Lofty Loops in Vain:
But who can judge of Crimes by Punishment,
Where Parties Rule, and L—s Subservient.
Justice with Change of Interest Learns to bow,
And what was Merit once, is Murther now:
Actions receive their Tincture from the Times,
And as they change are Vertues made or Crimes.
Thou art the
State-Trap
of the Law,
But neither can keep Knaves, nor Honest Men in Awe▪
These are too hard'nd in Offence,
And those upheld by Innocence.
How have thy opening Vacancys receiv'd,
In every Age the Criminals of State?
And how has Mankind been deceiv'd,
When they distinguish Crimes by Fate?
Tell us,
Great Engine,
how to understand,
Or reconcile the Justice of the Land;
How
Bastwick, Pryn, Hunt, Holingsby
and
Pye,
Men of unspotted Honesty;
Men that had Learning, Wit and Sense▪
And more than most Men have had since,
Could equal Title to thee claim,
With
Oats
and
Fuller,
Men of lat
Fame:
Even the Learned
Selden
saw,
A Prospect of thee, thro' the Law:
He had thy
Lofty Pinnacles
in view,
Bur so much Honour never was thy due:
Had the Great
Selden
Triumph'd on thy Stage,
Selden
the Honour of this Age;
No Man wou'd ever shun thee more,
Or grudge to stand where
Selden
stood before.
Thou art no shame to Truth and Honesty,
or is the Character of such defac'd by thee,
Who suffer by Oppressed Injury.
Shame, like the Exhalations of the Sun,
Falls back where first the motion was begun:
nd they who for no Crime shall on thy Brows appear,
ar less Reproach than they who plac'd 'em there.
t if Contempt is on thy Face entail'd,
Disgrace it self shall be asham'd;
andal shall blush that it has not prevail'd,
To blast the Man it has defam'd.
et all that merit equal Punishment,
nd there with him, and we are all Content.
There would the Fam'd
S — ll
stand
ith Trumpet of Sedition in his Hand,
unding the first
Crusado
in the Land.
He from a Church of
England
Pulpit first
All his Dissenting Brethren Curst;
Doom'd them to Satan for a Prey,
And first found out
the shortest way
;
ith him the Wise Vice-Chancellor o'th' Press,
ho tho' our Printers Licences defy,
Willing to show his forwardness,
Bless'd it with his Authority;
gave the Churche's Sanction to the Work,
Popes
bless Colours for Troops which fight the
Turk.
Doctors in scandal these are grown,
Red-hot Zeal
and Furious Learning known:
fessors in Reproach and highly fit,
Juno
's Academy,
Billingsgate.
Thou like a True born
English
Tool,
Hast from their Composition stole,
d now art like to smart for being a Fool:
And as of
English
Men, 'twas always meant,
They'r better to Improve than to Invent;
Upon their Model thou hast made,
A Monster makes the World afraid.
With them let all the States-men stand,
Who Guide us with unsteady hand:
Who Armies, Fleet, and Men betray,
And Ruin all
the shortest way,
Let all those Souldiers stand in sight,
Who're Willing to be paid and not to fight.
Agents, and Colonels, who false Musters bring,
To Cheat your Country first, and then your King:
Bring all your
Coward Captains
of the Fleet;
Lord! what a Crowd will there be when they meet?
They who let
Pointi
'scape to
Brest,
With all the Gods of
Carthagena
Blest.
Those who betray'd our
Turkey
Fleet;
Or Injur'd
Talmash
Sold at
Camaret.
Who miss'd the Squadron from
Thouloon,
And always came too late or else too soon;
All these are Heroes whose great Actions Claim,
Immortal Honour to their Dying Fame;
And ought not to have been Denyed.
On thy great Counterscarp, to have their Valour try'd.
Why have not these upon thy swelling Stage,
Tasted the keener Justice of the Age;
If 'tis because their Crimes are too remote,
Whom leaden-footed Justice has forgot?
Let's view the modern Scenes of Fame,
If Men and Management are not the same;
When Fleets go out with Money, and with Men,
Just time enough to venture home again?
Navyes prepar'd to guard th' insulted Coast,
And Convoy's settl'd when Our Ships are lost.
Some Heroes lately come from Sea,
If they were paid their Due, should stand with thee;
Papers too should their Deeds relate,
To prove the Justice of their Fate:
Their Deeds of War at
Port Saint Mary
's done,
And see the Trophy's by them, which they won:
Let
Or—d
's Declaration there appear,
He'd certainly be pleas'd to see 'em there.
Let some good Limner represent,
The ravish'd Nuns, the plunder'd Town,
The
English
Honour how mispent;
The shameful coming back, and little done.
The
Vigo
Men should next appear,
To Triumph on thy Theater;
They, who on board the Great Galoons had been,
Who rob'd the
Spaniards
first, and then the Queen▪
Set up their praises to their Valour due,
How Eighty Sail, had beaten Twenty two,
Two Troopers so, and one Dragoon,
Conquer'd a
Spanish
Boy, a Pampalone.
Yet let them
Or—d
's Conduct own,
Who beat them first on Shore, or little had been done▪
What unknown spoils from thence are come,
How much was brought away,
How little home,
all the Thieves should on thy Scaffold stand
Who rob'd their Masters in Command:
The Multitude would soon outdo,
The City Crouds of Lord Mayors show.
Upon thy Penitential stools,
Some People should be plac'd for Fools:
As some for Instance who while they look on;
ee others plunder all, and they got none.
Next the Lieutenant General,
To get the Devil, lost the De'll and all;
And he some little badge should bear,
Who ought in justice to have hang'd 'em there:
This had his Honour more maintain'd,
Than all the Spoils at
Vigo
gain'd.
Then Clap thy wooden Wings for joy,
And greet the Men of Great Employ;
The Authors of the Nations discontent,
And Scandal of a Christian Government.
Jobbers,
and
Brokers
of the City Stocks,
With forty Thousand Tallies at their Backs;
Who make our Banks and Companies obey,
Or sink 'em all
the shortest way.
The Intrinsick Value of our Stocks,
Is stated in our Calculating Books;
Th' Imaginary Prizes rise and fall,
As they Command who toss the Ball;
Let 'em upon thy lofty Turrets stand,
With
Bear-skins
on the back,
Debentures
in the hand,
And write in Capital upon the Post,
That here they should remain,
Till this
Aenigma
they explain,
How stocks should Fall, when Sales surmount the Coast,
And rise again when Ships are lost.
Great Monster of the Law, Exalt thy Head;
Appear no more in Masquerade,
In Homely Phrase Express thy Discontent,
And move it in th' Approaching Parliament:
Tell 'em how Papers were instead of Coin,
With Int'rest eight
per Cent.
and Discount Nine.
Of
Irish
Transport Debt unpaid,
Bills false Endors'd, and long Accounts unmade.
And tell them all the Nation hopes to see,
They'll send the Guilty down to thee:
Rather than those who write their History.
Then bring those Justices upon thy Bench,
Who vilely break the Laws they should defend;
And upon Equity Intrench,
By Punishing the Crimes they will not Mend.
Let every vicious Magistrate,
Upon thy sumptuous Chariot of the State;
There let 'em all in Triumph ride,
heir Purple and their Scarlet laid aside.
et no such
Bride-well
Justices Protect,
first debauch the Whores which they Correct:
Such who with Oaths and Drunk'ness si
,
nd Punish far less Crimes than they Commit:
These certainly deserve to stand,
ith Trophies of Authority in Each Hand.
oon
thy Pulpit,
see the Drunken Priest,
ho turns the Gospel to a daily Jest;
et the Fraternity Degrade him there,
Lest they like him appear:
here let him, his
Memento Mori
Preach,
nd by Example, not by Doctrine, Teach.
Next bring the Lewder Clergy there,
Who Preach those Sins down, which
they can't forbear
;
hose
Sons of God
who every day
Go in,
oth to
the Daughters
and
the Wifes
of Men;
here Let 'em stand to be the Nation's Jest,
nd save the Reputation of the rest.
—ll
who for the Gospel left the Law,
nd deep within the Cleft of Darkness saw;
Let him be an Example made,
Who durst the Parsons Province so Invade;
To his new Ecclesiastick Rules,
We owe the Knowledge that we all are Fools:
Old
Charon
shall no more dark Souls convey,
A—ll has found the shortest way:
Vain is your funeral Pomp and Bells,
Your Grave-stones, Monuments and Knells;
Vain are the Trophyes of the Grave,
A—ll
shall all that Foppery save;
And to the Clergy's great Reproach.
hall change the
Hearse
into a
Fiery Coach
:
What Man the Learned Riddle can receive,
Which none can Answer, and yet none Believe;
Let him Recorded, on the List remain,
Till he shall Heav'n by his own Rules obtain.
If a Poor Author has Embrac'd thy Wood,
Only because he has not understood,
They Punish Mankind but by halves,
Till they stand there,
Who against their own Principles appear:
And cannot understand themselves.
Those
Nimshites,
who with furious Zeal drive on.
And build up
Rome
to pull down
Babylon
;
The real Author of
the shortest way,
Who for Destruction, not Conversion pray▪
There let those Sons of Strife remain,
Till this Church Riddle they Explain;
How at Dissenters they can raise a Storm,
But would not have them all Conform;
For there their certain Ruin would come in,
And Moderation, which they hate, begin.
Next bring some Lawyers to
thy Bar,
By
Inuendo
they might all stand there;
There let them Expiate that Guilt,
And pay for all that Blood their Tongues ha' spilt;
These are the Mountebanks of State,
Who
by the slight of Tongues
can Crimes create,
And dress up Trifles in the
Robes of Fate.
The
Mastives
of a Government,
To
worry
and run down the Innocent;
There Sat a Man of Mighty Fame,
Whose Actions speak him plainer than his Name;
In vain he struggl'd, he harangu'd in vain,
To bring in
Whipping Sentences
again:
And to debauch a Milder Government;
With
Abdicated kinds of Punishment.
No wonder he should Law despise,
Who
Jesus Christ
himself denies;
His Actions only now direct,
That we when he is made a Judge, expect:
Let
L—ll
next to his Disgrace,
With
Whitney
's
Horses
staring in his Face;
There let his Cup of Pennance be kept full,
Till he's less Noisy, Insolent and Dull.
When all these Heroes have past once thy Stage,
And thou hast been the Satyr of the Age;
Wait then a while for all those Sons of Fame,
Whom present Pow'r has made too great a name:
Fenc'd from thy hands, they keep our Verse in Awe,
Too great for Satyr, and too great for Law▪
As they their Commands lay down,
They all shall pay their Homage to thy Cloudy Throne:
And till within thy reach they be,
Exalt them in Effigie.
The Martyr of the by-past Reign,
For whom new Oaths have been prepar'd in vain;
She—k
's Disciple first by him trepan'd,
He for a K —and they for F—s should stand.
Tho' some affirm he ought to be Excus'd,
Since to this Day he had refus'd;
And this was all the Frailty of his Life,
He Damn'd his Conscience, to oblige his Wife.
But spare that Priest, whose tottering Conscience knew
That if he took but one, he'd Perjure two:
Bluntly resolv'd he wou'd not break 'em both,
And Swore by G—d he'd never take the Oath;
Hang him, he can't be fit for thee,
For his unusual Honesty,
Thou
Speaking Trumpet
of Mens Fame,
Enter in every Court thy Claim;
Demand 'em all, for they are all thy own,
Who swear to Three Kings, but are true to none▪
Turn-Coats of all sides are thy due,
And he who once is false, is never true:
To Day can Swear, to Morrow can Abjure,
For Treachery's a Crime no Man can Cure:
Such without scruple, for the time to come,
May Swear to all the Kings in Christendom;
But he's a Mad Man will rely
Upon their lost Fidelity.
They that in vast Employments rob the State,
See them in
thy Embraces
meet their Fate;
Let not the Millions they by Fraud obtain,
Protect 'em from the Scandal, or the Pain:
They who from Mean Beginnings grow
To vast Estates, but God knows how;
Who carry untold Sums away,
From little Places, with but little Pay:
Who Costly Palaces Erect,
The Thieves that built them to protect;
The
Gardens, Grotto's, Fountains Walks,
and
Groves
Where Vice Triumphs in Pride, and Lawless Loves:
Where mighty Luxury and Drunk'ness Reign'd,
Profusely Spend what they Prophanely Gain'd:
Tell 'em there's
Mene Tekel's
on the Wall▪
Tell 'em the
Nations Money
paid for all:
Advance by double Front and show,
And let us both the Crimes and Persons know:
Place them aloft upon thy Throne,
Who slight the Nation's Business for their own;
Neglect their Posts, in spight of Double Pay,
And run us all in Debt
the shortest way.
Great Pageant,
Change thy Dirty Scene,
For on thy Steps some Ladies may be seen;
When Beauty stoops upon thy Stage to show
She laughs at all the Humble Fools below.
Set
Sapho
there, whose Husband paid for Clothes
Two Hundred Pound a Week in
Furbulo's:
There in her Silks and Scarlets let her shine,
She's Beauteous all without, all Whore within.
Next let Gay
URANIA
Ride,
Her Coach and Six attending by her side:
Long has she waited, but in vain,
The City Homage to obtain:
The Sumptuous Harlot long'd to Insult the
Chair,
And Triumph o'er our City Beauties there.
Here let her Haughty Thoughts be Gratifi'd,
In Triumph let her Ride;
Let
DIADORA
next appear,
And all that want to know her, see her there.
What tho' she's not
a True-Born English Who—re?
French
Harlots have been here before;
Let not the Pomp nor Grandeur of her State
Prevent the Justice of her Fate,
But let her an Example now be made
To Foreign
Wh—s
who spoil the
English
Trade.
Claim 'em, thou
Herald of Reproach,
Who with uncommon Lewdness will Debauch;
Let
C
—upon thy Borders spend his Life,
Till he Recants the Bargain with his Wife:
And till this Riddle both Explain,
How neither can themselves Contain;
How Nature can on both sides run so high,
As neither side can neither side supply:
And so in Charity agree,
He keeps two Brace of Whores, two Stallions she.
What need of
Satyr
to Reform the Town?
Or Laws to keep our Vices down?
Let 'em
to Thee
due Homage pay,
This will Reform us all
the Shortest Way.
Let 'em
to thee
bring all the Knaves and Fools,
Vertue will guide the rest by Rules;
They'll need no Treacherous Friends, no breach of Faith,
No Hir'd Evidence with their Infecting Breath;
No Servants Masters to Betray,
Or Knight o'th' Post, who Swear for Pay;
No injur'd Author'l on thy Steps appear,
Nor such as
wou'd be Rogues,
but such
as are.
The first Intent of Laws
Was to Correct th' Effect, and check the Cause;
And all the Ends of Punishment,
Were only Future Mischiefs to prevent.
But Justice is Inverted when
Those Engines of the Law,
Instead of pinching Vicious Men,
Keep Honest ones in awe;
Thy Business is, as all Men know,
To Punish Villains, not to make Men so.
When ever then thou art prepar'd,
To prompt that Vice thou should'st Reward,
And by the Terrors of thy Grisly Face,
Make Men turn Rogues to shun Disgrace;
The End of thy Creation is destroy'd,
Justice expires of Course, and Law's made void.
What are thy Terrors? that for fear of thee,
Mankind should dare to sink their Honesty;
He's Bold to Impudence, that dare turn Knave,
The Scandal of thy Company to save:
He that will Crimes he never knew confess,
Does more than if he knew those Crimes transgress:
And he that fears thee more than to be base,
May want a Heart, but does not want a Face.
Thou like the Devil dost appear
Blacker than really thou art by far:
A wild Chimerick Notion of Reproach,
Too little for a Crime, for none too much:
Let none th' Indignity resent,
For Crime is all the shame of Punishment.
Thou Bug-bear of the Law stand up and speak,
Thy long Misconstru'd Silence break,
ll us who 'tis upon thy Ridge stands there,
So full of Fault, and yet so void of Fear;
And from the Paper in his Hat,
Let all Mankind be told for what:
All them it was because he was too bold,
d told those Truths, which shou
d not ha' been told.
Extol the Justice o
the Land,
o Punish what they will not understand.
Tell them he stands Exalted there,
For speaking what we wou'd not hear;
And yet he might ha' been secure,
d he said less, or wou'd he ha' said more.
Tell them that this is his Reward,
And worse is yet for him prepar'd,
ause his Foolish Vertue was so nice
not to sell his Friends, according to his Friends Advice;
And thus he's an Example made,
To make Men of their Honesty afraid,
That for the time to come they may,
More willingly their Friends betray;
Tell 'em the Men that plac'd him here,
re Friends unto the Times,
But at a loss to find his Guile,
They can't commit his Crimes.
FINIS.
A Catalogue of Poems,
&c.
Printed and Sold by
H. Hill
in
Black-Fryars,
near the
Water-side;
where seven more may be had that are not here Inserted.
A Congratulatory Poem on Prince
George
of
Denmark,
&c. on the Success at Sea.
Marlborough
Still Conquers.
The Flight of the Pretender.
Honesty in Distress, a Tragedy.
The Kit-Cats a Poem,
&c.
Wine, a Poem,
&c.
Cyder, a Poem, in 2 Books, with the Splendid Shilling,
&c.
The Pleasures of a Single Life,
&c.
Faction Display'd.
Moderation Display'd.
The Duel of the Stags,
&c.
Coopers-Hill, by Sir
J. Denham.
An Essay on Poetry, by the Earl of
Murlgrave.
Absalom
and
Achitophel.
The Plague of
Athens.
A Satyr against Man and Woman.
The Forgiving Husband.
Instructions to
Vanderbank.
The Temple of Death.
An Essay on Translated Verse, by the Earl of
Roscomon.
Horace
: Or the Art of Poetry.
The History of Insipids.
The Swan-Trip-Club.
Lucretius
on Death,
&c.
The Medal against Sedition.
Bellizarius
a great Commander.
Daphnis,
or a Pastoral Elegy,
&c.
A Poem on the Countess of
Abingdon.
Nundinae Sturbrigiences.
Tunbrigialia.
An Ode on the Incarnation,
&c.
Hoglandiae Descriptio.
Milton
's Sublimity on Cyder.
Bosworth-feild,
a Poem, by Sir
John Beaumount
Bar.
Canary Birds Natural
z'd.
Poems on the Death of the
Queen
Mary.
Baucis
and
Philemon,
&c.
Circus,
a Satyr: Or the Ring
Hide Park.
St.
James
's
Park,
a Satyr.
The Spleen, a Pindarique Ode,
Philips
's Pastorals.
A Letter from
Italy,
to my Lo
Halifax,
with other Poems.
Blenheim,
a Poem, by
Phillip
Mac-Flecknoe,
by
J. Dryden
;
Spencer
's Ghost, by
J. Oldham
The Female Reign, an Ode,
Sam. Cobb.
The Upstart, a Satyr.
A Poem on the Taking St.
M
Windsor Castle,
a Poem.
The Servitor, a Poem.
The Pulpit War.
The Campaign, a Poem, by
Addison.
The Counter-Scuffle, a Poem
Don
Francisco Sutorioso.
Consolation to
Mira
mourning
A Panegyrick on
Oliver Crom
with three Poems on his De
A Poem in Defence of the Ch
of
England.
The Apparition, a Poem.
The
Hind
and
Panther
Trans
to the Story of the Cou
Mouse and City Mouse.
Dr.
Gath
's Dispensary.
Memoirs on
John Hall,
the F
Robber,
&c.
Mr
Shaftoe
's Narrative giving
Account of the Birth of the tended Prince of
Wales,
&c.
The True-Born
Englishman.
The Husband, a Poem.
The Commoner, a Poem.
ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL. A POEM.
—Si Propriùs stes
Te Capiet Magis—
LONDON:
rinted and Sold by
H. Hills,
in
Black-fryars,
near the Water-side, For the Benefit of the Poor. 1708.
TO THE READER.
'TIS not my intention to make an Apology for my
Poem
: Some
think it needs no Excuse; and others will receive none. The
sign, I am sure, is honest: but he who draws his Pen for one Party,
expect to make Enemies of the other. For,
Wit
and
Fool,
are Conquences of
Whig
and
Troy
: And every man is a Knave or an Ass
contrary side. There's a Treasury of Merits in the
Phanatick Churc
as well as in the
Papist
; and a Pennyworth to be had of Saintship, H
sty and Poetry, for the Leud, the Factions, and the Blockheads: But
longest Chapter in
Deutoromy,
has not Curses enough for an Anti-
Bi
mingham.
My Comfort is, their manifest Prejudice to my Cause,
render their Judgment of less Authority against me. Yet if a
Poem
h
a
Genius,
it will force its own reception in the World. For there's a sw
ness in good Verse, which Tickles even while it Hurts: And no man
be heartily angry with him, who pleases him against his will. The Co
mendation of Adversaries, is the greatest Triumph of a Writer; b
it never comes unless Extorted. But I can be satisfied on more easie term If I happen to please the more Moderate sort I shall be sure of an h
Party; and, in all probability, of the best Judges: for the least C
cern'd, are commonly the least Corrupt. And, I confess, I have laid for those, by relating the
Satyr
(where Justice would allow it) from ca
rying too sharp an Edge. They, who can Criticize so weakly, as to im
gine I have done my worst, may be convinc'd, at their own Cost, that can write Severely, with more ease, than I can Gently. I have but laugh at some mens Follies. when I could have declaim'd against their Vice and, other mens Vertues I have commended, as freely as I have tax'd the Crimes. And now, if you are a Malicious
Reader,
I expect you should turn upon me, that I affect to be thought more Impartial than I am. B
if men are not to be judg'd by their Professions, God forgive you
Comm
wealths-men,
for Professing so plausible for the Government. You ca
be so Unconscionable, as to charge me for not Subscribing of my Name;
that would reflect too grosly upon your own Party, who never dare; then they have the advantage of a Jury to secure them. If you like not
Poem,
the fault may, possibly, by in my Writing: (though 'tis hard an Author to judge against himself;) But more probably 'tis in y
Morals, which cannot bear the truth of it. The Violent, on both si
will condemn the Character of
Absalom,
as either too favourably, or
ardly drawn. But they are not the Violent, whom I desire to please.
he fault, on the right hand, is to Extenuate; Palliate and Indulge,
d, to confess freely. I have endeavoured to commit it. Besides the res
ct which I owe his Birth, I have a greater for his Heroick Virtues:
d,
David
himself, could not be more tender of the Young man's Life,
an I would be of his Reputation. But, since the most excellent natures
e almost the most easie; and, as being such. are the soonest perverted
ill Counsels, especially when baited with Fame and Glory; 'tis no
ore a wonder that he withstood not the temptations of
Achitophel,
than was for
Adam,
not to have resisted the two Devils, the Serpent and the
oman: The Conclusion of the Story, I purposely forbore to prosecute:
cause, I could not obtain from my self, to shew
Absalom
Unfortunate.
e Frame of it was cut out, but for a Picture to the Waste; and, if
Draught be so far true, 'tis as much as I design'd.
Were I the Inventor, who am only the Historian, I should certainly
nclude the Piece, with the Reconcilement of
Absalom
to
David.
And,
ho knows but this may come to pass? Things were not brought to an
xtremity where I left the Story; There seems, yet, to be room left for a
mposure; hereafter, there may be only be for Pity. I have not so
ch as an uncharitable wish against
Achitophel;
but, am content to be
cus'd of a good natur'd Error; and to hope with
Origen,
that the
vil himself may, at last, be sav'd. For which reason, in this
Poem,
is neither brought to set his House in order, nor to dispose of his Person
terwards, as he in Wisdom shall think fit. God is infinitely merciful:
d his Vicegerent is only not so, because he is not Infinite.
The true end of
Satyr,
is the amendment of Vices by correction. And
who writes Honestly, is no more an Enemy to the Offender, than the
hysician to the Patient, when he prescribes harsh Remedies to an inverate Disease: for those, are only in order to prevent the Chyrurgeon's
rk of an
Ense rescindendum,
which I wish not to my very Enemies. To
nclude all; If the Body Politique have any Analogy to the Natural,
my weak judgment, an Act of
Oblivion
were as necessary in a Hot,
istemper'd State, as an
Opiate
would be in a Raging Fever.
THE KEY.
avid,
King
Charles
II.
Absalom,
D.
Monmouth,
Annabel,
Dutchess of
Monmouth.
Achitophel,
Earl of
Shaftsbury,
Zimri,
L.
Gray.
Balaam,
Sidney.
Caleb,
Armstrong.
Nadab,
Ferguson.
Shimei,
Sheriff
Bethel.
Corah,
Stephen College.
Bethsheba,
D.
Porthsmouth,
or any other Concubine.
Absalom
and
Achitophel.
IN pious Times, e'er Priest-craft did begin,
Before
Polygamy
was made a Sin;
When Man on many, multiply'd his kind,
E'er one to one was, cursedly, confin'd:
When Nature prompted, and no Law deny'd
Promiscuous use of Concubine and Bride;
Then,
Israel
's Monarch, after Heavens own heart,
His vigorous warmth did variously, impart.
To Wives and Slaves: and, wide as his Command,
Scatter'd his Makers Image through the Land.
Michal,
of Royal Blood, the Crown did wear;
A Soil ungrateful to the Tiller's care:
Not so the rest; for several Mothers bore
To God-like
David,
several Sons before.
But, since like Slaves his Bed they did ascend,
No true Succession cou'd their Seed attend.
Of all the numerous Progeny was none
So Beautiful, so Brave as
Absalom.
Whether, inspir'd by some diviner Lust,
His Father got him with a greater Gust;
Or that his conscious Destiny made way,
By manly Beauty to Imperial Sway.
Early in foreign Fields be won Renown,
With Kings and States Ally'd to
Israel
's Crown:
In Peace the thoughts of War he cou'd remove,
And seem'd as he were only born for Love.
What e'er he did, was done with so much ease,
In him alone, 'twas Natural to please:
His motions all accompany'd with grace:
And
Paradise
was open'd in his Face.
With secret Joy, indulgent
David
view'd
His Youthful Image in his Son renew'd:
To all his wishes nothing he deny'd;
And made the Charming
Annabel
his Bride.
What faults he had (for who from faults is free?)
His father cou'd not, or he wou'd not see▪
Some warm excesses, which the Law forbore,
Were constin'd Youth that purg'd by boiling o'er:
And
Amnon
's Mother by a specious Name,
Was call'd, a just Revenge for injur'd Fame.
Thus prais'd, and lov'd, the noble Youth remain'd,
While
David,
undisturb'd in
Sion
reign'd.
But Life can never be sincerely blest:
Heav'n punishes the bad, and proves the best.
he
Jews,
a Head-strong, Moody Murm'ring race,
s ever try'd th' extent and stretch of grace;
od's pamper'd People whom, debauch'd with ease,
o King cou'd govern, nor no God cou'd please;
Gods they had try'd of every shape and size,
hat God-smiths cou'd produce, or Priests devise:)
hese
Adam
-wits, too fortunately free,
gan to dream they wanted Liberty,
nd when no rule, no president was found,
f men, by Laws less circumscrib'd and bound;
They led their wild desires to Woods and Caves;
And thought that all but Savages were Slaves.
They who, when
Saul
was dead, without a blow,
ade foolish
Ishbosheth
the Crown forego;
ho banisht
David
did from
Hebron
bring,
d, with a General shout, proclaim'd him King:
hose very
Jews,
who, at their very best,
heir Humour more than Loyalty exprest,
ow, wondred why, so long, they had obey'd
nd Idol-Monarch which their hands had made:
hought they might ruin him they cou'd create;
melt him to that Golden Calf, a State.
t these were random bolts: No form'd Design,
or Interest made the Factious Crou'd to joyn:
he sober part of
Israel,
free from stain,
ell knew the value of a peaceful Reign;
nd, looking backward with a wise affright,
seams of wounds, dishonest to the sight:
contemplation of whose ugly Scars,
hey curst the memory of Civil Wars.
he moderate sort of Men, thus qualifi'd,
clin'd the Ballance to the better side:
nd,
David
's mildness manag'd it so well▪
e bad found no occasion to Rebell.
t, when to Sin our byast Nature leans,
e careful Devil is still at hand with means;
d providently Pimps for ill desires;
e Good Old Cause reviv'd, a Plot requires.
ots, true or false, are necessary things▪
raise up Common-wealths, and ruin Kings.
Th' Inhabitants of Old
Jerusalem
ere
Jebusites
: the Town so call'd from them;
d their's the Native right—
t when the chosen People grew more strong,
e rightful Cause at lenght became the wrong:
d every loss the men of
Jebus
bore,
ey still were tought God's Enemies the more.
us, worn and weaken'd, well or ill content,
mit they must to
David
's Government:
Impoverisht and depriv'd of all Command,
Their Taxes doubled as they lost their Land;
And, what was harder yet to flesh and blood,
Their Gods disgrac'd, and burnt like common Wood.
This set the Heathen Priesthood in a flame;
For Priests of all Religions are the same:
Of whatso'er descent their Godhead be,
Stock, Stone, or other homely Pedigree,
In his Defence his Servants are as bold,
As if he had been born of beaten Gold.
The
Jewish Rabbins,
though their Enemies,
In this conclude them honest men and wise:
For 'twas their Duty, all the Learned think,
T'espouse his Cause by whom they eat and drink.
From hence began that Plot, the Nation's Curse,
Bad in it self, but represented worse.
Rais'd in extreams, and in extreams decry'd;
With Oaths affirm'd, with dying Vows deny'd.
Not weigh'd, or winnow'd by the Multitude;
But swallow'd in the Mass, unchew'd and crude.
Some truth there was, but dasht and brew'd with Lies,
To please the Fools, and puzzle all the Wise.
Succeeding Times did equal Folly call,
Believing nothing, or believing all.
Th'
Aegyptian
Rites the
Jebusites
embrac'd;
Where Gods were recommended by their Taste.
Such sav'ry Deities must needs be good,
As serv'd at once for Worship and for Food.
By force they could not introduce these Gods;
For Ten to One, in former days was odds.
So Fraud was us'd, (the Sacrificer's Trade,)
Fools are more hard to conquer than perswade.
Their busie Teachers mingled with the
Jews
;
And rak'd for Converts, even the Court and Stews,
Which
Hebrew Priests
the more unkindly took,
Because the Fleece accompanies the Flock.
Some thought they God's Anointed meant to slay
By Guns, invented since full many a day:
Our Author swears it not; but who can know
How far the Devil and
Jebusites
may go?
This
Plot,
which fail'd for want of common Sense,
Had yet a deep and dangerous Consequence:
For as when raging Fevers boil the Blood,
The standing Lakes soon floats into a Flood;
And ev'ry hostile Humour; which before
Slept quiet in its Chanels, bubbles o're:
So, several factions from this first Ferment,
Work up to Foam, and threat the Government.
ome by their Friends, more by themselves thought wise,
ppos'd the Pow'r, to which they could not rise.
ome had in Courts been great, and thrown from thence,
ike Fiends, were harden'd in Impenitence.
ome, by their Monarch's fatal mercy grown
rom pardon'd Rebels, Kinsmen to the Throne;
ere rais'd in Pow'r and publick Office high:
rong Bands, if Bands ungrateful men cou'd tye.
f these the false
Achitophel
was first:
Name to all succeeding Ages curst.
or close Designs, and crooked Counsels fit;
igacious, Bold, and Turbulent of Wit:
estless, unfixt in Principles and Place;
Pow'r unpleas'd, impatient of Disgrace.
fiery Soul, which working out its way,
retted the Pigmy-Body to decay;
nd o're inform'd the Tenement of Clay.
daring Pilot in Extremity;
eas'd with the Danger, when the Waves went high
e sought the Storme: but for a Calm unfit,
ould steer too nigh the Sands, to boast his wit.
reat Wits are sure to Madness near ally'd;
nd thin Partitions do their Bounds divide;
se, why should he, with Wealth and Honour blest,
efuse his Age the needful hours of Rest?
unish a Body which he cou'd not please;
ankrupt of Life, yet Prodigal of ease?
nd all to leave, what with his Toil he won,
o that unfeather'd, too legg'd thing, a Son:
ot, while his Soul did huddl'd Notions try;
nd born a shapeless Lump, like Anarchy.
Fr'endship false, implacable in Hate:
esolv'd to Ruin or to Rule the State.
o compass this, the Triple Bond he broke;
The Pillars of the Publick Safety shook:
nd fitted
Israel
for a Foreign Yoke.
hen seiz'd with Fear, yet still affecting Fame,
surp'd a Patriot's All-attoning Name.
o easie still it proves in Factious Times,
ith publick Zeal to cancel private Crimes:
ow safe is Treason, and how sacred Ill,
Where none can sin against the Peoples Will?
Where Crouds can wink; and no offence be known,
nce in another's guilt they find their own.
et, Fame deserv'd, no Enemy can grudge;
The Statesman we abhor, but praise the Judge.
Israel
's Courts ne'er sat an
Abbethdin
With more discerning Eyes, or Hands more clean;
Unbrib'd, unsought, the Wretched to redress;
Swift of Dispatch, and easie of Access.
Oh, had he been content to serve the Crown,
With Virtues only proper to the Gown;
Or, had the rankness of the Soil been freed
From Cockle, that opprest the Noble Seed:
David,
for him his tuneful Harp had strung,
And Heav'n had wanted one Immortal Song.
But wild Ambition loves to slide, not stand;
And Fortunes Ice prefers to Virtues Land:
Achitophel,
grown weary to possess
A lawful Fame, and lazy Happiness;
Disdain'd the golden Fruit to gather free,
And lent the Croud his Arm to shake the Tree.
Now, manifest of Crimes, contriv'd long since,
He stood at bold Defiance with his Prince:
Held up the Buckler of the Peoples Cause,
Against the Crown; and sculk'd behind the Laws.
The wish'd occasion of the Plot he takes;
Some Circumstances finds, but more he makes.
By buzzing Emissaries, fills the ears
Of listning Crouds, with Jealousies and Fears
Of Arbitrary Counsels brought to light,
And proves the King himself a
Jebusite.
Weak Arguments! which yet he knew full well,
Were strong with People easie to Rebell.
For, govern'd by the
Moon,
the giddy
Jews
Tread the same Track when she the Prime renews:
And once in twenty years, their Scribes Record,
By natural Instinct they change their Lord.
Achitophel
still wants a Chief, and none
Was found so fit as War-like
Absalom
:
Not, that he wish'd his Greatness to create,
(For Polititians neither love nor hate:)
But, for he knew, his Title not allow'd,
Would keep him still depending on the Croud:
That Kingly pow'r, thus ebbing out, might be
Drawn to the Dregs of a Democracy.
Him he attempts, with studied Arts to please,
And sheds his Venom, in such words as these.
Auspicious Prince, at whose Nativity
Some Royal Planet rul'd the Southern Sky;
Thy longing Countries Darling and Desire;
Their cloudy Pillar, and their guardian Fire:
Their second
Moses,
whose extended Wand
Divides the Seas, and shews the promis'd Land:
Whose dawning Day, in every distant Age,
His exercis'd the Sacred Prophet's rage:
The Peopl's Pray'r, the glad Diviner's Theme,
he Young mens Vision, and the Old mens Dream!
hee,
Saviour,
Thee, the Nations Vows confess;
nd, never satisfi'd with seeing, bless:
wift, unbespoken Pomps, thy steps proclaim,
nd stammering Babes are taught to lisp thy Name.
ow long wilt thou the general Joy detain;
arve, and defraud the People of thy Reign?
ontent ingloriously to pass thy days
ke one of Virtue's Fools that feeds on Praise;
ll thy fresh Glories, which now shine so bright,
row Stale and Tarnish with our dayly sight.
elieve me, Royal Youth, thy Fruit must be,
gather'd Ripe, or rot upon the Tree.
eav'n has to all allotted, soon or late,
me lucky Revolution of their Fate:
hose Motions, if we watch and guide with Skill,
For humane Good depends on humane Will,)
ur Fortune rolls as from a smooth Descent,
nd, from the first Impression, takes the Bent:
t, if unseiz'd, she glides away like wind;
nd leaves repenting Folly far behind.
ow, now she meets you with a glorious prize,
d spreads her Locks before her as she flies.
d thus Old
David,
from whose Loins you Spring,
t dar'd, when Fortune call'd him, to be King,
Gath
an Exile he might still remain;
d Heav'ns Anointing Oyl had been in vain.
t his succesful Youth your hopes engage;
t shun th' example of Declining Age:
hold him setting in his Western Skies,
e shadows lengthning as the Vapours rise.
is not now, as when on
Jordan
's Sand
e joyful People throng'd to see him Land,
'ring the
Beech,
and blackning all the
Strand
:
t, like the Prince of Angels from his height,
omes tumbling downward with diminish'd light:
tray'd by one poor Plot to publick Scorn:
Our only blessing since his curst Return:)
hose heaps of People which one Sheaf did bind,
own off, and scatter'd by a puff of Wind.
hat strength can he to your Designs oppose,
ked of Friends, and round beset with Foes?
Pharaoh
's doubtful Succour he should use,
Foreign Aid wou'd more incense the
Jews
:
oud
Aegypt
wou'd dissembled Friendship bring;
ment the War, but not support the King:
Nor wou'd the Royal Party e'er unite
With
Pharaoh
's Arms, t'assist the
Jebusite
;
Or if they shou'd, their Interest soon wou'd break.
And, with such odious Aid, make
David
week.
All sorts of men, by my successful Arts,
Abhorring Kings, estrange their alter'd Hearts
From
David
's Rule: And 'tis their general Cry,
Religion, Common-wealth, and Liberty.
If you, as Champion of the Publick Good,
Add to their Arms a Chief of Royal Blood;
What may not
Israel
hope, and what Applause
Might such a General gain by such a Cause?
Not barren Praise alone, that Gaudy Flow'r,
Fair only to the sight, but solid Pow'r:
And Nobler is a limited Command,
Giv'n by the Love of all your Native Land,
Than a successive Title, Long and Dark,
Drawn from the Mouldy Rolls of
Noah
's Ark.
What cannot Praise effect in Mighty Minds,
When Flattery Sooths, and when Ambition Blinds!
Desire of Pow'r, on Earth a Vitious Weed,
Yet, sprung from High, is of Coelestial Seed:
In God 'tis Glory: And when Men Aspire,
'Tis but a Spark too much of Heavenly Fire.
Th' Ambitious Youth, too Covetous of Fame,
Too full of Angels Metal in his Frame;
Unwarily was led from Virtues ways;
Made Drunk with Honour, and debauch'd with Praise.
Half loath, and half consenting to the Ill,
(For Royal Blood within him struggled still)
He thus reply'ed.—And what Pretence have I
To take up Arms for Publick Liberty?
My Father Governs with unquestion'd Right:
The Faith's Defender, and Mankind's Delight:
Good, Gracious, Just, Observant of the Laws;
And Heav'n by Wonders has espous'd his Cause.
Whom has he wrong'd in all his Peaceful Reign?
Who sues for Justice to his Throne in vain?
What Millions has he pardon'd of his Foes,
Whom Just Revenge did to his Wrath expose?
Mild, Easie, Humble, Studious of our Good;
Enclin'd to Mercy, and averse from Blood.
If Mildness ill with Stubborn
Israel
Suit,
His Crime is God's beloved Attribute.
What could he gain, his People to Betray,
Or change his Right, for Arbitrary Sway?
Let haughty
Pharaoh
Curse with such a Reign,
His Fruitful
Nile,
and Yoak a Servile Train.
David
's Rule
Jerusalem
Displease,
e
Dog-star
heats their Brains to this Disease.
hy then should I, encouraging the Bad,
rn Rebel, and run Popularly Made?
ere he a Tyrant who, by Lauless Might,
pprest the
Jews,
and rais
d the
Jesubite,
ell might I mourn; but Natures holy Bands
u'd Curb my Spirits, and restrain my Hands:
he People might assert their Liberty;
t what was Right in them, were Crime in me.
s Favour leaves me nothing to require;
events my Wishes, and out-runs Desire;
hat more can I expect while
David
Lives?
l but his Kingly Diadem he gives▪
nd that: But there he paus'd; then Sighing, said,
Justly destin
d for a Worthier Head.
r when my Father from his Toyls shall Rest,
nd late Augment the Number of the Blest:
is Lawful Issue shall the Throne ascend;
the
Collat'ral
Line where that shall end.
is Brother, though Opprest with Vulgar Spight,
et Dauntless and Secure of Native Right,
f every Royal Virtue stands possest;
ill dear to all the Bravest, and the Best.
is Courage Foes, his Friends his Truth Proclaim,
is Loyalty the King, the World his Fame.
s Mercy ev'n th' Offending Croud will find;
or sure he comes of a Forgiving Kind.
hy should I then Repine at Heavens Decree;
hich gives me no pretence to Royalty?
et oh that Fate, Propitiously Inclin'd,
ad rais'd my Birth, or had debas'd my Mind,
o my large Soul, not all her Treasure lent,
nd then betray'd it to a mean Descent.
find, I find my mounting Spirits Bold,
nd
David
's Part disdains my Mothers Mold.
Why am I scanted by a Niggard Birth?
y Soul disclaims the Kindred of her Earth;
nd, made for Empire, Whispers me within;
esire of Greatness is a God like Sin.
Him Staggering so when Hells dire Agent found,
While fainting Virtue scarce maintain'd her Ground,
e pours fresh Forces in, and thus Replies:
h' Eternal God, Supremely Good and Wise,
parts not these Prodigious Gifts in vain;
hat Wonders are Reserv'd to bless your Reign?
gainst your will your Arguments have shown,
ch Virtue's only given to guide a Throne.
Not that your Father's Mildness I contemn;
But manly Force becomes the Diadem.
'Tis true he grants the People all they crave;
And more perhaps than Subjects ought to have:
For lavish grants suppose a Monarch tame,
And more his Goodness than his Wit proclaim.
But when should People strive their Bonds to break,
If not when Kings are Negligent or Weak?
Let him give on till he can give no more,
The Thrifty Sanhedrin shall keep him poor:
And every Sheckle which he can receive,
Shall cost a Limb of his Prerogative.
To ply him with new Plots, shall be my care;
Or plunge him deep in some Expensive War;
Which when his Treasure can no more supply,
He must, with the Remains of Kingship, buy:
His faithful Friends, our Jealousies and Fears,
Call
Jebusites
; and
Pharaoh
's Pensioners:
Whom, when our Fury from his Aid has torn,
He shall be naked left to publick Scorn.
The next Successor, whom I fear and hate,
My Arts have made obnoxious to the State;
Turn'd all his Virtues to his Overthrow,
And gain'd our Elders to pronunce a Foe.
His Right, for Sums of necessary Gold,
Shall first be Pawn'd, and afterwards be Sold:
Till time shall Ever-wanting
David
draw▪
To pass your doubtful Title into Law:
If not the People have a Right Supreme
To make their Kings; for Kings are made for them.
All Empire is no more than Pow'r in Trust:
Which when resum'd, can be no longer Just.
Succession, for the general Good design'd,
In its own wrong a Nation cannot bind:
If altering that, the People can relieve,
Better one suffer than a Nation grieve.
The
Jews
well knew their pow'r▪ e'er
Saul
they chose,
God was their King, and God they durst Depose.
Urge now your Piety, your Filial Name,
A Father's Right, and Fear of future Fame.
The Publick Good, that Universal Call,
To which even Heav'n submitted, answers all.
Nor let his Love Enchont your generous Mind;
'Tis Nature's trick to propagate her Kind.
Our fond Begetters, who would never die,
Love but themselves in their Posterity.
Or let his Kindness by th' Effects be try'd,
Or let him lay his vain Pretence aside▪
d said he lov'd your Father; could he bring
better Proof, than to Anoint him King?
surely shew'd he lov'd the Shepherd well,
ho gave so fair a Flock as
Israel.
ould
David
have you thought his Darling Son?
hat means he then, to Alienate the Crown?
e name of Godly he may blush to bear:
s after God's own heart to Cheat his Heir.
to his Brother gives Supreme Command;
you a Legacy of Barren Land.
haps th' old Harp on which he thrums his Lays;
some dull
Hebrew
Ballad in your Praise.
en the next Heir, a Prince, Severe and Wise,
ready looks on you with Jealous Eyes;
es through the thin Disguises of your Arts,
d marks the Progress in the Peoples Hearts.
ough now his mighty Soul its Grief contains;
meditates Revenge who least complains.
d like a Lion, Slumbring in the way,
Sleep dissembling, while he waits his Prey,
s fearless Foes within his Distance draws;
nstrains his Roaring, and contracts his Paws:
ll at the last, his time for Fury found,
shoots with sudden Vengeance from the Ground:
e Prostrate Vulgar, passes o'er, and Spares,
it with a Lordly Rage, his Hunters tears.
our Case no tame Expedients will afford:
solve on Death, or Conquest by the Sword,
hich for no less a Stake than L
fe, you Draw;
d Self-defence is Nature's Eldest Law.
ave the warm People no Considering time:
then Rebellion may be thought a Crime.
evail your self of what Occasion gives,
t try your Title while your Father lives:
nd, that your Arms may have a fair Pretence,
oclaim, you take them in the King's Defence:
hose Sacred Life each minute would Expose,
Plots, from seeming Friends, and secret Foes.
d who can sound the depth of
David
's Soul?
rhaps his fear, his kindness may Controll.
fears his Brother, though he loves his Son,
r plighted Vows too late to be undone.
so, by Force he wishes to be gain'd:
ke Womens Leachery, to seem Constrain'd:
ubt not: but, when he most affects the Frown.
mmit a pleasing Rape upon the Crown.
cure his Person to secure your Cause;
ey who possess the Prince, possess the Laws.
He said, And this Advice above the rest,
With
Absalom
's Mild Nature suited best;
Unblam'd of Life, (Ambition set aside)
Not stain'd with Cruelty, nor post with Pride.
How happy had he been, if Destiny
Had higher plac'd his Birth, or not so high!
His Kingly Virtues might have claim'd a Throne;
And blest all other Countries but his own.
But charming Greatness, since so few refuse;
'Tis Juster to Lament him, than Accuse.
Strong were his hopes a Rival to remove,
With Blandishments to gain the publick Love;
To head the Faction while their Zeal was hot,
And Popularly prosecute the Plot.
To further this
Achitophel
Unites
The Male-contents of all the
Israelites:
Whose differing Parties he could wisely Joyn,
For several Ends, to serve the same Design.
The Best, and of the Princes some were such,
Who thought the pow'r of Monarchy too much:
Mistaken Men, and Patriots in their Hearts;
Not Wicked, but seduc'd by Impious Arts.
By these the Springs of Property were bent,
And wound so high, they Crack't the Government.
The next for Int'rest sought t' embroil the State,
To sell their Duty at a dearer rate;
And make their
Jewish
Markets of the Throne;
Pretending Publick Good, to serve their own.
Others thought Kings and useless heavy Load,
Who cost too much, and did too little Good.
These were for laying Honest
David
by,
On Principles of pure good Husbandry.
With them joyn'd all the Haranguers of the Throng,
That thought to get Preferment by the Tongue.
Who follow next, a double danger bring,
Not only hating
David,
but the King;
The
Solymaean
Rout; well Vers'd of old,
In Godly Faction, and in Treason bold;
Cowring and Quaking at a Conqu'ror's Sword,
But Lofty to a Lawful Prince Restor'd;
Saw with Disdain an
Ethnick
Plot begun,
And Scorn'd by
Jebusites
to be Out-done.
Hot
Levites
Headed these; who pull'd before
From th'
Ark,
which in the Judges days they bore,
Resum'd their Cant, and with a Zealous Cry,
Pursu'd their old belov'd Theocracy.
Where Sanhedrin and Priest enslav'd the Nation,
And justifi'd their Spoils by Inspiration:
For who so fit for Reign as
Aaron
's Race.
If once Dominion they could found in Grace?
These led the Pack; though not of surest scent,
Yet deepest mouth'd against the Government.
A numerous Host of dreaming Saints succeed;
Of the true old Enthusiastick Breed:
'Gainst Form and Order they their Pow'r employ:
Nothing to Build, and all things to Destroy.
But far more numerous was the Herd of such,
Who think too little, and who talk too much.
These out of more instinct, they knew not why,
Ador'd their Father's God, and Property:
And, by the same blind Benefit of Fate,
The Devil and the
Jebusite
did hate:
Born to be sav'd, even in their own despight;
Because they could not help believing right.
Such were the Tools; but a whole Hydra more
Remains, of sprouting heads too long to score.
Some of their Chiefs were Princes of the Land:
In the first Rank of these did
Zimri
stand:
A man so various, that he seem'd to be
Not one, but all Mankinds Epitome.
Stiff in Opinions, always in the wrong;
Was every thing by starts, and Nothihg long;
But, in the course of one revolving Moon,
Was Chymist, Fidler, States-man and Buffoon:
Then all for Women, Painting, Rhiming, Drinking:
Besides ten thousand Freaks that dy'd in thinking.
Blest Madman, who cou'd every hour employ,
With something New to wish, or to enjoy!
Railing and praising were his usual Themes;
And both (to shew his Judgment) in Extremes:
o over Violent, or over Civil,
That every Man, with him, was God or Devil.
In squandering Wealth was his peculiar Art:
Nothing went unrewarded, but Desert.
eggar'd by Fools, whom still he found too late:
le had his Jest, and they had his Estate.
e laugh'd himself from Court; then sought Relief;
y forming Parties, but coul'd ne'er be Chief:
or spight of him, the weight or Business fell
On
Absalom,
and wise
Achitophel:
Thus, wicked but in Will, of Means bereft,
e left not Faction, but of That was left.
Titles and Names 'twere tedious to rehearse
Of Lords, below the dignity of Verse.
its, Warriors, Common-wealths men, were the best:
nd Husbands, and mere Nobles all the rest.
And therefore, in the name of Dulness, be
The well hung
Balaam
and cold
Caleb
free.
And Canting
Nadab
let Oblivion damn,
Who made new Porridge for the Paschal Lamb▪
Let Friendships holy Band some Names assure:
Some their own Worth, and some let Scorne secure.
Nor shall the Rascal Rabble here have Place,
Whom Kings no Titles gave, and God no Grace:
Not Bull-fac'd
Jonas,
we cou'd Statutes draw
To mean Rebellion, and make Treason Law.
But he, though bad, is follow'd by a worse,
The Wretch, whose Heav'ns Anointed dar'd to Curse,
Shimei,
whose Youth did early Promise bring
Of Zeal to God, and Hatred to his King;
Did wisely from Expensive Sins refrain,
And never broke the Sabbath, but for Gain:
Nor ever was he known an Oath to vent,
Or Curse, unless against the Government.
Thus, heaping Wealth, by the most ready way
Among the
Jews,
which was to Cheat and Pray;
The City, to reward his pious Hate
Against his Master, chose him Magistrate:
His Hand a Vare of Justice did uphold;
His Neck was loaded with a Chain of Gold.
During his Office, Treason was no Crime.
The Sons of
Belial
had a Glorious Time:
For
Shimei,
though not prodigal of Pelf,
Yet lov'd his wicked Neighbour as himself:
When two or three were gather'd to Declaim
Against the Monarch of
Jerusalem,
Shimei
was always in the midst of them.
And, if they Curst the King when he was by,
Would rather Curse, than break good Company.
If any durst his Factious Friends accuse,
He pact a Jury of dissenting
Jews
:
Whose fellow-feeling in the godly Cause,
Wou'd free the suff'ring Saint from Humane Laws.
For Laws are only made to punish those
Who serve the King, and to protect his Foes.
If any leisure time he had from Pow'r,
(Because 'tis Sin to mis-employ an hour:)
His Bus'ness was, by Writing to perswade,
That Kings were Useless, and a Clog to Trade:
And, that his noble Style he might refine,
No
Rechabite
more shun'd the fumes of Wine.
Chast were his Cellars; and his Shrieval Board
The Grossness of a City Feast abhor'd:
Cooks, with long difuse, their Trade forgot;
ol was his Kitchen, though his Brains were hot.
ch frugal Virtue Malice may accuse;
t sure 'twas necessary to the
Jew
:
Towns once burnt, such Magistrates require
dare not tempt God's Providence by Fire.
ith Spiritual Food he fed his Servants well,
t free from Flesh, that made the
Jews
rebel:
d
Moses
's Laws he held in more account,
r forty days of fasting in the Mount.
speak the rest, who better are forgot,
ould tire a well breath'd Witness of the Plot:
t,
Corah,
thou shalt from Oblivion pass;
ect thy self thou Monumental Brass:
gh as the Serpent of thy Metal made,
hile Nations stand secure beneath thy shade.
That though his birth were base, yet Comets rise
om Earthly Vapours e're they shine in Skies.
odigious Actions may as well be done
Weaver's Issue, as by Prince's Son.
is Arch-Attestor for the Publick Good,
that one Deed Enobles all his Blood.
ho ever ask'd the Witnesses high Race,
hose Oath with Martyrdom did
Stephen
grace?
urs was a
Levite,
and as times went then,
s
Tribe
were God Almighty's Gentlemen.
k were his Eyes, his Voice was harsh and loud,
e signs he neither Cholerick was, nor Proud:
is long Chin prov'd his Wit; his Saint-like Grace
Church Vermillion, and a
Moses
's Face.
s Memory miraculously great;
ou'd Plots, exceeding Man's belief, repeat▪
hich therefore cannot be accounted Lies,
or Human Wit cou'd never such devise.
ome future Truths are mingled in his Book;
t where the Witness fail'd, the Prophet spoke:
ome things like Visionary flights appear;
he spirit caught him up the Lord knows where:
nd gave him his
Rabinical
Degree,
Unknown to Foreign University.
Judgment yet his Mem'ry did excell;
Which piec'd his wondrous Evidence so well:
nd suited to the temper of the Times;
Then groaning under
Jebusitick
Crimes.
Let
Israel
's Foes suspect his Heav'nly call,
nd rashly Judge his Writ Apocryphal:
r Laws for such affronts have Forfeits made:
e takes his Life, who takes away his Trade.
Were I my self in Witness
Corah
's place,
The Wretch who did me such a dire disgrace▪
Shou'd whet my memory, though once forgot,
To make him an Appendix of my Plot.
His Zeal to Heav'n, made him his Prince despise▪
And load his Person with indignities:
But Zeal peculiar privilege affords;
Indulging latitude to Deeds and Words.
And
Corah
might for
Agag
's Murther call:
In terms as course as
Samuel
us'd to
Saul.
What others in his Evidence did join,
(The best that cou'd be had for love or coin,)
In
Corah
's own predicament will fall:
For
Witness
is a Common Name to all.
Surrounded thus with Friends of every sort,
Deluded
Absalom,
forsakes the Court:
Impatient of high hopes, urg'd with Renown,
And Fir'd with near Possession of a Crown:
Th' admiring Croud are dazled with surprize,
And on his Goodly Person feed their Eyes:
His joy conceal'd, he sets himself to show;
On each side bowing popularly low:
His looks, his gestures, and his words he frames,
And with familiar case repeats their Names.
Thus form'd by Nature, furnisht out with Arts,
He glides unfelt into their secret hearts.
Then, with a kind compassionating look,
And sighs, bespeaking pity e'er he spoke,
Few words he said; but easie those and fit,
More slow than Hybla-drops, and far more sweet.
I mourn, my Country-men, your lost Estate;
Though far unable to prevent your Fate:
Beholt a banisht Man, for your dear Cause
Expos'd a Prey to Arbitrary Laws!
Yet oh! that I alone cou'd be undone,
Cut off from Empire, and no mare a Son!
Now all your Liberties a Spoil are made;
Aegypt
and
Tyrus
intercept your Trade,
And
Jebusites
your Sacred Rites invade.
My Father, whom with Reverence yet I name,
Charm'd into ease, is careless of his Fame:
And brib'd with petty sums of Foreign Gold,
Is grown in
Bathsheba
's Embraces old:
Exalts his Enemies, his Friends destroys:
And all his pow'r against himself employs.
He gives, and let him give my Right away:
But why should he his own, and yours betray?
He only, he can make the Nation bleed,
And he alone from my Revenge is freed.
Take then my Tears (with that he wip'd his Eyes)
Tis all the Aid my present pow'r supplies:
No Court-Informer can these Arms Accuse;
These Arms may Sons against their Fathers use;
And 'tis my wish the next Successor's Reign
May make no other
Israelite
complain.
Youth, Beauty, Graceful Action, seldom fail:
But Common Interest always will prevail:
And Pity never ceases to be shown,
To him, who makes the Peoples wrongs his own.
The Croud, (that still believe their Kings oppress,)
With lifted hands their young
Messiah
bless:
Who now begins his progress to ordain;
With Chariots, Horsemen, and a num'rous Train:
From East to West his Glories he displays:
And, like the Sun, the Promis'd Land surveys▪
ame runs before him, as the Morning Star;
And shouts of Joy salute him from afar:
ach house receives him as a Guardian God;
And Consecrates the Place of his abode:
But hospitable Treats did most commend
Wise
Issachar,
his wealthy Western Friend.
This moving Court, that caught the Peoples Eyes,
And seem'd but Pomp, did other Ends disguise:
Achitophel
had form'd it, with intent
To sound the dephts, and fathom where it went,
The Peoples hearts; distinguish Friends from Foes;
And try their strength, before they came to Blows.
Yet all was colour'd with a smooth pretence
Of specious Love, and Duty to their Prince.
Religion, and Redress of Grievences,
Two names, that always cheat, and always pleases,
Are often urg'd; and good King
David
's life
Endanger'd by a Brother and a Wife.
Thus in a Pageant Show; a Plot is made;
And Peace it self is War in Mesquerade.
Oh foolish
Israel!
never warn'd by ill!
ill the same bait, and circumvented still!
d ever men forsake their present ease,
o midst of Health imagine a Disease;
ake pains Contingent mischiefs to foresee,
Take heirs for Monarchs, and for God decree?
What shall we think! Can People give away,
uch for themselves and Sons, their native Sway?
hen they are left defenceless to the Sword
f each unbounded arbitrary Lord:
And Laws are vain, by which we Right enjoy,
If Kings unquestion'd can those Laws destroy.
Yet if the Croud be judge of fit and Just,
And Kings are only Officers in Trust,
Then this resuming Cov'nant was declar'd
When Kings were made, or is for ever bar'd:
If those who gave the Sceptre cou'd not tie
By their own deed their own Posterity,
How then cou'd
Adam
bind his future Race?
How cou'd his forfeit on Mankind take place?
Or how cou'd Heavenly Justice damn us all,
Who ne'er consented to our Father's Fall?
Then Kings are slaves to those whom they command,
And Tenants to their Peoples pleasure stand.
Add, that the Power for Property allow'd,
Is mischievously seated in the Croud:
For who can be secure of private Right,
If Sovereign Sway may be dissolv'd by Might?
Nor is the Peoples Judgment always true:
The most may err, as grosly as the Few.
And faultless Kings run down, by Common Cry,
For Vice, Oppression, and for Tyranny.
What Standard is there in a fickle Rout,
Which flowing to the Mark, runs faster out?
Nor only Crouds, but Sanhedrins may be
Infected with this Publick Lunacy:
And Share the madness of Rebellious Times,
To Murther Monarch's for Imagin'd Crimes.
If they may give and take whene'er they please,
Not Kings alone, (the God head Images,)
But Government it self at length must fall
To Nature's State, where all have Right to all.
Yet, grant our Lords the People Kings can make,
What prudent men a setled Throne wou'd shake?
For whatsoe'er their sufferings were before,
That Change they Covet makes them suffer more.
All 'others Errours but disturb a State;
But Innovation is the Blow of Fate.
If ancient Fabricks nod, and threat to fall,
To patch the Flaws, and Buttress of the Wall,
Thus far 'tis Duty; but here fix the Mark;
For all beyond it is to touch our Ark.
To change Foundations, cast the Frame anew,
Is work for Rebels who base ends pursue:
At once Divine and Humane Laws controul;
And mend the Parts by ruin of the Whole.
The tamp'ring World is subject to this Curse,
To Physick their Disease into a Worse.
Now what Relief can Righteous
David
bring?
ow Fatal 'tis to be too good a King!
iends he has few, so high the madness grows;
ho dare be such, must be the Peoples Foes:
et some there were, ev'n in the worst of days;
me let me Name, and Naming is to Praise.
In this short File
Barzillai
first appears;
rzillai
crown'd with Honour and with Years;
ong since, the rising Rebels he withstood
regions Waste beyond the
Jordan
's Flood:
nfortunately Brave to buoy the State;
t sinking underneath his Master's Fate:
Exile with his God-like Prince he mourn'd:
r him he Suffer'd, and with him Return'd.
e Court he practis'd, not the Courtier's Art:
rge was his Wealth, but larger was his Heart:
hich, well the Noblest Objects knew to chuse,
he Fighting Warriour, and Recording Muse.
s Bed cou'd once a fruitful Issue boast;
ow more than half a Father's Name is lost.
s Eldest Hope, with every Grace adorn'd,
me (so Heav'n will have it) always Mourn'd,
d always honour'd, snatch'd in Manhoods prime
unequal Fates, and Providences Crime:
et not before the Goal of Honour own
l Parts fulfill'd of Subject and of Son;
ift was the Race, but short the Time to run.
Narrow Circle, but of Pow'r Divine,
anted in Space, but perfect in thy Line!
Sea, by Land, thy matchless Worth was known;
ms thy Delight, and War was all thy Own:
hy force, infus'd, the fainting
Tyrians
prop'd:
nd haughty
Pharaoh
found his Fortune stop'd.
Ancient Honour, Oh unconquer'd Hand,
hom Foes unpunish'd never cou'd withstand!
t
Israel
was unworthy of his Name:
ort is the date of all Immoderate Fame▪
looks as Heav'n our Ruin had design'd,
nd durst not trust thy Fortune and thy Mind,
ow free from Earth, thy disencumbred Soul
ounts up, and leaves behind the Clouds and Starry Pole:
om thence thy kindred Legions may'st thou bring,
aid the Guardian Angel of thy King.
ere stop, my Muse, here cease thy painful flight;
Pinions can pursue Immortal height:
ll good
Barzillai
thou canst sing no more,
d tell thy Soul he should have fled before;
Or fled she with his Life, and left this Verse
To hang on her departed Patron's Hearse?
Now take thy steepy flight from Heav'n, and see
If thou canst find on Earth another He;
Another He would be too hard to fin
,
See then whom thou can see not far behind
Zadoc the Priest, whom shunning, Pow'r and Place,
His lowly mind advanc'd to David's Grace:
With him the Sagan of Jerusalem,
Of hospitable Soul, and noble S
em;
Him of the western dome, whose weighty sense
Flow in fit words and heavenly eloquence.
The Prophets Sons by such Example led,
To Learning and to Loyalty were bred:
For Colleges on bounteous Kings depend,
And never Rebel was o Arts a Friend.
To these succeed the Pillars of the Laws:
Who best cou'd plead, and best can judge a Cause.
Next them a train of Loyal Peers ascend,
Sharp judging Adriel, the Muses Friend.
Himself a Muse: —In Sanhedrins debate
True to his Prince; but not a Slave of State.
Whom David's Love with Honour did adorn,
That from his disobedient Son were torn.
Jotham of piercing Wit, and pregnant Thought.
Endu'd by Nature and by Learning taught
To move Assemblies, who but only try'd
The worse a-while, then chose the better side:
Nor chose alone, but turn'd the Balance too;
So much the weight of one Brave man can do.
Hushai the Friend of David in distress,
In publick storms of manly stedfastness;
By Foreign Treaties he inform'd his Youth;
And join'd Experience to his Native Truth.
His frugal care supply'd the wanting Throne
Frugal for that, but bounteous of his own:
'Tis easie Conduct when Exchequers flow:
But ha
e the task to manage well the low?
For Sovereign Pow'r is too deprest or high,
When Kings are forc'd to sell, or Crouds to buy▪
Indulge one labour more, my weary Muse?
For Amiel; who can Amiel's praise refuse
Of ancient Race by birth, but nobler yet
In his own worth, and without Title Great:
The Sanhedrin in long time as Chief he rul'd,
Their Reason guided, and their passion cool'd:
So dextrous was he in the Crown's defence,
So form'd to speak a Loyal Nation's Sense,
That as their Band was Israel's Tribessman
So fit was he to represent them all.
Now rasher Charioteers the Seat ascend,
Whose loose Careirs his steady Skill commend
They, like th' unequal Ruler of the Day▪
Mssguide the Seasons, and mistake the Way
While he withdrawn at their made Labo
smile
And safe enjoys the Sabbath of his Toil
These were the chief; a small but faithful Band
Of Worthies, in the Breach who dar'd to stand
And tempt th' united Fury of the Land.
With grief they view'd such powerful
g
nes b
To batter down the Lawful Governme
A numerous Faction with pretended
rig
In Sanhedrins to plume the Regal Righ
The true Successor from the Court remov
The P
ot, by hireling Witnesses, improv
These Ills they saw, and as their Duty B
They shew'd the King the danger of
Wo
That no Concessions from the Th
wou'd ple
But Lenitives fomented the Disease:
That Absalom, ambitious of the Crown
Was made the Lure
o draw the P
d
That false Achitophel's pernicious Hate,
Had turn'd the Plot to ruin Church
St
The Council violent, the Rabble worse:
That Shimei taught Jerusalem to Curse.
With all these loads of Injuries op
And long revolving in his careful Brea
Th' event of things; at last, his Pati
t
Thus, from his Royal Throne, by He
ins
The God-like David spoke; with awful
His Train their Maker in their Master h
Thus long have I by Native Mercy sway
My wrongs dissembl'd, my Revenge
say
So willing to forgive th' Offending Age
So much the Father did the King Asswa
But now so far my Clemency they sligh
Th' Offenders question my Forgiv
Rig
That one was made for many, they conte
But 'tis to Rule, for that's a Monarch's E
They call my tenderness of Blood, my Fe
Though manly Tempers can the Long be
et, since they will divert my Native course,
Tis time to shew I am not good by Force.
hose heap'd Affronts that haughty Subjects bring,
re Burthens for a Camel, not a King:
ings are the publick Pillars of the State,
orn to sustain and prop the Nation's weight:
my young
Samson
will pretend a Call
o shake the Column, let him share the Fall:
ut, oh, that yet he would repent and live!
ow easie 'tis for Parents to forgive!
With how few Tears a Pardon might be won
om Nature, pleading for a Darling Son!
or, pitied Youth, by my Paternal care,
ais'd up to all the height his Frame cou'd bear:
ad God ordain'd his Fate for Empire Born,
e wou'd have given his Soul another turn:
ull'd with a Patriot's name, whose Modern sense
one that wou'd by Law supplant his Prince:
he Peoples Brave, the Politicians Tool;
ever was Patriot yet, but was a Fool.
Whence comes it that Religion and the Laws,
hould more be
Absalom
's than
David
's Cause?
s old Instructor, e'er he lost his Place,
Was never thought indu'd with so much Grace.
ood Heav'ns, how Faction can a Patriot Paint!
y Rebel ever proves my Peoples Saint:
Wou'd
They
impose an Heir upon the Throne?
et Sanhedrins be taught to give their Own.
King's at least a part of Government;
nd mine as requisite as their Consent:
Without my leave a future King to choose,
fers a Right the Present to Depose:
rue, they petition me t' approve their Choice:
t
Esau
's Hands suit ill with
Jacob
's Voice.
y pious Subjects for my Safety pray,
Which to secure, they take my Pow'r away;
om Plots and Treasons Heav'n preserve my Years,
t save me most from my Petitioners.
satiate as the barren Womb or Grave;
d cannot grant so much as they can crave.
hat then is left, but with a jealous Eye
guard the small Remains of Royalty?
he Law shall still direct my peaceful Sway,
nd the same Law teach Rebels to obey:
tes shall no more Establish'd Pow'r control,
h Votes as make a Part exceed the Whole:
groundless Clamours shall my Friends remove,
t Crouds have Pow'r to punish e'er they prove:
For Gods, and God-like Kings their Care express,
Still to defend their Servants in distress.
Oh, that my Pow'r to Saving were confin'd!
Why am I forc'd like Heav'n against my mind,
To make Examples of another Kind?
Must I at length the Sword of Justice draw?
Oh, curs'd Effects of necessary Law!
How ill my Fear they by my Mercy scan,
Beware the Fury of a Patient Man.
Law they require, let Law then shew her Face;
They could not be content to look on Grace
Her hinder Parts, but with a daring Eye
To tempt the Terrour of her Front, and Dy,
By their own Arts, 'tis Righteously decreed,
Those dire Artificers of Death shall bleed.
Against themselves their Witnesses will swear,
Till, Viper-like, their Mother Plot they tear:
And such for Nutriment that bloody Gore
Which was their Principle of Life before.
Their
Belial
with their
Beelzebub
will fight;
Thus on my Foes, my Foes shall do me right:
Nor doubt th' Event: for Factious Crouds engage
In their first Onset, all their Brutal Rage.
Then let 'em take an unresisted Course:
Retire and Traverse, and Delude their Force:
But when they stand all Breathless, urge the Fight,
And rise upon 'em with redoubled Might:
For lawful Pow'r is still Superiour found,
When long driv'n back, at length it stands the ground.
He said. Th' Almighty nodding gavent consent;
And Peals of Thunder shook the Firmament.
Henceforth a Series of new Time began,
The mighty Years in long Procession ran:
Once more the God-like
David
was restor'd,
And willing Nations knew their Lawful Lord.
FINIS.
ADVERTISEMENT.
TO prevent the Publicks being impos'd on; this is to give notice, to the Book lately Publish'd in
4to
is very Imperfect and Uncert
in to much that above Thirty Lines are omitted in several Places, and ma
gross Errors committed, which pervert the Sence.
THE TEMPLE OF DEATH, A POEM.
By the Right Honourable the Marquis of
NORMANBY:
A Translation out of
French.
With an ODE in Memory of Her late Majesty Queen
MARY.
By a Person of Quality.
—Poema
Est Pictura loquens.
LONDON:
inted and Sold by
H. Hills,
in
Black-Fryars,
near the Water-side. 1709.
THE TEMPLE OF DEATH.
IN those cold Climates, where the Sun appears
Unwillingly, and hides his Face in Tears;
A dreadful Vale lies in a Desert Isle,
On which indulgent Heaven did never smile.
There a thick Grove of Aged Cypress Trees,
Which none without an awful horror sees,
Into its wither'd Arms, depriv'd of Leaves,
Whole Flocks of ill-presaging Birds receives:
Poisons are all the Plants the Soil will bear,
And Winter is the only Season there.
Millions of Graves cover the spacious Field,
And Springs of Blood a thousand Rivers yield;
Whose Streams opprest with Carcasses and Bones,
Instead of gentle Murmurs, pour forth Groans.
Within this Vale a famous Temple stands,
Old as the World it self, which it commands:
Round is its Figure, and four Iron Gates
Divide Mankind, by order of the Fates.
There come in Crouds, doom'd to one common Grave,
The Young, the old, the Monarch, and the Slave.
Old Age, and Pains, which Mankind most deplores,
Are faithful Keepers of those sacred Doors;
All clad in mournful Blacks, which also load
The sacred Walls of this obscure Abode;
And Tapers of a pitchy Substance made,
With Clouds of Smoak increase the dismal Shade.
A Monster, void of Reason and of Sight,
The Goddess is, who sways this Realm of Night.
Her Power extends o'er all Things that have Breath;
A cruel Tyrant, and her Name is
Death.
The fairest Object of our wond'ring Eyes,
Was newly offer'd up her Sacrifice;
The adjoining Places where the Altar stood,
Yet blushing with the fair
Almeria
's Blood.
When griev'd
Orontes,
whose unhappy Flame
Is known to all that e'er converse with Fame;
His Mind possest by Fury and Despair,
Within the Sacred Temple made this Prayer:
Great Deity!
Who in thy Hands do'st bear
That trusty Scepter, which poor Mortals fear;
Who wanting Eyes, thy self respectest none,
And neither spares the Laurel, nor the Crown!
Oh thou, whom all Mankind in vain withstands!
Each of whose Blood must one day stain thy Hands!
Oh thou, who every Eye which sees the Light,
Closest again in an Eternal Night!
Open thy Ears, and hearken to my Grief,
To which thy only Power can give Relief:
I come not hither to prolong my Fate,
But wish my wretched Life a shorter Date;
And that the Earth would in its Bowels hide
A Wretch, whom Heaven invades on every side:
That from the sight of Day I could remove,
And might have nothing left me but my Love.
Thou only Comforter of Minds opprest,
The Port, where wearied Spirits are at Rest;
Conductor to
Elysium!
take my Life;
My Breast I offer to thy Sacred Knife:
So just a Grace refuse not, nor despise
A willing, though a worthless Sacrifice.
Others their frail and mortal State forgot,
Before thy Altars are not to be brought
Without Constraint; the noise of dying Rage,
Heaps of the Slain of every Sex and Age,
The Blade all reeking in the Gore it shed,
With sever'd Arms confus'dly spread,
The Rapid Flames of a perpetual Fire,
The Groans of Wretches ready to expire:
This Tragick Scene makes them in Terror live,
Till that is forc'd which they should freely give,
Yielding unwillingly what Heaven will have,
Their Fears eclipse the Glory of their Grave.
Before thy Face they make undecent Moan,
And feel a hundred Deaths in fearing one;
The flame becomes unhallow'd in their Breast,
And he a Murtherer, who was a Priest;
His Hands profan'd in breaking Nature's Chain,
By which the Body does the Soul detain:
But against me thy strongest Forces call,
And on my Head let all the Tempest fall;
No shrinking back shall any weakness shew,
And calmly I'll expect the fatal blow;
My Limbs not trembling, in my mind no fear,
Plaints in my Mouth, nor in my Eyes a Tear.
Think not that time, our wonted sure relief,
That universal Cure for every grief,
Whose Aid so many Lovers oft have found,
With like success can ever heal my wound;
Too weak's the Power of Nature, or of Art;
Nothing but Death can ease a broken heart.
And that thou mayst behold my helpless state,
Learn the extreamest rigor of my Fate.
Amidst th' innumerable beauteous Train,
Paris
the Queen of Cities, does contain,
The fairest Town, the largest, and the best,
So fair
Almeria
shin'd above the rest.
From her bright Eyes to feel a hopeless flame,
Was of our Youth the most ambitious aim;
Her Chains were marks of Honour to the brave,
She made a Prince whene'er she made a Slave.
Love under whose Tyrannick power I groan,
Shew'd me this Beauty e'er 'twas fully blown;
Her tim'rous charms, and her unpractis'd look,
Their first assurance from my Conquest took,
By wounding me, she learnt the fatal Art,
And the first sigh she had, was from my heart;
My Eyes with Tears moist'ning her snowy Arms,
Render'd the Tribute owing to her Charms:
But as I soonest of all Mortals paid
My Vows, and to her Beauty, Altars made;
So among all those Slaves that sigh'd in vain,
She thought me only worthy of my Chain.
Love's heavy Burthen, my Submissive Heart
Endur'd not long, before she bore her part;
My violent flame melted her frozen Breast,
And in soft Sighs her Pity she exprest;
Her gentle Voice allay'd my raging Pains,
And her fair hands sustain'd me in my Chains;
Even Tears of Pity waited on my moan,
And tender Looks were cast on me alone▪
My hopes and dangers were less mine, than hers,
Those fill'd her Soul with Joys, and these with Fears:
Our hearts united, had the same desires,
And both alike, burn'd in impatient Fires.
Too faithful Memory! I give thee Leave
Thy wretched Master kindly to deceive;
Make me not once Possessor of her Charms;
Let me not find her languish in my Arms;
Past Joys are now my Fancies mournful Theams;
Make all my happy Nights appear but Dreams:
Let not that Bliss before my Eyes be brought:
Oh! hide those Scenes from my tormenting Thought,
And in their place, disdainful Beauty shew,
If thou would'st not be cruel, make her so;
And something to abate my deep Despair,
Oh, let her seem less Gentle, or less Fair.
But I in vain, flatter my wounded Mind,
Never was Nymph so lovely or so Kind:
No cold Repulses, my Desires supprest,
I seldom sigh'd but on
Almeria
's Breast;
Of all the Passions which Mankind destroy,
I only felt Excess of Love and Joy:
Numberless Pleasures charm'd my Sense, and they
Were as my Love, without the least Allay.
As pure, alas, but not so sure to last,
For like a pleassing Dream, they all are past.
From Heav'n her Beauty like fierce Light'ning came,
Which breaks thro' Darkness with its glorious Flame:
A while it shines, a while our Sight it chears,
But soon the short-liv'd Comfort disappears;
And Thunder follows, whose resistless Rage,
None can withstand, and nothing can asswage.
So oft the Light which those bright Flashes gave,
Serves only to conduct us to our Grave.
When I had just begun Loves's Joys to taste,
(Those full Rewards for Fears and Dangers past)
A Fever seiz'd her, and to nothing brought
The richest Work that ever Nature wrought.
All Things below, alas, uncertain stand;
The firmest Rocks are fix'd upon the Sand:
Under this Law both Kings and Kingdoms bend,
And no Beginning is without an End.
Sacrifice to Time, Fate dooms us all,
nd at the Tyrant's Feet we daily fall:
ime, whose bold Hand alike does bring to Dust
ankind, and all those Powers in which they trust.
Her wasted Spirits now begin to faint,
et Patience ties her Tongue from all Complaint;
nd in her Heart, as in a Fort, remains,
ut yields at last to her resistless Pains:
Thus while the Fever, am'rous of his Prey,
Through all her Veins makes his delightful Way;
or Fate's, like
Semile
's, the Flames destroy
hat Beauty they too eagerly enjoy.
er charming Face is in its Spring decay'd,
ale grow the Roses, and the Lillies fade;
er Skin has lost that Lustre which surpast
The Sun's, and did deserve as long to last;
er Eyes, which us'd to pierce the firmest Hearts,
re now disarm'd of all their Flames and Darts;
Those Stars now heavily and slowly move,
nd Sickness triumphs in the Throne of Love.
The Fever every moment more prevails;
s Rage her Body feels, and Tongue bewails;
he, whose Disdain so many Lovers prove,
ighs now for Torment, as they sigh for Love,
And with loud Cries will rend the neighb'ring Air,
Wounds my sad Heart, and wakens my Despair.
oth Gods and Men I charge now with my Loss,
And wild with Grief, my Thoughts each other cross;
My Heart and Tongue labour in both extreams,
That sends up slighted Prayers, while this blasphem
I ask their help, whose malice I defy,
And mingle Sacrilege with Piety:
But that which does yet more perplex my mind,
To love her truly, I must seem unkind:
So unconcern'd a Face my Sorrow wears,
I must restrain unruly floods of Tears.
My Eyes and Tongue put on dissembling forms,
I shew a calmness in the midst of Storms,
I seem to hope, when all my hopes are gone,
And almost dead, with Grief, discover none.
But who can long deceive a loving Eye,
Or with dry Eyes behold his Mistress die;
When Passion had with all his Terrors brought
Th'approaching danger nearer to my thought,
Off on a sudden fell the forc'd disguise.
And shew'd a sighing heart in weeping Eyes,
My apprehensions now no more confin'd,
Expos'd my Sorrows, and betray'd my mind.
The fair afflicted,
Soon
perceive my Tears,
Explains my Sighs, and thence concludes my Fears
With sad Presages of her hopeless Case,
She reads her Fate in my dejected Face;
Then, feels my torment, and neglects her own,
While I am sensible of hers alone;
Each does the others burden kindly bear,
I fear her Death, and she bewails my Fear;
Though we thus suffer under Fortune's Darts,
'Tis only those of Love which reach our hearts.
ean-while the Fever mocks at all our Fears,
ows by our Sighs, and rages at our Tears:
ose vain effects of our as vain desire,
ke Wind and Oyl increase the fatal fire.
Almeria,
then, feeling the Destinies
out to shut her Lips, and close her Eyes,
eeping, in mine fix'd her fair trembling hand,
d with these words, I scarce could understand;
er Passion in a dying Voice express'd
alf, and her Sighs alas, made out the rest.
is past; this pang, Nature gives o'er the strife;
hou must thy Mistress lose, and I my Life;
dye, but dying thine, the Fates may prove
Their Conquest over me, but not my Love;
Thy Memory, my Glory, and my Pain,
spight of death it self, shall still remain:
h! Dear
Orentes,
my hard Fate denies
That hope is the last thing which in us dies:
rom my griev'd Breast all those soft thoughts are fled,
nd Love survives, although my hope is dead;
yield my Life, but keep my Passion yet,
nd can all thoughts but of
Orontes
quit;
y flame increases as my strength decays,
eath, which puts out the Light, the heat does raise;
That still remains, though I from hence remove,
lose my Lover, but I keep my Love.
The Sigh,
which sent forth that last tender Word,
p towards the Heaven's like a bright
Meteor
soar'd,
And the kind Nymph bereft of all her Charms,
Fell cold and breathless in her Lover's Arms;
Which shews, since Death could deny him Relief,
That 'tis in vain we hope to die with Grief.
Goddess,
who now my Fate has understood,
Spare but my Tears, and freely take my Blood;
Here let me end the Story of my Cares,
My dismal Grief enough the rest declares.
Judge thou by all this Misery display'd,
Whether I ought not to implore thy Aid:
Thus to survive, reproaches on me draws,
And my sad Wishes have too just a Cause.
Come, then, my only Hope; in every Place
Thou visitest, Men tremble at thy Face,
And fear thy Name; once let thy fatal Hand
Fall on a Swain, that does the Blow demand.
Vouchsafe thy Dart: I need not one of those,
With which thou dost unwilling Kings depose;
Thy weakest, my desir'd Release can bring,
And free my Soul already on her Wing.
But since all Prayers and Tears are vain, I'll try,
If, spight of thee, 'tis possible to die.
AN ODE in Memory of Her MAJESTY Queen
MARY.
I.
LONG our divided State
Hung in the Ballance of a doubtful Fate,
hen one bright Nymph the gath'ring Clouds dispell'd
d all the Griefs of
Albion
heal'd.
r the united Land obey'd,
o more to Jealousies inclin'd,
or fearing Pow'r with so much Virtue join'd.
e knew her Task, and nicely understood
o what intentions Kings are made,
ot for their own, but for their Peoples good:
was that prevailing Argument alone,
etermin'd Her to fill the vacant Throne.
nd yet with Sadness she beheld
Crown devolving on her Head,
y the Excesses of a Prince misled)
hen by her Koyal Birth compell'd
To what her God, and what her Country claim'd
(Tho' by a Servile Faction blam'd)
How graceful were the Tears she shed!
II.
When waiting only for a Wind,
Against our Isle the Pow'r of
France
was arm'd:
Here ruling Arts in all their Lustre shin'd,
The Winds themselves were by her Influence charm'
Whilst her Authority and Care supply'd,
That Safety which the want of Troops deny'd.
Secure and undisturb'd the Scene
Of
Albion
seem'd, and like her Eyes, Serene:
Vain was th' Invader's Force, Revenge and Pride;
Maria
Reign'd, and Heav'n was on our Side.
The Sceptre by her self unsought,
Gave double Proofs of her Heroick Mind;
With Skill she sway'd it, and with Ease resign'd:
So the Dictator, from Retirement brought,
Repell'd the Danger that did
Rome
alarm,
And then return'd contented to his Farm.
III.
Fatal to the Fair and Young,
Accurst Disease, how long
Have wretched Mothers mourn'd thy Rage,
Rob'd of the Hopes and Comfort of their Age?
From the unhappy Lover's side,
How often hast thou torn the blooming Bride!
Now like a Tyrant rising by degrees
To worse Extreams, and blacker Villanies.
ctis'd in Ruin for some
The small-Pox is said to have Reign'd in
England
about
250
Years.
Ages past,
ou hast brought forth a gen'ral one at last!
mmon Disasters, Sorrow raise,
Heav'ns severest Frowns amaze!
e QUEEN—a Word, a Sound,
Nations once the Hope, and firm Support;
ealth of the Needy, Guard of the Opprest,
e Joy of all, the wisest and the best;
Name that Ecchoes did rebound
ith loud Applause from Neighb'ring Shores,
heir Admiration, the Delight of ours)
comes unutterable now!
he Crowds in that defected Court
here languishing
MARIA
lay,
ant Power to ask the News they came to know;
ent, their drooping Heads they bow:
ence it self proclaims the approaching Woe.
'en He (
MARIA
's latest Care)
hom Winter-Seasons nor
Foul Weather.
contending
Jove,
or watchful Fleets, could from his glorious Purpose move,
trepid in the Storms of War,
nd in the midst of flying Deaths sedate,
ow Trembles, now he sinks beneath the mighty Weight,
he Hero to the Man gives way.
IV.
Unhappy Isle, for half an Age a Prey
o fierce Dissention, or Despotick Sway.
Redeem'd from Anarchy to be undone
By the mistaken Measures of the Throne;
Thy Monarchs meditating dark Designs,
Or boldly throwing off the Masque,
(Fond of the Pow'r unequal to the Task)
Thy self without the least remaining Sings
Of ancient Virtue so deprav'd
As even they wish'd to be enslav'd:
What more than Humane Aid
Could raise thee from a State so low,
Protect thee from thy self, thy greatest Foe?
Something Celestial, sure a Heroine
Of matchless Form, and a majestick Mein;
By all respected, fear'd, but more belov'd,
More than her Laws, her great Example mov'd:
The Bounds that in her God-like Mind,
Were to her Possions set, severely shin'd,
But that of doing Good was unconfin'd.
So Just, that absolute Command,
Destructive in another Hand;
In hers had chang'd its Nature, had been useful made.
Oh! had she longer staid!
Less swiftly to her Native Heav'n retir'd,
For her the Harps of
Albion
had been strung:
Th' Harmonious Nine could never have aspir'd
To a more lofty and immortal Song.
FINIS.
A Congratulatory POEM To His
Royal Highness
Prince
GEORGE
OF DENMARK, Lord High Admiral of
Great Britain,
UPON THE Glorious Successes at Sea.
By N. TATE
Esq
Poet-Laureat to Her Majesty.
To which is added Happy Memorable SONG, on the Fight near
Audenarde,
between the Duke of
Marlborough
and
Vendome,
&c.
LONDON:
inted by
Henry Hills,
in
Black-fryars,
near the Water-side. 1708.
To His Royal Highness The Most Illustrious Prince
GEORGE
of
Denmark
BLess'd
Prince!
in Whom the Graces seem combi
To raise the sinking Glories of Mankind;
Our Iron Age with Vertues to Adorn,
Like th'infant World's, e'er Guilt and Grief were bo
How dares a Rural Muse approach your Court,
From Vales, where home-bred Nymphs and Swains s
There let her entertain the pensive Hours
With sympathizing Songs, in shady Bow'rs;
There let her act her Shepherdess's Part,
Where Innocence is Wit, and Nature Art.
To Villagers, in that forlorn Retreat,
Her Serious Antiquated Streins repeat,
And leave gay Rivals to caress the
Great.
Pretending Poet, (the griev'd Muse replies)
With uncommission'd Boldness you advise:
Without Offence I pay Attendance here,
When 'tis on Duty's Summons I appear;
For, tho' retir'd to solitary Groves,
The Palace still my Sylvan Song approves:
ANNA
and
GEORGE
indulge the gen'rous Lays
I sing (Unrival'd) in poor
Virtue
's Praise.
I love the Shades; but, from
Elysian
Bow'rs
When Winter wreaths his hoary Head with Flow'rs;
When starting Spring forestalls the Bloom of
May,
And Summer's Sweets, to crown the
The 6th of
February,
her Majesty's Birth Day.
Royal Day;
Or when I hear our
British
Ocean roar
His
GEORGE's
Conquest to the shouting Shoar,
Must only I in shady Silence rest,
And hear
my
Prince by all but me addrest?
No, Shepherd; since such charming Themes invite,
And I (tho' Rural) have a Muse's Right;
Since sure Disgrace attends upon Despair,
And nobly they may Do, who nobly Dare:
Mounted on Rapture, and Devotion's Wing,
ll sally, and my Prince's Triumph sing.
When vying Arts their proud Memorials raise,
anes, Arches, Trophies, Pyramids of Praise,
hat
Time
may in His doating Days repeat
vading
Gallia
's scandalous Defeat,
er Bold
Pretender,
and his Base Retreat:
l fix my Pillar too, not wreath'd with Gold,
ut such a dazling Verse, so justly bold,
s in the Front of
Fame
's Records shall place
EORGE
's Renown, and
Lewi
's Disgrace;
His
Babel
-Project in Confusion hurl'd,
And from
Ambition
's giddy Chariot, whirl'd
The
Phaeton
he rais'd to fright and fire the World.
Then think how graceful, how almost divine,
The gen'rous Guardian's Character will shine!
Therefore on Rapture, and Devotion's Wing,
I'll sally, and the Best of Princes sing.
What's that? The Best of Princes did you say?
See how your rustick Breeding you betray:
That an Encomium for a Muse to pay?
Give Him the Title to his Station due,
The Best of Kings; yes, and of Emp'rors too;
Supream without the Pageantries of State,
Crowns, Scepters, that on vulgar Monarchs wait;
For Heaven does to this Favourite impart
The Noblest Empire,—That of
ANNA
's Heart;
That
Vertue
's sacred Provinces contains;
Where all the Bliss of Paradice remains,
And of that
Eden
He sole Monarch Reigns.
Therefore proclaim Him (Muse) from Pole to Pole,
Far as his Fleets can Sail, or Ocean rowl:
Tell
Eastern
Courts, for Grandeur so renown'd,
Great Britain
's
GEORGE
with
ANNA
's Love is Crown'd
Hail! Royal PAIR, (thus
Hymen
's heard to say;)
Hail! happy PAIR, that keep my Garland gay
And flourishing, as on the Nuptial-Day.
Fresh Glories spring with each advancing Hour;
Peace, Amity, and ev'ry gentle Pow'r,
For ever Smile, and Bless the Royal Bow'r.
Great Britain
's Tutelary
GEORGE
proclaim,
Successor to Her Sacred Champion's Name,
And more than a Successor to his Fame.
The First did
Error
's creeping Serpent quell;
Discord
's wing'd Dragon by the Second fell:
The First prevail'd by
Truth
's refulgent Arms,
The next by
Truth
's and
Moderation
's Charms;
Charms, that with
ANNA
's Sov'reign Influence join'd,
Like Dew in some Coelestial Sphere refin'd)
Distilling from the Balmy Wings of
Peace,
Made our Domestick Conflagrations cease.
O!
Fame,
no longer boast your
Graecian
Pow'rs,
And mournful Fall of
Priam
's stately Tow'rs.
Must Mischief a
Maeonion
Muse employ?
Then what should
Piety,
that quench'd our flaming
Troy?
This Triumph for his riper Years Remain'd,
Whose Youth, in Field, the foremost Lawrels gain'd
But 'tis not for a Past'ral Muse to sing
The rescu'd Brother, and protected King.
O
Courage
! that
Bellona
's Self amaz'd,
And startl'd
Mars
upon the Wonder gaz'd;
Applauding
Europe
Bless'd her
Northern
Star,
The
Phospher
to Her Just and Glorious War;
The Leading Light, that fir'd Her Sons of Fame;
From Hence
Marlburian,
and
Eugenian
Flame.
In Camps let those Illustrious Chiefs persue
Their Glorious Game, with Conquests still in View;
Storm Hostile Forts, Confed'rate Cities shield,
But,
Britain,
to your
GEORGE
's Conduct yield
Your Floating Castles, and the Wat'ry Field.
Enamour'd
Thetis
courts Him with Success,
And Victory, in ev'ry Change of Dress;
Sometimes She meets Him in Her Purple Pride,
Her Azure Waves in Crimson Slaughter Dy'd:
Sometimes with Bloodless, Smiling Lawrels crown'd▪
Like Those our
Caledonian
The Chassing the
French
Fleet,
&c.
from the Coast of
North Britain,
by Admiral
Bing.
Coast renown'd.
With prouder Pomp Old Oceon never swell'd,
Than when the
British
Squadron He beheld;
No, not when
Venus,
with the Wat'ry Pow'rs,
Sprang from the Cristal Cells, and Coral Bow'rs;
Whilst Glist'ring Gems did such a Luster dart
As dazl'd Day, and made to Sun the start,
But when He sends his awful Summons round,
Europe
and
Africk
tremble at the Sound.
Fame
's Pillars shake on Her
Atlantick
Shoar,
To hear Our
GEORGE
's Naval Thunder roar
In fresh Exploits, where
Hercules
gave o'er.
The Sea, that Barrier to
Alcides
Toils,
Opens Her Guardian
GEORGE,
a new vast World of
The Man of War, and Barks with Provisions, Ammunition,
&c.
lately taken from the
French
in the
Mediterranean,
by Admiral
Leake:
And the rich Merchant-Ships, by the lord
Dursley, &c.
Spoils.
Yes, Muse, with such delightful Terror Blaz'd
Our Furnish'd Fleet, and in an Instant Rais'd;
Nor sooner the bold
Leopard
did Advance,
But Her first Broadside, from their flatt'ring Trance,
Scar'd into shameful Flight the Threat'ning Fiends of
France.
When Tyrant-Courts plot some enormous Crime,
The Prodigy must be the Work of
Time.
Law, Justice, Reason, Conscience, Honour, All
Sad Victims to the Rising
Moloch
fall.
But pious Princes, from Above are Taught
To give their Just Efforts the Speed of Thought,
And Miracles are in a
The wonderful Expedition in setting forth that Fleet.
Moment wrought.
Such Wonders wait on his Electing Skill
Of
Of the
Admiralty
Council and
Commanders,
to fulfill,
With Faith and Fame, their Great Director's Will.
And You (replies the Muse) would here Retreat?
No, Swain; your Garland is but half Compleat:
Arrears of Tribute you have yet to raise,
Will riffle all your Flow'ry Fields of Praise:
Your Elogy, to perfect this Essay,
Must, with the
Prince,
the Glorious
Man
display.
Besides Prerogatives of Pow'r and Birth,
Vast Provinces of Independant Worth,
Inherent Charms, that on His Person wait,
With Genuine Grandeur, and Pacifick State.
His Frame a graceful Palace, and design'd
The Mansion of a Truly Royal Mind;
Where Reason reigns, and Passions never move,
But by adjusted Orders from above.
Hence inward Peace the pious Prince enjoys,
And with Success Abroad, His Thoughts employs;
Taught by Superior Judgment to Advance
Beyond the boasted Progresses of
France
:
Yet
Policy,
to
Truth
's streight Course confines,
By
Honour
's Compass steers his vast Designs;
Shunning those Rocks, where shifting Statesmen split,
With double Wreck of Honesty and Wit.
While He, with fav'ring Gales of Fortune drives,
And Prosp'rously at the wish'd Port arrives.
A close Spectator of the World's great Stage,
Yet ne'er Transported with its Mirth or Rage;
But from its Failures, Observation draws
To act a Part that wins the World's Applause;
Does Precedents to ev'ry Station give,
How Monarchs ought to Reign, and Subjects Live;
How Clemency can
Princely Port
maintain,
And Sov'reignty, by Condescending, gain:
In Court, more Morals has to Practice brought,
Than
Cynick
Schools and Cloysters ever Taught.
Only the Vertue's and the Grace's Train,
Into His Favour can Admittance gain,
While
Syren
-Pleasures Sing, and Smile, in Vain.
Where Pride Controuls, Duty at distance stands,
But a close Waiter on his just Commands;
Pleas'd with his Mandates, to her Post she moves,
Like
Zephyrs,
order'd to the Myrtle Groves
On this lov'd Theme I could for ever dwell,
Might I but here, as at my Rural Cell;
Far from my
Prince
's Ear, in bold Essays
Launch out on the wide Ocean of his Praise;
While
Philomel
forgets her Savage Wrong,
And widow'd Turtles listen to my Song;)
But modest Merit, charm'd with just Applause,
When paid to others, from its own withdraws.
Well; I desist; but my Devoted Heart
Insists on Priviledge, and will not part;
She crys, 'tis Luke-warm Passion, that will press
No longer than encourag'd to Address.
But Raving Love will all Occasions seize,
And sometimes bravely venture to displease:
At least the Gen'rous
Queen
will intercede,
And for a fond Offender's Pardon plead:
ANNA,
the Gracious
ANNA,
will forgive,
And kindly bid his poor Admirer live.
Why should he with extensive Lustre Shine,
And think our Admiration to Confine?
Whose Presence, like the Sun, Our Grief beguiles,
And sullen Care at his Appearance smiles:
The Pride of Nature, and the World's delight,
Admir'd
Vespatian
a less Charming Sight.
As Citizens Besieg'd to Turrets throng,
To see their succ'ring Champion march along;
When he approaches, our rouz'd Spirits rise,
And wait him at the watch-tow'rs of our Eyes.
The Stars, that with auspicious Aspect Blaze,
Look down, and with delightful wonder gaze
On Hours, might be in Royal Ease enjoy'd,
So Gen'rously in publick cares employ'd!
Yet as we see the vast Machine above
Of Spheres and Stars, in tuneful order move,
He works his Orb of Bus'ness in a Course
Of charming movement, and harmonious force.
Such is my
Prince,
mild as a Morning Ray,
As Ev'ning Calm, yet Active as the Day:
In publick, for Majestick Grace Admir'd;
But more; oh! more than Mortal when retir'd.
Might I his Closet's bless'd recess display,
New Scenes of dazling Wonders you'd survey!
O Swain! that Sanctu'ry unveil'd would show
Descended Seraphs, and a
Heav'n
below.
There
Europe
's Patron her just Cause supports,
By Correspondence with Celestial Courts.
'Tis there the prosp'rous Schemes—
—Rash Muse, forbear;
'Tis Hallow'd Ground, and you approach too near.
I know't:—Yet Zeal, fond Zeal, would still aspire;
But Awful Rev'rence warns us to Retire,
And at just Distance silently Admire.
POSTSCRIPT.
THE same Zeal and Veneration, that put the Muse on this Essay of his Royal Highness's
Character,
made her timerous of publishing her Performance, tho'
ensible that a pourtraict of so Incomparable a
Prince
may be very short of the
Original,
yet anagreeable Picture.
And altho' 'twas impossible to come up to the Graces
f the Life, she has set the most distinguishing Features
the foremost Light, and particularly His
Patronnizing
f
Piety
and
Publick Welfare.
For, when we have Summ'd up the Atchievements
f Heroes Renown'd by Antiquity, We shall find their
ffusive Praise All Centre in These Sovereign Vertues.
'Twas to These they Rais'd Statues and Temples; and
ot satisfy'd with those mouldring Monuments of
Fame,
erpetuated their Memory by ever-living Histories, Pa
egyricks, and
Poems.
To which Honour nothing can be added, But that which transcends them all; that they are persuant to
e principle and practice of the
Best of Queens, Her Ma
sty of Great Britain.
Therefore, under so National a Happiness, 'tis the
oper province of
Poets
to present the people with the
est
Memorials
they can raise, to excite them to a thank
l Remembrance of such Blessings, That being one
rely means of having them long continu'd.
And if on the present occasion, the delightfulness of the Subject has transported me beyond my usual Reservedness, I shall only repeat my plea already made for pardon from the worthy
Dr.
Gibbons.
Person,
to whole Learning and Judgment I am most oblig'd, and therefore most accountable, in any matter of the
Muses.
Forgive me, great Director of my Song;
Long may you live, that others may live long;
Whose Skilful Search of Learning's Secret Store,
Furnish'd my Favour'd Muse, and taught her more
Than
Horace
and
Roscommon
had before.
Forgive, if now the Classic Road she quit,
For Precipices of Advent'rous Wit:
If Fancy has a Daring Flight Aspir'd,
'Tis what the Theme, the Glorious Theme, requir'd.
To Celebrate the Worthies of her own Age and Nation, is certainly one of the usefullest Methods in which a Muse can employ her Talent; because it is doing Justice to living Merit, and Transmitting its Glorious Example to Posterity.
Mine, I confess, has but too much Reason to drea
the difficulty of such Attempts; yet in this Effort o
Duty and Respect to his
Royal Highness,
she can justl
challenge that Ancient Priviledge for a Favourable Reception,
viz. In Magnis Rebus vel
Conatus
Laudari debe
Claudian
has mention'd the two principal Pillars o
Panegyric, which he thought singly sufficient to support
his Prince's Encomium—
Ingenium Autoris vel Stilico
nis Amor.
And however I may have fail'd in the former, I am assur'd, that no Person can surpass me i
the latter.
In a Season of continu'd
Sun-shine,
'tis Natural for Ha
ycons to exert their Harmony; and in so bright a train of
Naval Successes,
as have, so early in the Year, Oc
asion'd a
In his intended Invasion of
North-Britain,
and breaking his Measures
Spain.
double disappointment of the common Enemies Designs, together with a fresh and signal Vi
tory by the Conduct and Bravery of his Grace the Duke of
Marlborough
; in these prosperous and promi
ng Circumstances of speedily seeing the pious Endea
ours, of our most Gracious
Queen
and
Prince
com
leated in a happy Restauration of the Peace and Liber
y of
Europe,
'Tis no wonder to hear the Congratulating Muses sing—.
Thro' Field and Flood our Royal pair maintain
acifick Empire, just as here they Reign;
ake Foreign Courts by their decisive Doom,
ractice the Justice which they act at home.
ence all with Joy their rising Glories see,
uch Strength entrusted with such
Piety
;
While from their well-plac'd pow'r
Protection
flows,
And with their Grandeur the World's
Welfare
grows.
FINIS.
A Happy Memorable Ballad, On the Fight near
Audenarde,
between the Duke o
Marlborough,
of
Great-Britain,
and the Duke o
Vendome,
of
France.
As also the strange an
wonderful manner how the Princes of the Blood Royal of
France
were found in a Wood. In allusion to the
Unhappy Memorable Song
common
call'd
Chevy-Chace.
GOD prosper long our gracious Queen,
Our Lives and Safeties all,
A woful Fight of late there did
Near
Andenard
befal.
To drive the
French
with Sword and Gun,
Brave
Marlborough
took his way,
Ah! wo the time that
France
beheld
The Fighting of that day.
The Valiant Duke to Heaven had swore
Vendome
should pay full dear,
For
Ghent
and
Bruges,
e're his Fame
Should reach his master's Ear.
And now with Eighty Thousand bold,
And chosen men of might,
He with the
French
began to wage
A sharp and bloody fight.
The Gallant
Britains
swiftly ran
The
French
away to chase,
On
Wednesday
they began to fight,
When Day-light did decrease.
And long before high-Night, they had
Ten thousand
Frenchmen
slain,
And all the Rivers Crimson flow'd,
As they were dy'd in grain.
The
Britains
thro' the Woods pursu'd,
The nimble
French
to take,
And with their Cries the Hills and Dales,
And every Tree did shake.
The Duke then to the Wood did come,
In hopes
Vendome
to meet,
When lo! the Prince of
Carignan
Fell at his Grace's Feet:
Oh! gentle Duke forbear, forbear,
Into that Wood to shoot;
If ever pity mov'd your Grace,
But turn your Eyes and look;
See where the Royal Line of
France,
Great
Lewis
's Heirs do lie;
And sure a Sight more piteous was
Ne're seen by mortal Eye.
What Heart of Flint but must relent,
Like Wax before the Sun,
To see their Glory at an end.
E're yet it was begun.
When as our General found your Grace
Wou'd needs begin to fight,
As thinking it wou'd please the Boys,
To see so fine a Sight,
He straitway sent them to the top
Of yonder Church's Spire,
Where they might see, and yet be safe
From Swords, and Guns, and Fire.
But first he took them by the Hand,
And kiss'd them e're they went,
Whilst Tears stood in their little Eyes,
As if they knew the Event.
Then said, he would with speed return,
Soon as the Fight was done,
But when he saw his men give ground,
Away he basely run,
And left these Children all alone,
As Babes wanting Relief,
And long they wandred up and down,
No hopes to chear their grief.
Thus hand in hand they walked, till
At last this Wood they spy'd,
And when they say the Night grow dark,
They here lay down and cry'd.
At this the Duke was inly mov'd,
His Breast soft pity beat,
And so he streightway ordered
His men for to retreat.
And now but that my Pen is blunt,
I might with ease relate,
How Fifteen Thousand
French
were took,
Besides what found their Fate.
Nor shou'd the Prince of
Hanover
In Silence be forgot,
Who like a Lyon fought on foot,
After his Horse was shot.
And what strange Chance likewise befel,
Unto these Children dear,
But that your Patience is too much
Already tir'd I fear.
And so God bless the Queen and Duke,
And send a lasting Peace,
That Wars and foul Debate henceforth
In all the World may cease.
FINIS.
ADVERTISEMENT.
WHEREAS the Printer hereof did receive two Letters by the General Post from an unknown Hand; the last dated
July
the 1st, 1708. If the Gentleman that sent them shall be pleased to communicate any such Copies as there mentioned, they shall be justly and faithfully Printed and Published, and the Favour most thankfully acknowledged, by
H. H.
WINDSOR-CASTLE: A POEM.
nscrib'd to the Immortal Honour of our most Gracious Soveraign, ANNE, Queen of
Great Britain, France,
and
Ireland.
To which is added,
BRITAIN
's JUBILEE; A New Congratulatory
SONG,
&c.
—Majora Canamus.
LONDON,
nted and Sold by
H. Hills,
in the
Black-fryars,
near Water-side, For the Benefit of the Poor. 1708.
WINDSOR-CASTLE A POEM.
AFTER Great
Nassaw
taught this Nation Wa
And led them out with conduct, and with ca
Britain
's ungrateful Sons forgot the Hand
That had preserv'd them by his wise Command:
When haughty
French-men
press'd his Troops in va
'Till
Landen
's Plains were cover'd with the Slain;
While thro' their fiercest and conqu'ring Cohorts,
Made his bold Passage, like a Diety.
No Terrors could his fiery Passion cool;
His Armour was the Courage of his Soul:
Nor will the Pow'r from whom this Hero fought,
Permit his Mem'ry to be e're forgot;
For'midst the eternal Monuments of Fame,
None will exceed Immortal
William
's Name.
He liv'd in foreign Camps, for Arms renown'd,
And dy'd with never-fading Lawrels crown'd.
While
Europe
did in Sorrow bathe their Eyes,
And Clouds with mourning Sables deck'd the Skies,
Till
ANNA
like another Sun did rise.
ANNA, whose pious Name tunes ev'ry Lyre,
And does my Muse with boundless Thoughts inspire,
From Royal Race her sacred Breath she drew,
And
Britain
well her Great Forefathers knew.
Divinely bright her glorious Actions shine,
uch as descended from her ancient Line.
Upon her Brow a thousand Graces meet,
Where they in Thrones of spotless Goodness sit.
o ev'ry Heart with Pleasure she commands;
No Heart, no Soul, her Lordly Pow'r withstands.
Of Royal
George
she lives the Vertuous Wife,
ree from the Jars of Matrimonial Strife.
Heav'n such a Bride-groom never yet descry'd;
Nor ever Earth so good and chast a Bride.
Their Hearts, like rowling Spheres, still constant move,
wimming in Waves of Joy and mutual Love;
While all the Soldiers round their
Marlbro'
throng,
o bring him home with Triumph and a Song.
Near where of Old
Isis
and
Tame
abode,
ecurely tended by their Guardian God;
here sands a lofty Pile, which looking high, [
Windsor Castle
]
ears up its stately head to meet the Sky.
he beauteous Frame with curious Art is wrought,
With Stone from
Portland,
and
Roch-Abbey
brought:
With tallest Oaks, that do the Forests shade,
Whereof the Beams and Rafters all are made.
ch wondrous Architrave the Structure shows,
s must the happy Architect disclose.
One tow'ring Oak of huge Gigantick Size,
That did on
Windsor
's shady Forest rise,
Does, by its Native Strength alone support
The ascending Ladder of this spacious Court.
A hundred Paces to the Floor you mount,
And twice two Hundred afterwards may count.
The Ceiling of stupend'ous Height does seem,
Shewing no Crack, or Flaw, or artless Beam.
But in the noblest Paintings, there divine,
Does all the glorious Acts of
Europe
shine.
Nor are the wond'rous Deeds of
VVilliam
here forgot,
And all the mighty Battels which he bravely fought.
A Lordly Dome raises its Antique Head, S.
George Ha
Which o'er the Centre of the Buildings spread;
Two Hundred Cubits 'bove the Roof does rise,
And the same Number spans the bulky Size;
VVith pond'rous Lead the Pile is cover'd o'er.
And
Tuscan
Marble paves the inner Floor.
There
Verrio
's Skill in lasting Colours lives;
And there Immortal
VVilliam
still survives:
There you may see the great Desighner dress
Art, as 't exceed ev'en Nature in Distress:
There Colours do by bold Expressions, tell
How the great Hero stood, when
Schomberg
fell:
How the firce
Boyn
could never stem the Tide
Of
VVillam
's Fire; he thro' the Flood would ride,
And force the Waves stand still on either Side.
Beneath the Glories of this painted Sky,
Statues of lasting Fame stand mounting high,
At whose proud Feet numberless Trophies lie.
There
Edward
with his Garter-Knights is shown
In daring Forms, that does their Boldness crown.
Their Images appear of Giants Size;
Grim are their Looks, and Soldier like their Eyes.
No smiling Aspects do the Heroes grace,
But grizly Death stares wildly in each Face.
Under these huge
Colossus
's you may see
Twelve spacious Arches for the Hierarchy:
ence, by ascending Steps you mount a Throne
ut-shines the Chariot of the blazing Sun.
ix'd o'er it's set a high Imperial Crown,
Which nought but Tyranny can tumble down.
There hangs on high a Canopy of State,
Where
Anna
like a pow'rful Monarch sate.
Beneath this Palace flows fair
Thames
's Streams.
Where spreading Elms shade from the Sun's hot Beams;
Where beauteous Sea-Nymphs on the Waters sport,
nd bulky
Tritons
grace the splendid Court.
Here Ships from
Indai
safe at Anchor ride;
ere Men of War bear out the foaming Tide,
While wanton Skiffs at Pleasure o'er it glide.
ere season'd Ashes makes the Sailors Oars,
And Oaks and Firs the Merchant hoards in Stores.
Experienc'd Work-men hew the Timber down,
And Naval Carpenters the Labour crown,
am'd
British
Pilots steer her Ships to Land.
When in the Midst, Masts of tall Fir-Trees stand.
Up
Thames
resurging Flood, swift sailing come
Merchants from both the
Indies,
laden Home,
Coral and Agat they with Baubles buy,
And
Guiny
-Merchants trade in Ivory.
or finest Wollen-Manufacture, they
ring Gold and precious Stones from
Raamah.
weet
Eastern
Spices are exchang'd for Horn,
And for choice Rice and Coffee, barter Corn.
With Tin and Lead,
Cornwall
and
Derby
Trade,
And with fine Silver Home our Shipping lade.
or Honey, wax, and Wheat of
Minuith's
Soil,
We bring back Olives, Cassia, Wine, and Oil.
Thus are
Thames
flowing Streams more fruitful far
Than either
East
or
Western
Oceans are:
lenteous in all the Riches of the
West,
And stor'd with fine Apparel from the
East.
In rich Embroideries from
Turky,
shine,
And
India's
softer Linnen makes us fine.
Windsor-Park.
Near hence the most delightful Prospect, lies
That with fresh Objects gratifies the Eyes.
Here well secur'd from Envy, Flatt'ry, Hate,
And Discontent, that oft on Great Men wait;
No clam'rous Laws can deafe the silent Ear,
Or noisy Tumults raise up enxious Fear.
Here lavish
Nature,
prodigal of Bliss,
Shew us what Pleasure in her Bosom lies;
What to the Earth her kindly Off spring bring,
And how her beauteous Blossoms freshly spring.
Here
Nature
triumphs, and Heaven's smiling Brow
Does all the Sweets of infant Beauty show.
The jovous Birds in little Songs conspire
To raise De
ight, and melt us to Desire.
All perfum'd Odours, that delight the Sense,
Are here pour'd out in lavish Affluence.
Not
Ida
's Fields, or
Tempe
's flow'ry Plain,
On which the streaming Floods of Heaven rain,
Or
Hybla
's Thyme, but must compare with thee in vain.
To all these,
Nature
did some Sweets bestow,
But in this 'Closure ev'ry Sweet does grow;
With various Mixtures ev'ry Bank she's dy'd,
And damask'd all the Field with od'rous Pride.
In this fair Plain, such Charms engage the Eye,
We scarce regard the Lustre of the Sky,
Here Evening Breezes freshly fan the Air,
Quench the hot Flame, and cool the Rage of Care.
But now the thoughtful Queen, by Heav'n inspir'd,
And with the publick Good divinely fir'd,
Fix'd in her mind, her People's Cares revolv'd,
At last her teeming Thouhts she thus resolv'd.
Th' insulting
Gauls
have long this Land perplex'd,
nd long with treach'rous Arts have
Europe
vex'd.
uis,
their haughty Monarch, ev'ry where
akes all then neighb'ring Countries, by Fear,
y from his conqu'ring Troops with base Despair.
hile all the Nations tremble at their flight,
one dare resist the Fury of his Might:
or like some monst'rous Tyger now o'er-grown,
e lords it o'er the Forrest, having none
That dare oppose his Tyranny alone.
ll must submit, or his Displeasure find
Rancour suited to his savage Kind.
VVhen this was said, a Message soon she sent,
o call
Great Britain
's Council to her Tent.
Mean time, her weary'd Soul, with Cares opprest,
Drew down the Curtains of her Eyes, to rest;
xtended on a flow'ry Couch she lay,
ntranc'd, as Death had wing'd her Soul away,
While thus the Royal Dame took her Repose,
A sudden Vision to her Fancy rose.
A Form appear'd, but so amazing bright,
s Lustre flash'd intolerable Light:
Her Knees together knock'd, her upright Hair,
With trembling Heart, confess'd unusual Fear.
His Garments seem'd thin as the upper Air;
weet was his Mein, his Face divinely Fair;
oft as a Cloud, but more aetherial bright
His Image shone, like springing Tides of Light:
Down on his Shoulders with an easy Care,
A flaming Meteor flow'd like Silver Hair:
His Cheeks were blushing as the Morning Sun;
His Eyes more darting than his Rays at Noon:
His Voice like
Zephirs,
that on Violets play,
Refreshing Odours all the scorching Day.
Such Harmony his Numbers did inspire,
Her Soul was tun'd to her melodious Lyre;
VVhen thus the sacred Bard his Message told:
ANNA,
thou favourite Friend of Heaven, rise,
Dispel all Fears, wipe Sorrow from thy Eyes;
The Great
Jehovah,
Founder of this State,
The God that did on your Fore-fathers wait,
Will still the wonders of his Mercy show,
And make proud superstitious Nations know,
There is a Pow'r to whom they do not bow.
By thee, best of thy Sex, and most divine,
By thee—
Thou shalt in all thy glorious works succeed:
Obey my Words, for they're by Heav'n decreed.
Heaven which makes ev'n Kings descend their Thrones,
Stript of their Purple, and their shining Crowns,
Who boast of Strength, and trust in that alone,
Are by the Breath of Heav'n soon tumbl'd down.
Mysterious Truths hid in the Veil of Night,
Are by his Pow'r produc'd to open Light.
In Plenty now the hap
y Nation lives,
And like a spreading Vine, the Country thrives▪
When sudden desolation, unforeseen,
Reduces all her Pride to want again.
'Tis prosp'rous Villany, that now bears Sway;
The Rich tho' bad, the Vulgar still obey.
The Robber fattens at the Land's Expence,
And thrives upon the Spoils of Providence;
Securely
ins, while Heav'n regardless smiles,
And seems to drive the Prey into his Toils.
The savage Kine, and those that wing the Air,
If thou wilt ask, the Secret can declare
Whence this proceeds. The Tenants of the Sea,
Or Earth it self, can shew the Mystery.
Without God's Leave, nothing e'er was, or is;
Or Good, or Bad, Unhappiness, or Bliss.
Fate is his Slave, and does the Nod obey,
And only acts as he prescribes the way.
ll that have Life are in his pow'rful Hand,
nd flourish or decay at his Command.
s by the Organs of the Ear, we try
nd judge of Discord, or of Harmony;
s by the Palate we distinguish Food,
hun what is Bab, and chuse whate'er is good;
o by Old age, Experience does arise,
nd Silver Hairs confirm the Owner wise.
The ancientest of Days, the God of all
Wisdom's Self, its great Original.
full perfection Wisdom there does shine:
And Pow'r and Judgment do with Wisdom join.
At his Command the Waters backward fly,
Their Fountains seek, and leave the Channel dry;
When at a sign, again their Torrents pour,
And roll their curling Heads above the Shore.
Houses and Flocks are by the Deluge drown'd,
And Desolation wastes the neighbouring Ground.
Thus spoke the Angel, and then thus went on:
Call
Britain
's great Assembly instant here,
And tell this Message in the People's Ear,
That
ANNA
's Sword shall curb the growing Pow'r
Of Proud aspiring
France,
that waits each Hour
The Liberties of
Europe
to devour.
Of
British
Race,
Churchill
's the Hero's Name,
mmortal Queen! that shall exalt thy Fame,
And bring on
Louis
everlasting Shame.
end for the Warrior, let the People know,
To
Marl'brough
's Genius,
Burgundy
must bow:
Consult your Council for the dreadful War,
With all the Strength of your Allies prepare:
For
French
and
Spaniard
s are united Friends,
And hatred Nations join for Hated Ends.
Then haste to Arms, thou best of thy fair Race,
Let War thy Mind, while Smiles adorn thy Face:
Wake, glorious
Princess,
from thy rest, and see,
Thou for a Guardian hast a Deity.
Swift from her Eyes the Phantom made its way,
And nought remain'd to Sight, but lightsome day:
When all alone, she was surpriz'd to find,
Such strong Impressions on her feeble Mind.
No sooner were the Clouds of Sleep dispell'd,
And
Morpheus
loos'd the Fetters which he held,
But the great Council waited at her Tent,
To understand the Message she had sent.
A goodly Frame rais'd high of carved wood,
Leaning its lofty Head, on Pillars stood
Near an old venerable Pile—
VVestminster.
Adorn'd with curious work of antique Hands.
There all the States in full Assembly met,
Where they in Princely Robes of Scarlet sit;
Shining in costly Gems, each takes his place,
And fills the Senate with Majestick Grace.
There hangs the Ballance of the weighty State,
And there Rewards and Punishments do wait
A rigorous, or an equitable Fate.
There arbitrary Laws are curb'd and chain'd,
And there the summit of all Justice gain'd.
Judges themselves, if Lawless, are not free
From this tribunal Seat of Equity.
Just Judgment there does without Brib'ry reign,
And wholsome Laws all Violence restrain.
Bless'd Liberty in Triumph sits her down,
Nor hurts the State, nor shakes the Imperial Crown.
All now were met, the Council fill'd a-pace,
And ev'ry Statesman took his wonted Place,
VVhen thus the Queen began—
My Lords, the Cause why you're assembl'd here,
'S to advise about the Business of the VVar.
Louis,
you know, his Threatnings spreads around,
And Victory has sometime his Armies crown'd.
The slavish
French
deflow'r their Neighbours Fields,
Whilst tamely they to their Incursions yields:
And
Japhet
's Race, with heavy Burdens bent,
The Spaniards.
Submit to haughty
Louis
's Government.
The Might of this great Prince I need not tell,
Or all his vast Designs, you know too well,
Europe
has felt the Fury of his Pow'r,
VVhen God like
William
rescu'd you before.
But now more potent by his Allies grown,
He triumphs e're the Battel is begun:
VVhile all his num'rous Squadrons do prepare
For dreadful mischief, and destructive VVar.
Whom shall I chuse among my mighty Men,
The Hazard of a Battel to sustain?
Who dare 'gainst
Burgundy
his Courage try,
To conquer bravely, or as bravely die?
Then a bold
Britain
answer'd thus, and said,
Churchill
is only fit for such a Head;
Who has th'illustrious Chiefs of
Europe
led,
And often for his Country's Honour Bled.
Courage and Conduct both in him remains;
By wise designs, as well as Blood he gains.
For he that singly does to Battel go,
With Courage only beats but half his Foe.
Mature in Councils Generals ought to be,
Not fill'd with Fire so much as Policy;
For Life's of more Concern than Victory.
Then
Marlbro'
humbly spoke—
Great Princess, and you Lords of
Britain,
hear
Who make
Europe
's Concern your constant Care;
You may remember when her Armies fled,
And
German
Princes stood like Statues dead,
hen
Churchill
propt that proud ungrateful Race,
That now in
Britain Marlbro'
would disgrace.
Oh' hear me Lords; spare your Reproaches now;
Did not all
Europe
to proud
Louis
bow?
Did not they cringe below the Tyrant's Feet,
And to the Laws his Arms prescribe, submite?
What then has
Marlbro'
done? Do
British
Peers
Despise the Man, that has dispell'd their Fears?
Not for my Self did I this Honour seek,
My Country's Danger 'twas that made me speak.
But since I find in faithless
Britain,
few,
When pressing Dangers call, that dare be true,
I shall my Courage, for the future spare:
Cowards can boast, when Dangers seem not near.
With that, a noble Peer, tho' young, yet wise,
Stood up, and thus in Council did advise:
Tho' grey Experience has not reach'd my Years,
Nor have I been alarm'd with foreign Fears,
Yet I am sensible all
Europe
's Fate
Does much on our wise Councils wait:
Great Britain
's Safety in our Conduct lies,
And Strength is nothing, if we are not wise.
Therefore, my Lords, I must my Judgment give
For
Marlbro'
which I hope you'll all receive.
Then all the Council mov'd with willing Ears,
Attended to the Wisdom of his Years.
While thus the noble Youth continu'd on,
The brave Discourse he had so well begun:
I am amaz'd, from this wise Board, to hear
One Soul of ancient
British
Race appear
Gainst
Marlbro'
: Did he not all
Europe
save?
Are not his Looks, his Words, his Actions, brave?
Don't we, by good Experience know, how great
He stood, at Great
Ba
aria
's last Defeat?
And what we by his prudent Councils gain,
Are like the Glories of a Monarch's Reign.
The pompous Luxury of Camps he flies,
While downy Rest their Rioting supplies,
Who're chain'd in Sleep, when Sleep forsakes his Eyes.
He said,—
And as the hollow Caverns of some Wood,
Send back, in Eccho's, the still Voice, aloud,
o from the Silence of the Council rose,
o all his Words, a general Applause.
ut Malice in th' Assembly still remains,
Whilst
Maroc
's Blood fermented in his Veins:
Who thus with cloudy Aspect sowr'd, spake,—
O, Princess! and you Lords of
Britain,
hear
What rev'rend Age is able to declare.
Has not Great
France
's pow'rful Monarch seen
Britain
divided;
Anna
made their Queen?
What then remains for us to seek, but Peace?
At these base Words, the Queen in Passion rose,
And with becoming Zeal did thus oppose;
Tho' she was with the softest Nature blest,
Like sleeping Doves, when on their downy Rest.
For
Europe
's Cause she was divinely fir'd,
And spoke these moving Words by Heav'n inspir'd.
Tho' War, of all our Evils, is the worst,
And brought on Man, when Man by Heav'n was curst;
Yet such the State of
Britain
is this day,
sought your Aid, knowing no other Way.
For
Anna
was expedient to maintain.
The Glories was expected from my Reign.
But wond'ring now I gaze with much Surprise,
And scarcely can believe the Object of my Eyes.
Is not that
Maroc,
Prince of
British
Blood?
That once for
Britain
like a Bulwark stood?
And can his Courage dwindle into Fear,
Cause
Louis
threats, and
Burgundy
draws near?
Have we not oft their boasting Courage try'd?
And triumph'd o'er that sawcy Monarch's Pride?
What have I heard pronounc'd from
Maroc
's Tongue,
Of Peace, who always has of Battels sung?
What Peace from perjur'd
Louis
can we find?
Louis,
the Monster of the Monarch-kind.
Has he not all his Ties of Friendship broke,
When he was fetter'd once with
William
's Yoke;
When he to
Belgir
's Lyon su'd for Peace,
But only kept it for his Soldiers Ease?
At this a general Murmur fill'd the Room,
Like whistling Winds, that from deep Caverns com
When strait, behold thro' all the secred Place,
Consent
sate chearfully on ev'ry Face;
And ev'ry One now strove to loose his Tongue
To
Anna,
then to
Marlbro'
make their Song.
Who can forget, O Queen! the happy Day
Thou bless'd our
Isarel
with thy glorious Sway?
When
Britain
slept, thou sav'd us from our Foes,
And as our leading Star, at Midnight rose.
Heav'n did it self in bright Apparel dress,
And tuneful Angels sung soft Hymns of Peace
In dancing Airs, Stars from their Spheres were sent,
And springing Joy spread o'er your Royal Tent.
Why then should we ungratefully oppose
Our Royal Mistress? Why her Favours lofe,
Who such vast Bounties on her Land bestows?
Since
Marlbro'
is the Man by Heav'n decred,
Anna
no more shall frown, or
Marlbro'
bleed;
For if nor Heav'n, nor yet the Queen had said,
Marlbro'
should lead out
Europe
as their Head,
Is not his Courage and his Conduct known
To
Britain,
that we choose him for our own?
FINIS.
BRITAIN
's Jubilee: A new Congratulary
BALLAD,
on the Glorious Victories obtain'd by the Duke of
MARLBOROƲ GH,
over the
French:
Writ by the Famous Comedian, Mr.
Escourt,
and Sung by him to most of our Nobility, with great Applause.
YOU Tell me
Dick
you've lately Read,
That we are beaten in
Spain
;
But prithee Boy hold up thy Head,
We'll beat 'em twice for it again:
With a fal la la la la la la la la la la la la,
&c.
Is this the Courage you us'd to Boast,
Why thou art quite cast down;
You can reflect on what we've Lost;
But never think what we've Won.
With a fal,
&c.
In War and Gaming it is the same,
According to the old saying;
Who's sure to Conquer every Game,
Quite loses the pleasure of Playing.
With a fal,
&c.
Then prithee Boy hold up thy Head,
For if we are beaten in
Spain
;
As sure as Scarlet Colour is Red,
We'll beat 'em twice for it again.
With a fal,
&c.
Thank God we have a Man of our own,
A Man if I may call him so;
For after those great Deeds he has done,
I may question if he's so or no.
With a fal,
&c.
But there is a Man whose Name,
Is
Johnny MARLBOROUGH
;
The beaten French have felt his Fame,
And so shall the Spaniard too.
With a fal,
&c.
Tho' now
Jack
Spaniard pretends to Bounce,
He ne'er shall do so again:
We took last Year as many Towns,
As they now have taken Men.
With a fal,
&c.
Since Justice now we cannot do,
To every Victory:
Our hearty Zeal in Wine let's shew,
To our General Family.
With a fal,
&c.
For he has Eight Fair Daughters,
And each of them is a Charmer:
Lady
Rialton, Bridgewater,
Fine
Sunderland,
Lady
Mount-Hermer
▪
With a fal,
&c.
And as for the other Younger four,
They will with Raptures fill ye;
There's Lady
Hochstet, Schellenburgh,
Bright
Blenheim,
and Lady
Ramillie.
With a fal,
&c.
These last are begotten so Fair and Strong▪
As ne'er in story was told;
The other four shall still be Young,
But these last shall not be Old.
With a fal,
&c.
Now to make thy hopes more Strong,
And make thee look like a Man;
Remember all these do belong,
To the Queen of
Great Britain.
With a fal,
&c.
FINIS.
ADVERTISEMENT.
WHEREAS the Printer hereof did receive two Letters, by th
General Post from an unknown Hand; the last dated
July
th
1
st
1708. If the Gentleman that sent them shall be pleased
communicate any such Copies as there mentioned, they shall be justly a
faithfully Printed and Published, and the favour most thankfully ackno
ledged, by
H. H.
AN ESSAY ON Translated
VERSE.
BY THE EARL of ROSCOMON.
—Fungar vice Cotis, acutum
eddere quae ferrum valet Exsori ipsa secandi.
Hor. de Art. Poet.
Cape Dona Extrema Tuorum.
V. 3. AE.
LONDON:
nted and Sold by
H. Hills,
in
Black-fryars,
near the Water-side. 1709.
TO THE Earl of
ROSCOMON,
On his Excellent ESSAY ON Translated VERSE.
WHether the fruitful
Nile
or
Tyrian
Shore,
The seeds of Arts and Infant Science bore,
Tis sure the noble Plant translated first,
dvanc'd its head in
Grecian
Gardens nurst.
The
Grecians
added Verse, their tuneful Tongue
Made Nature first, and Nature's God their Song.
Nor stopt Translation here: For conquering
Rome
With
Grecian
Spoils, brought
Grecian
Numbers home;
nrich'd by those
Athenian
Muses more,
Than all the vanquish'd World cou'd yield before.
Till barb'rous Nations and more barb'rous Times
ebas'd the Majesty of Verse to Rhimes;
Those rude at first: kind of hobbling Prose:
That limp'd along, and tincl'd in the close:
t
Italy
reviving from the Trance
f
Vandal, Goth,
and
Monkish
ignorance,
With pauses, cadence, and well vowell'd words,
nd all the Graces a good Ear affords,
ade Rhyme and Art, and
Dante
's polish'd page
estor'd a silver, not a golden Age:
Then
Petarch
follow'd, and in him we see,
What Rhyme improv'd in all its height can be;
At best a pleasing sound, and fair barbarity:
The
French
pursu'd their steps, and
Britain,
last
In Manly sweetness all the rest surpass'd.
The Wit of
Greece,
the Gravity of
Rome
Appear exalted in the
British
Loome;
The Muses Empire is restor'd agen,
In
Charles
his Reign, and by
Roscommon
's Pen▪
Yet modestly he does his work survey,
And calls a finish'd Poem an
ESSAY
;
For all the needful Rules are scatter'd here;
Truth smoothly told, and pleasantly severe;
(So well is Art disguis'd, for Nature to appear)
Nor need those Rules to give Translation light;
His own Example is a Flame so bright;
That he, who but arrives to copy well,
Unguided will advance: unknowing will excel.
Scarce his own
Horace
cou'd such Rules ordain;
Or his own
Virgil
sing a nobler strain.
How much in him may rising
Ireland
boast,
How much in gaining him has
Britain
lost!
Their Island in revenge has ours reclaim'd,
The more instructed we, the more we still are sham'd,
'Tis well for us his generous Blood did flow
Deriv'd from
British
Channels long ago,
That here his Conquering Ancestors were nurst;
And
Ireland
but translated
England
first:
By this Reprisal we regain our right,
Else must the two contending Nations fight,
A nobler quarrel for his Native Earth,
Than what divided
Greece
for
Homer
's Birth.
To what perfection will our Tongue arrive,
How will Invention and Translation thrive
When Authors nobly born will bear their part,
And not disdain th' inglorious praise of Art!
Great Generals thus descending from Command,
With their own toil provoke the Soldiers hand.
How will sweet
Ovid
's Ghost be pleas'd to hear
His Fame augmented by an
Engilsh
Peer,
The Earl of
Mulgrave.
How he embellishes his
Helen
's loves,
Out does his softness, and his sense improves?
When these translate, and teach Translators too,
Nor Firstling Kid, nor any vulgar vow
Should at
Apollo
's grateful Altar stand;
Roscomon
writes, to that auspicious hand,
Muse feed the Bull that spurns the yellow sand.
Roscomon,
whom both Court and Camps commend,
True to his Prince, and faithful to his Friend;
Rosscomon
first in Fields of Honour known,
First in the peaceful Triumphs of the Gown;
Who both
Minerva
's justly makes his own.
Now let the few belov'd by
Jove,
and they,
Whom infus'd
Titan
form'd of better Clay,
On equal terms of ancient Wit ingage,
Nor mighty
Homer
fear, nor sacred
Virgil
's page:
Our
English
Palace opens wide in state;
And without stooping they may pass the Gate.
John Dryden.
AN ESSAY ON Translated VERSE.
HAppy that
Author,
whose correct
Essay,
Repairs so well our old
Horatian
way;
And happy you, who by propitious Fate
On great
Apollo
's Sacred
Standard
wait.
And with
first Discipline
instructed right,
Have learnt to use your
Arms
before you
fight.
But since the
Press,
the
Pulpit
and the
Stage
Conspire to
censure,
and
expose
the
Age
;
Provok'd too far we resolutely must
To the few
Virtues
that we have be just.
For who have
long'd,
or who have labour'd more
To search the
Treasures
of the
Roman Store,
Or dig in
Graecian Mines
for
purer Oar?
The
noblest Fruits
transplanted in our Isle,
With early
Hope, and Fragrant Blossoms
smile.
Familiar
Ovid tender Thoughts
inspires,
And
Nature
seconds all his
soft Desires
;
Theocritus
does now to us belong;
And
Albion
's
Rocks
repeat his
rural Song.
Who hath not heard how
Italy
was blest,
Above the Mede, above the wealthy East?
Or
Gallus Song,
so
tender
and so
true,
As ev'n
Lycoris
might with
Pity
view.
When mourning
Nymphs
attend their
Daphnes
's Herse
Who doth not weep, that reads the moving Verse.
But hear, O hear, in what
exalted Strains
Scicilian Muse
thro' these
happy Plains,
Proclaim Saturnian Times, our own
Apollo
reigns?
When
France
had breath'd after intestine Broils,
And
Peace
and
Conquest
crown'd her Foreign Toils,
Their (
cultivated
by a
Royal Hand
)
Learning
grew fast, and spread, and blest the
Land
;
The choicest Books that
Rome
and
Greece
have known,
Her excellent
Translators
made her own,
And
Europe
still
considerably
gains,
Both by their good
Example
and their
Pains.
From hence our generous Emulation came,
We
undertook,
and we
perform'd
the same:
But now we shew the World a nobler way,
And in
Translated Verse
do more than they.
Serene
and
clear harmonious
Horace
flows,
With
Sweetness
not to be exprest in
Prose.
Degrading Prose
explains his
meaning ill,
And
shews
the
Stuff
but not the Workman's
Skill
who have serv'd him more than Twenty years,
Scarce know my
Master
as he there appears,
Vain are our
Neighbours hopes,
and vain their Cares,
The fault is more the
Languages
than theirs.
Tis
courtly florid,
and
abounds in Words,
Of softer
sound,
than ours perhaps affords;
But who did ever in
French Authors
see
The comprehensive
English
Energy?
The
weighty Bullion
of one Sterling Line,
Drawn in
French
Wire would thro' whole
Pages
shine.
speak my
private
but
impartial
Sence,
With
Freedom,
and I hope without
Offence
;
For I'll recant, when
France
can shew me
Wit,
s
strong
as ours, and as
succinctly writ.
Tis true Composing is the
Noble Part,
But good
Translating
is no
easiy Art
:
For tho'
Materials
have long since been found,
Yet both your
Fancy
and your Heads are bound.
And by
improving
what was writ before,
nvention labours less, but
Judgment
more.
The Soil intended for
Pierian Seeds,
Must be well purg'd from rank
Pedantick Weeds,
Apollo
starts, and all
Parnassus shakes,
At the
rude rumbling Barulipton makes.
For none have been with
Admiration
read,
But who beside their
Learning
were well bred.
The first
great work
(A Task
perform'd
by few)
Is that your
self
may to your
self
be true:
No
Masque,
no
Tricks,
no
Favour,
no
Reserve
;
Dissect your
Mind,
examine ev'ry
Nerve.
Whoever
vainly
on his
Strength
depends,
Begins like
Virgil,
but like
Maevius
ends.
That
Wretch
(in spite of his
forgotten Rhymes
)
Condemn'd to live in all
succeeding times
;
With
pompous Nonsense,
and a
bellowing Sound,
Sung lofty Ilium,
tumbling to the
Ground.
And (if my
Muse
can thro'
past Ages
see)
That
nauseous noisy, gaping Fool
was he.
Exploded when with
universal Scorn,
The
Mountains
labour'd, and a
Mouse
was born.
Learn, learn Gotona's brawny wrestler crys,
Audacious Mortals,
and be
timely wise!
'Tis I that call,
remember Millo
's end,
Wedg'd in that
Timber
which he strove to rend.
Each
Poet
with a
different Talent
writes,
One
Praises,
one
Instructs,
another bites.
Horace
did ne'er aspire to
Epick Bays,
Nor lofty
Maro
stoop to
Lyrick Lays.
Examine how your
Humour
is inclin'd,
And which the
Ruling Passion
of your Mind;
Then, seek a
Poet
who
your
way do's bend,
And chuse an
Author
as you chuse a
Friend.
United by this
Sympathetick Bond,
You grow
Familiar, Intimate
and
Fond
;
Your
thoughts,
your
Words,
your
Stiles,
your
Souls
agree,
No longer his
Interpreter
but
He.
With how much ease is a
young Muse betray'd,
How
nice
the
Reputation
of the
Maid!
Your
early kind, paternal
care appears,
By
chaste Instruction
of her
Tender Years.
The
first Impression
in her
Infant
Breast
Will be the
deepest,
and should be the best.
et no Austerity breed servile
Fear,
o
wanton
Sound offend her
Virgin-Ear.
ecure from
foolish Pride
's
affected state,
nd
specious Flattery's more pernicious Bait,
abitual Innocence
adorns her
Thoughts
ut your neglect must answer for her
Faults.
Immodest words
admit of no defence;
or want of
Decency,
is want of
Sense.
What mod'rate
Fop
would rake the
Park,
or
Stews,
Who among Troops of
faultless Nymphs
may chuse?
ariety
of
such
is to be found;
ake then a Subject
proper
to expound:
ut
Moral, Great,
and worth a
Poet
's
Voice,
or Men of
sense despise a trivial Choice
:
nd such
Applause
it must expect to meet,
s wou'd some Painter, busie in a Street,
o Copy
Bulls
and
Bears,
and ev'ry
Sign
hat calls the
staring Sots
to
nasty wine.
Yet 'tis not all to have a Subject
Good,
must
delight
us when 'tis
understood.
e that brings
fulsome Objects
to my view,
As many
Old
have done, and many
New
)
ith
nauseous Images
my Fancy fills,
nd all, goes down like
Oxymel
of
Squils.
struct the list'ning World how
Maro
sings
f
useful Subjects,
and of
lofty Things.
hese will such true, such bright
Idea
's raise,
merit
Gratitude,
as well as
Praise.
t
foul Descriptions
are
offensive
still,
ther for being
Like,
or being
Ill.
r who, without a
Qualm,
hath ever lookt,
n
Holy Garbage,
tho' by
Homer Cookt?
hose
Rayling Heroes,
and whose
wounded Gods,
ake some suspect, he
Snores,
as well as
Nods.
t I offend—
Virgil
begins to
frown,
d
Horace
looks with
Indignation
down:
My blushing Muse
with
Conscious fear
retires,
And whom
they like, Implicily Admires.
On
sure Foundations
let your
Fabrick Rise,
And with attractive
Majesty
surprise,
Not by affected,
meritorious Arts,
But strict
harmonious Symetry
of
Parts.
Which through the whole, insensibly must pass,
With vital Heat to animate the Mass.
A
Pure,
an
Active,
an
Auspicious Flame,
And
bright
as
Heav'n,
from the
Blessing
came;
But few, oh few, Souls, praeordain'd by
Fate,
The Race of
Gods,
have reach'd that
envy'd Height.
No Rebel
Titans
sacrilegious
Crime,
By
heaping
Hills on Hills can thither
climb.
The
Greisly
Ferry-man of
Hell deny'd
Aeneas entrance
till he knew his
Guide
;
How justly then will
impious Mortals
fall,
Whose
Pride
would soar to
Heaven
without a call?
Pride (of all others the most
dangerous fault
;)
Proceeds
from want of
Sence,
or want of
Thought.
The
Men
who
labour
and
digest things most,
Will much apter to
despond
than
boast.
For if your
Author
be
profoundly good,
Will cost you dear before he's
understood,
How many
Ages
since has
Virgil
writ;
How few are they who
understood
him yet?
Approach his
Altars
with
Religious fear,
No
vulgar Deity
inhabits
there
;
Heav'n shakes
not more at
Jove
's
Imperial Nod,
Than
Poets
should before
their Mantuan God.
Hail mighty
Maro
! may thy
Sacred Name,
Kindle my
Breast,
with thy
coelestial flame
;
Sublime Ideas,
and
apt words
infuse,
The Muse instruct my Voice,
and thou
inspire my Muse.
What I have
instanc'd
only in the
best,
Is in
Proportion
true of all the rest.
Take
Pains
the genuine
meaning
to
explore,
Their
Sweat, there Strain,
there lug the
laborious Oar.
earch ev'ry
Comment
that your Care can find,
ome here, some there,
may hit the
Poet
's Mind;
Yet be not
blindly
guided by the
Throng
;
The
Multitude
is always in the
wrong.
When
Things
appear
unnatural,
and
hard,
Consult your
Author
with himself compar'd;
Who knows what
Blessing Phoebus
may bestow,
nd
future Ages
to that Labour owe?
uch
Secrets
are not easily
found out,
ut once
discover'd
leave no room for
Doubt,
Truth
stamps Conviction
in the
ravisht Breast,
nd
Peace
and Joy attend the
glorious Guest.
Truth
still is one,
Truth
is
divinely bright,
No
cloudy Doubts obscure
her
Native Light
;
While in your
Thoughts
you find the
least Debate,
You may
confound,
but never can
Translate.
Your
Stile
will this thro' all Disguises shew,
or none
explain
more clearly than they know.
e only proves he
understands a Text,
Whose
Exposition
leaves it unperplext,
They who too
faithfully
on
Names
insist,
ather create, than
dissipate
the
Mist
;
nd grow
unjust
by
being
over nice,
For Superstitious
Virtue
turns to
Vice
)
et
Crassus Ghost,
and
Labienus
tell,
ow twice in
Parthian Plains
their
Legions
fell,
ince
Rome
hath been so
jealous
of her
Fame,
ew know
Pacorus
or
Monaeses Name.
Words in one
Language elegantly us'd,
Will hardly in
another be excus'd
:
nd some that
Rome
admir'd in
Caesar
's time,
ay neither suit our
Genius,
nor our
Clime.
he
genuine Sense intelligibly told,
hews a
Translator
both
Discreet and Bold.
Excursions
are
inexpiably
bad,
nd 'tis
much
safer to leave out,
than add.
bstruce
and
Mystic
Thoughts you must express,
ith
painful Care,
and
seeming Easiness,
r
Truth
shines
brightest
thro' the
plainest Dress,
And
The
Aenean Muse,
when she
prepares in state.
Makes all
Jove Thunder
on her
Verses wait.
Yet
writes sometimes
as soft, and moving Things,
As Venus speaks,
or
Philomesa
signs.
Your
Author
always will the
best advice,
Fall when he falls, and When he
rises rise.
Affected noise,
is the most wretched Thing,
That to
Comtempt,
can empty
Scriblers
bring.
Vowels
and
Accents
regularly plac'd,
On even
Syllables,
(and still the
last.
Tho'
gross
innumerable
Faults
abound,
In spite of
Nonscence
never fail of Sound.
But this meant of
even Verse
alone,
As being most
harmonious
and most
known.
For if you will
unequal Numbers
try,
Their
Accents
on odd Syllables must lie.
Whatever
Sister
of the
Sacred Nine,
Does to your
Suit
a willing
Ear
incline,
Urge your
Success,
deserve a lasting Name,
She'll crown a grateful, and a
constant Flame.
But if a wild
Uncertainty
prevail,
And turn your
vearing Heart
with ev'ry Gale,
You lose the
Fruit
of all your former Care,
For the sad
Prospect
of a sad
Despair.
A
Quack
(too scandalously mean to Name)
Had by Man-midwifry got
Wealth
and
Fame
;
As if
Lucina
had forgot the Trade,
The
lab'ring Wife
invokes the surer Aid.
Well
season'd Bowls,
the
Gossips Spirits
raise,
Who while she
guzzles,
chats the
Doctor
's Praise.
And largely what she wants in
Words,
supplys.
With
Maudling Eloquence
of
trickling Eyes.
But what a thoughtless
Animal
is
Man,
(How very
Active
in his own
Trepan
!)
For greedy of
Physicians
frequent
Fees,
From
Female Mellow Praise
he takes Degrees?
Struts in a new
Unlicens'd Gown
and then,
From
saving Women
falls to
Killing Men.
nother such
had left the
Nation Thin,
spight of all the
Children
he brought in.
is
Pills,
as thick as
Hand Granadoes
flew,
nd where they
fell,
as certainly they
slew.
is
Name
struck ev'ry where as great a
Damp
s
Archimedes
through the
Roman Camp.
ith this, the
Doctors Pride
began to
Cool,
or
Smarting soundly
may
convince
a Fool.
ut now
Repentance
came too late, for
Grace
;
nd meager
Famine
star'd him in the Face.
in would he to the
Wives
be reconcil'd,
t found no
Husband
left to
own a Child.
he
Friends,
that
got
the Brats were poyson'd too;
this sad case what could our
Vermin
do?
orry'd
with
Debts
and past all
Hope
of
Bail,
h' unpity'd wretch lies
Rotting
in a
Jail.
nd there with
Basket-Alms,
scarce kept
alive,
hews how
Mistaken Talents
ought to
Thrive.
I pity, from my Soul, Unhappy Men,
ompell'd by
want
to
Prostitute
their
Pen
;
Who must, like
Lawyers
either
starve
or
plead,
nd
follow,
right or wrong, where
Guynny
's
lead
;
ut you,
Pompilian, wealthy, pamper'd Heirs,
Who to your
Country
owe your
Swords
and
Cares.
et no vain hope your easie mind seduce,
or
Rich Ill Poets
are without
Excuse.
'Tis very Dangerous,
Tampring
with a
Muse.
he
Profit
's
small,
and you have
much
to
lose
;
or, tho'
true Wit adorns
your
Birth,
or
Place,
egenerate
lines
degrade
th'
attainted Race,
o Poet any
Passion
can Excite;
ut what they feel trasport them when they write.
ave you been led through
Cumaean Cave.
nd heard th' Impatient Maid
Divinely Rave?
hear her now; I see her Rowling Eyes;
nd panting;
Lo!
the
God,
the
God
she cries;
ith words, not
Hers
and more then
humane sound,
e makes th' obedient
Ghosts
peep trembling thro' the Ground,
But tho' we
must obey
when
Heaven Commands,
And Man in vain the
sacred Call withstands,
Beware
what Spirit
rages in your breast.
For ten inspir'd ten thousand are possest.
Thus make the
proper use
of each
Extream,
And
write
with
Fury,
but
correct
with
Phleam.
As when the Chearful hours too freely pass,
And sparkling Wine smiles in the tempting Glass.
Your
Pulse
advises, and begins to beat
Through every swelling Vein a
loud retreat.
So when a
Muse propitiously invites
Improve
her favours, and
Indulge
her flights,
But when you find that vigorous heat
abate,
Leave off,
and for
another Summons
wait.
Before the
Radiant Sun
a
Glimmering Lamp,
Adult'rate Metals
to the
Sterling Stamp,
Appear not
meaner,
than
mere humane Lines,
Compar'd with those whose
Inspiration shines
;
These, Nervous, bold; those Languid,
and
remiss
;
There, cold salutes,
But
here,
a
Lover
's
kiss,
Thus have I seen a Rapid, headlong tide,
With foaming Waves the Passive
Soan
divide
Whose Lazy Waters without motion lay,
While he, with eager force, urg'd his Impetuous way.
The
Priviledge
that ancient Poets claim
Now turn'd to
License
by too
just
a Name,
Belongs
to none but an
Establisht Fame,
Which
scorns
to
take
it—
Absurd Expressions, crude, Abortive Thoughts,
All the lewd
Legion
of
exploded fau'ts,
Base Fugitives
to that
Asylum
fly,
And sacred
Laws
with
Insolence
defy.
Not thus our
Heroes
of the
former
Days,
Deserv'd
and
Gain'd
their never fading
Bays:
For I mistake, or for the greatest part,
Of what some call
Neglect
was
study'd Art.
When
Virgil
seems to
Trifle
in a Line,
'Tis like a
Warning-piece,
which gives the
Sign.
o
Wake
your
Fancy,
and prepare your
Sight,
o reach the noble Height of some
unusual Flight.
ose my Patience, when, with
Saucy Pride,
y
untun'd Ears
I hear his
Numbers
try'd.
verse
of
Nature
! shall
such Copies,
then
rraign th'
Originals
of
Maro
's Pen!
nd the
rude Notions
of
Pedantick Schools,
laspheme
the sacred
Founders
of
our Rules
!
The Delicacy of the nicest Ear
inds nothing
harsh,
or out of
Order
there.
ublime
or
low, unbended
or
intense,
he
sound
is still a
Comment
to the
Sense.
A skilful
Ear,
in
Numbers
shou'd preside,
nd all
Disputes
without
Appeal
decide.
his Ancient Rome
and
Elder Athens
found,
efore
mistaken stops debauch'd the sound.
When, by Impulse from Heaven,
Tyrtaeus
sung,
drooping Souldiers a new Courage sprung.
eviving Sparta
now the fight maintain'd,
nd what
Two Gen'rals lost,
a
Poet gain'd.
y secret influence of Indulgent Skyes,
mpire,
and
Poesy
together rise.
rue Poets
are the
Guardians
of
State,
And when
they fail,
portend approaching
Fate.
or that which
Rome
to
Conquest
did inspire,
Was not the
Vestal,
but the
Muses fire
;
Heavens joyns
the
Blessings,
no
declining
Age,
E'er felt the
Raptures
of
Poetick Rage,
Of manv faults,
Rhym
is (perhaps) the
Cause,
Too
strict
to
Ryhme
we slight more
useful
Laws.
For
that,
in
Greece
or
Rome,
was never
known,
Till by
Barbarian
Deluges
o'reflown
;
ubdu'd, Undone,
They did at last,
Obey,
And change their
own
for their
Invaders
way.
I grant that from some
Mossie Idol Oak
n
Double Rhymes
our
Thor
and
Woden
spoke;
And by succession of unlearned Times,
s
Bards began,
so
Monks rung on
the
Chimes.
But now that
Phoebus
and the
sacred Nine,
With all their Beams on our blest Island shine,
Why should not
We
their
ancient Rites restore
And
be,
what
Rome
or
Athens
were
before?
Have we forgot how
Raphaels
Num'rous Prose
Led our exalted Souls through heavenly Camps,
An
Essay
on blank Verse out of the
6
th Book of
Paradise
lost.
And mark'd the ground where proud Apostate Thrones,
Defy'd
Jehovah!
Here, 'twixt Host and Host,
(A narrow but a dreadful Interval)
Portentous sight! before the Cloudy Van,
Satan with vast and haughty strides advanc'd,
Came tow'ring arm'd in Adamant and Gold.
There bellowing
Engines
with their fiery
Jubes
Dispers'd
aetherial Forms,
and down they fall,
By thousands,
Angels,
on
Arch-angels
rowl'd;
Recover'd, to the Hills they ran they flew,
Which (with their
ponderous Load,
Rocks, Waters, Woo
From their firm Seals torn by their
shaggy Tops
They bore, like Shields before them thro' the Air,
'Till more
incens'd,
they hurl'd them all their
Fees.
All was
Confusion,
Heaven's
Foundations shook,
Threatning
no less then
universal wrack.
For
Michael
's
Arm
main
Promontorys
flung,
And overprest their
Legions
weak with Sin;
Yet they
blasphem'd,
and
struggled
as they lay,
'Till the great
Ensign
of
Massiah blaz'd,
And (arm'd with
Fengeance
) God's
Victorious Son.
(Effulgence of
Paternal Deity
)
Grasping ten
thousand Thunders
in his hand.
Drove the old
original Rebels
headlong down,
And sent them
flaming
to the
vast Abyss.
O may I live o hail the
glorious day,
And sing loud Poems thro' the crowded way,
When in
triumphant state
the
British Muse,
True to her self all
barbarous
Aid refuse.
And in the
Roman Majesty
appear,
Which none
knew better,
and
none came so near
:
FINIS.
THE
LEASURES OF A Single LIFE, OR, THE MISERIES OF MATRIMONY.
Occasionally Writ
pon the many DIVORCES lately Granted by Parliament.
WITH THE CHOICE, OR, THE
leasures of a Country-
LIFE,
Dedicated to the
Beaus
against the next Vacation.
don:
Printed and Sold by
H. Hills,
in
Black-fryars,
near the Water-side. 1709.
Price One Penny.
THE Pleasures of a Single LIFE OR, The Miseries of Matrimony. Occasionally Writ upon the many DIVORCE
lately Granted by Parliament.
WEdlock, oh! Curs'd uncomfortable State,
Cause of my Woes, and Object of my hate,
How bless'd was I? Ah, once how happy me?
When I from those uneasie Bonds were free;
How calm my Joys? How peaceful was my Breast,
Till with thy fatal Cares too soon opprest,
The World seem'd Paradice, so bless'd the Soil
Wherein I liv'd, that Business was no Toil;
Life was a Comfort, which produc'd each day
New Joys, that still preserv'd me from decay,
Thus Heav'n first launch'd me into pacifick Seas,
Where free from Storms I mov'd with gentle Breeze
My Sails proportion'd, and my Vessel tite,
Coasting in Pleasures-Bay I steer'd aright,
Ballac'd with true Content, and fraighted with deligh
Books my Companions were wherein I found
Needful Advice, without a noisey Sound,
But was with friendly pleasing silence taught,
Wisdom's best Rules, to fructify my Thought,
Rais'd up our Sage Fore-fathers from the dead,
And when I pleas'd invok'd them to my Aid,
Who at my Study-Bar without a Fee would plead:
Whilst I Chief-Justice sat, heard all their Sutes,
And gave my Judgment on their learn'd Disputes;
Strove to determine ev'ry Cause aright,
And for my Pains found Profit and Delight,
Free from Partiality; I fear'd no blame,
Desir'd no Brib'ry, and deserv'd no Shame,
it like an upright Judge, grudg'd no Expence
time, to fathom Truth with Diligence,
ading by Day, Contemplating by Night,
ll Conscience told me that I judg'd aright,
en to my Paper-World I'd have recourse,
by my Maps run o'er the Universe;
ll round the Globe, and touch at every Port,
vey those Shoars where Men untam'd resort,
ew the old Regions where the
Persian
Lord
ught Wooden Deities first to be Ador'd,
snar'd at last to Sacrifice his life
the base Pride of an Adult'rous Wife,
where the
Grecian
Youth to Arms inur'd,
hungry Soil with
Persian
Blood manur'd,
There bold
Busephilus
brutal Conduct show'd,
force of monstrous Elephants withstood,
with his Rider waded through a purple Flood.
Then would I next the
Roman
Field survey,
There brave
Fabricius
with his Army lay:
m'd for his Valour, from Corruption free,
de up of Courage and Humility.
at when Encamp'd the good Man lowly bent,
ok'd his own Cabbage in his homely Tent:
when the
Samnites
sent a Golden Sum,
tempt him to betray his Country
Rome,
Dross he scoffingly return'd untold,
answer'd with a Look serenely bold,
at
Roman
Sprouts would boil without their
Grecian
Gold:
en eat his Cale-worts for his Meal design'd,
beat the
Grecian
Army when he'd din'd.
Thus wou'd I range the World from Pole to Pole,
encrease my Knowledge, and delight my Soul;
vel all Nations, and inform my Sence;
th ease and safety, at a small Expence:
Storms to plough, no Passengers Sums to pay,
Horse to hire, or Guide to show the way,
Alps
to climb, no Desarts here to pass,
Ambuscades, no Thief to give me chase,
No Bear to dread, or rav'nous Wolf to fight,
No Flies to sting, no Rattle-Snakes to bite;
No Floods to ford, no Hurricans to fear;
No dreadful Thunder to surprize the Ear;
No Winds to freeze, no to Sun scorch or fry,
No Thirst, or Hunger, and Relief not nigh.
All these Fatigues and Mischiefs could I shun;
Rest when I pleas'd, and when I please Jog on,
And travel through both
Inides
in an Afternoon.
When the Day thus far pleasingly was spent,
And every Hour admin'stred Content,
Then would I range the Fields, and flow'ry Meads▪
Where Nature her exub'rant Bounty spreads,
In whose delightful Products does appear
Inimitable Beauty ev'ry where;
Contemplate on each Plant, and useful Weed,
And how its Form first lay involv'd in Seed,
How they're preserv'd by Providential Care,
For what design'd, and what their Virtues are.
Thus to my Mind by dint of Reason prove,
That all below is ow'd to Heaven above,
And that no Earthly Temporals can be,
But what must Center in Eternity.
Then gaze aloft, whence all things had their Birth
And mount my prying Soul 'twixt Heaven and Ear
Thus the sweet Harmony o'th' whole admire,
And by due Search new Learning still acquire,
So nearer ev'ry day to Truths Divine aspire.
When tir'd with thought, then from my Pocket pl
Some friendly dear Companion of a Book,
Whose homely Calves-skin fences did contain
The Verbal Treasure of some Old good Man:
Made by long study and experience wise,
Whose piercing thoughts to Heavenly knowledge
Amongst whose Pious Reliques I would find,
Rules for my Life, Rich Banquets for my mind,
Such pleasing Nectar, such Eternal Food,
That well digested, makes a Man a God;
nd for his use at the same time prepares
Earth a Heav'n in spight of worldly Cares,
he day in these Enjoyments would I spend,
chuse at Night my Bottle and my Friend,
ok prudent care that neither were abus'd,
with due Moderation both I us'd.
nd in one sober Pint found more delight,
han the insatiat Sot that swills all Night;
e'er drown my Senses, or my Soul debase,
drink beyond the relish of my blass
in Excess good Heav'ns design is Croft,
all Extreams the true Enjoyments lost,
ine chears the Heart, and elevates the Soul,
t if we surfeit with too large a Bowl,
anting true Aim we th' happy Mark o'er Shoot,
change the Heavenly Image to a Brute.
the great
Grecian
who the World subdu'd,
nd drown'd whole Nations in a Sea of Blood;
last was Conquer'd by the Power of Wine,
nd dy'd a Drunken Victim to the Vine.
y Friend, and I, when o'er our Bottle sat,
x'd with each Glass some inoffensive Chat,
lk'd of the World's Affairs, but still kept free
om Passion, Zeal, or Partiality;
ith honest freedom did our thoughts dispense,
judg'd of all things with indifference;
time at last did our Delights invade,
in due season separation made,
en without Envy, Discord or Deceit,
like true Friends as loving as we meet.
e Tavern change to a domestick scene,
at sweet Retirment, tho' it's ne'er so mean.
us leave each other in a Cheerful Plight,
enjoy the silent Pleasures of the Night,
hen home return'd, my Thanks to Heaven pay,
all the past kind Blessing of the Day;
haughty Help-mate to my Peace molest,
treacherous Snake to harbour in my Breast;
No fawning Mistress of the Female Art,
With
Judas
Kisses to betray my Heart;
No light tail'd Hypocrite to raise my Fears,
No vile Impert'nence to torment my Ears;
No molted Off-spring to disturb my Thought,
In Wedlock born but G—d knows where begot;
No lustful
Massalina
to require
Whole Troops of Men to feed her Brutal Fire?
No Family Cares my quiet to disturb;
No Head-strong Humours to asswage or Curb
No Jaring Servants, no Domestick strife,
No Jilt, no Termagent, no Faithless Wife,
With Vinegar or Gall, to sowre or bitter Life.
Thus freed from all that could my Mind annoy,
Alone my self, I did my self enjoy:
When Nature call'd, I laid me down to rest,
With a sound Body, and a peaceful Breast;
Hours of Repose with Constancy I kept,
And Guardian Angels watch'd me as I slept,
In lively Dreams reviving as I lay,
The Pleasures of the last precedent day,
Thus whilst I singly liv'd, did I possess
By Day and Night incessant Happiness,
Content enjoy'd awak'd, and sleeping found no less.
But the Curs'd Fiend from Hell's dire Regions sen
Ranging the World to Man's Destruction bent,
Who with an Envious Pride beholding me,
Advanc'd by Virtue to Felicity,
Resolv'd his own Eternal wretched state,
Should be in part reveng'd by my sad Fate;
And so at once my happy Life betray
Flung Woman, Faithless Woman in my way:
Beauty she had, a seeming Modest Mein,
All Charms without, but Devil all within,
Which did not yet appear, but lurk'd, alas unseen.
A fair Complection far exceeding Paint,
Black sleepy Eyes that wou'd have Charm'd a Saint;
Her Lips so soft and sweet, that ev'ry Kiss,
Seem'd a short Tast of the Eternal Bliss;
er set of Teeth so Regular and White,
hey'd show their Lustre in the darkest Night;
ound her Seraphick Face so fair and young,
er Sable Hair in careless Dresses hung,
hich added to her beauteous Features, show'd
ike some fair Angel peeping through a Cloud?
er Breasts, her Hands, and every Charm so bright,
e seem'd a Sun by Day, a Moon by Night;
er shape so ravishing, that every Part,
roportion'd was to the nicest Rules of Art:
o awful was her Carriage when she mov'd,
one could behold her, but he feard and lov'd,
he danc'd well, sung well, finely plaid the Lute,
Was always witty in her Words, or Mute;
bliging, not reserv'd, nor yet too free,
ut as a Maid divinely bless'd should be;
Not vainly gay, but decent in Attire,
he seem'd so good, she could no more acquire
Of Heaven, than what she had, & Man no more desire:
ortune, like God and Nature too was kind,
And to these Gifts a copious Sum had joyn'd.
Who could the power of such Temptations shun,
What frozen
Synick
from her Charms could run.
What Cloister'd Monk could see a Face so bright,
But quit his Beads and follow Beauty's Light,
And Its Lustre hope to shun Eternal Night.
so bewitch'd, and poyson'd with her Charms,
Believ'd the utmost Heaven was in her Arms,
Methoughts the Goodness, in her Eyes I see,
Spoke her the Off-spring of some Deity.
Now Books and Walks, would no content afford,
She was the only Good to be Ador'd
In her fair Looks alone delight I found,
Love's raging Storms all other Joys had drown'd.
By Beauty's
Ignus fatuus
led astray,
Bound for Content, I lost my happy way
Of Reason's faithful Pilot now bereft,
Was amongst Rocks and Shelves in danger left,
There must have perish'd, as I fondly thought,
Lest her kind Usage my Salvation wrought;
Her happy Aid I labour'd to obtain,
Hop'd for Success, yet fear'd her sad Disdain,
Tortur'd like dying Convicts whilst they live,
'Twixt fear of Death, and hopes of a Reprieve.
First for her smallest Favours did I sue,
Crept, Fawn'd and Cring'd, as Lovers us'd to do?
Sigh'd e'er I spoke, and when I spoke look'd
In words confus'd disclos'd my mournful T
le?
Unpractised and Amour's fine Speeches co
d,
But could not utter what I well design
d.
Warm'd by her Charms against Bash
strove,
And trembling sat, and stammer'd out my Love;
Told her how greatly I admir'd and fear
d,
Which she 'twixt Coyness and Compassion hear'd,
Grutch'd no Expence of Money, or of Time,
And thought that not to adore her was a Crime;
The more each Visit I acquainted grew,
Yet every time found something in her new.
Who was above her Sex so fortunate,
She had a Charm for Man in every State;
Beauty for the Youthful Prudence for the Old,
Scripture for the Godly, for the Miser Gold;
Wit for the Ingenious, silence for the Grave,
Flatt'ry for the Fool, and Cunning for the Knave:
Compounded thus of such Varieties,
She had a knack to every Temper please.
And as her self thought fit was every one of these.
I lov'd, I sigh'd and vow'd, talk'd, whin'd, and pray'd
And at her Feet my panting Heart I lay'd;
She smil'd, then frown'd, was now reserv'd, then fre
And as she play'd her part, oft chang'd her Key;
Not through Fantastick Humour but Design,
To try me throughly e'er she should be mine,
Because she wanted in one Man to have,
A Husband, Lover, Cuckold, and a Slave.
So Travellers, before a Horse they buy,
His Speed, his Paces, and his Temper try,
Whether h'ell answer Whip and Spur, thence Judge,
If the poor Beast will prove a patient Drudge:
When she by wiles had heightned my Desire,
And fain'd Lov's sparkles to a raging Fire;
Made now for Wedlock, or for
Bedlam
fit,
Thus Passion gain'd the upper-hand of Wit,
The Dame by pity, or by Interest mov'd,
Or else by Lust, pretended now she lov'd;
After long sufferings, her Consent I got,
To make me happy, as I hop'd and thought,
But oh, the wretched hour I ty'd the
Gordian
Knot.
Thus through mistake I rashly plung'd my Life
Into that Gulph of Miseries a Wife.
With joyful Arms I thus embrac'd my Fate,
Believ'd too soon, was undeceiv'd too late;
So hair-brain'd Fools to
Indian
Climates rove,
With a vain hope their Fortunes to improve;
There spend their slender Cargoes, then become
Worse Slaves abroad than e'er they were at home.
When a few Weeks were wasted I compar'd,
With all due moderation and regard,
My former freedom, with my new restraint,
Judging which State afforded most content,
But found a single Life as calm and gay,
As the delightful Month of blooming
May,
Not chil'd with Cold, or scorch'd with too much heat.
Not plagu'd with flying Dust, nor drown'd with wet,
But pleasing to the Eyes, and to the Nostrils sweet.
But Wedlock's like the blustring Month of
March,
That does the Body's Maims and Bruises search,
Brings by cold nipping Storms unwelcom Pains,
And finds, or breeds Distempers in our Veins;
Renews old Sores, and hastens on Decay,
And seldom does affords one pleasant Day.
But Clouds dissolve, or raging Tempest blow,
And untile Houses, like the wrangling Shrow;
Thus
March
and Marriage justly may be said,
To be alike, then sure the Man is Mad,
That loves such changling Weather where the best is bad.
Though I once happy in a single Life,
Yet Shipwrack'd all upon that Rock a Wife.
By Gold and Beauties Powerful Charms betray'd,
To the dull drudgery of a Marriage-Bed;
That Paradise for Fools, a Sport for Boys,
Tiresom its Chains, and brutal are its Joys,
Thou nauseous Priestcraft that too soon appear'd,
Not as I hop'd, but worse than what I fear'd,
All her soft Charms which I believ'd divine,
Marriage I thought had made them only mine;
Vain hope, alas for I too early found,
My Brows were with the Throne of Wedlock crown'd,
Jealousies, first from Reason rais'd a doubt,
And Fatal Chance th' unhappy Truth brought out;
Made it so plain from all Pretences free'd.
That wicked Woman no Excuse could plead;
And if she wants device to hide her Shame,
Hell can no Umbrage for Adult'ry frame.
I thought it prudence the Disgrace to hide,
Tho' rav'd and Storm'd, she Pardon beg'd and Cry'd.
Yet with false Protestations strove to Charm:
The Cuckold to believe she'd done no harm,
Tho' taken by surprize (O curse the Day)
Where all the Marks of past Enjoyment lay,
And she disorder'd by her lustful freeks
Had Shame and Horrour strugling in her Cheeks:
Yet, made Essays to cleer her Innocence,
And hide her guilt with Lyes and Impudence;
For lustful Women like a vicious State,
Oft stifle Ills by others full as great,
But I convinc'd too plainly of her Guilt,
All her false Oaths and quick inventions spoilt,
Which when she'd used in vain she blush'd and cry'd,
And own'd her fault she found she could not hide.
This I forgave, she promis'd to reclaim,
Vow'd future truth if I'd conceal the shame;
But what Strange Adamantine Chain can bind,
Woman corrupted to be just or kind:
Or how can Man to an adultress shew
That Love, which to a faithful Wife is due,
I strugled hard, and all my Passions checkt,
And chang'd Revenge into a mild Respect,
That Good for Ill return'd might touch her near,
And Gratitude might bind her more than fear;
My former Love I every day renew'd;
And all the Signals of Oblivion shew'd;
Wink'd at small Faults, wou'd no such Trifles mind,
As accidental Failings not designed.
I all things to her Temper easie made,
Scorn'd to reflect, and hated to upbraid;
She chose (and rich it was) her own Attire,
Nay, had what a proud Woman could desire.
Thus the new Covenant I strictly kept,
And oft in private for her Failings wept,
Yet bore with seeming Cheerfulness those Cares,
That bring a Man too soon to grisled Hairs.
But all this kindness I dispens'd in vain,
Where Lust and base Ingratitude remain.
Lust, which if once in Female fancy fix'd,
Burns like Salt Petre, with dry Touchwood mix'd:
And tho' cold Fear for time may stop its force,
'Twill soon like Fire confin'd, break out the worse,
Or like a Tide obstructed, re-assume its course.
No Art cou'd e'er presume the stincking
Stote,
Or change the lecherous Nature of the
Goat.
No skilful Whitster ever found the slight,
To wash or bleach an
Ethiopian
White.
No gentle Usage truly will Asswage,
A Tyger's fierceness, or a Lyon's rage,
Stripes and severe Correction is the way,
When once they're thro'ly Conquer'd, they'll obey,
'Tis Whip and Spur, Commanding Reign and Bit,
That makes the unruly head-strong Horse submit,
So stubborn faithless Woman must be us'd,
Or Man by Woman basely be abus'd.
For after all the Endearments I should show,
At last she turn'd both Libertine and Shrow,
From my Submission grew perverse and proud,
Crabbed as Varges, and as Thunder loud;
Did what she pleas'd, would no Obedience own,
And ridicul'd the Patience I had shown.
Fear'd no sharp threatnings, valued no disgrace,
But flung the wrongs she'd done me in my Face;
Grew still more head-strong, turbulent and Lewd,
Filling my Mansion with a spurious brood.
Thus Brutal Lust her humane Reason drown'd,
And her loose Tail oblig'd the Country round;
Advice, Reproof, Pray'rs, Tears, were flung away,
For still she grew more wicked ev'ry day;
Till by her equals scorn'd, my Servants fed,
The Brutal Rage of her adultrous bed.
Nay, in my absence trucled to my Groom,
And hug'd the servile Traytor in my Room;
When these strange Tydings, Thunder struck my Ear,
And such Inhumane Wrongs were made appear,
On these just Grounds for a Divorce I su'd,
At last that head-strong Tyrant Wife subdu'd,
Cancel'd the marriage-bonds, and bastardiz'd her brood
Woman,
thou worst of all Church-plagues, farewel;
Bad at the best, but at the worst a Hell;
Thou truss of wormwood, bitter Teaz of Life,
Thou Nursery of humane cares a wife.
Thou Apple-Eating Trayt'riss who began
The Wrath of Heav'n, and Miseries of Man,
And hast with never-failing diligence,
Improv'd the Curse to humane Race e'er since.
Farewel Church-juggle that enslav'd my Life,
But bless that Power that rid me of my Wife.
And now the Laws once more have set me free,
If Woman can again prevail with me,
My Flesh and Bones shall make my Wedding-Feast,
And none shall be Invited as my Guest,
T' attend my
Bride,
but th'
Devil
and a
Priest.
FINIS.
THE CHOICE, OR, THE Pleasures of a
Country
-LIFE,
&c.
IF Heav'n the grateful Liberty wou'd give,
That I might chuse my Method how to live:
And all those Hours propitious Fate shou'd lend,
In blisful Ease and Satisfaction spend.
Near some fair Town I'd have a private Seat,
Built Uniform, not little, nor too great:
Better if on a rising Ground it stood,
Fields on this side, on that a Neighb'ring Wood.
It shou'd within no other things contain,
But what are Useful, Necessary, Plain:
Methinks 'tis Nauseous, and I'd ne'er endure
The needful pomp of gaudy Furniture:
A little Garden, grateful to the Eye,
And a cool Rivulet run murmuring by:
On whose delicious Banks a stately Row,
Of shady Limes, or Sicamores, shou'd grow.
At th' end of which a silent Study plac'd,
Shou'd with the Noblest Authors there be grac'd.
Horace
and
Virgil,
in whose mighty Lines,
Immortal Wit, and solid Learning shines.
Sharp
Juvenal,
and am'rous
Ovid
too,
Who all the turns of Loves soft passion knew:
He, that with Judgment reads his Charming Lines,
In which strong Art, with stronger Nature joins,
Must grant▪ his Fancy does the best excel:
His thoughts so tender, and exprest so well;
With all those Moderns, Men of steady Sense,
Esteem'd for Learning, and for Eloquence:
In some of these, as Fancy shou'd advise,
I'd always take my Morning Exercise.
For sure, no Minutes bring us more Content,
Than those in pleasing useful Studies Spent.
I'd have a clear and competent Estate,
That I might live Genteely, but not Great.
As much as I cou'd moderately spend,
A little more sometimes t' oblige a Friend.
Nor shou'd the Sons of Poverty Repine
Too much at Fortune, they shou'd taste of mine,
And all that Objects of true Pity were,
Shou'd be reliev'd with what my Wants cou'd spare;
For what our Maker has too largely giv'n,
Shou'd be return'd in gratitude to Heav'n.
A frugal Plenty shou'd my Table spread,
With healthful, not luxurious Dishes fed:
Enough to satisfy, and something more
To feed the Stranger, and th' Neighb'ring Poor▪
Strong Meat indulges Vice, and pampering Food
Creates Diseases; and inflames the Blood.
But what's sufficient to make Nature Strong,
And the bright Lamp of Life continue long,
I'd freely take, and as I did possess.
The bounteous Author of my Plenty bless.
I'd have a little Cellar, Cool and Neat,
With Humming Ale, and Virgin Wine Repleat.
Wine whets the Wit, improves its Native Force,
And gives a pleasant Flavour to Discourse;
By making all our Spirits Debonar,
Throws off the Lees, the Sedement of Care.
But as the greatest Blessing Heaven lends
May be debauch'd, and serve ignoble Ends;
So, but too oft, the Grapes refreshing Juice,
Does many mischievous Effects produce,
My House, shou'd no such rude Disorders know,
As from high Drinking consequently flow,
Nor wou'd I use what was so kindly giv'n,
To the Dishonour of Indulgent Heav'n.
If any Neighbour came he shou'd be free,
Us'd with Respect, and not uneasy be,
In my Retreat, or to himself or me.
What Freedom, Prudence, and Right Reason give,
All Men may with impunity receive;
But the least swerving from their Rules too much,
For what's forbidden us, 'tis Death to touch.
That Life might be more comfortable yet,
And all my Joys refin'd, sincere and great,
chuse too Friends, whose Company wou'd be
great Advance to my Felicity.
Well born, of Humours suited to my own;
iscreet, and Men as well as Books have known.
rave, Gen'rous, Witty, and exactly free
rom loose Behaviour or Formality,
iry, and Prudent, Merry, but not Light,
Quick in discerning, and in Judging Right;
ecret they shou'd, be faithful to their Trust,
Reasoning Cool, Strong, Temperate and just.
bliging, Open, without Huffing. Brave;
risk in gay talking, and in sober Grave.
Close in dispute, but not tenacious, try'd
y solid Reason, and let that decide;
Not prone to Lust, Revenge, or envious Hate;
Nor busy Medlers with Intrigues of State.
Strangers to Slander, and sworn Foes to spight,
Not Quarrelsom, but Stout enough to Fight:
Loyal and Pious, Friends to
Caesar
true
As dying Martyrs to their Maker too.
n their Society I cou'd not miss,
A permanent, sincere, substantial Bliss,
Wou'd bounteous Heaven once more indulge, I'd chuse;
For, who wou'd so much satisfaction lose,
As witty Nymphs in Conversation give)
Near some obliging modest-fair to live;
For there's that sweetness in a female Mind.
Which in a Man's we cannot find;
That by a secret, but a pow'rful Art,
Wind up the Spring of Life, and do's impart
Fresh Vital Heat to the transported Heart.
I'd have her Reason, and her Passions sway,
Easy in Company, in private Gay.
Coy to a Fop, to the deserving free,
Still Constant to her self and Just to me.
A soul she shou'd have for great Actions fit,
Prudence, and Wisdom to direct her Wit,
Courage to look bold danger in the Face,
No Fear, but only to be Proud, or Base:
Quick to advise by an Emergence prest,
To give good Counsel, or to take the best.
I'd have th' Expression of her Thoughts be such,
She might not seem Reserv'd, nor talk too much;
That shows a want of Judgment, and of Sense;
More than enough is but Impertinence.
Her Conduct Regular, her Mirth refin'd,
Civil to Strangers, to her Neighbours kind.
Averse to Vanity, Revenge and Pride,
In all the Methods of Deceit untry'd:
So faithful to her Friend, and good to all,
No Censure might upon her Actions fall.
Then wou'd even Envy be compell'd to say,
She goes the least of Woman kind astray.
To this fair Creature I'd sometimes retire,
Her conversation wou'd new Joys inspire,
Give Life and Edge so keen no surly Care
Wou'd venture to assault my Soul, or dare
Near my Retreat to hide one secret Snare.
But so Divine, so Noble a Repast,
I'd seldom, and with Moderation taste.
For highest Cordials all their Virtue lose,
By a too frequent, and too bold an use;
And what would cheer the Spirits in distress▪
Ruins our Health when taken to Excess.
I'd be concern'd in no litigious Jarr,
Belov'd by all, not vainly popular:
Whate'er Assistance I had power to bring
T' oblige my Country, or to serve my King,
Whene'er they call'd, I'd readily afford,
My Tongue, My Pen, my Counsel, or my Sword.
Law-suits I'd shun with as much Studious Care;
As I wou'd Dens where hungry Lyons are;
And rather put up Injuries than be
A Plague to him, who'd be a plague to me.
I value Quiet at a Price too great,
To give for my Revenge so dear a Rate:
For what do we by all our bustle gain,
But counterfeit Delight for real Pain.
If Heav'n a date of many Years wou'd give,
Thus I'd in Pleasure, Ease and Plenty live.
And as I near approach'd the Verge of Life,
Some kind Relation (for I'd have no Wife.)
Should take upon him all my Worldly Care,
While I did for a better State prepare.
Then I'd not be with any Trouble vext,
Nor have the Evening of my Days perplext.
But by a silent, and a peaceful Death,
Without a sigh Resign my Aged Breath:
And when committed to the Dust, I'd have
Few Tears, but Frindly drop'd into my Grave.
Then wou'd my Exit so propitious be,
All Men wou'd wish to live and dye like me.
FINIS.
INSTRUCTIONS TO VANDER BANK, A Sequel to the Advice to the Poets: A POEM, Occasion'd by the Glorious Success of Her Majesty's ARMS, under the Command of the Duke of
MARLBOROƲ GH,
the last Year in Flanders.
LONDON:
nted and Sold by
H. Hills,
in
Black-fryars,
near the Water-side. 1709.
Instructions to
Vander Bank,
&c.
HAve all thy Bards,
Britannia,
spent their Vein?
Not one rich Genius left that can sustain
Th' expensive Task of
Marlbro
's last Campaign?
uin'd by Conquests do they pray for Peace,
That the hard Taxes on the Muse may cease?
Then, Artist, who dost Nature's Face express
Silk and Gold, and Scenes of Action dress;
ost figur'd Arras animated leave,
pin a bright Story, or a Passion weave;
By mingling Threads canst mingle Shade and Light,
Delineate Triumphs, or describe a Fight;
o thou relate the Hero's Toil, record
The Train of new Events, that crown'd his hardy Sword.
Since Thou wilt some Illustrious Patron need,
ANN
propitious Smile, Thou must succeed:
Her High Command inspir'd with Martial Flame
The Warrior's Breast. She by her pow'rful Name
repar'd half-beaten Foes to yield the Day,
And for advancing Vict'rys made the Way.
Belgiam
attend; and from thy noble Loom
et the Great Chief August in Triumph come:
or
Blenheim
's lofty Walls the Work design,
n every Piece let Art and Labour shine;
et Glorious Deeds the
Briton
's Palace crown,
Not those of antient Heroes, but his own;
the bright Series of his Story show
What
Albion,
what Mankind to
Marlbro
' owe.
I only rude Materials can suggest,
ome by thy Art too hard to be exprest;
Chuse what is proper, and neglect the rest.
f thou with Care, and that thy Genius may
mprove these Hints, refine this crude Essay;
Thou may'st Illustrious lasting Scenes contrive,
At least the Work will by its Subject live.
Let the first Labour on this lofty Theme
Express the Chief on
Scalda
's wondring Stream:
From him that Flood immortal Fame derives,
Rivals the
Danube,
and with
Dola
strives.
Describe his Steed, not patient of the Rein,
Champing his Foam, and bounding on the Plain;
Arch his high Neck, and graceful spread his Mane.
Give ample Nostrils breathing inbred Fire,
Eyes that confess the generous Mare and Sire:
Such Life and Pride, as in the Race appear,
Which Great
Arabian
Lords, and
Persian
Monarchs bear.
But with their chief Delight our Eyes to feed,
Mount the brave Leader on his manag'd Steed.
Give him a noble Seat, a Martial Mein,
Scornful of Danger. and in Arms serene:
Let his Right Hand his Sword vindictive sway,
Grasp'd with vast Strength, and spreading dreadful Day,
By which the Tyrant Monsters are subdu'd,
Who surfeited with Spoil, and riotous in Blood,
Oppression's howling Wilderness defend,
And Desolation's empty Realms extend.
The Looks of Justice to the Warrior give,
Where Wrath and Mercy for Dominion strive.
Intrepide Ardour well to
Gallia
known,
A Courtier Hero's Grace the mighty
Briton
's own.
When you express the Leader's Face and Eyes,
Studious with daring Labour to surprize,
Cou'd you with inwrought Glory charm the Sight,
And interwoven Threads of labour'd Light,
You might succeed, and do the Conqueror Right.
Let Fame and Vict'ry, in inferior Sky,
Hover with balanc'd Wings, and smiling fly,
Above his Head, and on his Function wait,
Assiduous to pronounce
Europa
's Fate.
On adverse Banks of
Scalda
's Silver Tide,
Delineate
Gallia
's Military Pride;
xpress the Cohorts cov'ring all the Plain,
hick as the Waves that spread the troubled Main.
how them advancing swift to
Gaula
's Walls,
Where
Lesia
's Current into
Scalda
falls:
ill
Marlbro
's Marches did their Speed out do,
nd stopt their Progress, to sustain the Foe.
when a Stag, the Glory of the Wood,
f beautous Limbs, and branching Antlets proud,
ears the shrill Horn, and hallowing Huntsman's Crys,
ing thro the Forest, and embroil the Skys;
e in experienc'd airy Feet secure,
stens and mocks the Foe's collected Pow'r.
he Noise augments; then fleeter than the Wind
flys, and leaves the clamorous Bland behind:
ll spent, he stands at Bay, he turns his Face,
nd to a Fight decrees to change the Chace;
etermined he expects th' invading War,
eluctant stays, and combates from Despair.
O
Belgian,
work a Piece by this Cartone,
nd be this Picture by thy Art out done.
confluent Nations spread a spacious Loom,
nd give the mighty Host sufficient room;
here more Brigades form each extended Wing,
an
Eastern
Monarchs to the Combate bring:
ow the wide Van, th' unmeasurable Rear,
moderate Terror, and exuberant War.
re let the Flow'r and Strength of
Spain
advance,
there the
Belgian
Slaves that courted
France.
the
Helvian
Martial Yout compose
threatning Front, fierce mercenary Foes
ho trade in Blood and Rapine, let the
Gaul
to the Rear, a safer Station, fall.
how bow the Chief sprung ardent to the Fight,
Arms refulgent, as Meridian Light;
, if the Loom this Labour will allow,
Hero in distinct Compartments show,
porting here his Friends, and breaking there the Foe.
him in every Place surprize the Sight,
dispers'd and multiply'd in Fight:
As if the Leader, watchful to protect
His Squadrons, did Ubiquity affect.
Here let him stand, intrepid and sedate,
Dispensing high Commands, the Messages of Fate:
There let his Arms his reeking Fauchion weild,
Triumph in Slaughter, and pollute the Field
With glorious Spoil, while like the fabled God
Of War, thro thick embattled Deaths he rode:
Let him the Vale with Rout and Ruin fill,
Lik Torrents rushing from an
Alpine
Hill;
Or a high Wind, that o'er the Desart sweeps,
Lays wast the Woods, and rolls the Sand in Heaps:
Where his destructive Sword the Foe pursu'd,
Express the Lanes the glittring Feller hew'd
Wide, as the Openings in a wasted Wood.
Let Streams of Blood the Victor's Wrath attest,
A Purple Vintage from the Slain exprest.
Show Warriors quiv'ring in the Pangs of Death,
Rolling their Eyes, and gasping out their Breath:
While scatter'd Arms, and Horse and Horsemen slain
And ignominious Medly spread the Plain.
Weave Desolation, let prodigious Wast,
And Tracks of Death mark where the Victor past,
As Conflagrations are by Ruins trac'd.
On a new Scene attentive Care bestow,
A Princely Youth in polish'd Armour show:
Let him advance, and as a Seraph bright,
Ravish at once, and terrify the Sight.
Place him conspicuous midst the hostile Troops,
Hanover
's Pride, and
Albion
's distant Hopes:
Whose early Deeds and blossoming Renown;
To wondring
Europe
have the Hero shown;
With brave Impatience let him seek the Fight,
Eager of Fame, and trembling with Delight.
As when the Eaglet, whom the Parent trys,
Not us'd to soar, nor conscious of the Skys,
Against the brighest Radiance of the Sun
Mount bold, and makes the genuine Offspring know
o the you Hero's Eyes undazled bear
The Beams of Glory, and the Blaze of War.
Thro glittring Deaths, Storms of exploded Flame,
Ardent aspires to the bright Mark of Fame,
And makes his first Effort his high Descent proclaim.
how how he flew intrepid on the Foe,
lung'd deep amidst the Files, and forc'd hi Passage thro.
ow the great Youth with Veteran Captains vy'd,
What Trophys crown'd a Sword till then untry'd:
o a young Lyon, of his matchless Pow'r
Yet ignorant, but grown for Fight mature,
f he by Chance a shaggy Bear descrys,
Determin'd to the Combate rapide flys;
Lashing his Sides he roars, and from afar,
Thro ecchoing Hills, denounces dreadful War.
An easy Conquest crown his first Campaign;
The Yellow Warrior, Master of the Plain,
Now in his vast discover'd Strength secure,
Wonders, and grieves he prov'd it not before.
Then let
Germania
's Angel, and his Own,
Each bearing high a Shield and Laurel Crown,
Fly watchful o'er his Head, with one to guard
His Life, with one his Valour to reward.
Artist record, how fair
Britannia
's Isle,
When first she heard th Youth's adventrous Foil,
Scarce pleas'd with Glory from too daring Fight,
Felt proffer'd Joy suspended by Affright:
While her tall Oaks shake on the Mountain's Brow,
And refluent Streams their Consternation show.
Work a new Piece, describe the
Gallic
Pow'rs
Quitting the Field to reach
Gandava
's Tow'rs;
Affright and Horror in their Looks express
Finish'd Confusion, and the last Distress.
Form pale Amazement's undissembled Air,
And the wild Features of extreme Despair:
how how their Gen'rals, to restore the Fight,
Confirm their Legions, and prevent their Flight,
Asham'd, enrag'd and griev', did these upbraid,
Encourage those, some threaten, some persuade.
But how their fruitless Accents beat th Air?
What Words can charm inexorable Fears?
Can Terror listen? Can Distraction hear?
Show how the
Gauls
disorder'd Cohors fled,
Express their Anguish, an perplexing Dread;
While Horse and Foot strove each to have the Van,
And Chiefs, Companions of the private Man,
Promiscuous Shame, disregimented ran.
So, when incumbent tempests press the Deep,
And rouse the frighted Billows from their Sleep,
The liquid Legions crouding fly so fast,
And shove each other with such headlong hast,
That sometimes they are rid, and sometimes ride,
By turns exalt their Heads, by turns subside,
O'erwhelm each other, and distress the Tide.
The mighty General, whom the
Gauls
adore,
To
Belgia
's Plains call'd from
Ausonia
's Shore,
Gallia
's declining Empire to restore,
To teach her Troops new Laurels to acquire,
And in their Breasts rekindle Martial Fire,
Reluctant fled, in adverse Fortune great,
Caught in the Eddy of his Monarch's Fate.
He blam'd the Stars, that on his Conduct frown'd,
And
Marlbro,
thy Superior Genius own'd.
So a fierce Boar, on
Mauritania
's Plain,
The Lion's Fury does a while sustain,
Till torn and sunk with vast Expence of Blood,
He quits the Field, and seeks the shelt'ring Wood;
He grinds his Teeth, impatient of Defeat,
Indignant foams, fain wou'd the War repeat,
Looks back and threatens in his four Retreat.
Then show the Conqueror in another Scene,
Protecting with his Arms the brave
Eugene
;
While he the matchless Strength of
Lisle
assail'd,
And o'er her haughty Towr'rs with loud applause prevail'd
Witness ye six times twenty thousands
Gauls,
Who when advanc'd near
Lilla
's lofty Wals
To face the Foe, were honour'd with the Sight
Of the brave Cohorts, which you felt in Fight:
Witness ye Generals, and ye Princes, proud
Of Veins distended with Imperial Blood,
For your Spectators of the Action stood.
Next let the Chief advance to
Scalda
's Banks,
To drive th' unactive
Gaul,
whose warlike Ranks
Spread thick as Locusts, on the adverse Side,
Did in their Guardian Flood, and high-rais'd Works confide.
Tis done; for when their Outgaurds saw from far
The
Briton
's Arms, and cry'd, for Fight prepare;
The boastful Warrious Hearts inglorious melt,
And struck with his Approach, their well-known Passion felt.
Assur'd no more, while
Marlbro
's Sword invades,
By Rivers, Lines, and numberless Brigades;
As Terror dictates, they direct their Flight,
Spread all the Plain with Marks of wild Affright,
And ignominuous Rout, but none of Fight,
Let
Churchill
next his Conquering Cohorts lead,
To save
Brussella,
fair
Brabantia
's Head:
To break the united Arms of
France
and
Spain,
And make the Threats of proud
Bavaria
vain.
Show how the Foe the
Scheld
's Contagion caught,
Gave cheap Renown, and left the Field unfought:
And how the
Boian
Prince, enrag'd to find
The Laurels blasted for his Brow design'd,
With troubled Pride, and Anguish in his Eyes,
Chac'd a third time before the
Briton
flys:
He cu
s'd the Victo who his Arms repel'd,
And cruel Fate, that still Success withheld,
But more the Coward and Guardians of the
Scheld.
So when a rav'ning Wolf has long patrol'd,
And found at length a Placr to leap the Fold,
He seems already of his Prey possest,
And licks his Jaws preluding to the Feast:
If then the Master Shepherd with his Band
Arrives their brandish'd Weapons in their Hand,
The prowling Robber shuns unequal Fight,
And grins, and growls, and rages in his Flight.
While
Gallia
's canton'd Troops inglorious rest,
With constant Flights, and long unactive Toil opprest,
O
Britain
! thy Great Chief his Ease denys,
Patient of Labour and inclement Skys,
Still with new Ardour, to new Conquest flys.
Here fresh Materials for the Loom prepare,
And weave a cold white Winter-Piece of War.
Ev'n then a Bloom of spreading Glory show
And verdant Laurels forc'd from Beds of Snow.
Confed'rate Pow'rs of
Flandria, Gallia, Spain,
A numerous Army destin'd to sustain
Th' Invading Foe, did
Ganda
's Walls maintain.
Much in their Lines, and in the River's Tide,
Much in their Chiefs and Numbers they confide,
But more they trusted to th' intemperate Air,
And growing Rigour of th' expiring Year:
They hop'd that Tempests, arm'd with Snow and Sleet,
Winds, that from
Hyperborean
Mountains beat
With furious Wings the bleak untrodden Plain,
And Chrystal Desarts of the frocen Main,
That all the embattled Meteors wou'd conspire
To charge and force the
Briton
to retire.
In vain — ev'n then the Hero undismay'd,
Advanc'd his Ensigns, and his wrath display'd:
Against perfidious
Ghent
his Batt'ry rear'd,
And Winter-Thunder for her Walls prepar'd,
The
Gallic
Generals saw, and
Marlbro
's Arms rever'd
To pay due Honour to their Royal Head
Burgundia
's Lord, they in his Footsteps tread,
Of
Gallic
Blood Effusion to decline,
Yeild without Combate, and the Town resign.
How
Marlbro
's Deeds ring thro the
Belgian
Skys!
How swift their Terror propagated flys!
How soon it reach'd the listning Towns around!
How
Bruges
Turrots trembled at the Sound!
How frighted, how amaz'd her Warriors stood,
Their Sinews slacken'd, and congeal'd their Blood!
Show, Artist, how their Cohorts, wing'd with Fear,
Fled from the Foe, e'er yet he did appear.
Thus
Churchill
sends abroad a conquering Name,
And wounds at distance by his missive Fame.
So oft whem Storms from
Barbary
's Sun-burnt Soil,
Advance impetuous, and the Deep embroil,
The flying Waves th' Infection swift convey,
And with their pannic Dread distract
Hesperia
's Sea,
Which rolls and works beneath a Sky serene,
Disturb'd by VVinds unheard, and wrathful Clouds unseen.
Then show how
Burga
's Counsellers, of State,
And Lords deputed, on the
Briton
wait,
To make their low Submission, and implore
His Mercy to protect them from his Pow'r.
The Hero's Triumphs equal thus appear,
Crowning alike each Season of the Year;
Ev'n Winter's self, whose frozen hoary Head
Was ne'er before with Martial Honours spread,
For want of Deeds Illustrious can't complain,
Sharing the Glory of this Great Campaign.
An Arch of Triumph in another Piece,
Artist, contrive, like those of
Rome
or
Greece.
VVhat Master-Sculptors from in Basse Relieve,
Do thou in bold expressive Figures weave.
Let Horsemen first in long Procession bear
Unnumber'd Ensigns, high display'd in Air,
The Glorious Trophys of successful VVar:
Bavaria
's Standards, Emblems of the Fall
Of Neighbour Power's that aid the faithless
Gaul
;
False
Flandria
's Colours and
Castilia
's Pride,
And with thy VVarriors Blood, vain King, thy Lillys dy'd.
Next let the Train that bear the Spoils of
France,
Augment the Triumph, and in Turn advance;
Describe them lab'ring with th' unweildy Prize,
Their tortur'd Sinews, and their starting Eyes:
Let them beneath their rich Oppression bow,
And seem to groan and stagger as they go.
Shew how the Throng with Hands upheld adore
Justice Divine, that has, by
ANNA
's Pow'r,
Compel'd the
Gaul
his Rapine to restore:
That has aveng'd the injur'd Realms around,
Restrain'd licentious Might, and proud Ambition bound.
In a high Car the laurel'd Victor place,
Drawn by the noblest steeds of
Belgick
Race:
Thro deep applauding Crowds on either side
Sublime, yet unelated, let him ride.
The seraph Chiefs such Moderation shew'd,
When to the Gates of Hell their Host pursu'd
The Rebel powers, and thro th' unlightsom way
Return'd in Triumph to the Coasts of day.
Of various Nations let a confluent Throng
Hang on his Wheels, as slow they roll along:
Let them, like crouding Waves, each other press,
And strain their eager Eyes to see and bless.
Add to the Martial Pomp an endless Train
Of Warrior Slaves that drag the Conqueror's Chain.
Let Lords and Chiefs, impatient of disgrace,
With haughty Grief and melancholy Pace,
With scornful, sullen shame their Fetters wear,
And pant amidst the Croud behind the Hero's Car.
Let high
Augusta
's Sons transported meet,
And with loud Joy th' advancing Victor greet;
And let her Speaker, for Superior Sense
Renown'd, as well as Charming Eloquence,
A while the Progress of the Triumph stay,
While he
Augusta
's Thanks does to the Conqu'ror pay.
Then let the Bards in humble manner stand,
With Distichs, Sonnets, Prologues in their Hand,
In
Marlbro's
Praise: 'Tis all, alas! we know
That from their duty exhausted Springs can flow.
Let all the Pomp of Decoration grace
The high Pillasters, and the Structure's Face;
Let curious Motto's, Hieroglyphic Art,
And mystic Emblems shine on every Part.
Here Liberty in all her Heav'nly Charms,
With her gay Offspring plenty in her Arms,
With humble Gesture, and a chearful Grace,
May Homage pay, and
Marlbro
's Feet embrace;
Who broke her Chains, restor'd her Rights Divine,
And in her native Beautys bid her shine.
There, to extend the
Briton
's just Renown,
Show dungeons open'd, prisons broken down,
Fetters and Chains in heaps neglected thrown:
Which late tormented Slaves and Captives wore,
But, O auspious Day! shall wear no more.
Let shouting Throngs of these late rescu'd Slaves,
Frequent as sailing Clouds, or rolling VVaves;
With Flow'rs and verdant Branches spread his Road,
And prostrate kiss the Ground their brave deliv'rer trod
Then raise in Piles the Gibbet, Rack and VVheel,
And all the Tortures wrought of Cord or steell;
Plenty of death, and Luxury of Pain,
VVhich Master Tyrants from their fertile Brain,
And curst Projectors of destruction find,
Curious in Torment to afflict Mankind.
Let these congested Engines, set on fire
By
Marlbro
's generous Hand, in Flames aspire:
Let them as Fires of publick Joy arise,
VVith their applauded ruin fill the Skys,
To heav'n and Liberty a grateful Sacrifice.
Attempt another noble work, and raise
A lofty Column to the Hero's Praise.
VVhat tho
Augusta
's Sons, who still reveal
In Liberty's defence an ardent Zeal,
Studious of Truth and Justice, ne'er adore
Thy Alters,
Rome,
nor,
Gaul,
thy lawless Pow'r,
Shou'd, as they ought, a stately Pillar rear,
That may the Victor's weight of Glory bear;
Be this allow'd, do thou thy Task pursue:
For shou'd not all the Arts conspire to shew
To the great
Briton
's Deeds the Honours due?
Then with the sculptor and the Architect,
Artist, contend, and the proud Pile erect.
VVith
Marlbro
's wondrous story fill the space
Between the Spires, which the high Column grace,
Ascending to the summit from the Base.
Be first his swit and glorious Course exprest,
VVhen he from
Belgia
's Regions to the
East
Transfer'd the hardy War, did bold advance
To whelm the
Danube
o'ere the pride of
France
:
Thro distant Empires to extend the Fame
Of
Albion
's Arms, and
ANNA
's awful Name.
Immortal Deeds at
Schelenbrug
display;
The Miracles of
Blenheim
's Glorious day,
Down all the Ebb of Time to Men unborn convey.
Next shew the Hero on
Ramillia
's plain,
His deathless Laurels, and th' Illustrious Train
Of fam'd Events, which crown'd that Great Campaign.
The Wonders done at
Oudenard
repeat,
The
Briton
's Triumphs, and the
Gaul
's defeat;
The matchless Conduct and the hardy Toil,
That wrested from the Foe his darling
Lisle
;
The Honour won in passing
Scalda
's Flood,
Brussella
sav'd, and
Ganda
's Tow'rs subdu'd.
The Angle of the Pedestal you'l grace
With Figures proper to adorn each place;
Chuse of the following which shall please you best,
If by the Loom all cannot be exprest,
Chain'd Tyranny expose, delineate well
The odious Features of this Fiend of Hell.
To form a Figure, horrible to Sight,
All
Scythia
's Terrors
Lybia
's plagues unite,
A dreadful Combination of Affright.
Give to her Eyes a red malignant Glare,
And let the Monster's threefold Head for Hair,
The Ornament of Fiends, long curling Vipers, wear.
Let them enrag'd their crested Necks erect,
And forked Deaths with cloven Tongues eject,
The Poets, who in Arms their
Pallas
drest,
Had in their Fiction greater Art exprest;
If in her fatal Schield they had display'd
Fierce Tyranny's, and not the
Gorgon
's Head.
Give her the surest VVeapons to destroy,
VVhich salvage Beasts, and rav'ning Birds imploy:
The dragon's Teeth, the Alligator's Jaws,
The Eagle's pounces, and the Lion's paws;
Distend her hedious Belly with a Load
Of Limbs devour'd, and Seas of guiltless Blood.
On the next Corner, with ingenious pains,
Show vanquish'd Envy bound with brazen Chains;
Let her lean Face infernal Features wear,
A spleenful Aspect, and a scornful Air:
With its last dregs let a black Jaundice taint
Her hateful Skin, and loathsom Visage paint.
Make her fietce Eyes, like livid Flames of Hell,
Burn bloodshot in their urns, and backward dwell,
Deep in their Caves, like Furys in their Cell.
Let her, with endless self-tormenting Care,
Gnaw her own Heart, and her own Bowels tear:
Show how her Jaws her meagre Limbs devour,
Green Floods of Hemlock, Gall and VVormwood pour
Down her wide Throat, to poison every Vein,
Inflame her Bosom, and distract her Brain.
Show with what Rage the Captive Fury views
The spreading Laurels on the Victor's Brows;
VVhile she, as pale and hideous as despair,
Gnashes her Teeth, and grasps her snaky Hair.
Next on the Base, dissimulation bind,
A mild and courteous, but an odious Fiend;
VVo labours most to win us to believe
Her Vows unfeign'd when most she wou'd deceive.
Give her a plain and unaffected Air,
VVell imitated Truth, and Eyes sincere,
nd dropping here and there a faithless Tear.
Express her artful smiles, that hide the Art,
Friendly manner that ensnares the Heart.
n her Right Hand a Monarch's Scepter place,
And her long Robe of State with Lillys grace;
Torn Treatys interweave, and solemn Leagues
Broke, or eluded by refin'd Intrigues:
he mocks the Faith that once did Princes bind,
As the base Vertue of a Vulgar Mind:
Masks with her sacred Vows deliberate Fraud,
And to attest her Guilt dares invocate her God.
Express Ambition next in Fetters bound,
Sunk from her tow'ring height, and grov'ling on the Ground
Let thwarted pride sit sullen on her Brow,
And Indignation in her Eyeballs glow.
Let anxious Looks her inward Care atttest,
And prove that deep designs are lab'ring in her Breast;
That warring Passions strive within for vent,
Cruel Revenge, and haughty discontent:
Passions, that still the Fury wakeful keep,
As turbulent as VVinds, and restless as the deep.
In some fit place let pleas'd Spactators see
The Marks of blasted pomp, and ruin'd Dignity:
Rich purple Robes polluted, broken Crowns,
Fragments of Scepters, and subverted Thrones;
Sad VVrecks of Pow'r, which on th' Aspiring wait
In troubled Empires, and in Storms of State.
Her adverse Fate reluctant let her bear,
Her Fetters spurn, her Limbs in Anguish tear:
Shew how she raves to find her pomp depress'd,
Her Foes exalted, and her Frinds distress'd;
That she compel'd must Spoils immense restore,
Acquir'd by fraud, or grasp'd by greedy power;
Contract her Fronter, and her Slaves release,
And beg the Conqueror to prescribe a Peace.
FINIS.
DAPHNIS: OR, A Pastoral Elegy Upon the Unfortunate DEATH OF Mr.
THOMAS CREECH.
WITH A POEM ON
The Despairing Lover,
and
The Despairing Shepherd.
LONDON:
rinted and Sold by
H. Hills,
in
Black-Fryars,
near the Water-side, 1709.
Daphnis, &c.
THYRSIS. ALEXIS.
THE Rosie Morning with prevailing Light
Had now dispell'd the humid Shades of Night,
nd smiling
Phaebus
spread his Thirsty Beams
o drink the Dew, and tast the Silver Streams:
When on a rising Mountain's fragrant Side
Flora
deck'd in all her gawdy Pride;
he mourning Shepherd, young
Alexis
lay,
ck'ning at Light, and weary of the Day:
n conscious Heav'n he fix'd his weeping Eyes,
if he sought his
Daphnis
in the Skies.
aphnis,
who from the Earth was lately fled;
aphnis,
(he living) lov'd and mourn'd for
Daphnis
dead.
hen Generous Fortune kindly brought that way
Thyrsis
to assist the pensive Boy,
o be the kind Companion of his Woe;
hat both their Tears might in one Current flow:
hus then the Youth began a doleful Strain,
nd thus bespoke the Sympathizing Swain.
Ah
Thyrsis
! hast thou heard the dismal Tale?
ow
Daphnis
dy'd in yonder Gloomy Vale!
, could'st thou think that he, whose Verse could move
Rock to Pity, or a Stone to Love:
ho could, like
Ovid,
tend'rest Thoughts instill
ould fall a Victim to a Woman's Will?
Yes, Shepherd, yes; the Story is too true!
Look, how the Groves have chang'd their verdant Hue!
The wither'd Leaves he scatter'd all around,
And blasted Flow'rs disgrace the Sacred Ground.
Yes, he is dead! the poor unhappy Swain,
Lov'd beauteous
LALAGE,
but lov'd in vain;
Fantastick, proud, and conscious of her Charms,
She scorn'd his Love, and fled his wishing Arms.
Nought cou'd prevail, tho' all Love's Arts he try'd:
She sacrific'd the Shepherd to her Pride.
Ungentle Nymph, to thee we owe his Death,
'Twas
LALAGE
that rob'd poor
Daphnis
of his Breath
Ah cruel Nymph! we've lost the learned'st Swa
That ever sung on our
Arcadia
's Plain:
What sprightly Thoughts, what Joy did he inspire!
When with such Art he touch'd the
Roman
Lyre?
What tender Pity did our Souls invade,
When he bewail'd the Royal
Grecian
Maid?
How well his Muse the Fatal Story told,
When she the poor
Lucretia
's Fate condol'd?
When
Daphnis
Sung, how did our Groves rejoyce,
And Grotto's Eccho to his charming Voice?
How slow did silent
Ousa
roll along,
When
Daphnis
taught us great
Lucretia
's Song?
Where wand'ring Atoms in Confusion hurl'd,
Agreed by Chance, and so compos'd a World.
Whilst Nervous Numbers with harmonious Feet,
In such a soft, and tuneful Cadence meet;
As (to his lasting Honour) fully prove
Chance could not in such Beauteous Order move.
Then, Cruel Nymph, how could thy Pride refuse
So soft a Lover and so sweet a Muse?
Had'st thou but yielded to our
Daphnis
Love,
On every Green, in every blooming Grove,
The Nymphs and Swains had blest thy happy Name,
And
LALAGE,
and
Daphnis
fill'd the Mouth of Fam
But now both Nymphs, and Swains unite their Breath,
To Curse thy Scorn, and mourn the Shepherd's Death:
Whose Shade now wand'ring in the pensive Grove,
till, still complains of
LALAGE,
and Love.
Daphnis
farewel, farewel unhappy Swain!
May'st thou in
Lethe
's Lake forget thy Pain,
nd in Oblivion sleep, till thou no more
Remember what thou did'st, or what thou wert before.
See yonder Sheep, how ragged now and bare,
happy Flock, whilst they were
Daphnis
Care,
ut now they mope, and straggling o'er the Plain
Lament all Day, and mourn their absent Swain:
No more they Joy to crop the tender Buds,
Nor seek at Noon cool Springs, and shady Woods.
n neither Sun, nor Shade, they now delight,
Nor dread the Foxes, or the Wolves by Night.
Here pin'd to Death, a harmless Lambkin lies,
nd there for Grief his bleating Mother dies:
s if she did with her departing Breath
nvoke just Heaven t'avenge her Master's Death.
And
Pan
will sure revenge the Shepherd's Fate
ltho' perhaps his Vengeance comes but late.
Last Night returning home, in yonder Grove,
Where we were us'd to sing and talk of Love,
heard great
Pan,
and all the Sylvan Train
Of
Daphnis
Love, and
Daphnis
Death complain.
The weeping Heav'ns a Shower of Tears distill'd,
And all the Woods were with loud Sorrow fill'd.
Whilst mournful Ecchoes all their Sighs rebound,
Wishing they had been something more than Sound.
Pan
most of all the Shepherd's Death deplor'd,
He
Daphnis
lov'd, and
Daphnis
him ador'd.
Oh (my dear Boy) he cry'd, why would'st thou dar
To view a Face so tempting, and so Fair?
Why, why didst thou indulge the secret Fire?
Ah! why would'st thou admit the
ond Desire,
And hope th' imperious
LALAGE
to move?
Why didst thou die? (alas!) why didst thou Love?
But 'tis in vain to ask; 'twas so decreed,
So I coy
Syrinx
chas'd, and caught a trembling Reed.
Fair Fatal Sex! who can our Souls surprize
With tender Looks, and soft bewitching Eyes,
Were you but half as pitiful and kind,
The God of Love had not been counted blind.
On you we Gaze, and feel a pleasing Pain
Steal to our Hearts, and glide thro' every Vein.
Till drunk with Love our Weakness we betray;
And die, if you refuse to yield the Joy!
More had he spoke; but Words began to fail,
And breathless Ecchoes murmur'd in the Vale;
Convulsive Sorrow swell'd his throbbing Breast,
Adieu! adieu! he cry'd, and sigh'd the rest.
But say what Chance, what luckless Fortune die
The scornful Virgin to the Shepherd's View?
Where did his fatal Passion first begin?
Ah! Where was she by wretched
Daphnis
seen?
Beneath a Shade to shun the Heat of Day,
On
Ousa
's flow'ry Banks our
Daphnis
lay;
Whilst his glad Flocks around their Master feed,
Charm'd with the Musick of his Voice, and Reed:
Of
Chaos
first he sung, and boundless Space,
Before the Birth of Matter, Time, or Place:
Before Old Night had felt the piercing Ray
Of Light, and yielding to invading Day.
Then, how the wondrous Universe began,
What Order thro' the new-made Structure ran?
The Birth of Nature, and the Birth of Man.
Then chang'd his Subject, and in softer Strains
Discover'd
Grecian
Loves, to
British
Swains.
Whilst
LALAGE
from an adjacent Glade,
(Where trembling Boughs compos'd a moving Shade)
With Pleasure listen'd to his warbling Airs,
And drunk the pleasing Tales with greedy Ears:
Then o'er the Lawns she trips with nimble Feet
To know who 'twas sung so divinely Sweet;
And as she pass'd along, th' impatient Maid
With curious Eyes each secret Place survey'd,
Still following Eccho as a faithful Guide,
Till she at distance had the Shepherd spy'd:
Ah happy Swain!
Hadst thou but fled from that unhappy Place,
And never seen her fair enchanting Face,
Thou yet hadst been the Lord of all our Plains,
And we yet heard thy soft harmonious Strains.
But
Daphnis
to his Fate with Pleasure run,
He saw the Nymph, he lov'd, and was undone.
With haughty Looks, and a disdainful Mien
Apace she walk'd, and cross'd the shaded Green;
The Shepherd view'd her as she pass'd along,
Drop'd down his Reed, and strait forgot his Song,
With wishing Eyes he gaz'd upon her Charms,
And wou'd have dy'd t' have dy'd within her Arms;
Deep Draughts of Love he drunk, and strong Desire,
His Breast, like
Aetna,
glow'd with inward Fire;
Which when the Nymph perceiv'd, more proud and coy
She look'd, and smil'd with a malicious Joy.
Nor could he since the cruel Tyrant move
(Obdurate Maid) to Pity or to Love.
The sad, the direful Passion still increas'd,
Ten Thousand raging Thoughts distract his Breast.
His Flock and darling Muse no longer were
His dear Delight, his Pleasure, and his Care;
The Nymph, the Nymph, he thinks of nought but her.
But hapless Youth!—
The more he lov'd, the more she scorn'd his Flame,
And seem'd to hate both Love and
Daphnis
Name.
Then from our Groves to yonder Wood he flies,
(Strange Power of Love!) and there despairing dies.
The last time I the wretched Swain beheld,
Was on a Sunny Bank in
Aegon
's Field;
All Fire himself, he minded not to shun
The Heat of Day, or fly the scorching Sun,
Wildly he star'd, his Face look'd pale, and wan,
He sigh'd and languish'd like a dying Man.
When to him thus I spoke—
Uhappy Youth!—and can there be no Cure,
What Tortures dost thou feel, what Pains endure?
Whilst by a cruel unrelenting Maid,
Thou art to Misery, and Death betray'd.
Ah, canst thou not forget her fatal Charms,
And take some kinder Beauty to thy Arms?
Return, return to our abandon'd Grove;
And there thou may'st be happy in thy Love.
For thee in amorous Fires
Lycoris
burns,
For thee the lovely
Galatea
mourns.
Wer't thou from this inglorious Bondage free,
A Thousand Blessings wait to fall on thee.
The Jolly Troops that us'd to hear thy Lays,
And crown thy Brows with Wreaths of verdant Bays:
In Sighs and Tears of thy hard Fate complain,
Begging kind Heav'n to break the subtle Chain
Which holds thy Heart; and thy sweet Muse restore;
That thou may'st charm them as thou didst before.
Thy scatter'd Flocks too o'er the Forests roam,
Wanting their Shepherd to compel them home.
Rise then, dear
Daphnis,
give this Fondness o'er,
And think of cruel
LALAGE
no more.
Thus I—and thus reply'd the sighing Swain,
Ah
Thyrsis,
if thou would'st remove my Pain,
Give me my Love, so I may sooth my Grief,
Forget my Cares, and grow more fond of Life▪
For tho' so proud, disdainful, and unkind,
Without her I can hope no Peace to find;
My wand'ring Thoughts her Form do's still pursue,
And still my Soul has
LALAGE
in view.
Ah savage Fair! would'st thou this Bounty give,
(For since thou wilt not Love, I cannot Live)
Would'st thou but deign to close my trembling Eyes,
Or drop a Tear or two, as
Daphnis
dies:
With Joy, I'd meet the cold Embrace of Death,
And bless my Charmer with my latest Breath.
Didst thou but Rage with such a fierce Desire,
I'd rush thro' foaming Seas, and Storms of Fire,
ttempt the greatest Dangers, and not grieve
To part with Life, so
LALAGE
might Live.
But thou malicious Fair one, with Disdain!
Laughs at my Grief, and smiling mock'st my Pain.
Be gone ye Quacks, your Arts no longer boast,
n spight of all your Med'cines I am lost;
Be gone ye Cheats, who with vain Charms pretend
To make departed Shades again ascend:
Be gone ye Zealots, who at Altars bow;
The Gods are deaf, and cannot hear you now.
rave, I rage, I burn, oh! let me fly
To some dark desart Place, and there I'll die.
Thus spoke the Swain, and acted as he said,
Raving to yonder gloomy Wood he fled.
Where, for a while, with piercing Sighs and Groans
He fills the Shades, and his dire Fate bemoans;
Repeating still the cruel Charmer's Name,
And on each Tree records his hapless Flame.
Till quite o'erwhelm'd with Woe and drown'd in Grief,
He thus gave up the sad remains of Life.
Farewel ye Swains! to Death's dark Courts I go
To mourn amongst the weeping Shades below.
Farewel ye Streams, and conscious Groves, he cry'd:
So did the dreadful Work of Fate, and dy'd.
Unhappy Youth! What could the Fates design
To bless the World with such a Muse as thine,
Yet suffer Death to ravish her away,
'er she could half her smiling Charms display?
What Star, what baleful Planet rul'd thy Birth?
hedding malignant Rays upon the Earth,
That thou should'st die amidst thy Vernal Bloom,
efore thy Muse had brought her Harvest home!
But 'twas a dismal, sad, untimely Death
That robb'd so soon the Shepherd of his Breath.
Thus blooming Trees are nipt with killing Frost,
Thus budding Flow'rs harsh Mildews often blast.
Hadst thou surviv'd, what Wonders had we seen!
What list'ning Crouds had throng'd each Grove and Green
Upon thy Voice the Nymphs and Swains had hung,
As when before great
Tyt'rus
sweetly sung.
But
Tytyrus
is gone, and
Daphnis
fled,
And all our Hopes are with the Shepherds, dead.
Farewel dear Youth, so fast my Tears do flow,
That Words are wanting to express my Woe.
As
Hebrus
stop'd for Grief his golden Side,
When on its Banks the tuneful
Orpheus
dy'd;
So do our Groves, and Rivers seem to mourn,
In silent Sorrow, for their Swains return.
But thou can'st ne'er return—
For thou hast cross'd th' irreameable Lake,
And
Chaeron
's Boat comes always empty back.
Here did the Swains their mournful Theme give o'er,
Sighs stop'd their Words, and they could speak no more.
THE Despairing Lover.
WIth inauspicious Love a wretched Swain
Pursu'd the fairest Nymph of all the Plain;
Fairest indeed, but prouder far than fair,
he plung'd him hopeless in a deep Despair:
Her Heavenly Form too haughtily she priz'd,
His Person hated, and his Gifts despis'd:
Nor knew the Force of
Cupid
's cruel Darts,
Nor fear'd his awful Pow'r on humane Hearts;
But either from her hopeless Lover fled,
Or with disdainful Glances shot him dead.
No Kiss, no Look, to cheer the drooping Boy:
No Word she spoke, she scorn'd ev'n to deny.
But as a hunted Panther casts about
Her glaring Eyes, and pricks her list'ning Ears to scour,
o she, to shun his Toils, her Cares imploy'd,
And fiercely in her savage Freedom joy'd.
Her Mouth she writh'd, her Forehead taught to frown,
Her Eyes to sparkle fires to Love unknown:
Her sallow Cheeks her envious Mind did show,
nd every Feature spoke aloud the Curstness of a Shrew.
Yet cou'd not he his obvious Fate escape,
His Love still dress'd her in a pleasing Shape:
nd every sullen Frown, and bitter Scorn
But fann'd the Fuel that too fast did burn.
Long time, unequal to his mighty Pain,
He strove to curb it, but he strove in vain:
At last his Woes broke out, and begg'd Relief
With Tears, the dumb Petitioners of Grief.
With Tears so tender, as adorn'd his Love;
And any Heart, but only hers wou'd move:
Trembling before her bolted Doors he stood;
And there pour'd out th' uprofitable Flood:
Staring his Eyes, and haggard was his Look;
Then kissing first the Threshold, thus he spoke.
Ah Nymph! more cruel than of humane Race,
Thy Tygress Heart belies thy Angel Face:
Too well thou show'st thy Pedigree from Stone;
Thy Grandames was the first by
Pyrrha
thrown:
Wnworthy thou to be so long desir'd;
But so my Love, and so my Fate requir'd,
I beg not now (for 'tis in vain) to live;
But take this Gift, the last that I can give.
This friendly Cord shall soon decide the Strife,
Betwixt my ling'ring Love and loathsome Life;
This Moment puts an end to all my Pain;
I shall no more despair, nor thou disdain.
Farewel Ungrateful and Unkind, I go
Condemn'd by thee to those sad Shades below.
I go th' extreamest Remedy to prove,
To drink Oblivion, and to drench my Love.
There happily to lose my long Desires:
But ah, what Draught so deep to quench my Fires!
Farewel ye never opening Gates, ye Stones
And Threshold guilty of my Midnight Moans;
What I have suffer'd here you know too well;
What I shall do the Gods and I can tell.
The Rose is fragrant, but it fades in time,
The Violet sweet, but quickly past the Prime;
White Lillies hang their Heads and soon decay,
And whiter Snow in Minutes melts away:
Such is your blooming Youth, and withering so;
The time will come, it will, when you shall know
The Rage of Love; your haughty Heart shall burn
In Flames like mine, and meet a like return.
Obdurate as you are, oh, hear at least
My dying Prayers, and grant my last Request!
When first you ope your Doors, and passing by
The sad ill Omend Object meets your Eye,
Think it not lost, a Moment if you stay;
The breathless Wretch, so made by you, survey:
Some cruel Pleasure will from thence arise,
To view the mighty ravage of your Eyes.
I wish, (but Oh! my Wish is vain, I fear,)
The kind Oblation of a falling Tear:
Then loose the Knot, and take me from the place,
And spread your Mantle o'er my grizly Face;
Upon my livid Lips bestow a Kiss:
O envy not the dead, they feel not Bliss!
Nor fear your Kisses can restore my Breath;
Even you are not more pitiless than Death.
Then for my Corps a homely Grave provide,
Which Love and me from publick Scorn may hide.
Thrice call upon my Name, thrice beat your Breast,
And hail me thrice to everlasting Rest:
Last let my Tomb this sad Inscription bear,
A Wretch whom Love has kill'd lies buried here;
Oh, Passengers,
Aminta's
Eye's beware.
Thus having said, and furious with his Love;
He heav'd with more than humane Force, to m
e
A weighty Stone, (the Labour of a Team,)
And rais'd from thence he reach'd the Neighbouring Beam▪
Around its Bulk a sliding Knot he throws;
And fitted to his Neck the fatal Noose:
Then spurning backward took a Swing, till Death
Crept up, and stopt the passage of his Breath.
The Bounce burst ope the Door; the Scornful Fair
Relentless lookt, and saw him beat his quivering Feet in Air.
Nor wept his Fate, nor cast a pitying Eye,
Nor took him down, but brusht regardless by:
And as she pass'd, her Chance or Fate was such,
Her Garments touch'd the Dead, polluted by the touch.
Next to the Dance, thence to the Bath did move;
The Bath was sacred to the God of Love:
Whose injur'd Image, with a wrathful Eye,
Stood threat'ning from a Pedestal on high:
Nodding a while; and watching of his Blow,
He fell; and falling crush'd th' ungrateful Nymph below:
Her gushing Blood the Pavement all besmear'd;
And this her last expiring Voice was heard;
Lovers farewel, Revenge has reach'd my Scorn;
Thus warn'd, be wise, and Love for Love return.
THE Despairing Shepherd.
ALEXIS
shun'd his Fellow Swains,
Their rural Sports, and jocund Strains.
(Heav'n guard us all from
Cupid
's Bow,)
He lost his Crook, he left his Flocks,
And wand'ring thro' the lonely Rocks,
He nourish'd endless Woe.
The Nymphs and Shepherds round him came,
His Grief some pity, others blame,
The fatal Cause all kindly seek;
He mingled his Concern with theirs,
He gave 'em back their friendly Tears,
He sigh'd, but wou'd not speak.
Clorinda
came among the rest,
And she too kind Concern exprest,
And ask'd the Reason of his Woe;
She ask'd but with an Air and Mein
That made it easily foreseen,
She fear'd too much to know.
The Shepherd rais'd his mournful Head,
And will You pardon me, he said,
Wh
e I the cruel Truth reveal?
Which nothing from my Breast shou'd tear,
Which never shou'd offend your Ear,
But that You bid me tell.
'Tis thus I rove, 'tis thus complain,
Since You appear'd upon the Plain,
You are the Cause of all my Care;
Your Eyes ten thousand Dangers dart,
Ten thousand Torments vex my Heart,
I love and I despair.
Too much,
Alexis,
I have heard,
'Tis what I thought, 'tis what I fear'd:
And yet I pardon you, she cry'd;
But you shall promise ne'er again
To breath your Vows, or speak your Pain:
He bow'd, obey'd, and dy'd.
FINIS
USICA INCANTANS, SIVE POEMA EXPRIMENS Musicae Vires, Juvenem in Insaniam adigentis, ET MƲ SICI inde PERICƲ LƲ M.
thore ROBERTO SOUTH, Art. Bac. nunc S. T. P. & Aedis Christi Canonico.
LONDINI:
pis & Impensis
H. Hills,
in
Black-Fryars,
propè Thamesin. Pretium 2
d.
ARGUMENTUM.
Juvenis quidam audita, quam ipse enixe impetrarat, Harmonia, in Isaniam actus est, & seipsum in Mare Praecipitavit: Citharaedus Judicio sistitur, accusatur Homicidii; ex Musico, tum Orator factus, seipsum defendit, & absolvitur.
NON, Ego, Caesareas Acies; non Arma virum
que
Sed Citharam, Plectrum
que
cano: nec inutile Numen
Invoco in auxilium: me vivus Anhelitus ille,
Quod solet inflari vocalis Tibia, pleno
Inspirat Genio: Sed quae depingere Vocem
Dextra potest, Oculis
que
Eccho signare Videndam?
In sua poscebant antiqui carmina Vates
Centum Ora & Linguas: nos Centum poscimus Aures,
Totque etiam Voces; quis enim laudare Choraulem.
Et Lyricam, poterit, nisi Centum vocibus, artem?
Doctus in Arcadicis vivehat Musicus oris,
Clarus circa urbes, & famae Voce Lyraeque;
Illum laetus Hymen, plausu, juvenumque Chorëis
Vicinâ quondam latè celebratus in urbe,
Cum Lyricis aliis, tanta ad Solennia traxit,
Spe pretii, pariterque dapis; pro more jugales
Ut caneret Ritus: nam quamvis nubere Musa
Ignoret, celebrare tamen Connubia gaudet:
Et si Musa silet, torpent epulaeque Venusque;
Bacchus & ipsa Ceres frigent sine Apolline: festa
Quis meliùs Lyrico celebret Convivia, qui cum
Voce suâ traxisse feras, Volucresque solebat,
Non tantùm Citharâ novit Celebrare, sed ipso
Instaurare etiam potuit Convivia Cantu?
At tandem urgente die, festoque peracto,
Nota reversurus cùm jam per prata rediret,
Elysiis spatians olim velut Orphëus agris,
Incidit in Juvenem, qui post transacta serenus
Tempora coenandi, vicina exibat in arva:
Cui Juvenis (quis enim sua non habet Obvia Fata?)
Inscius occurrit: Venientem agnoscit ab Ore,
Jamque Videre juvat, quia sic Audire placebat:
Heu Miser ignarus nim
ùm, quòd noster hic Orpheus
Non tam Saxa trahat Secum, quàm triste Sepulchrum!
At citò colloquio facto, dictâque salute,
Aggreditur Juvenis precibusque, & laude Choraulem,
Et Citharae Vocem, facundâ Voce precatur:
Sollicitè sua damna rogans: pretiumque petenti
Spondet, & oblato sua Fata pasciscitur Auro.
Tum Fidicen, sumptâ Citharâ, trepidantia tentat
Fila manu, plectroque p
ù
quàm pangere carmen
Incipit, immutat chordas, & in ordini fili
Explorat cujusque sonum, cernitque peritus
Concordare fides quamvis diversa sonantes;
Tam placida, & Concors fuit haec discordia fratrum.
Saepè levi digito dum stringit fila, feritque
Transiliente manu▪ minimè meditatus, & Ultro
Incidit in Cantus, & prodit Nescius artem.
Sic instruxit Ebur, suntque haec proludia cantûs
Artifices testata manus; dum nititur omnes
In Carmen citharae
que
suos
que
intendere Nervos.
Sic postquàm instituit chordas in carminis Usum
ptatas; atque Arte Viam patefecit ad Artem:
tiùs insonuit, vox Crescit & instar Alaudae,
um canit, Exurgit. Digito Chelys icta loquaci
c postquàm sonuit; levâ huic in parte mamillae
or Salit, & peragit Citharâ modulante Choreas:
on aliter, quàm si salienti pollicis ictu
ercuteret Cordis Fibras, vis tanta
que
plectri est,
t valeat Filo captivam ducere mentem.
ùmque animo Juvenis Victo succumberet, uno
Concentu Vicit Fidicen, cecinitque Triumphum.
extra facit cantum, sonus exit ab ungue, videri
Possit ut à digito fluxisse melodia; Vocem
psa manus profert, arguta Vicaria linguae.
Non Aures solùm rapuit vis musica, totum
Sed Juvenem; membro
que
miser mutatur in omni:
Nunc rubuit Vultus, nunc palluit, ut
que
solebat
Vox variare sonos, sic hic Variare colores:
Pes saltar quidem potuit, sed victus abire
Non tulit: in Venis ipsum Saliisse cruorem
Plus solito aspiceres: ita demum quilibet artus,
Si non audire, at poterat Sentire canentem:
Den
que sic motus, sic toto est corpore raptus,
Ipso animata putes ut Corporis Organa Cantu.
Anxius intereà, Caeco se Verbere carpi
Miratur, Fidicenque Lyrae quos incutit ictus,
Se sentire putat Juvenis: sic Verbera sentit
Quae non ipse tulit; misera dum Vulnera plectrum
Dat Magico quodam Cantu, parterq, potenti
Ac Medea olim permulcet Carmine mentem.
Multa quidem cantat, quae vel Narrata placerent,
Scilicet imprimis Philomelae flebile fatum,
Et querulam historiam referunt modulantia Fila,
Quam Virgo narravit Acu, nunc furta deorum,
Innumerosque Jovis recinit lascivus amores:
Sed tamen haec Juvenis licèt audiat omnia, solo
Captus Amore lyrae est; & cum divina canuntur
Furta, rapi à Citharâ potius sua pectora credit,
Vimque sibi inferri: quoties hinc fila Choraules
Percutit; hic geminat, maestos
que
reciprocat ictus
Pectora percutiens: sic sensim in corda furorem
Incauta immittit fidicen, mentemque per aures Evocat.
At postq
àm citharae vim sic Cantando probâsset,
Ipse simul cantat, pleno & modulantior ore
Naturae pariter Vires conjungit, & Artis.
Vox,, fateor, diversa sonat lyrici
que
lyrae
que
Sed sonat intereà Juvenis Vox una gementis.
Et quia Conjuncti Cantus Vis fortiùs urget,
Non tulit ulteriùs, sed dum canit ille cruentus,
Concentusque suos citharae Concentibus addit,
Prorumpit subitò rabies: & Musicus ipso
Enecat afflatu, mortemque effundit ab ore.
Ac tanquam in linguâ clausum cantantis inesset
Nescio quid, linguae soleat quod inesse Caninae,
Progignens rabiem, subiti mala causa furoris
Dementat Juvenem; rabiesque infusa per aurem
Invadit Cerebrum, gemini
que
potentia cantus
Obruit invalidas aures: hoc ergo furorem
Intulit, auditâ modulantis voce Choraulis,
Credibile est propriâ saltâsse è sede Cerebrum.
Prodit inassueto jam se dementia gestu,
Huc, illuc oculos rotat, ardet, & indice vultu
Attoniti dat signa animi, cerebro
que
soluto
Excurrunt profugi ruituro è Vertice Sensus.
Saepe caput quassat, tanquam Vestigia cantus,
Quae vel adhuc retinet, quae mente tenaciter haerent,
Ex animo Excuteret: saepe ore, & vertice coelos
Suspicit Erecto, jurans timerarius illuc
Se non venturum, quia dicitur aetheris axis
Circumagi Harmoniâ, & volvi concentibus orbes.
Sic loquitur rabies: celeri mox littora passu
Acer adit, totumque animo jam concipit aequor,
rqüe furit pelagi, turbati & pectoris aestus.
ec fervente freto plùs fluctus spumeus albet,
uàm spuma, huic madido rabies quam fudit ab ore.
jam ferales cùm pervenisset ad Undas,
rtè fuit Refluxus aquae; solitoque relapsu
tulit, & tanquam scelus hoc foret unda preosa,
isa fuit regredi, timidioque recedere fluctu.
Constitit hic Amens, & tali Littora Vultu.
ectat, quali Ajax olim Sigëia vidit.
umq
e memor nimiùm, fixam tenet auribus Eccho,
ethes optat Aquas, sed cum contingere Lethen
on datur, aequoreis Oblivia quaerit in undis;
iluat ex animo ut cantus, dentur
que
dolenti,
ltem inter mutos sibi tuta silentia Pisces.
um spectat fluctus, Rabiem, mentisque tumultum
omparat Aequoreo; nunc lata per aequora Demens
e cupit, Curasque animi committere Ventis.
ulta quidem mala Pontus habet; tamen omnia spernit,
um nullas videt hic Citharas: Crescente furore
ox Amens ubi sit nescit; qualique Charybdis
Gyrum rapitur; tali huic Vertigine fertur,
orripiturque Caput, Cerebrumque Natare videtur,
Quamvis nondum ullas, nisi visu, tangeret undas
aepe timet mortem. saepe optat, & Aequoris instar,
Nunc Animus Fluxus peragit, dubios
que
Reflexus.
Haec volvens subitò se mittit in aequora Saltu,
Et minùs insanis demens se mergit in undis.
Hinc praeter Scyllae Rabiem, furor additus alter,
ccessi que mari Rabies, nova: fluctibus haustus
rendet adhuc, ultroque licèt modò fata petebat,
am tamen oppugnat, certatque obsistere morti.
Tandem Vorticibus raptus, victricibus undis
ymphatus cessit: Citharaeque Lyraeque valete
ixit, & acceptum bibulis trahit auribus aequor,
Occludit
que
Oculos verè hâc in morte Natantes.
Haud aliter. memini, facilem cùm durior Eccho
Narcissus fugeret, periturum immerserat Amens
Dilecti se fontis aquis; aequalia fata
Huic quòque contigerant, dulcem furiosior Eccho
Qui fugiens, pariter cecidit fatalibus undis:
Par hic morte fuit, par & novitate furoris,
Et dum prospiceret vitreum moriturus in aequor,
Vel sua Narcissum non plus referebat Imago
Quem sic lethiferis occidit musicus Odi
,
Credo hujus dirum primis Natalibus omen
Non fauste Cecinistis Aves. In funera Musae
Conspirant; sic Fata Novem ferus armat in Unum.
Verè erat hic Siren, non tam quia Voce sonorus,
Et liquido aequoreos superans modulamine cantus,
Quàm quoniam Harmoniâ, Sirenum more, Furentos
In mare deducat, cantuque impellat in aequor
Alter hic Amphion, nam vites artis uterque
Edidit aequales, nisi quòd tamen ille Ferarum
Mulcebat Rabiem; dedit Hic Cantando Furorem.
Hei mihi! quòd tam dulce melos, plectrum
que
Canoru
Non foret innocuum, nec Ternae sola sororis,
Sad Citharae fuerint etiam Fatalia fila!
Quà non Versatur Lachesis, levis ictus in aurem
Si sit lethalis, valeatque occidere cantus.
Et tenues jugulare soni, si vulneret Eccho!
Quin Arcus igitur, Lyricorum Antistes Apollo,
Projice, si Nervus plus ipso Vulneret Arcu.
Dum cantu occumbunt prostrati; credimus ipsas
Nunc bellare Tubas; nec jam res mira putetur,
Si gallus Superet, solùm cantando, Leonem.
O Vox saeva, necem peragens, & funeris Author!
Quâ non, Harmonici crudelior ipsa Neronis
Vox fuit, & quâ non sonat aptior ulla Tyranno:
Talis erit Fidicen saevus Nero, funebre cantans
Lethiferumque melos, & caede notabile carmen.
Hunc olim Empedocles, si plectro, & voce canentem
Audîsset quamvis jam tum properâsset ad Aetnam;
Fata, necisque modum mutâsset, & igne relicto,
Aetnaeis
que
rogis, ultro periisset in undis.
Si foret hic Pastor, placido
que
Armenta, gregesque
Carmine mulceret, cantuque per avia capras
Cogeret errantes, miri Vi carminis actus,
In freta grex rueret praeceps, pulures
que
videret
Per mare Phryxus Oves, pelagus
que
immane Natantes
Si post Stagnantem lethali gurgite mundum,
Tertius elapsus, communi è Strage superstes
Mansisset Fidicen, Tritonis numine Salvus;
Et tibi Deucalion simili lenire parâsset
Concentu Cutas, etiam ipse immersus in aequor
(Crede mihi,) irrueres, & Te quoque pontus haberet.
Ignis Apollinei qui Vi liquefactus in altos,
Icare, concideras fluctus; velociùs isses
In medium, Citharâ compulsus Apollinis, aequor.
Si Cithara occidat, si fila sonantia praestent
Officium gladii: cùm bella Pelasga reliquit
Sumeret & Lyricum projectâ cuspide plectrum,
Non arma abjecit, verùm Mutavit Achilles.
At jam Fama loquax, quae tam memorabile fatum
Et miras citharae voces, taciturna silere
Non poterat, subito tanquàm Vocalior Eccho
Auditos iterat Cantus: & ut omnia mendax
Aucta refert; sic & pariter cum cantibus auget
Cantantis Crimen; portat
que
ad Judicis aures.
Et jam Causidicus, miserandi in fata paratus
Fortiter Accusat, Vexat, certat
que
ruentem
Harmoniae causam, rauca Subvertere Voce.
Convertens igitur Vultus, ad triste Tribunal,
Concilium rigidum tail Sermone salutat.
Oratio Causidici Fidicinem Accusantis.
'DA veniam (Praeses Reverende) exponere paucis
'Hoc scelus; ante tuas quam Musicus occupat aures.
'Sistimus adductum huc, mirum Citharae
que
Necis
que
'Artificem, cui non, hominem est Occidere major
'Quam Cantare, labor: sed enim non possumus ultra
'In Terris Sirena pati, monstrum Aequore majus.
'Dulce sonant Citharae, verum Sonat altius illis
'Caedes; nec pariter Cantatis Crimina possunt
'Cum levibus transire Sonis: Se Musicus ipse
'Voce suâ prodit, proprio condemnat & Ore.
'Si Citharae haec vis est; merito discerpitur Orpheus,
'Dignus & Amphion tantum Comes esse Ferarum.
'Quod si sic Volucres cantarent, quilibet esset
'Vultur; Voce sua, non Rostro pectora laedens.
'Sic struit insidias, mortemque Infernus hic Orpheus,
'Atque aufert Juveni mentem: qui protinus Amens
'Aequor amat, veluti quaedam Venus esset in illo,
'Deceptusque Sono, dulces putat aequoris undas.
'Quid faceret Juvenis, quem prensis fata tenebant
'Auribus? audito hoc Cantu, non Daedalus ipse
'Aequora fugisset, nisi Ceram aptâsset ad aures.
'Sic nec Terra satis Sceleri, simul adjicit aequor,
'Et juvenem mergens, ipsa quoque polluit undas
'Dum late Spatians crimen trans aequora currit.
'Sed non ulterius tantum durare sub undis
'Sustinuit facinus, surgit, lucet
que
per ipsas
'Crimen aquas: & justa diu quia poena Cruentum
'Non rapit, ipse fremit Nereus; quoniam
que
moratur
'Vindicta, iratis secum mare murmurat undis.
'Si tamen haec natura lyrae est, ut Musica mergat,
'Cur fuit in medio pelago tam tutus Arion?
'At Tu, si Juvenem misisti invitus in aequor,
'Saltem etiam poteras Cithara Delphina parasse.
'Nulla igitur sonti remanet defensio: Jura
'Exclamant, contra
que
reum juncta omnia Voce
'Justitiam resonant: at
que
haec est Musica Legum
Dixit: at hic tanquam damnato quisque timebat
Pro lyrico; neqne enim quisquam responsa daturum
Crediderat; verùm res haec miranda fuisset.
Musica si taceat, si nil respondeat Eccho
Nec mora, Clamosi Praeconis Voce citatus,
(Quamvis Harmoniam nullam Vox ista ferebat,)
Accedit Fidicen trepidans, timideque labanti
Voce loquens, (tanquam Termor hic quòque Musicus
Artis enim saepe est tremulas effingere Voces;)
Sic prodit, plectrumque humero lethale sinistro
Suspendens, Causam dicit; Vitamque disertus
Quam propè Cantando amisit, Dicendo tuetur.
Hiud secus ac Gracchus, qui cùm suggesta Patronus
Facundus premeret, citharâ post terga Sonanti
Composuit Vocem; plectroque docente, loquelam
Formavit Variam. Tandem ipsa silentia servat
Lex, & Jura tacent: Fidicen dum talia
atur
Oratio Fidicinis se defendentis.
DET Misero mihi Voce, precor, Sors mitis Eadem
Qua rapui alterius, propriam defendere Vitam.
At quia nulla unquam revocat Palinodia mortem,
Et pro Demerso lacrymas dare, jure Vocetur
In mare fundere aquas: nulla revocabilis arte
Sit mea Culpa licet, forsan tamen Arte tuenda est.
Et certe cantus morienti impendere, caedem
Non facere est, querula sed deplorare perempti
Exequias Cithara: Verum quia Carminis Author
Phaebus, & Inventor Citharae, pro more sub undis
Fertur, & Hesperium tuto descendit in aequor;
Crediderim quod aquas simili ratione faventes
Harmoniae Dominus, pariter
que
Auditor haberet.
Finge tamen nostro se projecisse Furentem
Impulsu in fluctus: haec Sola est Culpa? quis unquam
Navigat Anticyras, Cerebri medicamina quaerens,
Nec tamen intrat Aquas, nec se commiserit undis?
At, bene si memini, Vitae cum traditur ortus,
Harmoniam esse Animam, Veterum mihi dogmata suadent;
Caedem ergo fecisse Lyra, facilique cruentam
Cantu inferre necem, nimia est occidere Vita.
Esse tamen Lethale potest audire Canentem,
Cum neque nos unqam Mors ipsa Audita Necaret?
Sed quia Mersus erat, caedem Lustralibus aequor
Purgat aquis; mortisque genus mortem expiat ipsam,
Quae caedem fecitque eadem quoque diluit Unda.
At Vos ô fluctus, quoniam sic cuncta soletis
Mergere Crudeles, nostrum quoque mergite crimen.
Si tamen hoc moriar damnatus crimine quonam
Extinguar fato? num quae me Sylva secuta est,
Arboreum
que
nemus, tandem in suspendia cedant,
Inque Cruces abeant? & sic me Sylva sequatur,
Ut saepe a tergo sequitur Vindicta Nocentem?
Anne etiam terra obruerit? Lapidesque canenti
Qui fuerant Comites, fient mihi saxa sepulchra?
Si mihi causa Necis Lyra sit, tunc instar Oloris,
Et salutem hoc, videar dicendus, nomine, Cygnus,
Carmina quod cecini propriae praenuntia mortis.
Crimen Ego Audivi, superest audire probatum;
An quia Mersus obit Juvenis, nos mersimus? ipse
An feci, ut fureret, quia me cantate furebat?
Quod si dum canerem cecidisset Stella, quid ergo
Carmina de Coelo deducere Sydera credes?
Par certe furor est, in me transferre furorem
Alterius: Musas tam stultum est dicere mortis
Fortuitae causas; Artique ascribere casum.
Nullum ego Carnifice effudi unquam Vocem cruorem;
Vos soli Legum Domini, qui jura tenentis,
Vos soli miseros, occidere Voce potestis.
Sic fatus; Misero, Exclamat, nec fata merenti,
Parcite clementes: Et Parcite rettulit Eccho.
Dixit; & hanc, memini, facili candore jocosus
Imposuit Judex dicto pro crimine poenam,
Ut, quoniam Lyricum superaverat Orphea cantu,
Acceptâ citharâ Stygias inviseret oras,
Et simili arte canens, quem demisisset ad Umbras
Cantu, illum rursus Cantu revocaret ab Umbris.
Si quis fortè roget, mihi cur dementia versùs
Materiam dederit; Furor ille Poeticus, inquam,
Impulit: & prohibens Musarum in Fonte morari,
Proluere immenso me jussit in aequore Labra.
Adde, quòd excludit Sanos Helicone Poêta.
nclyte Nervorum Rector, citharaeque magister,
Quis Te digna canat? regiones Musicus Orpheus
bat ad infernas: Tu vertice Sydera tangis:
Et Lyricus Vates superas mea Carmina, solùm
Dircaei Cygni, Calamoque, & Voce sonandus.
Famae implere Tubam valet haec Vox Sola trahebat
lla quidem Sylvas; Lauri te sponte sequuntur.
Dignus es ut vivas post funera, Memnonis instar,
Vocali insignis Statua; tibi ut ipse superstes
Te Solus recinas, tua ut ipse Epicedia cantes;
Qui, post Demersum hunc, monumenta perennia Vocis,
Et citharae laudes, ipsis inscripseris undis,
Cùm mea, per latum hoc Pelagus laudum
que
tuarum
Aequor, Vela feram, paene hic immergor & ipse.
Nam patet in laudes vastus tibi Campus Aquarum;
Sed praestat regredi, & motos componere fluctus.
FINIS.
A Catalogue of Poems,
&.
Printed and Sold by
H. Hills,
in
Black-Fryars,
near the
Water-side;
where several more may be had that are not here Inserted.
A Congratulatory Poem on Prince
George
of
Denmark,
&c. on the Success at Sea.
Marlborough
Still Conquers.
The Flight of the Pretender.
Honesty in Distress, a Tragedy.
The Kit-Cars a Poem,
&c.
Wine, a Poem
&c.
Cyder, with the Splendid Shilling.
The Pleasures of a Single Life,
&c.
Faction Display'd.
Moderation Display'd.
The Duel of the Stags.
&c.
Coopers-Hill, by Sir
J. Denham.
An Essay on Poetry, by the Earl of
Murlgrave.
Absalom
and
Achitophel.
The Plague of
Athens.
A Satyr against Man and Woman.
The Forgiving Husband.
Instructions to
Vanderbank.
The Temple of Death.
An Essay on Translated Verse, by the Earl of
Roscomon
Horace
: Or the Art of Poetry.
The History of Insipids.
The Swan-Trip Club.
Lucretius
on Death,
&c.
The Medal against Sedition.
Bellizarius
a great Commander.
Daphnis,
or a Pastoral Elegy,
&c.
A Poem on the Countess of
Abingdon.
Nundinae Sturbrigiences.
Tunbrigialia.
An Ode on the Incarnation,
&c.
Hoglandiae Descriptio.
Milton
's Sublimity on Cyder.
Bosworth-feild,
by Sir
John Beaumount,
Bar.
Canary Birds Naturaliz'd.
Art of Poetry, by
Boileau.
Poems on the Death of the late Queen
Mary.
Baucis
and
Philemon,
&c.
Circus,
a Satyr: Or the Ring in
Hide Park.
St.
James
's
Park,
a Satyr.
The Spleen, a Pindarique Ode,
&c.
Philips
's Pastorals.
A Letter from
Italy,
to my Lord
Halifax,
with other Poems.
Blenheim,
a Poem, by
Phillips.
Mac Flecknoe,
by
J. Dryden; &c.
The Female Reign, an Ode,
A Poem on the Taking St.
Mary
's.
Windsor Castle,
a Poem.
The Servitor, a Poem.
The Campaign, by Mr.
Addison.
The Counter-Scuffle, a Poem.
Don
Francisco S
torioso.
Consolation to
Mira
mourning,
A Panegyrick on
Oliver Cromwel,
with three Poems on his Death.
A Poem in Defence of the Church of
England.
The Apparition, a Poem.
The
Hind
and
Panther
Transvers'd to the Story of the Country Mouse and City Mouse.
Dr.
Gath
's Dispensary.
Memoirs on
John Hall,
the Famous Robber,
&c.
Mr
Shaftoe
's Narrative giving an Account of the Birth of the Pretended Prince of
Wales,
&c.
The True-Born
Englishman.
The Husband, a Poem.
The Commoner, a Poem.
A Hymn to the Pillory.
The Rambling Fudle-Caps.
D Foe
▪ on the Storm.
The Wife, a Poem.
The Long Vacation.
A Catalogue of Sermons Printed and Sold by
H. Hills,
in
Black-fryars,
near the Water-aside, where are several others too numerous to insert.
12
JOhn Tillotson,
late Archbishop of
Canterbury.
4 Sir
William Daws,
Bishop of
Chester,
14 his Volume.
11
Offspring Blackall
Bishop of
Exeter
(8
Esq
Boyl
's Lectures.
5 Wedding Sermons.
1
William Wake,
B. of
Lincoln.
10
John Sharp
Archbish. of
York.
5
Robert Moss,
D. D.
5
Tho. Knaggs
M. A.
5
White Kennet,
D D.
4
Hen. Sacheverel
M. A.
1
Rob. Lightfoot,
B. D.
3
William Beveridge,
D. D.
3
George Stanhope,
Dean of
Cant.
3
Rich. Willis
Dean of
Lincoln.
2
Phill. Stubs,
M. A.
1 Mr.
Robert Parsons,
Earl of
Rochester
's Funeral Sermon.
1
Ralph Lambert,
D. D.
1
William Savage,
B. D.
1
Symon Partrick,
M. A.
6
Fr. Atterbury,
Dean of
Carlisle
with a Letter, and large Vindication with a 2
d
Letter in Answer.
3
George Smaldridg,
D. D.
1
John Haslewood,
D. D.
1 Dr.
Moore,
Bish. of
Ely.
1
Wll. Talbot.
Bishop of
Oxford.
2
Will. Nicholson.
Bp of
Carlisle.
3
W. Fleetwood,
B of St.
Asaph.
1
Anth. Horneck,
D. D.
6
John Adams,
D. D.
1
P Downes,
M. A.
4
Benj.
and
J. Hoadly,
M. A.
3
Tho. Tennison,
A.B. of
Canterbury.
4
S. Clark,
M. A.
1
Blackburn,
Dean of
Exeter.
1
Rich. Jenks, M. A.
1
Fran. Gastrell,
D. D.
1 Mr
Cornwallis.
1
John Stilsman,
B. D.
3
T. Manningham,
D. D.
1
call'd the Last Century.
1
Robert Eyre,
D. D.
4
Th. Trimnal,
D.D. now B. of
Norw.
1
S. Dunster
A. M.
1
J. Sharp,
A. M.
1
T. Sherlock,
M. A.
1
R. Nelson,
2
Bisse,
M. A. & D. D.
1
J. Trap,
M. A.
1
J. King,
M. A.
1
W. Wotton,
B. D.
3
W. Tilly.
1
Willett,
M. A.
1
H. Stephens.
1
Character of a Virtuous Woman,
Christianity in short.
2
Sprat,
B.
Rochester.
1
J. Rawson,
D. D.
1
T. Rennell,
M. A.
1
W. Whitfield.
2
T. Bray,
D. D.
2
Ed. Stillingfleet,
D. D.
1
J. Pelling,
D. D.
1
Fr. Hare,
A. M.
3
S. Colby,
M. A.
A Letter from the Pastors and Professors of
Geneva
to the King of
Prussia,
with the King's Answer.
1
Wheatly
's Passing-Bell.
1
Jackson
1
Nichols,
D. D.
1 The Virgin
Mary.
1
Loyd
's 30.
Jan.
1
Peter
's Pattern.
1
Harrison.
1
Lake,
D. D.
1
Nath. Wheyley,
M. A.
1
Sam. Hilliard,
M. A.
1
Hough
Bp. of
Lichfield.
1
Smalbroke.
1
Chishull.
1
Buck
's 30th. of
Jan.
Moderation DISPLAY'D: A POEM.
— Ne
que
tempore in ullo
Esse queat duplici naturâ, & corpore bino
Ex alienigenis membris compacta potestas.
Lucret. lib. 5.
By the Author of
Faction Display'd.
LONDON:
nted and Sold by
H. Hills,
in
Black-fryars,
near the Water-side. 1709.
PREFACE.
AT a Time when we are Celebrating the Successes of our Arms Abro
and the Wisdom of our Councils at Home; when there seems to b
no room left for Complaints, and the Nation is only prepared to receiv
Panegyrick; I am sensible a Piece of this kind will be severely Censur'
For those, that are taken up with the present appearances of Thing
who are, by much the greatest part of the World, will be apt to say is Ʋ nseasonable at least, if not False and Malicious. But, I hope, othe
who are not content with such superficial Views, (and to such only wou'd write) will see the Reason and Truth of what I have said, an
own that it could not be more Seasonably Ʋ tter'd than at this
Juncture, when we are lull'd with too much Security, and by th
means may give Opportunity to a
New Sett of Men
to Ruin bo
Church and State with their
New
Politicks. But if this Poem ca
out with all the Advantages imaginable, I am not yet grown so Erra
an Author, as to think because the
First Part
met with a favourab
Reception, that I am now therefore Privileg'd to Dictate to the Re
der's Judgment, and to ascribe to my own Merit what was only
ing to his Candour, or perhaps Partiality. Be that the Business
DEDICATING POETS.
I have no Ambition of gai
ing the Reputation of one. 'Tis the last Thing I should desire.
My Aim is of another sort, and I am abundantly Rewarded, if have been able to Contribute any thing to the Publick Service, by D
tecting the Principles and Practices of this
New Party,
who ha
Assum'd to themselves a very Specious Name and Character, and wou
be thought the only Patriots of their Country. But False Friends a
the most Dangerous Enemies, and they are yet much more so, wh
they are Invested with Power, and the Ministration of Affairs who put into their Hands.
'Tis to be wish'd there were no Occasion for Invectives of this kin
that Great Men did always Execute their Trusts, and perform the Duty, and were only the Objects of our Esteem and Admiration. B
when the Case is quite otherwise, when they become Treacherous a
Betray the Authority Delegated to them; 'tis fit they shou'd hear their Faults, and the People be undeceiv'd, who are grosly impo
upon by the servile Flatteries of
Hireling Scriblers.
A Genera
f Animals, that always Infest the Doors of Men in Power; and
ho' one wou'd think their Trash could never pass upon the
Moderate,
the Grave, and the Wife, yet they are sometimes thought worthy of Pensions, and Places of
1200
l. a Year.
It is indeed the just Prerogative of the Throne to be approach'd with Humility and Petitions, even where the Subjects have Grievances to Represent. But I know of no such Homage due to its Officers. Nor can I yet be convinced, that it is an Arrogant Presumption in private Persons (as some wou'd have it) to examine and censure the Actions of Publick Ministers, who (say they) being nearest the Helm, are consequently best able to judge of what ought, and ought not to be done; whereas Men in a Remote Sphere, and at a distance, cannot possibly
nter into the Councils of State, and must therefore determine rashly, and without knowledge. This is a Doctrine necessary to be Preach'd
p in Despotick and Arbitrary Governments, where all is Transacted in the Cabinet, where the Will and Choice of the Prince gives a Sanction to his Creatures, and cannot be controverted without Treason. But in a mixt and limited Monarchy, where the deepest Resorts of Policy and Turns of Government are in some measure known to Men
f Rank and Condition, and where a right of Impeachment is lodged in the House of Commons, it can never be maintained; for that it
rou'd destroy the Constitution, and render the Accusation of Great Officers, tho' never so Guilty, Impracticable. But I would not here be suppos'd to countenance that Scandalous Principle
of Appealing to the Mob.
I leave such Maxims to the
Relations
and
Friends
of a
certain Lawyer,
who at the
Observator's
Tryal had the
Impudence
(as the
Attorney-General
very justly called it) to insinuate that
the Crown was in the Disposal of the People.
Nor wou'd I be thought in the least to detract from the Prerogative, which no Man living has in higher Veneration than my self. For I think it never violated but by a profligate abandon'd Nation, and I wish, for the Honour of the
English
Name, our Annals had Recorded no Instances of that kind.
But after all this
New-Moderation Policy
is not more pernicious and tending to the Destruction of the Government, than it is Absur'd and Ridiculous in it self. For how can Men of Ʋ nderstanding pretend to look Two Ways at once, to blow Hot and Cold, and fancy that every Body does not see thro' the pitiful Disguise and Artifice? They call themselves True Sons of the Church, and yet make no scruple of opposing a
Bill,
which is absolutely necessary for its Preservation; because forsooth it is offered at an unseasonable time; as if it was not as seasonable to make wholesom Laws, as to engage in a just and Honourable War for the Security of our Constitution; Can they hope for a better Opportunity than the Reign we now enjoy? They would be thought great Favourers of the
Church Party,
when upon all Occasions they take care to Discountenance them, and Encourage only the
Profest Enemies
of Church and State, under a shallow Pretence, that they are a numerous and formidable Body of Men, and ought therefore to be preferr'd to Places of Honour and Profit, that they may not grow Mutinous and complain of
Persecution;
which methinks should rather be a strong Argument for using all possible Means to suppress such Turbulent Aspiring Spirits. Nay, so Tender are they of their
DISSENTING BRETHREN,
that I am told it has lately been deliver'd as Law by a
Great Man
in
W—————————r-Hall, that a Notorious Perjur'd Vagabond, with Two Wives at once, being possess'd of a Separate Congregation, tho' without any Licence, or Legal Qualification to Preach to them, shall for that Reason only be exempt from the late Act for listing Vagrants.
I must confess I cannot imagine how they would define it, or what
Moderation
according to these Practices is. The
Logicians
have stated no
Medium
that I know of, between Truth and Falshood, nor the
Moralists
any between Virtue and Vice: Every Proposition and Principle must necessarily fall under one of these Heads.
There is no need of a Prophetick Spirit to foresee, That they will render themselves Odious, and cannot Subsist long. I heartily Pity some young Gentlemen, who are unwarily drawn in; for they will fi
themselves Deceiv'd by their
Crafty Leader,
and cannot expect to be receiv'd by their old Friends again. 'Tis much to be Lamented that a late
Great Character
Stain'd the latter part of his Life.— but
De Mortuis nil nisi bonum.
I hope some Paragraphs in the close of his Poem will at least prove that I have not writ with Partiality, but have equally commende
Merit whereever I found it, without any regard to a Party.
Moderation DISPLAY'D.
AGain, my Muse—Nor fear the steepy Flight,
Pursue the Fury thro' the Realms of Night;
Explore the Depth of Hell, the secret Cause,
Whence the New Scheme of
Moderation
rose.
Now
Faction
re-assum'd her Native Throne,
Which prostrate Fiends with awful Homage own.
A Crown of Eating Flame her Temples bound,
Darting a Blew Malignant Radiance round.
An Iron Scepter in her Hand she bore,
Emblem of Vengeance and Destructive Pow'r.
A bloody Canopy hung o're her Head,
Where the
Four
falling
Empires
are pourtray'd.
Monarchs Depos'd beneath her foot-stool lie,
And all around is Hell and Anarchy.
Whilst thus she tow'ring sat, the Subject Train
With Shouts proclaim'd the Triumphs of her Reign.
Then they the Chaos sung, and Nature's Jars,
How the first Atoms urg'd their
Medley
Wars,
How Civil Discord and Intestine Rage
Have boil'd in ev'ry Nation, ev'ry Age.
They sung Divided
Albion
's hapless State,
Her Clashing Senate's Feuds, her lab'ring Church's Fate:
And as her coming Ruin they exprest,
A sullen Rapture swell'd in ev'ry Breast.
For such the Bent of their Distorted Will,
Only to know Delight in Thoughts of ill.
But on a sudden, Lo! descending flew,
A Meagre Ghost, which soon the Fury knew,
Cethego
newly Dead, her Darling Pride,
Whose Firm Unwav'ring Faith she long had try'd,
Long in her Secret Councils had retain'd,
By which her Empire o're our Isle she gain'd.
No sooner was arriv'd the Welcome Guest,
But him in soothing Terms, she thus addrest:
Hail best Belov'd of all my Sons, Receive
What Praise, what Joy these Gloomy Realms can give
For 'tis to thy Successful Arts I owe
My Reign Above, my Triumph here below.
This said, th' Unbodied Shade obsequious kneel'd,
Struck with Amazement, and with Rapture fill'd.
O Mighty Queen! permit me to Adore
Thy Awful Shrine, thy all Informing Pow'r,
Whose nearer Influence my Breast Inspires
With Glorious Rage, and Mischievous Desires.
'Twas in Thy Cause I sunk a mouldring Frame,
Unequal to the Hardy Task of Fame.
But still my Mind releas'd from Mortal pains,
Her innate Faculty of Ill retains.
More he had said, but the surrounding Throng,
Impatient of delay, pursu'd their Noisy Song.
Mean time the Fiend revolving in her Thought
The mighty Change
Cethego's
Death had wrought,
Resolv'd at length to Summon to her Aid
Each plotting Devil, each Seditious Shade.
She gave the Signal, and a Dreadful Sound
Ran Bellowing thro' all th' Abyss profound.
Then thus she eas'd her anxious Soul—
O dearest Friends! O faithful Ministers!
Ye mutual Partners of my Joys and Cares,
New Ways, new Means my restless Thoughts imploy,
How
Albion
to reduce, her Peace destroy.
Long have I labour'd, but alas! in vain,
For now Succeeds the Heav'nly
Anna's
Reign;
Who watchful Guards a Stubborn People's Good,
By Fears not stagger'd, nor by Force subdu'd.
Such are the Gifts of her Capacious Mind,
Where Justice, Mercy, Piety are joyn'd.
As Motion, Light and Heat, combin'd in one,
Make up the Glorious Essence of the Sun.
But still she Mortal is, nor will I cease.
Till my Revenge be Crown'd with wish'd Success.
First then, suppose we shou'd devest the Throne
Of Friends, whose Souls are kindred to her own,
Celsus
Disgrac'd,
Hortensio
next appears,
Whose Vigilance still Baffles all my Cares;
To whom by Right of Ancestry belong
A Loyal Heart, and a perswasive Tongue.
Now Plots are form'd, and publick Tempests rowl,
He boasts a strong unshaken Strength of Soul.
Fearless against her Foes the Church sustains,
Alike their Friendship and their Hate disdains,
Disdains their Clamour and Seditious Noise,
Secure in the Applauding Senate's Voice.
Of Noble Stem, in whose
Collat'ral
Lines
Virtue with equal Force and Lustre shines.
when
Suada
pleads, Success attends the Cause,
Suada
the Glory of the
British
Laws.
Not the Fam'd Orators of Old were heard
With more attentive Awe, more deep Regard,
When Thronging round them, their Charm'd Audience hung
On the attracting Musick of their Tongue.
Nor Hell to
Laelio
can her Praise refuse,
Whose Worth deserves his own recording Muse;
Who in
Sophia's
Court, with just Applause,
Maintain'd his Sov'raign Rights, his Country's Cause.
For 'tis in him, with Anguish that I find
All the Endowments of a Gen'rous Mind,
Whate're is Great and Brave, whate're Refin'd
For 'tis in him Fame doubly does Commend
An Active Patriot, and a Faithful Friend.
Then from his near Attendance be remov'd
Urbano,
tho' by All Admir'd and Lov'd;
Tho' his sweet Temper and obliging Port,
Become his Office, and Adorn the Court
He seems by Nature form'd Mankind to please,
So Free, so Unconstrain'd in his Address,
Improv'd by ev'ry Vertue, ev'ry Grace.
Senato
too, who Bravely does deride
Sempronia
's little Arts, and Female Pride;
Whose Lofty Look, and whose Majestick Mein
Confess the towring God-like Soul within.
A Speaker of unparallel'd Renown,
Long in the Senate, long in Council known.
Ally'd to
Celsus
by the Noblest Claim,
By the same Principles, by Worth the same.
Old as he is, still Firm his Heart remains,
And dauntless his declining Frame sustains.
So, pois'd on its own Base, the
Center
bears
The Nodding Fabrick of the Universe.
Be these, and such as these, discharg'd from Court▪
The
Better Genii
that the Crown support.
Then in their stead, let
Mod'rate
Statesmen reign,
Practice their new pretended Golden Mean.
A Notion undefin'd in Virtue's Schools,
Unrecommended by her sacred Rules.
A Modern Coward Principle design'd
To stifle Justice, and unnerve the Mind.
A Trick by Knaves contriv'd, impos'd on Fools,
But Scorn'd by Patriot and Exalted Souls.
For
Mod'rate
Statesmen, like
Camelions
wear
A diff'rent Form in ev'ry diff'rent Air.
hey stick at nothing to Secure their Ends,
aress their Enemies, betray their Friends.
Their Medley Temper, their Amphibious Mind
fraught with Principles of ev'ry kind,
Nor ever can from Stain and Error free,
Assert its Native Truth, and Energy;
As the four Elements so blended were
n their first Chaos, so united there,
That since they ne're could fully be disjoyn'd,
Each retains something of each other's Kind.
Nor this is wholly Air, nor that pure Flame,
But still in both some Atoms are the same.
Let
Jano,
second of his Trimming Band,
Next to
Volpone
deck'd with Honours stand.
Like him for secret Policy Renown'd,
Like him with all the Gifts of Cunning crown'd.
None better can the Jarring Senate guide,
Or lure the
Flying Camp
to either side.
Of an invet'rate old Fanatick Race,
Or Canting Parents, sprung this Child of Grace.
In Show a
Tory,
but a
Whig
in Heart,
For Saints may safely act the Sinner's part.
Once he was ours, and will be ours again,
For Art to stifle Nature strives in vain,
For ev'ry thing, when from its
Center
born,
Still thither tends, still thither will return.
Let him with these Accomplishments supply
Hortensio's
steddy Faith, and Loyalty.
B
u
bus,
for he has Wealth to buy a Place,
Shall wear
Urbano
's Key, his Post disgrace.
A worthy Son, in whom collected shine
The Follies of his Mad and Ideot Line.
Lord of the woful Countenance, whose Skin
Seems fear'd without, and putrify'd within,
A Dapper Animal, whose Pigmy Size
Provokes the Ladies Scorn, and mocks their Eyes.
But Balls and Musick are his greatest Care,
So willing is the Wretch to please the Fair.
'Tis strange, that Men, what Nature has deny'd,
Should make their only Aim, their only Pride.
Let
Britono,
who from the Parent Moon
Derives his
Welsh
Descent directly down,
Succeed
Senato
in his High Command,
And bear the Staff of Honour in his Hand.
A flutt'ring empty Fop, that ev'ry Night,
Sits Laughing loud, and Jesting in the Pit,
Whilst a surrounding Croud of Whores and Bawds,
His sprightly Converse, and his Wit applauds.
An Atlas proper to sustain the Weight
Of an Incumber'd and declining State.
Let these, as Useful Tools, a while possess
The Court Preferments, and Indulge their Ease,
But they shall fly, like Mists, before the Sun,
When my Designs to full Perfection grown,
Exert their Pow'r, and make the ruin'd World my own.
When thus the Fury had her Scheme display'd,
Assenting Hell a low Obeisance paid.
Moloch,
Protector of the
Papal Chair,
Author of the Massacres and Christian War,
Was now Convinc'd that Sanguinary Laws
Could nere the
Reformation
's Growth oppose,
Could nere in
Albion
's Church advance his Cause.
He therefore, urg'd with his old constant Hate,
By
Mod'rate
Means consents to work her Fate.
He finds how soon by
Toleration
's Aid,
Her Pow'r is weaken'd, and her Rights Betray'd.
Nor doubts
Occasional Conformity
Will by degrees her Essence quite destroy.
Then
Satan,
Prince of the
Fanatick
Train,
Who form'd the Conduct of their
Glorious
Reign.
Approve the Scheme, not hoping to Restore
His Subjects to their late unbounded Pow'r.
or well he knew, their Avarice and Pride
ad wean'd the Bankrupt Nation from their side.
ut these Auspicious
Moderation
Times,
y not Detecting, Sanctify their Crimes,
y Baffling Justice, and eluding Law,
Make Vice insult, and Sin Triumphant grow.
Nay such th' Effects of
Moderation
are,
The Guilty to Reward, as well as Spare.
Hence Foes to Prelacy are Clad in Lawn,
Hence Rebels are the Fav'rites of the Throne.
What could they more desire, than thus to pass
The blest Remainder of their happy Days,
atted with Plunder, and dissolv'd in Ease?
Nor
Belial,
th'
Atheist
's Patron could Complain,
or
Moderation
would enlarge his Reign,
Where all unpunish'd Talk and live Profane.
Where Irreligion Providence denies,
Nor dreads the Laws of Earth, nor Thunder of the Skies.
Mammon,
the
Traders
and the
Courtier
's God,
No sooner heard the Project but allow'd;
For hence his two Vot'ries uncontroul'd might live,
And endless Frauds commit, and endless Bribes receive.
But most
Cethego
the Design approves,
Who dead and Living in
Maeander
's moves.
He knew how he deluded hapless
James,
By the same wily Arts, and subtle Schemes.
Proposes then, that he alone be sent,
To execute the Fury's New Intent.
When he had ended, thus she soon replies,
Blest be the Shade, that can so well advise,
On thee thy Goddess smiles, on thee relies.
Fly, nimbly to thy Native Soil repair,
Urge and Inforce the well form'd Council there.
Occasion favours, the
Cabal
is met
At thy own Mansion, thy belov'd Retreat,
The Muses Darling Theam, the Graces Seat.
There
Clodio
's and
Sigillo
's anxious Thoughts,
Are brooding o're
Imaginary Plots:
Whilst
Bibliopolo
with his awkard Jests
Deserves his Dinner, and diverts the Guests.
Bathillo,
in his own unborrow'd Strains,
Young
Sacharissa
's Angel Form profanes:
Whilst her dull Husband, sensless of her Charms,
Lies lumpish in her soft encircling Arms.
For he to Wisdom makes a Grave Pretence,
But wants alas! his Father's Depth of Sense.
Howere, supplying all Defects of Wit,
He shews a true Fanatick Zeal and Heat.
She spoke—the Spectre in a moment gains
Altropia
's Balmy Air, and Flowry Plains.
At his approach the Dome's Foundation shook,
When 'midst their Revels rushing in he broke.
Involv'd in Wreaths of Smoak, awhile he stood,
Seeming at distance an unshapen Cloud.
But soon, the Cloud ascending to the Skies,
He manifest was seen before their Eyes.
Horror and Guilt shook ev'ry Conscious Breast,
But
Bibliopolo
most his Fears exprest,
Fainting he tumbled—Pass we ore the rest.
Clodio
alone fixt and unmov'd appear'd,
And what the Phantom said undaunted heard.
Forbear, my Friends, your Hot pursuits restrain,
Behold your lov'd
Cethego
once again.
From
Faction
's dark unbottom'd Cell I come,
Fraught with
Britannia
's Fate, and final Doom.
For, Meditating Vengeance in her Mind,
At length a Finish'd Plan she has design'd.
Nor doubts by
Mod'rate
Methods to obtain,
What she by rougher Arts has sought in vain,
That
Whigs
should Triumph in a
To
y
Reign.
Thus he began, and then proceeds to tell
What
Faction
had before reveal'd in Hell.
Clodio
was Raptur'd, and in Terms like these,
is Joy and Approbation did express.
nce thy
Divided State
permits, be thou
s once a Friend, a Guardian Genius now.
ive us to execute this Grand Design,
hine be the Conduct, and the Glory thine.
ttempts that often Baffle Human Care,
y aiding Spirits soon effected are;
heir Knowledge in immediate
Intuition
lies,
Nor does, like ours, from long Deduction rise.
Pleas'd with this Answer, the retiring Ghost
Condens'd the ambient Air, and in a Cloud was lost.
Here cease thy Satyr, Muse, and from thy Tongue
o louder Numbers and Heroick Song:
Here Celebrate, unbyass'd as thou art,
The Triumphs of
Sempronia
's other Part,
Nor let her Stain the Hero's High Desert.
Now the
Imperial Eagle
hung her Head,
rooping she Mourn'd her wonted
Thunder
fled,
Now was she fitted for a foreign Yoke,
Her Sceptre nodded, her Dominion shook.
Such was the tott'ring State of Ancient
Rome,
When Conqu'ring
Hannibal
pronounc'd her Doom▪
When yet the fatal
Capua
was unknown,
That blasted all the Laurels
Cannae
won.
Where shall she Succour seek? Or whither fly?
Shall she for ever in Confusion lie?
Shall the first Kingdom of the
Christian World
Be un-reliev'd in endless Ruine hurl'd?
Not so? her Aid Auspicious
Anna
brings,
Anna
the Angel of unhappy Kings.
She sends
Camillo
with an
English Force,
To stem the Ravaging
Invader
's Course.
France
and
Bavaria
now in vain Combine,
In vain their Fierce unnumber'd Legions joyn,
In vain the Thunderbolts of War oppose:
Eugenio
and
Camillo
are their Foes.
Like
Caesar,
both for Stratagems Renown'd▪
Like
Alexander,
both with Martial Fury crown'd.
At length the Great Decisive Day drew near,
On which alone depended all the War.
At length the Fight began, the Canon roar'd,
Nor knew
the Empire
yet her Sov'reign Lord.
But soon
Camillo
with resistless Arms,
With doubled Rage, the Hostile Troops alarms.
The Troops, that thought no Valour match'd their ow
Till
English
Courage bore them headlong down.
Before his Conqu'ring Sword they Vanquish'd fly,
Or in the Field, or in the
Danube
die.
The
Danube
reeking ran a Purple Flood,
Swell'd and distain'd with Deluges of Blood.
O were I Poet equal to thy Theam!
The
Future World
should wond'ring read this Stream;
Where many Thousand Warriors more were slain,
Or than on
Xanthus
Banks, or the
Pharsalian
Plain:
Tho' these to all Exploits are far preferr'd,
One by the
Grecian,
one the
Roman
Bard.
Hence is the
Empire
to it self restor'd,
Revolting Nations Recognize the Lord.
Lewis
no more shall God-like Titles Claim,
Nor
Europe
aw'd and Trembling dread his Name.
Hence a new Scene of Happiness appears,
A long Successive Train of Golden Years.
So sav'd
Demetrius
the
Athenian State,
Oppress'd by Foes, and sunk with adverse Fate.
No sooner was the Bloody Battle won,
But all his Fame with Adoration own;
But on the mighty Victor they bestow'd,
The Sacred Stile and Honours of a God.
But tho' no Altars we profanely raise,
But tho' a less, we pay a juster Praise,
All but the Blind Idolatry intend,
Which ridicules the Glorious Worth it would commend.
When with his
Eastern
Spoils, returning home,
Augustus enter'd
his applauding
Rome,
irgil
and
Horace
waited on his Fame,
Glad to record the Muses Patron's Name;
And well could they in everliving Strains,
Describe his Triumphs, and Reward his Pains.
But Modern Heroes, tho' as truly Brave
As those of Old, not equal Poets have.
No
Virgils
now, nor
Horaces
to raise
Trophies proportion'd to their Deathless praise.
An
Addison
perhaps, or
Tate
may write;
olp
ne
pays them for their
Venal
Wit.
But since my Muse, warm'd with a
Gen'rous
Flame,
Unbrib'd would eternize
Camillo
's Name;
Let him accept such Homage as she brings,
Nor think that wholly uninspir'd she Sings.
But, Goddess, still one Labour more remains,
Still
Nereo
claims thy Tributary Strains;
Tune thy Harmonious Voice to
Nereo
's Praise,
A Subject pregnant with immortal Lays.
'Tis he extends the Hev'nly
Anna
's Reign,
High as the Stars, unbounded as the main.
Tis he, whose Valour the
Batavian
Wars
nur'd to Glory, from his greener Years.
'Tis he
Le Hogue
's opposing Ord'nance bore,
Nor fear'd the Lightnings blasts, nor Thunders roar.
'Tis He, with
Scipio
Darling of our Isle,
From vanquish'd
Vigo
forc'd the
Indian
Spoil.
'Tis He the
Streights Defence
so lately storm'd,
A Tow by Nature fortify'd and arm'd.
'Tis He, unequal far in force, o'recame
A Fleet secure of Conquest and of Fame,
A Flee by vast Expence for Fight prepar'd▪
At once the
Spaniards
Terror and their Guard.
For what can
English
Bravery withstand,
When
Nereo
or
Camillo
do Command?
It Vindicates the Sea, and Triumphs ore the Land.
'Tis He Detraction's Baleful Breath has born,
But with a Noble and Heroick Scorn.
For let his Foes this just Monition have,
Envy's the Coward's Homage to the Brave.
So
Aristides
long with Malice strove,
Nor could his Virtue win a Factious Peoples Love.
FINIS.
THE HIND AND THE PANTHER, TRANSVERS'D To the Story of the
Country-Mouse
and the
City-Mouse.
uch Malice mingled with a little Wit.
Hind. Pan.
Nec vult Panthera domari.
Quae Genus.
LONDON:
inted and Sold by
H. Hills,
in
Black-fryars,
near the Water-side. 1709. Price Three Pence.
THE PREFACE.
THE Favourers of the
Hind
and
Panther
will be apt to say in its Defence, That the best things are
apable of being turn'd to Ridicule; that
omer
has been Burlesque'd, and
Virgil
ravested without suffering any thing in
heir Reputation from that Buffoonry; and
hat in like manner, the
Hind
and the
Pan
er
may be an exact Poem, tho' 'tis the Sub
ect of our Raillery: But there is this diffe
ence, that those Authors are wrested from
heir true Sense, and this naturally falls in
Ridicule; there is nothing Represented
ere as monstrous and unnatural, which is
ot equally so in the Original. First as to
he General Design Is it not as easie to ima
ine two
Mice
bilking Coachmen, and sup
ing at the
Devil;
as to suppose a
Hind
tertaining the
Panther
at a
Hermit
's
Cell,
iscussing the greatest Mysteries of Religion,
d telling you her Son
Rodriguez
writ very
od Spanish? What can be more improbable and contradictory to the Rules and Example
of all Fables, and to the very Design an
Ʋ se of them? They were first begun and raised to the highest Perfection in the
Easter
Countries; where they wrote in Signs an
spoke in Parables, and delivered the mos
useful Precepts in delightful Stories; whic
for their Aptness were entertaining to th
most Judicious, and led the vulgar into Ʋ nderstanding by surprizing them with thei
Novelty, and fixing their Attention. A
their Fables carry a double meaning; th
Story is one and intire; the Characters th
same throughout, not broken or chang'd and always conformable to the Nature of th
Creatures they introduce. They never te
you that the Dog which snapt at a Shadow lost his Troop of Horse, that would be unintelligible; a piece of Flesh is proper for hi
to drop, and the Reader will apply it t
Mankind; they would not say that the Da
who was so proud of her borrow'd Plume
lookt very ridiculous when
Rodriguez
cam
and took away all the Book but th
17th, 24th,
and
25th
Chapters, which sh
stole from him: But this is his new way o
telling a Story, and confounding the
Mora
and the
Fable
together.
Before the Word was written, said th
Hind,
Our Saviour Preach'd the Faith to a
Mankind.
What relation has the
Hind
to our Saviour? or what Notion have we of a
Pan
her
's Bible? If you say he means the Church, how does the Church feed on Lawns, or range in the Forest? Let it be always a Church, or always the cloven-footed Beast,
or we cannot bear his shifting the Scene every Line. If it is absurd in Comedies to
ake a Peasant talk in the Strain of a
Hero,
r a Country Wench use the Language of the Court; how monstrous is it to make a Priest
f a Hind, and a Parson of a Panther? To bring 'em in disputing with all the For
alities and Terms of the School? Though
s to the Arguments themselves, those, we
onfess, are suited to the Capacity of the Beasts, and if we would suppose a Hind ex
ressing her self about these Matters, she
ould talk at that Rate.
As to the Absurdity of his Expressions,
here is nothing wrested to make 'em ridiculous, the Terms are sometimes alter'd to make the Blunder more visible;
Knowldge misunderstood
is not at all better Sense
han
Understanding misunderstood,
though tis confest the Author can play with words
o well, that this and twenty such will pass off
t a slight reading.
There are other Mistakes which could not
e brought in, for they were too gross for
Bayes
himself to commit. 'Tis hard to conceive how any Man could censure the
Turk
for Gluttony, a People that debauch in Coffee are voluptuous in a Mess of Rice, and keep the strictest
Lent,
without the Pleasures of a
Carnival
to encourage them. But 'tis almost impossible to think that any Man, wh
had not renounced his Senses, should rea
Duncomb
for
Allen:
He had been told that Mr.
Allen
had written a Discourse o
Humility;
Difference betwixt a Protestant and
Socinian,
p. 62.
to which he wisely answers, Tha
that magnified Piece of
Duncomb
's was Translated from the
Spanish
of
Rodriguez,
and to set it beyond dispute, makes the infallible Guide affirm the same thing. There are few Mistakes,
Pag. 92.
but one may imagine how a Ma
fell into them, and at least what he aim'd at; but what likeness is there betwee
Duncomb
and
Allen?
do they so much as Rhime?
We may have this Comfort under the Severity of his Satyr, to see his Abilities equally lessen'd with his Opinion of us; and that he could not be a fit Champion against the
Panther
till he had laid aside all his Judgment. But we must applaud his Obedience to his new Mother
Hind;
she
Disciplin'd
him severely,
Pag. 90.
she commanded him it seems, to
Sacrifice
his
Darling Fame,
and to do it effectually he publisht this learned Piece. This is the favourable Construction we would put on his Faults, tho' he takes care to inform us,
Pref.
that it was done from no Imposition, but out of a natural Propensity he has to Malice, and a particular Inclination of doing Mischief. What else could provoke him to
Libel the Court,
Blaspheme
Kings,
abuse the whole
Scotch Nation,
Pag. 87.
rail at the greatest Part of his own, and lay all the Indignities imaginable on the only establish'd Religion? And we must now Congratulate him this Felicity, that there is no Sect or Denomination of Christians, whom he has not abused.
Thus far his Arms have with Success been crown'd.
Let
Turks, Jews
and
Infidels
look to themselves, he has already begun the War upon them. When once a Conqueror grows thus dreadful, 'tis the Interest of all his Neighbours to oppose him, for there is no Alliance to be made with one that will face about, and destroy his Friends, and like a second
Almanzor,
change Sides meerly to keep his hand in ure. This Heroick Temper of his, has created him some Enemies, that did by no means affect Hostility; and he may observe this Candor in the Management, that none of his Works are concern'd in these Papers, but his last Piece; and I believe he is sensible this is a Favour. I was not ambitious of Laughing at any Perswasion, or making Religion the Subject of such a Trifle; so that no Man is here concern'd, but the Author himself, and nothing ridicul'd but his way of arguing.
But, Gentlemen, if you won't take it s
you must grant my Excuse is more reasonabl
than our Author's to the Dissenters.
THE HIND AND THE PANTHER, Transvers'd to the Story of the COUNTRY and the CITY-MOUSE.
Bayes, Johnson, Smith.
HAH! my Old Friend Mr.
Bayes,
What lucky Chance has thrown me upon you? Dear Rogue,
et me embrace thee.
Hold, at your Peril, Sir; stand off, and
ome not within my Sword's Poin
For if you
re not
come over to the Royal Party,
Pref. p. 1
I expect nei
her fair War, nor fair Quarter from you
How, draw upon your Friend, assault your Old Acquaintance! O' my
Conscience,
y Intentions were Honourable.
Conscience!
Ay, ay, I know the Deceit of
hat Word well enough:
Pref. ib.
Let me have the
Marks
f you
Conscience
before I trust it; for if it be not of the same Stamp with mine, Gad I may b
knock'd down
for all your fair Promises.
Nay, prithee
Bayes,
what damn'd Villainy hast thou been about, that thou'rt under thes
Apprehensions? Upon my Honour I'm thy Friend yet thou lookest as sneaking and frighted as a Do
that has been worrying Sheep.
Pref. ib.
Ay, Sir,
The Nation is in too high a Fe
ment for me to expect any Mercy,
or I'gad, to tru
any Body.
But why this to us, my Old Friend, wh
you know never trouble our Heads with Nationa
Concerns, till the third Botlle has taught us as muc
of Politicks as the next does of Religion?
Ah! Gentlemen, leave this Prophanenes
I am alter'd since you saw me, and cannot be
this loose Talk now. Mr.
Johnson,
you are
Man of Parts, let me desire you to read
the Gui
of Controversy
; and Mr.
Smith,
I would recommend to you
the Considerations on the Council
Trent,
Page 5.
and so Gentlemen your humble Servant.—
Good Life be now my Task.
Nay, Faith, we won't part so: Belie
us, we are both your Friends; let us step to th
Rose
for one quarter of an Hour, and talk ov
old Stories.
I ever took you to be Men of Honou
and for your sakes I will transgress as far as o
Pint.
Well, Mr.
Bayes,
many a merry Bo
have we had in this House, and shall have again, hope: Come, what Wine are you for?
Gentlemen, do you as you please, for
part he shall bring me a single Pint of any thing.
How so, Mr.
Bayes,
have you lost yo
Pallat? you have been more curious.
True, I have so; but
Senses
must
starv'd,
Page 21.
that the
Soul
may be
gratified.
Men
our Kidney make the
Senses
the
supream Judge,
nd therefore bribe 'em high, but we have laid
o
h the Use and Pleasure of 'em aside.
What, is not there good Eating and Drinking on both sides? You make the Separation
reater than I thought it.
No, no, whenever you see a Fat Rosie-
olour'd Fellow, take it from me,
Ibid.
he is either a
rotestant or a
Turk.
At that rate, Mr.
Bayes,
one might sus
ect your Conversion; methinks thou hast as much
e Face of an
Heretick
as ever I saw.
Such was I, such by Nature still I am.
Pag. 5.
ut I hope e'er long I shall have drawn this
pam
er'd Paunch
fitter for the
straight Gate.
Sure, Sir, you are in ill hands, your Confessor gives you more severe Rules than he
ractices; for not long ago a
Fat Friar
was
ought a
true Character.
Things were misrepresented to me: I
onfess I have been unfortunate in some of my Writings: But since you have put me upon that
ubject, I'll show you a thing I have in my Pock
shall wipe off all that, or I am mistaken.
Come, now thou art like thy self again.
ere's the
King
's Health to thee—Communicate.
Well, Gentlemen, here it is, and I'll be
old to say, the exactest Piece the World ever saw,
Non Pareillo
I'faith. But I must bespeak your
ardons if it reflects any thing upon your Perswa
on,
Use your Liberty, Sir, you know we are
o
Bigots.
Why then you shall see me lay the
Refor
ation
on its Back, I'gad, and justifie our Religion
y way of
Fable.
An apt Contrivance indeed! What do
ou make a
Fable
of your
Religion?
Ay, I'gad, and without
Morals
too; so
I tread in no Man's Steps; and to show you how far I can out-do any thing that ever was writ in thi
kind, I have taken
Horace
's Design, but I'gad, have so out-done him, you shall be asham'd fo
your
Old Friend.
You remember in him the
Story
of the
Country-Mouse,
and the
City-Mouse
; wha
a plain simple thing it is, it has no more Life an
Spi
it in it, I'gad, than a Hobby-horse; and hi
Mice
talk so meanly, such common stuff, so lik
meer Mice,
that I wonder it has pleas'd the Worl
so long. But now will I undeceive
Mankind,
and teach 'em to
heighten,
and
elevate a Fable.
I'l
bring you in the very same
Mice
disputing th
Depth of
Philosophy,
searching into the Fundamentals of
Religion,
quoting
Texts, Fathers, Councils
and all that, I 'gad, as you shall see either of 'e
could easily make an Ass of a
Country Vicar.
Now whereas
Horace
keeps to the dry naked History,
have more Copiousness than to do that, I'gad Here, I draw you general
Characters,
and describ
all the
Beasts
of the
Creation
; there, I lanch ou
into long
Digressions,
and leave my
Mice
for twenty Pages together; then I fall into
Raptures,
and make the finest
Soliloquies,
as would ravish you Won't this do, think you?
Faith, Sir, I don't well conceive you all this about two
Mice
?
Ay, why not? Is it not great and Heroical? But come, you'll understand it better whe
you hear it; and pray be as severe as you can, I'ga
I defie all
Criticks.
Thus it begins:
Pag. 1.
A Milk-white
Mouse
immortal and unchang'd,
Fed on soft Cheese, and o'er the
Dairy
rang'd;
Without, unspotted; innocent within,
She fear'd no danger, for she knew no
Gin.
Methinks, Mr.
Bayes,
soft Cheese is a little too coarse Diet for an
immortal Mouse
; were there any necessity for her eating, you should have consulted
Homer
for some
Coelestial Provision.
Faith, Gentlemen, I did so; but indeed I have not the
Latin
one, which I have mark'd by me, and could not readily find it in the Original.
Yet had She oft been
scar'd by bloody Claws
Pag. 1.
O
winged
Owls, and stern
Grimalkins
Paws
Aim'd at her
destin'd Head, which made her
fly,
Pag. 2.
Tho' She was
doom'd to Death,
and
fated not to dye.
How came She that
fear'd no Danger
in the Line before, to be scar'd in this, Mr.
Bayes
?
Why then you may have it
chas'd
if you will; for I hope a Man may run away without being
afraid,
mayn't he?
But pray give me leave; how was She
doom'd to Death,
if She was
fated not to die
; are not
Doom
and
Fate
much the same thing?
Nay,
Gentlemen,
if you question my Skill
n the Language, I'm your humble Servant; the
Rogues
the
Criticks,
that will allow me nothing else, give me that; sure I that made the Word,
now best what I meant by it: I assure you,
doom'd
nd
fated,
are quite different things.
Faith, Mr.
Bayes,
if you were
doom'd
to
e hang'd, whatever you were
fated
to, 'twould
ive you but small Comfort.
Never trouble your Head with that, Mr.
Smith,
mind the Business in hand.
Not so her young; their
Linsy-woolsy
Line,
Pag.
.
Was Hero's make, half humane, half Divine.
Certainly these
Hero's, half Humane, half Divine,
have very little of the
Mouse
their
Mother.
Gadsokers! Mr.
Johnson,
does your
riend think I mean nothing but a
Mouse
by all this? I tell thee, Man, I mean a
Church,
and these young Gentlemen her Sons, signifie
Priests, Martyrs
and
Confessors,
that were hang'd in
Oats
's
Plot.
There's an excellent
Latin
Sentence, which I had a mind to bring in
Sanguis Martyrum semen Ecclesiae,
and I think I have not wrong'd it in the Translation.
Of these a slaughter'd Army lay in Blood,
Pag. 2.
Whose sanguine Seed encreas'd the sacred
Brood;
She multiply'd
by these,
now rang'd alone,
Pag. 3.
And wander'd in the Kingdoms once her own.
Was She
alone
when
the sacred Brood wa
encreased
?
Why thy Head's running on the
Mous
again; but I hope a
Church
may be
alone,
tho
the
Members
be
encreased,
mayn't it?
Certainly, Mr.
Bayes,
a
Church
which i
a
diffusive Body of Men,
can much less be said to be
alone.
But are you really of that Opinion? Take it from me, Mr.
Johnson,
you are wrong; however to oblige you, I'll clap in some
Simile
or other, about the
Children of Israel,
and it shall do.
Will you pardon me one Word more, Mr.
Bayes
? What could the
Mouse
(for I suppose you mean her now) do more than
range
in the
Kingdoms,
when they were her own?
Do! Why She
reign'd
; had a
Diadem, Scepter
and
Ball,
till they depos'd her.
Now her Sons are so
encreas'd,
She may try t'other pull for't.
I'gad, and so She may before I have don
with Her; it has cost me some pains to clear He
Title. Well, but Mum for that, Mr.
Smith.
The
Common Hunt,
She timorously past by,
Pag. 5.
For they made tame,
disdain'd Her Company
;
They grin'd,
She in a Fright
tript
o'er the Green,
For
She was
lov'd,
where-ever She was
seen.
Well said little
Bayes,
I'faith the Critick must have a great deal of leisure, that attacks those Verses.
I'gad, I'll warrant him, whoe'er he i
,
ffendet solido
; but I go on.
The Independent Beast.
Pag. 3.
—
Who is that, Mr.
Bayes?
Why a Bear: Pox, is not that obvious enough?
—In Groans Her hate exprest.
Which, I'gad, is very natural to that
Animal.
Well! there's for the
Independent:
Now the
Quaker
; what do you think I call him?
Why, A
Bull,
for ought I know.
A
Bull
! O Lord! A Bull! No, no, a
Hare,
a
quaking Hare.—Armarillis,
because She wears
Armour,
'tis the same Figure; and I am
roud to say it, Mr.
Johnson,
no Man knows how
o
pun
in
Heroics
but my self. Well, you shall
ear.
She thought, and reason good, the
quaking Hare
Her cruel Foe, because
She would not swear,
Pag. 3.
And had
profess'd Neutrality.
A shrewd Reason that, Mr.
Bayes
; but what Wars were there?
Wars! why there had been bloody Wars,
ho' they were pretty well reconcil'd now. Yet to
ing in two or three such fine things as these, I
o'nt tell you the Lyon's Peace was proclaim'd till
fty Pages after, tho' 'twas really done before I
ad finish'd my Poem.
Next Her, the Buffoon Ape
his Body
bent,
Pag 3.
And paid at Church a Courtier's Complement.
That Gauls somewhere; I'gad I can't leave▪ off, tho' I were cudgel'd every Day for it.
Pag. 4.
The brisl'd
Baptist
Boar, impure as he.
As who?
As the
Courtier,
let 'em e'en take it a
they will, I'gad, I seldom come amongst 'em.
Pag. 10.
Was whiten'd with the Foam of Sanctity.
The Wolf with Belly-gaunt his rough Crest rears,
And pricks up.
—Now, in one Word, will abuse the whole Party most damnably—
an
pricks up.
—I'gad, I am sure you'll laugh—
his predestinating Ears.
Prethee, Mr.
Johnso
remember little
Bayes,
when next you see a
Presbyterian,
and take notice if he has not
Predestinatio
in the Shape of his
Ear
: I have studied Men
long. I'll undertake to know an
Arminian,
the setting of his Wig.
His predestinating Ears.
I'gad, there's ne'er
Presbyterian
shall dare to show his Head without Border: I'll put 'em to that Expence.
Pray, Mr.
Bayes,
if any of 'em shou
come over to the
Royal Party,
would their E
alter?
Would they? Ay, I'gad, they would sh
their
Fanatical Lugs,
and have just such we
turn'd
Ears
as I have; mind this
Ear,
this is a tr
Roman Ear,
mine are much chang'd for the bett
within this two Years.
Then if ever the Party should chance fail, you might lose 'em,
for what may change, m
fall.
Mind, mind—
Pag. 11.
These fiery
Zuinglius,
meagre
Calvin
bred.
Those, I suppose, are some Out-Lan
ish Beasts, Mr.
Bayes
?
Beasts; a good Mistake! Why they w
the chief
Reformers,
but here I put 'em in so b
Company because they were Enemies to my
Mo
and anon when I am warm'd, I'gad you shall hear me call 'em
Doctors, Captains,
Pag. 39.
Horses
and
Horsemen
in the very same Breath. You shall hear how I go on now.
Or else reforming
Corah
spawn'd
this Class,
When opening Earth made way for all to pass.
Pag. 11.
For
all,
Mr.
Bayes
?
Yes, They were
all
lost there, but some of 'em wre thrown up again at the
Leman-Lake
: As a Catholick
Queen
sunk at
Charing-Cross,
and
ose again at
Queenhithe.
The Fox and he came shuffled in the dark,
Pag. 11.
If ever they were stow'd in
Noah
's Ark.
Here I put a Quaere, Whether there were any
So
inians
before the
Flood,
which I'm not very well satisfied in? I have been lately apt to believe that
he World was drown'd for that
Heresy
; which
mong Friends made me leave it.
Quickned with Fire below, these Monsters breed
In Fenny
Holland,
and in Fruitful
Tweed.
Pag. 12
Now to write something new and out of the way,
o elevate and surprize, and all that, I fetch, you see, this
Quickning Fire
from the Bottom of
Bogs
and
Rivers.
Why, Faith, that's as ingenious a Con
rivance as the
Virtuoso
's making a Burning-Glass
f Ice?
Why was there ever any such thing? Let
e perish if ever I heard of it. The Fancy was
eer new to me; and I thought no Man had re
oncil'd those Elements but my self. Well Gen
lemen! Thus far I have followed Antiquity, and
s
Homer
has numbred his Ships, so I have rang'd
y Beasts. Here is my
Boar
and my
Bear,
and
y
Fox,
and my
Wolf,
and the rest of 'em all against my poor
Mouse.
Now what do you think I do with all these?
Faith I don't know; I suppose you make 'em fight.
Fight! I'gad, I'd as soon make 'em Dance. No, I do no earthly thing with 'em, nothing at all, I'gad: I think they have play'd their Parts sufficiently already; I have walk'd 'em out, show'd 'em to the Company, and rais'd your Expectation. And now whilst you hope to see 'em bated, and are dreaming of Blood and Battels, they sculk off, and you hear no more of 'em.
Why, Faith, Mr.
Bayes,
now you have been at such Expence in setting forth their Characters, it had been too much to have gone through with 'em.
I'gad so it had: And then I'll tell you another thing, 'tis not every one that reads a Poem through. And therefore I fill the first part with Flowers, Figures, fine Language, and all that and then I'gad sink by degrees, till at last I write but little better than other People. And wherea
most Authors
creep servilely
after the Old Fellows and strive to grow upon their Readers; I take another Course, I bring in all my Characters together, and let 'em see I could go on with 'em; bu
I'gad, I won't.
Could go on with 'em, Mr.
Bayes!
there'
no Body doubts that; You have a most particula
Genius
that way.
Oh! Dear Sir, You are mighty obliging: But I must needs say at a
Fable
or an
Emble
I think no Man comes near me, indeed I have studied it more than any Man. Did you ever tak
notice, Mr.
Johnson,
of a little thing that has taken mightily about Town, a
Cat with a Top-knot?
Faith, Sir, 'tis mighty pretty, I saw
at the Coffee-House.
'Tis a Trifle hardly worth owning; I was t'other Day at
Will
's throwing out something of
hat Nature; and I'gad, the hint was taken, and out came that Picture; indeed the poor Fellow was so civil to present me with a dozen of 'em for my Friends, I think I have one here in my Pocket; would you please to accept it, Mr.
Johnson?
Really 'tis very ingenious.
Oh Lord! Nothing at all, I could design
wenty of 'em in an Hour, if I had but witty Fel
ows about me to draw 'em. I was proffer'd a Pension to go into
Holland,
and contrive their
Emblems.
But hang 'em, they are dull Rogues, and would spoil my Invention. But come, Gentlemen, let us return to our Business, and here I'll give you a delicate Description of a Man.
But how does that come in?
Come in? very naturally. I was talking of a
Wolf
and that supposes a Wood, and then I clap an Epithet to't, and call it a
Celtic Wood
: Now when I was there, I could not help thinking of the
French Persecution,
and I'gad from all these Thoughts I took occasion to rail at the
French King,
and show that he was not of the same
Make with other Men, which thus I prove.
The Divine
Blacksmith
in th' Abyss of Light,
Pag. 15.
Yawning and lolling
with a careless beat,
Struck out the mute Creation at a Heat.
But he work'd hard to Hammer out our Souls,
He blew the Bellows, and stir'd up the Coals;
Long time he thought and could not on a sudden
Knead up with
unskim'd
Milk
this Reas'ning Pudding:
P
ge 16.
Tender, and mild within its Bag it lay
Confessing still the softness of its Clay,
And kind as Milk-Maids on their Wedding-Day.
Till
Pride of Empire, Lust,
and hot Desire
Did over-boil him, like too great a Fire,
And understanding grown,
misunderstood,
Burn'd Him to th' Pot, and sour'd his curdle
Blood.
But sure this is a little prophane, Mr.
Baye
Not at all: Do's not
Virgil
bring in hi
God Vulcan
working at the
Anvil
?
Ay, Sir, but never thought his Hand the fittest to make a Pudding.
Why do you imagine Him an Earthly dirty
Blacksmith
? 'Gad you make it prophane indeed. I'll tell you there's as much difference betwixt 'em, I'gad, as betwixt my Man and
Milton'
But now, Gentlemen, the Plot thickens, he
comes my t'other Mouse, the City Mouse.
Page 19.
A
spotted
Mouse, the prettiest next the White,
Ah! were her Spots wash'd out, as pretty quite,
ag. 23. Pag. 22.
With
Phylacteries
on her Forehead spread,
Crozi
r
in Hand, and
Mitre
on her Head.
Pag. 84.
Three Steeples Argent on her Sable Shield,
Liv'd in the
City,
and disd
in'd the
Field.
This is a glorious
Mouse
indeed! but, a
you have dress'd her, we don't know whether s
be
J
w, Papist
or
Protestant.
Let me embrace you, Mr.
Johnson,
fo
that▪ you take it right. She is a meer
Babel
Religions,
and therefore she's a
spotted Mouse
her
and will be a Mule presently. But to go on.
This Princess—
What
Princess,
Mr.
Bayes?
Why this
Mouse,
for I forgot to tell yo
an
Old Lyon
made a
Left Hand Marriage
with h
Mother,
Pag. 20.
and begot
on her Body Elizabeth Schis
who was married to
Timothy Sacriledg,
and ha
Issue
Graceless Heresy.
Who all give the sa
Coat with their Mother,
Three Steeples Argent,
I told you before.
This Princess tho'
estrang'd
from what was
best,
Was least Deform'd, because Reform'd the least.
Pag. 23.
There's
De
and
Re
as good I'gad as ever was.
She in a Masquerade of Mirth and Love,
Pag. 22.
Mistook the Bliss of Heaven for Bacchinals above,
And grub'd the
Thorns
beneath our tender Feet,
To make the Paths of Paradise more sweet.
There's a Jolly Mouse for you, let me see any Body
lse that can shew you such another. Here now
ave I one damnable severe reflecting Line, but I
ant a Rhime to it, can you help me, Mr. Johnson.
She—
Humbly content to be despis'd at Home,
Which is
too narrow Infamy for some.
Sir, I thank you, now I can go on with it.
Whose Merits are diffus'd from Pole to Pole,
Pag. 63.
Where Winds can carry, and where Waves can rowl.
But does not this reflect upon some of our Friends, Mr.
Bayes?
'Tis no matter for that, let me alone to
ring my self off. I'll tell you, lately I writ a
amn'd Libel on a whole Party, sheer Point and
atyr all through, I'gad: Call'd 'em Rogues, Dogs,
nd all the Names I could think of, but with an
xceeding deal of Wit; that I must needs say.
ow it happen'd before I could finish this Piece,
e Scheme of Affairs was altered, and those Peo
le were no longer Beasts: Here was a Plunge
ow: Should I lose my Labour, or Libel my
riend?
Tis not every Body's Talent to find a
alvo
for this: But what do I but write a smooth
elicate Preface, wherein I tell them that
the Satyr
as not intended to them,
and this did the Business.
But if it was not intended to them against
hom it was writ, certainly it had no meaning
all.
Poh! There's the Trick on't. Poor Fool
they took it, and were satisfied: And yet it maul'
'em damnably, I'gad.
Why Faith, Mr.
Bayes,
there's this ver
Contrivance in the
Preface
to
Dear Joys Jests.
What a Devil, do you think that l' steal from such an Author? Or ever read it?
I can't tell, but you sometimes read a bad, I have heard you quote
Reynard the Fox.
Why there's it now; take it from me Mr.
Smith,
there is as good
Morality,
and as soun
Precepts, in the
Delectable History of Reynard
Fox,
as in any Book I know, except
Seneca.
Pra
tell me where in any other Author could I hav
found so pretty a Name for a Wolf as
Isgrim
? B
prithee, Mr.
Smith,
give me no more trouble, an
let me go on with my
Mouse.
Pag. 29.
One Evening,
when she went away from Court,
Levee's and Couchee's past without resort.
There's Court Language for you; nothing gives Verse so fine a turn as an Air of good Breeding.
But methinks the
Levee's and Couchee
of a
Mouse
are too great, especially when she walking from Court to the cooler Shades.
I'gad, now have you forgot what I tol
you that she was a
Princess.
But pray mind; he
the two Mice meet.
Pag. 16.
She met the Country Mouse, whose
fearful Face
Beheld from far the common watering Place,
Nor durst approach—
Methinks, Mr.
Bayes,
this Mouse strangely alter'd, since she
fear'd no Danger.
Godsokers! Why no more she does n
yet fear either Man or Beast: But, poor Creatur
she's afraid of the Water, for she could not swi
as you see by this.
Nor durst approach, till with an awful Roar.
Pag. 30.
The Soveraign Lyon bad her fear no more.
ut besides, 'tis above thirty Pages off that I told
u she
fear'd no Danger
; and I'gad if you will
ve no Variation of the Character, you must have
e same thing over and over again; 'tis the Beauty
Writing to strike you still with something new. Wee, but to proceed.
But when she had this sweetest Mouse in
view,
Pag. 30.
Good
Lord, how she admir'd her Heavenly Hiew!
ere now to show you I am Master of all Stiles, I
my self down from the
Majesty
of
Virgil,
to the
weetness
of
Ovid.
Good
Lord, how she admir'd her Heavenly Hiew
!
What more easie and familiar! I writ this Line for
e
Ladies
: The little Rogues weill be so fond of
e to find I can yet be so tender. I hate such a
ough unhewen Fellow as
Milton,
that a Man
ust sweat to read Him; I'gad, you may run over
is and be almost asleep.
Th' Immortal Mouse who saw the
Viceroy
come
So far to see Her, did invite her Home.
There's a pretty Name now for the
Spotted Mouse,
e
Viceroy
!
But pray why d'e call her so?
Why! Because it sounds prettily:
Pag. 55.
I'll
all her the
Crown-General
presently if I've a mind
o it. Well.
—did invite her Home
To smoak a Pipe, and o'er a sober Pot
Discourse of
Oates
and
Bedloe,
and the
Plot.
Pag. 31.
She made a Court'sy, like a Civil Dame,
And, being
much a Gentlewoman,
came.
Pag. 32.
Well, Gentlemen, here's my first part finish'd, and
think I have kept my Word with you, and given
the
Majestick turn of Heroick Poesy.
The rest being
matter of Dispute, I had not such frequent oc
asion for the Magnificence of Verse,
tho' I'gad they speak very well. And I have heard
Men,
and
considerable Men
too, talk the very same things, a great deal worse.
Nay, without doubt, Mr.
Bayes,
they have received no small advantage from the smoothness of your Numbers.
Ay, ay, I can do't, if I list: though you must not think I have been so dull as to mind thes
things my self, but 'tis the advantage of our
Coffee house,
that from their Talk one may write a ver
good
Polemical Discourse,
without ever troublin
one's Head with the Books of
Controversie.
For can take the slightest of their Arguments, and cl
'em pertly into four Verses, which shall stare an
London Divine
in the Face. Indeed your knou
Reasonings with a long Train of
Majors
and
M
nors,
and the Devil and all, are too barbarous f
my Stile; but I'gad, I can flourish better with on
of these twinkling Arguments, than the best of 'e
can fight with t'other. But we return to our
Mous
and now I've brought 'em together, let 'em 'e
speak for themselves, which they will do extreamly well, or I'm mistaken: And pray observe, Gentlemen, if in one you don't find all the Delicacy
a luxurious City-Mouse, and in the other all th
plain Simplicity of a sober serious Matron.
Dame,
Pag. 32.
said the Lady of the Spotted Muff,
Methinks your Tiff is sour, your
Cates
meer stuf
There, did not I tell you she'd be nice?
Your Pipe's so foul, that I disdain to smoak;
And the Weed worse than e'er
Tom. I—s took.
I did not hear she had a
Spotted Muff
before.
Why no more she has not now: but s
has a Skin that might make a
Spotted Muff.
There a pretty Figure now unknown to the Ancients.
Leave, leave (
Poeta Loquitur.
she's earnest you see
) this hoary
Shed
and lonely Hills.
And eat with me at
Groleau
's, smoak at
Will
's.
What Wretch would nibble on a Hanging-shelf,
When at
Pontack
's he may
Regale
himself?
Or to the House of cleanly
Renish
go;
Or that at
Charing-Cross,
or that in
Channel-Row?
Do you mark me now? I would by this represent the Vanity of a
Town-Fop,
who pretends to be acquainted at all those good Houses, though perhaps he ne'er was in 'em. But heark! she goes on.
Come, at a Crown a Head our selves we'll treat,
Champain
our Liquor, and
Ragousts
our Meat.
Then hand in hand we'll go to
Court,
dear
Cuz,
To visit
Bishop Martin,
and
King Buz.
With
Evening Wheels
we'll drive about the
Park,
Finish at
Locket
's, and reel home
'th' Dark.
Break clattering Windows, and demolish Doors
Of English Manufactures—Pimps, and Whores.
Pag. 63.
Methinks a
Pimp
or a
Whore,
is an odd sort of a
Manufacture,
Mr.
Bayes.
I call 'em so, to give the
Parliament
a hint not to suffer so many of 'em to be exported, to the decay of Trade at home.
With these Allurements
Spotted
did invite
From
Hermits Cell,
the
Female Proselyte.
Oh! with what ease we follow such a Guide,
Where Souls are starv'd, and Senses gratifi'd.
Now would not you think she's going? But I'gad, you're mistaken; you shall hear a long Argument
bout Infallibility, before she stirs yet.
Page 69.
But here the
White,
by
Observation wise
▪
Who long on Heaven had fixt her
prying
Eyes.
With thoughtful Countenance, and grave Remark,
Said, or my Judgment fails me, or 'tis dark.
Lest therefore we should stray, and not go right,
Through the
brown horrour
of the Starless Night,
Pag. 37.
Hast thou
Infallibility, that Wight?
Sternly the Savage grin'd, and thus reply'd:
That Mice may err, was never yet deny'd.
That I deny, said the Immortal Dame,
Pag. 37.
There is a Guide—Gad, I've forgot his Name.
Who lives in
Heaven
or
Rome,
the Lord know
where,
Spotted Mouse Loquitur.
Had we but him, Sweet-heart, we could not err.
But heark you, Sister, this is but a Whim;
For still we want a
Guide
to find out Him.
Here you see I don't trouble my self to keep on the Narration, but write
white Speak
or
dappl
Speaks
by the side. But when I get any nobl
Thought which I envy a
Mouse
should say, I clap it down in my own Person with a
Po
ta Loquitur
;
Page 69▪
which, take notice, is a surer sign of a fi
e thing in my Writings, than a Hand in the Magent anywhere else. Well, now says
White,
What need we find Him, we have certain proof
That he is somewhere,
Dame,
and that's enough:
For if there is a
Guide
that knows the way,
Although we know not him, we cannot stray.
That's true, I'gad: Well said
White.
You se
her Adversary has nothing to say for her self, and therefore to confirm the Victory, she shall make
Simile.
Why then I find Similes are as good after Victory, as after a Surprize.
Every Jot, I'gad, or rather better. Well, she can do it two ways,
Pag. 37.
either about
Emission
or
Reception
of Light, or else about
Epsom-waters,
but I think the last is most familiar; therefore speak, my pretty one.
As though 'tis controverted in the
School,
If
Waters
pass by
Urine
or by
Stool.
Shall we who are
Philosophers,
thence gather
From this Dissention that they work by neither.
And I'gad, she's in the right on't; but mind now, she comes upon her swop!
All this I did, your Arguments to try.
And I'gad, if they had been never so good, this next Line confutes 'em.
Hear, and be dumb, thou Wretch,
Pag. 54.
that Guide am I.
There's a Surprize for you now! How sneakingly t'other looks? Was not that pretty now, to make her ask for a
Guide
first, and then tell her she was one? Who could have thought that this little
Mouse
had the
Pope
and a whole
General Council
in her Belly? Now
Dapple
had nothing to say to this; and therefore you'll see she grows peevish.
Come leave your Cracking Tricks, and as they say,
Use not, that Barber that trims time, delay
Which I'gad is new, and my own.
I've Eyes as well as you to find the way.
Pag. 101.
Then on they jogg'd,
and since an Hour of Talk
Might cut a Banter
on the tedious Walk
;
As I remember, said the sober
Mouse,
I've heard mu
h talk of the
Wits Coffee House.
Thither, says
B
indle,
thou shalt go, and se
Priests
sipping
Coffee, Sparks
and
Poets Tea
;
Here rugged Freeze, there Quality well drest,
These baffling the
Grand-Seigniour
; those the
Test.
And hear shrew'd Guesses made, and Reasons given,
Pag. 111.
That humane Laws were never made in Heaven.
But above all, what shall oblige thy Sight,
And fill thy Eye-B
lls with a vast Delight;
Is the
Poetic Judge
of Sacred
Wit,
Who do's i' th'
Darkness of his Glory sit.
Pag. 28.
And as the Moon who first receives the Light,
With which she m
kes these neither R
gions bright;
So does he shine, refl
cting from afar,
The Rays he borrow'd from a better Star:
For Rules which from
Corneille
and
Rapin
flow,
Admir'd by all the scribling Herd below.
From
French Tradition
while he does dispence,
Unerring Truths, 'tis Schism, a damn'd Offence,
To question his, or trust your private Sense.
Hah! Is not that right, Mr.
Johnson?
Gad forgive me he is fast asleep! Oh the damn'd Stupidity of this Age! asl
ep! Well, Sir, Since you'r so drousy, your humble Servant.
Nay, Pray Mr.
Bayes,
Faith I heard you all the while.
The White Mouse.
The White Mouse! ay, ay, I thought how you heard me. Your Servant, Sir, your Servant.
Nay, Dear
Bayes,
Faith I beg thy Pardon, I was up late last Night, Prithee lend me a little Snuff, and go on.
Go on! Pox, I don't know where I was, well I'll begin. Here, mind, now they are both come to Town.
But now at
Peccadille
they arrive,
And taking Coach, t'wards
Temple Bar
they drive;
But at St.
Clement
's
Church,
eat out the Back;
And slipping through the
Palsgrave,
bilkt poor
Hack.
There's the
Utile
which ought to be in all Poetry, Many a
Young Templer
will save his Shilling by this Stratagem of my Mice.
Why, will any
Young Templer
eat out
he Back of a Coach?
No, I'gad, but you'll grant it is mighty natural for a Mouse.
Thence to the
Devil,
and ask'd if
Chanticleer,
Of Clergy kind,
or Counsellor
Chough
was there;
Pag. 133.
Or Mr.
Dove,
a Pigeon of Renown,
By his high Crop, and corny Gizzard known,
Pag. 126.
Or Sister
Partle
,
with the Hooded Head;
Pag. 130.
No, sir. She's
hooted hence,
said
Will,
and fled.
Why so?
Because she would not pray a-Bed.
aside.
'Sdeath! Who can keep awake at
uch Stuff? Pray, Mr.
Bayes,
lend me your Box
gain.
Mr.
Johnson,
How d'e like that Box?
ray take notice of it, 'twas given me by a
Per
n
of
Honour
for looking over a Paper of Verses;
nd indeed I put in all the Lines that were worth
ny thing in the whole Poem. Well, but where
ere we? Oh! Here they are, just going up
airs into the
Apollo
; from whence my White
kes occasion to talk very well of
Tradition.
Thus to the Place where
Johnson
sat we climb,
Learning on the same Rail that guided him▪
And whilst we thus on equal Helps rely,
Our Wit must be as true, our Thoughts as high.
Pag. 45.
For as an
Author
happily compares
Tradition
to a well-fixt pair of
Stairs,
So this the
Scala Sancta
we believe,
By which his
Traditive Genius
we receive.
Thus every step I take my Spirits soar,
And I grow more a
Wit,
and more, and more.
There's Humour! Is not that the liveliest Imag
in the World of a Mouse's going up a pair of Stairs
More a Wit, and more and more?
Mr.
Bayes,
I beg your Pardon heartily I must be rude, I have a particular Engagemen
at this time, and I see you are not near an en
yet.
Gods
kers! Sure you won't serve me so All my finest Descriptions and best Discourse is ye
to come.
Troth, Sir, if 'twere not an Extraordinary concern I could not leave you.
Well; but you shall take a little more and here I'll pass over two dainty
Episodes
of
Swallows, Swifts, Chickens,
and
Buzzards.
I know not why they should come in except to make yours the longest
Fable
that eve
was told.
Why, the Excellence of a
Fable
is in th
Length of it.
Aesop
indeed, like a Slave as h
was, made little, short, simple Stories, with a dr
Moral at the end of 'em; and could not form an
Noble Design. But here I give you
Fable
upo
Fable
; and after you are satisfied with Beasts i
the first Course, serve you up a delicate Dish o
Fowl for the second; now I was at all this pains t
buse one particular Person; for I'gad I'll tell you what a Trick he serv'd me. I was once translating
very good
French Author,
Varillas;
but being something
ong about it, as you know a Man is not always in
he Humour; What does this
Jack
do, but puts out
n Answer to my Friend before I had half finished
he Translation: So there was three whole Months
ost upon his Account. But, I think, I have my Revenge on him sufficiently, for I let all the World
now, that he is a
tall, broad back'd, lusty Fellow,
Pag. 137.
of a
Brown Complexion, fair Behaviour,
a
Fluent
ongue,
and
taking
amongst the
Women
; and to
op it all, that he's much a
Scholar,
more a
Wit,
nd owns but
two Sacraments.
Don't you think
his Fellow will hang himself? But besides, I have
o nickt his Character in a Name as will make you
plit. I call him—I'gad I won't tell you unless remember what I said of him.
Why, that he was much a
Scholar,
and more a
Wit
—
Right; and his Name is
Buzzard,
Ha! ha! ha.
Very proper indeed, Sir.
Nay, I have a farther fetch in it yet
han perhaps you imagine; for his true Name begins with a
B,
which makes me sl
ly contrive him
his, to begin with the same Letter: There's a
retty Device, Mr.
Johnson
; I learn'd it, I must
eeds confess, from that ingenious Sport, I love my Love with an
A,
because she's
Amiable
; and
you could but get a Knot of merry Fellows to
ether, you should see how
little Bayes
would top
m all at it, I'gad.
Well, but good Faith, Mr.
Bayes,
I
ust leave you, I am half an hour past my time.
Well, I've done, I've done. Here are
ght hundred Verses upon a rainy Night, and
Bird's-Nest; and here's three hundred more, Translated from two
Paris Gazettes,
in which th
Spotted Mouse
gives an account of the Treaty
Peace between the
Czars
of
Muscovy,
and th
Emperour,
which is a piece of News.
White
do
not believe, and this is her Answer. I am resolv
you shall hear it, for in it I have taken occasion
prove
Oral Tradition
better than
Scripture.
No
you must know. 'tis sincerely my Opinion, that
had been better for the World, if we ne'er had an
Bibles
at all.
E'er that
Gazette
was printed, said the
White,
Our Robin
told another Story quite;
This
Oral Truth
more safely I believ'd,
My Ears cannot, your Eyes may be deceiv'd.
By word of Mouth unerring Maxims flow,
And
Preaching
's best, if understood, or no.
Pag.
.
Words I confess
bound by, and trip so light,
We have not time to take a steady sight;
Yet fleeting thus are plainer than when writ,
To long Examination they submit.
Hard things—Mr.
Smith.,
if these two Lin
don't recompence your stay, ne'er trust
John Bay
again.
Hard things at the frist Blush are clear and full,
Pag. 15.
God mends on second thoughts,
but Man grows du
I'gad, I judge all Men by my self, 'tis so wi
me, I never strove to be very exact in any thi
but I spoil'd it.
But allowing your Character to be tru
is it not a little too severe?
'Tis no matter for that, these gene
Reflections are daring, and savour most of a
No
Genius,
that spares neither
Friend
nor
Foe.
Are you never afraid of a drubbing for that
daring
of your
Noble Genius
?
Afraid! Why,
Lord,
you make so much of a Beating, I'gad, 'tis no more to me than a Flea biting. No, no, if I can but be witty upon 'em, let 'em 'en lay on, I'faith, I'll ne'er baulk my Fancy to save my Carkass. Well, but we must dispatch, Mr.
Smith.
Thus did they merrily carouse all day,
And like the gaudy Fly their Wings display;
And sip the Sweets, and bask in great
Apollo
's ray.
Well, there's an end of the Entertainment; and Mr.
Smith,
if your Affairs would have permitted, you would have heard the best
Bill of Fare
that ever was serv'd up in
Heroicks
: But here follows a Dispute shall recommend it self, I'll say nothing for it. For
Dapple,
who you must know was a
Protestant,
all this while trusts to her own Judgment, and foolishly dislikes the Wine; upon which our
Innocent
does so run her down, that she has not one word to say for her self, but what I put in her Mouth; and I'gad, you may imagine they won't be very good ones, for she has disoblig'd me, like an
Ingrate.
Sirrah,
says
Brindle,
Thou hast brought us Wine,
Sour to my Tast, and to my Eyes unfine.
Says
Will,
all
Gentlemen
like it, ah! says
White,
What is approv'd by them must needs be right.
Tis true, I thought it bad,
Page 38.
but if the House
Commend it, I submit, a private Mouse.
Mind that, mind the
Decorum
and Defference, which our Mouse pays to the Company.
Nor to their
Catholic
Consent oppose
My erring Judgment, and reforming Nose.
Ah! ah! there she has nick't her, that's up to thee Hilts, I'gad, and you shall se
Dapple
res
nts it.
Why, what a Devil shan't I trust my Eyes?
Must I drink
Stum
bec
use the
Rascal
lyes?
And palms upon
Catholic
Consent,
To give
sophisticated Brewings
vent.
5.
Says
White,
What ancient Evidence can sway,
If you must Argue thus and not obey?
Drawers
must be trusted, th
ough whose hands convey'd,
You take the
Liquor,
or you spoil the
Trade.
For sure those
Honest Fellows
have no knack
Of pu
ting of
stum'd Clar
t
for
Pon
ack.
How long, alas! would the poor Vintner last,
If all that drink must
judge,
and every
Guest
Be allowed to have an understanding
ast
?
Thus she: Nor could the Panther well inlarge,
With weak defence against so strong a Charge.
There I call her a
Panther,
because she'
spotted, which is such a Blot to the
Reformation,
as I warrant 'em they will never claw off, I'gad.
But with a
weary Yawn
th
t shew'd her Pride,
Said,
Spotless
was a
Villain,
and she
lyed.
White
saw her
canker'd Malice
at that Word,
And said her Prayers, and dr
w her
Delphic Sword
T'other cry'd
Murther,
and her
Rage restrain'd
:
And thus her passive Character maintain'd.
But now alas!—
Mr.
Johnson,
Pray mind me this; Mr.
Smith
you to stay no longer, for this that follow is so engaging; hear me but two Lines, I'gad, and go away afterwards if you can.
But now, alas, I grieve, I grieve to tell
What sad Mischance these
pretty things
befel
These Birds of Beasts.—
There's a tender Expression,
Birds of Beasts:
'tis the greatest Affront that you can put upon any
Bird,
to call it,
Beast of a Bird
:
Pag. 129.
and a
Beast
is so fond of being call'd a
Bird,
as you can't imagine.
These Birds of Beasts,
these learned Reas'ning Mice,
Were separated, banish'd in a trice.
Who would be learned for their sakes, who wise?
Ay, who indeed? There's a
Pathos,
I'gad, Gen
lemen, if that won't move you, nothing will, I can assure you: But here's the sad thing I was
fraid of.
The
Constable
alarm'd by this Noise,
Enter'd the Room, directed by the Voice,
And speaking to the
Watch, with Head aside,
Pag. 135.
Said, Desperate Cures must be to desperate Ills apply'd.
Th
se
Gentlemen,
for so their Fate decrees,
Can n
'er enjoy at once
the But and Peace.
Pag. 115. Pag. 144.
hen
ach have separate Interests of their own,
Two Mice are one too many for a Town.
By Schism
they are torn; and therefore,
Brother,
ok you to one, and I'll secure the t'other.
w whither
Dapple
did to
Bridewell
go,
O
in the
Stocks
all Night her Fingers blow,
Pag. 98.
Or in the
Compter
lay, concerns not us to know.
ut the
immortal Matron, spotless White,
orgetting
Dapple
's Rudeness, Malice, Spight,
ook'd kindly back, and wept, and said,
Good Night.
Pag. 145.
Ten thousand Watchmen waited
on this Mouse,
With Bills, and Halberde, to her Country-House.
This last Contrivance I had from a judicious Author, that makes
Ten thousand Angels
wait upon hi
Hind,
and she asleep too, I'gad.—
Come, let's see what we have to pay.
What a Pox, are you in such hast? Yo
han't told me how you like it.
Oh, extreamly well. Here, Drawer.
FINIS.
THE EAGLE and the ROBIN. AN APOLOGUE.
ranslated from the Original of
Aesop,
written Two Thousand Years since, and now rendred in familiar Verse. By
H. G.
L. Mag. With an OLD CAT'S PROPHECY.
ken out of an Old Copy of Verses, suppos'd to be writ by
John Lidgate,
a Monk of
Bury.
LONDON.
nted and Sold by
H. Hills,
in
Black-fryars
near the Water-side. 1709.
THE PREFACE,
GOOD Precepts and true Gold are more valuable for their Antiquity. And here I present my good Reader with One, deliver
by the first Founder of
Mythology, Aesop
him
f.
Maximus Planudes
takes Notice of it, as a
ery excellent Part of his Production; and
Phoe
us, Cameratius,
and others, seem to agree, that
s Eagle, and five others not yet translated, are
al to any of his that are handed down to us.
ho' Mr.
Ogleby
and Sir
Roger L'Estrange
had the
nhappiness to be unacquainted with them, yet I
d the good Fortune to discover them by the re
oval of my old Library, which has made me a
ends for the Trouble of getting to where I now each. They were Written, or Dictated at least,
Aesop,
in the fifty fourth Olympiad: And tho' I
signed them chiefly for the use of my School, (this
ing translated by a Youth design'd for a
Greek
Pro
ssor,) yet no Man is so Wise as not to need Instru
ion, ay, and by the way of Fable too; since the
doly Scriptures themselves, the best Instructors,
ach us by way of Parable, Symbol, Image and
igure; and
David
was more moved with
Nathan
's —
Thou art the Man.
than all the most rigid Lectures in the World would have done. Whoeve
will be at the Trouble of comparing this Vers
with the Original, let them begin at the tenth Lin
and they will find it Metaphrastically done,
Verbu
verbo,
as the best way of Justice to the Author.
Those that are meer Adorers of
w
not be angry that it is in this sort of Metre, s
which I gave leave, the Lad having a turn to th
sort of Measure, which is Pleasant and Agreeabl
tho' not Lofty. For my own part, I concur with m
Master
Aristotle,
that
, are ve
far from being unnecessary or unpleasant.
May this be of use to thee, and it will please.
Thine in all good Wishes, Horat. Gran
THE EAGLE and the ROBIN. A FABLE.
A Lady liv'd in former Days,
That well deserv'd the utmost Praise;
For Greatness, Birth, and Justice fam'd,
nd every Virtue cou'd be nam'd.
Which made her course of Life so even,
hat she's a Saint (if dead) in Heaven.
This Lady had a little Seat
st like a Palace, 'twas so neat,
om ought (but Goodness) her Retreat.
One Morning in her giving way,
s was her Custom ev'ry Day,
o cheer the Poor, the Sick and Cold,
r with Apparel, Fookd, or Gold,
here came a gazing Stranger by,
n whom she quickly cast an Eye.
The Man admiring, made a stand;
e had a Bird upon his Hand:
What's that, says she, that hangs it Head,
nking and faint? 'Tis almost dead.
adam, a
Red-Breast
that I found,
this Wet Season almost drown'd.
h! bring him in, and keep him warm;
obins
do never any harm.
They soon obey'd, and chopt him Meat,
Gave him whatever he wou'd Eat;
The Lady Care her self did take,
And made a Nest for
Robin
's sake:
But he perkt up into her Chair,
In which he plenteously did fare,
Assuming quite another Air.
The Neighbours thought, when this they spy'd,
The World well mended on his side.
With well-tun'd Throat he whistl'd long,
And every body lik'd his Song;
At last, said they, this little Thing
Will kill it self, so long to sing.
Well, Closet him among the rest
Of those my Lady loves the best;
They little thought, that saw him come,
That
Robins
were so quarrelsome:
The Door they open'd, in he pops,
And to the highest Perch he hops;
The party-colour'd Birds he chose.
The
Gold-Finches,
and such as those;
With them he'd Peck, and Bill, and Feed,
And very well (at times) agreed:
Canary
Birds were his Delight,
With them he'd Test a Test all Night;
But the brown
Linnets
went to pot,
He kill'd 'em all upon the spot.
The Servants were employ'd each Day,
Instead of Work, to part some Fray,
And wisht the aukard Fellow curst
That brought him to my Lady first.
At last they all resolv'd upon't,
Some way to tell my Lady on't.
Mean while he'd had a noble Swing,
And rul'd just like the
Galli
King;
Having kill'd or wounded all,
Unless the
Eagle
in the Hall;
With whom he durst but only Jar▪
He being the very Soul of War:
But hated him for his Desert,
And bore him Malice at his Heart.
This
Eagle
was my Lady's Pride,
The Guardian Safety of her Side:
He often brought home Foreign Prey,
Which humbly at her Feet he lay.
For Colour, Pinions and Stature,
The fairest Workmanship of Nature.
Twou'd do one good to see him move,
o full of Grandeur, Grace and Love:
He was indeed a Bird for
Jove.
He soar'd aloft in
Brucum
's Field,
And thousand
Kites
and
Vultures
kill'd;
Which made him Dear to all that flew,
(Unless to
Robin
and his Crew)
One Day poor
Bob,
puff'd up with Pride,
Thinking the Combat to abide,
A Goose-quill on for Weapon ty'd,
Knowing by Use, that, now and then,
A Sword less Hurt do's than a Pen.
As for Example—What at home
You've well contriv'd, to do at
Rome,
A Pen blows up—before you come.
You are suppos'd to undermine
The Foe,—in some immense Design.
A Pen can bite you with a Line;
There's forty ways to give a Sign.
Well,—all on Fire away he stalk'd,
Till come to—where the
Eagle
walk'd.
Bob
did not shill I shall I go,
Nor said one word of Friend or Foe;
But flirting at him made a Blow,
As Game-Cocks with their Gauntlets do.
At which the
Eagle
gracefully
Cast a disdaining, sparkling Eye;
As who should say,—What's this, a Flie?
But no Revenge at all did take,
He spar'd him for their Lady's sake;
Who ponder'd these things in her Mind,
And took the Conduct of the
Eagle
kind.
Upon Reflection now—to shew
What harm the least of things may do,
Mad
Robin,
with his cursed Flirt,
One of the
Eagle
's
amongst the
Greeks,
signifies Honour as tender the Eye.
Eyes had hurt;
Inflam'd it, made it red and sore:
But the Affront inflam'd it more.
Oh! how the Family did tear,
To fire the House could scarce forbear:
With Scorn (not Pain) the
Eagle
fir'd,
Murmur'd Disdain, and so retir'd.
Robin,
to offer some Relief,
In words like these would heal their Grief.
Shou'd th'
Eagle
die,—which Heav'n forbid,
We ought some other to provide.
I do not say that any now
Are fit, but in a Year or Two.
And shou'd this mighty Warrior fall,
They shou'd not want a General.
As Men have long observ'd, that one
Misfortune seldom comes alone;
Just in the Moment this was done,
Ten Thousand Foes in sight were come.
Vultures,
and
Kites,
and Birds of Prey,
In Flocks so thick—they darken'd Day.
A long-concerted Force and strong,
Vermin of all kinds made the Throng;
Foxes, were in the Faction join'd,
Who waited their Approach to ground.
By every Hand, from common Fame,
The frightful Face of Danger came.
One cries, What help now—who can tell?
I'm glad the
Eagle
's here, and well:
Another, out of Breath with fear,
Says, Thousands more near Sea appear;
They'll swop our Chickens from the Door.
We never were so set before:
We are glad the
Eagle
will forget,
And the Invaders kill or beat.
Reserv'd and Great, his Noble Mind
Above all petty things inclin'd;
Abhor'd the Thoughts of any thing,
But what his Lady's Peace cou'd bring.
Who Blest him first, and bad him do,
As he was wont, and beat the Foe.
Burning and restless as the Sun,
Until this willing Work was done;
He whets his Talons, stretcht his Wings,
His Lightning, Darts, and Terror flings:
Tow'rs with a flight into the Sky,
These Million Monsters to descry,
Prepar'd to Conquer, or to Dye.
The Party, that so far was come,
Thought not the
Eagle
was at home:
To Fame and Danger used in Field,
They knew he'd quickly made 'em yield:
But on Assurance he was near,
Incumber'd, Faint, and Dead with fear;
They made with Hurry towards the Lakes,
And he his Pinions o'er 'em shakes;
They had not (with such Horrour fill'd)
The Courage to let one be kill'd:
They fled, and left no Foe behind,
Unless it were the fleeting Wind:
Only—a Man by Water took
Two fine young
Merlins,
and a
Roo
The Family had now Repose:
But with the Sun the
Eagle
rose;
Th' Imperial Bird pursu'd the Foe,
More Toil than Rest inur'd to know.
He wing'd his Way to
Latian
Land,
Where first was hatch'd this murd'ring Band;
He darted Death where-e'er he came,
Some of 'em dying at his Name.
Their mighty Foe—a fatal Pledge,
Their Bowels tore thro' ev'ry Hedge:
They Flutter, Shriek, and Caw, and Hiss;
Their Strength decays, and Fears increase:
But most the
Chevaliers,
the
Geese.
So many slaughter'd Fowl there was,
Their Carkasses blockt up the Ways;
The rest he drove, half spent, Pell-mell,
Quite to the Walls of
Pontifell.
Robin
at home, tho' mad to hear
He should so Conquer every where,
Expostulated thus with Fear.
Ungrateful I, that so have stir'd
Against this Generous, Noble Bird,
Wast thou not first by him preferr'd?
Let's leave him in his Gall to burn,
And back to
Pontifell
return.
There some to Chimney-Tops aspire,
To Turrets some that cou'd fly higher;
Some 'bove a Hundred Miles were gone,
To Roost them at
Byzantium.
Alas! in vain was their Pretence,
He broke thro' all their strong Defence:
Down went their Fences, Wires and all;
Perches and Birds together fall.
None hop'd his Power to withstand,
But gave the Nest to his Command;
They told him of Ten Thousand more,
In Flocks along the
Ganges
Shore:
Safe in their Furrows, free from Trouble,
Like
Partridges
among the Stubble▪
He spreads himself, and cuts the Air,
And steady Flight soon brought him there.
Lord, how deceiv'd and vext he was!
To find they were but meer
Jackdaws.
A Hundred Thousand all in sight,
They all could Chatter, not one Fight.
I'll deal by them as is their due:
Shough, cry'd the
Eagle
; off they flew.
His flashing Eyes their Hearts confounds,
Tho' by their flight secure from Wounds;
Which was a signal, fatal Baulk,
To a late swift
Italian Hawk.
The
Eagle
wou'd no Rest afford,
Till he had sent my Lady word;
Who when she heard the dear Surprise,
Wonder and Joy stood in her Eyes.
My Faithful
Eagle,
hast thou then
My Mortal Foes destroy'd again?
Return, return, and on me wait;
Be thou the Guardian of my Gate;
Thee and thy Friends are worth my Care,
Thy Foes (if any such there are)
Shall my avenging Anger share.
So—lest new Ills shou'd intervene,
She turn'd the
Robin
out again.
The
Samians
now in vast Delight,
Bless their good Lady Day and Night;
Wish that her Life might ne'er be done,
But Everlasting as the Sun.
The
Eagle
high again did soar,
The Lady was disturb'd no more,
But all things flourish'd as before.
Robin Red Breast,
with the Beasts.
ONE that had in her Infant State,
While playing at her Father's Gate,
Seen, and was most hugely smitten
With young Dog and dirty Kitten,
Had took them up and lug'd 'em in,
And made the Servants wash 'em clean.
When she to a fit Age was grown,
To be sole Mistress of her own,
Then to her Favour and strange Trust,
She rais'd these two; in rank the first
The Dog: who with gilt Collar grac'd,
Strutted about. The Cat was plac'd
O'er all the House to domineer,
And kept each Wight of her in fear;
While he o'er all the Plains had pow'r.
That savage Wolves might not devour
Her Flocks. She gave him charge great Care
To take: But Beasts uncertain are.
Now see by these what Troubles rise
To those who in their Choice unwise
Put trust in such; for he soon join'd
With Beasts of Prey the Dog combin'd,
Who kill'd the Sheep, and tore the Hind:
While he would stand, and grin and bark,
Concealing thus his Dealings dark.
A Wolf, or so, sometimes he'd take,
And then, O what a Noise he'd make!
But with wild Beasts o'er-run yet are
The Plains: Some die for want of Fare,
Or torn, or kill'd; the Shepherds find
Each day are lost of ev'ry kind.
Thy silly Sheep lament in vain,
Of their hard Fate, not him complain▪
The Shepherds, and the Servants all,
Against the Traitor loudly baul:
But there was none that dar'd to tell
Their Lady what to them befel;
For Puss, a Fox of wondrous Art,
Brought in to help, and take their part,
By whose Assistance to deceive,
She made her ev'ry Lye believe.
One lucky Day, when she was walking
In her Woods, with Servants talking,
And stop'd to hear how very well
A Red-Breast sung, then him to dwell
With her she call'd: He came, and took
His place next to a Fav'rite Rook.
Where
Robin
soon began to sing
Such Songs as made the House to ring;
He sung the Loss and Death of Sheep,
In Notes that made the Lady weep:
How for his Charge the Dog unfit,
Took part with Foes, and Shepherds bit;
Ev'n from his Birth he did him trace,
And shew him Cur of shabby Race;
The first by wandring Beggars fed,
His Sire advanc'd, turn'd Spit for Bread;
Himself each trust had still abus'd;
To steal what he should guard, was us'd
From Puppy: known where-e'er he came,
Both vile and base, and void of Shame.
The Cat he sung that none could match
or venom'd Spite, or cruel Scratch;
That from a Witch transform'd she came,
Who kitten'd three of equal Fame:
This first, one dead, of Tabby Fur
The third survives, much Noise of her
Had been: A Cat well known, with ease
On Errands dark, o'er Land and Seas,
She'd Journeys take to Cub of Bear,
From these intriguing Beasts, who swear
They'll bring him to defend the Wrong
That they have done. Again he sung,
How Tabby once, in Moon-light Night,
Trotted with Letter Fox did write;
In which he sends his best Respects
To the She-Bear, and thus directs:
"Madam, said he, your Cub safe send,
"None shall his Worship soon offend;
"It's all I can at present do
"To serve him, as his Friends well know.
At this the Beasts grew in such Rage,
That none their Fury could assuage;
Nay, Puss her Lady would have scratch'd,
And tore her Eyes, but she was watch'd;
For she'd set up her Back, and mew,
And thrice ev'n in her Face she flew.
The Dog, like an ungrateful Spark,
At her would dare to snarl and bark.
Her Tenants wondring stood to hear
That she their Insolence would bear;
And offer'd their Assistance to
Soon make them better manners know:
But she, to avoid all farther Rout;
Her Window opening, turn'd
Bob
out;
Hoping that then her Beasts would live
In Peace, and no Disturbance give.
Yet nothing she can do avails,
Their Rage against her still prevails▪
Tho' Puss was warn'd to fear their Fate
n Lines (by old Prophetick Cat,
Writ before her Transformation,
When she was in the Witch's Station)
Foretelling thus: "When Beasts are grown
"To certain heights, before unknown
"Of Human Race, some shall aloud
"Inflame and arm a dreadful Croud,
"Who in vast Numbers shall advance,
"And to new Tunes shall make them dance:
"When this begins, no longer hope,
"For all remains is Ax and Rope.
But not deter'd by this they dar'd,
With some who of their Plunder shar'd,
T' affront their Lady, and conspire
To many with her Money hire,
Contemning her, to pay undue
Regards unto this Bestial Crew:
Tho' these resembled Human Shapes,
They were indeed no more than Apes;
Who some in House, and some in Wood,
And others in high Boxes stood,
That chatt'ring made such noise and stir,
How all was due to Fox and Cur:
Till by their false deluding way,
She found her Flocks begin to stray.
Still
Robin
does for her his Care
And Zeal express, on whom yet are
His thoughts all fix'd. On her he dreams
Each Night. Her Praises are his Themes
n Songs all day. Now perch'd on Tree,
Finding himself secure and free,
He pertly shakes his little Wings;
ets up his Throat: Again he sings,
That she had left no other way
o save her Flocks, and end this Fray▪
But soon to her Assistance take
One who could make these Monsters shake;
A well-known Huntsman who has Skill
The fiercest Beasts to tame or kill:
At her Command he'd come, and he
Would make her great, and set them free;
That should these Beasts some evil day
Bring Cub into her Grounds, she may
Depend that not her self they'll spare,
Since to insult her now they dare:
All she at best can hope for then,
Is to be safe shut up in Den;
Since by sure signs all these Ingrate
Are known to bear her deadly Hate.
He ends his Song, and prays to Heaven,
That she may have the Wisdom given,
Before it be too late to take
Such Resolutions, as may make
Her safe, and that these Beasts no more
To ravage in the Plains have pow'r.
FINIS.
A HYMN TO PEACE.
ccasion'd, by the Two Houses Joining in One
Address
to the QUEEN.
BY THE Author of the
True-born English-Man.
LONDON: Printed in the Year MDCCIX.
A HYMN TO PEACE.
HAIL Image, of th' Eternal Mind,
The only perfect Blessing of Mankind;
Thou Emblem of the Sacred Rest,
And surest Pledge, it shall be once possess'd;
Where e're thou dwellest, 'tis always Calm and Clear,
Bright like thy Glorious self and Fair:
No Clouds thy Heavenly Climates know,
Thou find'st it all Serene, or mak'st it so.
If Nations thou, or Souls hast once possess'd,
From all their Broils and Burthens they're releas'd,
All Human Happiness attends on thee,
In Gaol thou sets the Pris'ner Free,
f thou Unlock'st the Fetters of the Mind,
spight of Bars and Bolts 'tis unconfin'd.
Tell us, bright Nymph, by what strange Art,
Thou fan'st the heated Souls of Men Oppress'd;
Cool'st all the Fury of the Heart,
And guid'st the Mind to Light and Rest?
Tell us, Great Interposing Something, how,
To thy Great Influence, all the Passions bow;
How thou deny'st the Gust of sweet Revenge,
Can'st all to Calms and Softness change?
In the least Moment act thy part,
And lock up all the
Lab'rinths
of the Heart?
Fill'd with just Rage, the Furious Sp'rits take Arms,
When Injury and Power to hurt Combine,
What Mind can once resist th' Unhappy Charms,
Where wish'd Revenge, with wish'd Occasion join.
When the Exasperated Passions rage,
And all the Man against himself Engage;
The mighty Tempests rise within,
And strong Convulsions, act the swelling Spleen.
When Fury leads him to the Fatal Brink,
Thou turn'st him round but once, and mak'st him think;
The Ungovern'd Wretch in Arms appears,
Against his Eyes, against his Ears;
Judges of nothing, Scorns his Sence,
Lampoons his Nature, Bullies Providence;
Headlong he seeks to give his Fury vent,
Bursting with Rage, and swell'd with Discontent.
Then thy soft showers distill upon the Soul,
And all the Frenzy of the Mind controul;
Reduce the Wretch, by Rage and Passions blind,
To Exercise the Opticks of his Mind;
Thy balmy Dews, the raging Storms restrain,
And Cool the Fermentations of his Brain;
Assisting Reason in her just Defence,
And Hand in Hand, Conduct him to his Sense;
Disperses all the Vapours that remain,
Brings him to act, and so restores the Man.
Touch'd with thy Scepters Golden point,
The Hypochondraick Poisons lose their Taint;
Th' Infecting Venome of inflam'd desire,
Flows back, and of it self puts out the Fire:
The Soul returns to Rectitude, and shows,
That Heaven within, from whence that Influence flows.
Blest Peace! May every Soul that knows thy Name,
an thy just Fires and keep alive the Flame;
o their due Homage, to thy Blessing pay,
o banish Storms, and banish Crimes away.
Hail, Virgin Peace, thou Branch of Innocence,
How art thou sunk in early Crimes of Men,
How hard to be restor'd again,
And only art obtain'd in Penitence.
Thou bright
Effluvium,
of the Heavenly Ray,
reat Emanation, from Eternal Day;
The Guilty only from thee run,
Like Storms and Darkness from the Sun;
Darkness and Storms, with Guilty pace,
ee from the Glorious Lustre of thy Face,
And Hell it self's Enrag'd to know,
hy Absence helps to make her so.
When Men by Pride, and wild Ambition led,
or wild Ambition, oft distracts the Head;
Contend for Trifles, and make War,
To be less Happy than they are.
hen thus against their Native Happiness,
hey Fight with
Plenty,
and fall out with
Peace
;
ow soon does War, its vile Effects Explain,
nd his own Miseries inform the Man;
Damn'd to Repentance, and his Fate
Shows him his Follies, but too late.
With Crowds of consequential Harms Oppress'd,
He Learns the Sweetness of unvalu'd Rest,
But Learns it at a price so Dear,
As makes his Early Follies soon appear:
Both sides well Beaten, call for Peace,
And find too late their Happiness.
Their Mutual Mischiefs, Mutual Wits restore,
And show them both, that both were Fools before;
Then,
Godd
ss,
to thy Courts they sue,
With Penitence, most likely to be true,
For none Repent, like those that feel,
The Smart of doing Ill.
Blest
Peace!
when Heaven, for Crimes of Guil
y Me
Commands thy Absence, whether do Nations run!
Kindoms in Tumults, and Confusions Dye,
And sink in
Undirected Anarchy.
Societies with Justice cease,
For what's our Property, without our Peace?
Contentions all Prosperity invade,
Like two fixt Stocks, to one
East-India
Trade;
Both Languish, while they strive and Fight,
And both Succeed, when they Unite.
Not Heaven it self, could Strife of Parties bear,
The first Attempt Un-Angel'd
Lucifer
;
The mighty Seraph from his Glory fell,
And want of PEACE made up his Hell.
That was the Fire and Brimstone of the Place,
No Thoughts can form a more Distracted Case▪
Not Devils feel worse Punishment,
Nor Words more Terror represent.
Nature in no worse Figure can appear,
'Tis more than Natures self can bear;
Debate no more the Place of Woe,
'Tis Myst'ry all, and best it should be so.
l me no more of wild Philosophy,
ere weak aspiring Nature soars too high;
hich Handmaid Sense, bewilders and Confounds,
With Reasons ill adapted Tools:
Attempts to square th' Extent of Souls,
Men mark Lands, by Butts and Bounds.
Wou'd the Great
Be,
and
not to Be
Divide,
d all the Doubts of
Entity
decide;
e mighty Maze of
Wondrous Nothing
Tread,
d form the wild Ideas in his Head:
ou'd fathom
Chaos,
Life and Sp'rit dissect,
And all Superiour Light reject.
Scorn the mean Helps of Speculations,
d bring down God himself to Demonstrations.
The two Great Ends of Nature twine,
d Generation to Corruption join;
st up the Hours beyond
the Death of Time,
d make the Humane comprehend Sublime;
lineate Heaven, the Hills of Glory show,
d all the Vales of Darkness stretch'd below:
escribe the Depth of these, of those the Height,
Give
the Square-Root
of Infinite;
Unlock the Chain of Cause and Consequence,
Dismiss Almighty Providence;
he Bounds of Bright Eternal Day descry,
nd form a Mathematical Eternity.
'Tis all in Vain, too short the Reach of Sense,
Embrance the high Dimesions of th' Immense:
No Rules can square, what we call GOD,
o Geography describe the
Dark
abode.
Bow, mighty Reason, to thy Maker's Name,
For GOD and PEACE, are just the same;
Heaven is the Emanation of his Face,
nd
want of Peace,
makes
Hell
in every place.
Tell us, ye Men of Notion, tell us why,
You seek for Bliss and wild Prosperity,
In Storms and Tempests, Feuds and War,
Is Happiness to be expected there?
Tell us what sort of Happiness,
Can Men in want of Peace possess?
Blest Charm of
Peace,
how sweet are all those Ho
We spend in thy Society!
Afflictios lose their Acid Powers,
And turn to Joys when join'd to thee.
The Darkest Article of Life with Peace,
Is but the Gates of Happiness;
Death in its blackest shapes can never fright,
Thou can'st see Day, beyond his Night;
The Smile of
Peace,
can Calm the Frown of Fate,
And, spight of Death, can Life Anticipate;
Nay, Hell it self, could it admit of Peace,
Would change its Nature, and its Name would ce
The Bright Transforming Blessing would Destroy
The Life of Death, and Damn the Place to Joy;
'The
Metamorphosis,
would be so strange,
Twould fright the Devils, and make them bless
Chan
Or else the Brightness would be so intense,
They'd shun the Light, and fly from thence.
Let Heaven, that Unknown Happiness,
Be what it will, 'tis best describ'd by Peace.
No Storms without, or Storms within;
No Fear, no Danger there, because no Sin.
'Tis bright Essential Happiness,
Because He dwells within, whose Name is PEAC
Who would not Sacrifice for thee,
All that Men call Felicity!
Since Happiness, is but an empty Name,
A Vapour without Heat or Flame;
But what from thy Original derives,
And Dyes with thee by whom it Lives.
When Kingdoms to the Laws of Peace submit,
What mighty Blessings crowd about her Seat!
Under the Ministry of Peace,
How soon will all a Nations Mischiefs cease!
How soon the Mighty Scepter in her Hand,
Scatters the Plagues and Sorrows of a Land!
From her bright Face how soon,
Will all Oppressions, and Injustice run!
The Plots and Parties of a State,
In her bright Book may quickly read their Fate;
Nations and Men, when to their Sense restor'd,
Will set the Scepter up to Rule the Sword.
Even Hypocrites, to thee pay Sacrifice,
Borrow thy Name for their Disguise;
By thee conceal the Seeds of Strife,
And Sanctify the Villanies of Life.
Thou art the great Pretence of War,
When Tyrants in thy Robes appear,
When Kings by Lust of Rule, and Power misled,
Pamper'd by Providence and over fed;
Fall out for Power to Oppress,
And then pretend 'tis all for PEACE.
Ambition,
that Old Painted Whore of State,
That she may look as Fair as Great;
Wears thy old Cloaths, and in that Gawdy Dress,
With Ease obtains the Name of Peace.
Cloath'd in thy Robes, how Fair she looks and Bright,
And shines Delusive Beams of borrow'd Light.
Makes guilded Injury appear,
With Charms of Right, and Sanctifies the War;
As Princes, when they weaker Powers Oppress,
First give them
Poverty,
then call it
Peace.
War, Devastation, Violence, and Blood,
As guilty Men would have them understood;
All in their turn pretend to
Peace,
And cry out Property, when they Oppress;
Chast Nymph, how is thy Name Prophan'd,
When Villains
tack thee
to their wild Designs;
Till the Unnatural End's obtain'd,
And time the mighty Fraud explains!
In strong Alliance, see the World combin'd.
To Injury and Wrong enclin'd,
The Embattl'd Squadrons, spread the Field of War,
The plunder'd Towns in Flames appear;
The General Ruin like a Flood,
Condemns the ravag'd Plains, to Barrenness and Blood:
The Royal Firebrands o'th' World appear,
And plead the Conscientious Cause of War,
Blast Nations with their wild Success,
And still pretend 'tis all for Peace.
In Ecclesiastick Quarrels 'tis the same,
Where
Hierarchy's
the thing, and Peace the Name;
Th' Enthusiastick Errors mad Men broach,
All cry the Peace and Union of the Church.
The mighty Cheat's in strong Delusions drest,
And Peace becomes the Church's Jest;
The Holy Varnish colours the Deceit,
And
High-Church Projects
work beneath the sacred Cheat.
Thus all the Tyranny of Priests.
Cover'd with Clouds, and Ecclesiastick Mists,
In zealous Masks for Conscience sake oppress,
And damn Mens Souls to purchase Peace.
If Reason prompts an injur
d Land,
To take their due Defence in hand;
If Nations fly to Nature's Laws,
Howe'er provok'd, or whatsoe'er the Cause:
Wild Power drest up like Justice takes the Sword,
Oppressions the Design, and
Peace
the Word;
The Innocent, as for Rebellion, dye,
The double Mask deceives the Eye:
Nations deluded hunt an empty Name,
Abus'd by
ustom, and debauch'd by Fame,
Nature's brought in a Rebel t' her own Laws,
And stoops
o wild Pretence instead of Cause.
Yet Peace is still the same, the Chaste, the Fair,
Her i
tive Beauties will appear:
n spight of Clouds and Counterfeits, her Name
Breaks thro' the Cheat, and well secures her Fame;
Where-e'er her Balmy Couch is spread,
Where-e'er she makes her Flow'ry Bed,
Plenty,
her Handmaid, brings her Clusters in
The grateful Tribute of the Vine:
C
res
brings loaden Sheaves, and
N
ptun
Fleets,
And Foreign Wealth, with Native meets:
Celestial Odours crown her Spicy Bed,
And Rays of Goodness shine about her Head.
Th' Obsequiours Seasons at her Elbow stand,
And Streams of Fulness flow from either Hand.
Th' Enlivening Sun-beams join their chearful Aid,
And wanton Nature sports beneath her Shade.
Blest
Peace,
the highest Treasure Men possess,
How happy are the Nations thou wilt bless!
How doubly Curs'd, if that can be,
And blind to his own Happiness, is he;
That courts eternal Feuds, and loves to Jar;
That sucks in native Strife, and feeds on War;
That covets Storms, and seeks to live in Flames,
And shuns the guilded Streams;
The gentle Calms of thy Pacifick Sea,
Where all's Delight and Harmony!
Next her, the very Image of her Face,
Her Sister
Union
takes her Place;
Twin-births of
Wisdom,
he the Son of Time,
Of Genealogy Sublime:
God like the Race, and of Inlightned Birth,
And rarely,
very rarely
found on Earth.
The genial Flame from Heaven impregnate stands
And all the Kinds of Happiness commands;
No Song their Lustre can reherse.
When hand in hand they gild the Universe:
They make the meanest Actions shine,
And
Humane
Wisdom seems
Divine.
When struggling with the Lusts and Pride of Men,
Peace
strives to bless a Land in vain;
But, crush'd with Clamour and Ungovern'd Rage,
She quits th' Embarrass'd Stage:
When War prevails,
that Frenzy of the Mind,
That
General Lunacy
of all Mankind;
When thus the
Bloody Scenes
are drawn,
And all Restraints are gone;
Reason
and
Justice
quit the Stage,
And Sense it self submits to
Tyrant Rage
;
Her Sister
Union
turns the happy Scale,
'Tis whom she pleases shall prevail;
She only can the Strife decide,
And
byass Vict'ry to the Weakest Side.
Union
is Natures strong Cement,
The
Life
of
Power,
and
Soul
of
Government:
Without it, all the World's a Mob;
Confusion's Universal Monarch of the Globe;
Armies are
Crowds of Lunaticks
got loose,
Whose Power for want of Reason's out of Use;
Meer Hoords of
Tartars,
Wild and Rude,
Dissolv'd in
Mother Multitude.
Even Government it self must Dye,
n Wild Uncultivated Anarchy;
The Bond dissolves,
what should the Parts retain?
When once the
Union
of the whole's Destroy'd;
The Engine's useless, all the Parts remain,
Like
Native Chaos,
Vast and Void.
nion
's, the mighty Guide of Humane Things,
The Bond of Nations, and the
Power of Kings.
Crowns
without thee
sit loose, and Tottering show,
To what strange Influence they their
Safety
owe:
The High Precarious gilded Trifles stand,
ubject to
every Tumults
Vile Command:
The dang'rous Precipice of Discord lies,
The Gulph of Princes, and of Monarchy's;
The Ill supported
State
of Humane Power,
Destroys it self, and
must it self Devour.
ion once broke,
the Power Dissolves of Course,
nd Laws and Constitutions lose their force.
Chaos
Succeeds on either Hand,
None can Obey, and none Command;
he Fate of Government must soon appear,
bble will Govern
here,
or Tyrants
there.
Bright Charming
Sisters, whither are you Fled
?
Where is your bright Pavilion spread?
hat
Halcyon
Climates close your blest Abodes?
'tis with Men,
you make those Men like Gods!
There be my Portion,
with what-e're Mischance,
o Ills can Countervail the Difference,
o Ills can reach the Mind, that Peace secures,
Unmov'd, he Fortunes
Storms
endures.
nd Fortune's
Storms
they
shall endure,
that Place
In thy bless'd
Smiles
their Happiness:
Peace,
while eclips'd with Fear and Doubt,
hey that have most within, have least without.
Of all thy bless'd admiting Train,
'Tis hard that I alone should wish in Vain!
That I at Distance view thy
Shade
;
Am Lean with Expectation made!
When to the World thou mak'st a short return,
Me only thou hast seem'd to shun!
Me thou re-visit'st not; but
Storms
of Men,
Voracious and unsatisfy'd as
Death,
Spoil
in their
Hands,
and
Poison
in the
Breath,
With Rage of
Devils hunt me down,
And to
abate my Peace, destroy their own.
Assassins,
Men of Fire and Blood,
And that worst
Murther, Slander and Reproach,
Ages of Time my
Soul
has stood
The bitter Blasts and Rage of such;
Untainted yet with Vice, at War with Crime,
My strong Appeal's to Truth, to Heaven, and Ti
Besieg'd by Men of Cruelty and
Law,
Who kill by Rules,
and
call
it just,
Who Right with
Cords of Int'rest
draw,
Till Justice is with Humane Rage opprest:
That bind the Hands from Industry,
Pinion the willing Wings, and bid Men fly.
These, like the
Hussars
on the
Rhine,
Whose Plund'rings are Compassions all to mine;
Ravage the Villages,
lay wast the Land,
And still their
Contributions they Demand
;
So first they rifle me
the shortest Way,
And when they've stript me Naked, bid me Pay!
In all their Fury, Rage, and Heat,
My Morning Vows, even for them I make.
I neither seek not wish their Fate,
Within my self,
I find a safe Retreat;
And Peace, no Power of
Hell
can shake.
In forty Gaols, this
Halycon Beam will shine,
The Malice shall be theirs,
the Peace be mine.
'Tis vain to Conquer me by Fear,
I scorn the baseness of Despair;
Brought up in Teaching Sorrows—School,
In Peace and Patience, I possess my Soul;
Am Master of my mind,
And there the Heaven of Satisfaction find.
Let them ten thousand barb'rous Methods try,
When they'll no longer let me live, I'll die;
Of all their Fury I shall have
An Uncontested Conquest in the Grave.
Till then, blest Angel of Eternal Light,
Soft Peace,
be thou the Day's Delight,
Be thou my
Solace
in the Night:
'Tis thou alone inspir'st my
Pen,
And calm'st my
Soul,
and keep'st it smooth within;
Witness the daily Tribute that I pay,
Witness this very Hymn to thee.
The noisie World distracts my Head no more,
Than raging Billows shake the shore;
The Foam and Froth they leave behind,
Tell us there have been Waves and Wind.
But the eternal Bound remains the same,
Fixt by th' Eternal Voice, and like his Name:
Unmov'd, it all their Watry Rage defies,
And sends them back to quarrel with the Air;
So I the Rage of Men despise,
Unmov'd by
Desperation,
or by
Fear.
Firm as the Rocks, in rowling Seas abide,
When Floods of Doubts, and Dangers pass beside:
When Griefs Assault me, or when Comfort flows,
I'm Undepress'd by these, Unrais'd by those;
Mischance can find no Footing to begin,
I'm Calm without, because I'm Clear within.
Enquiring
Poet
search among the dead;
'Tis thither
Peace
and
Union
fled;
However Rivall'd here, they're sure to have,
An uncontroul'd Dominion in the Grave,
There all the
Parties
will unite;
No more for Air and
Shadows
fight,
Enlighten'd by the Change of
Scenes
they see,
Through all our
Politick
Hypocrisie.
All the Religious
Shams
we make,
When we the Nations
Peace,
for trifles break;
Naked and bare Pretence
there are seen,
The empty Shams of
Weak Wise Men.
No Mists of State can cloud those
Skies,
Souls see
without the Agency of Eyes:
Mediums
and
Hieroglyphick Nature
cease,
And all Men know what all will not possess.
The Vails of thin Mortality withdrawn,
A bright eternal Day begins to Dawn.
A different Face of things appears in View,
And all false glimmering Lights, give way to true▪
Actions of Men,
howe're conceal'd, must there,
In all their
Native Nudities
appear.
There Hypocrites will freely cease,
To watch for Blood, and cant of
Peace.
Unhappy
England
! How from thee,
Do crowds of blinded Fools, go there to see;
That Wedded to their Follies, part from hence,
Under the strong Invasions of their Sence.
Hag-rid by party
Prejudice,
And prompted to depend on Lies;
Are sent to Graves and Darkness for their Eyes:
Cou'd they return from that
Dark shore,
And
talk of what they
Acted
here before,
hey'd be like Men, from
Holland
lately come,
hey that go
High Church Out,
come
Low Church Home!
There
Corion
's Picture, will at large be shown,
ho swears by
forty Gods,
believes
in none
;
nd all his Cants of Liberty and Church,
etected by himself, himself Reproach.
—
ly
Unmask'd there, in his Native Dress,
oes what he is appear, not what he does Profess;
here they the strange
Aenigma's
understand,
That harrass this divided Land.
must be as Ridiculous as Plain,
nd Mists of Parties interpose in Vain.
What
L —ly
means, when he pretends,
First to disown the Church that he defends?
And how he'd have that Meaning known,
When he defends the Church that he'll disown.
Was ever Nation mock'd with Peace like this?
eace both our Happiness, and our Disease!
ll Men the mighty Benefit pretend,
And those that mock the Means, will bless the End.
nhappy
Englishmen
! at last be wise,
No more your proper Happiness despise;
No more be led by Knaves in Fools Disguise▪
ummon your Reason in to be your Guide,
Or let your Sense the mighty Cause decide.
Can Persecution bring forth Peace?
And Miseries be tack'd to Happiness?
laspheme no more the Light of common Sence,
Nor let your Actions clash with Providence;
or Consequence will always Cause obey,
And guide the World, as Light directs the Eye.
Confusions never fail to p
ague a Land,
Where wild Precipitations go before;
Nature and Providence go Hand in Hand,
And this perm
ts, what that does first procure.
Blest Article of Humane Good,
How wilt thou have thy Name be understood?
Unmask the noisie Clamours of the Age,
And shew thy dazling Face upon our Stage.
How would our Hypocrites avoid thy Face!
Purple and Scarlet quit the Place!
How void would be the Pulpit, Bench, and Bar,
Where all thy Mimicks now appear!
How would they blush, when thy blest Face they see,
Withdraw their awkward Pageantry;
Pay their just Debt to Guilt in Shame,
And give due Homage to thy Rev'rend Name!
In every Province of this Land,
Heaven stop in Mercy his Revenging Hand!
What Monsters
thy Commission
bear!
In thy Defence and Name, what
R——kes
appear!
That act the Mountebank of State,
And mock the Name of Magistrate!
Cover the Bench with Frauds and Vice,
With boasted Bribes, and Partialities.
See the Illiterate Wretch enrob'd with Power,
The poor Man's Property devour;
Debauch'd with Pride, and wise by Chance,
He boasts of Gravity and Ignorance.
Eternal Violence adorns his Gate,
The Motto of the Barren Magistrate;
Yet when by Law he studies to oppress,
He's call'd a Justice of the Peace.
Thee Momus,
Patron of the half-taught Race,
To our Surprize, and thy Disgrace;
What Rabble hast thou cloath'd with Power and Law
To keep Inferiour K—s in Awe!
Exalting Fools to make the Nations Wise,
And hoodwink Justice with the vile Disguise.
Momus
makes Justices, and lists the Band,
That should reform the vicious Land;
And from the huge
Bordelloes
of the Nation,
Sets Humane Devils up for Reformation.
Were all the Rabble of his Magistrates,
Upn the Stage of Shame do take their Seats;
Never was such a Cavalcade of Sin,
So grave without, so black within▪
Never was Peace buffoon'd at such a r
te,
Or Crime so courted by the Magistrate.
See, sleepy
Momus,
see thy chosen Race,
Hell in the Heart, and Justice in the Face!
The Country's Scandal, and thy Shame,
Lewd in their Manners, Vile in Name.
In Aspect Grave, and dissolute in Life,
Correct the Husband, and debauch the Wife.
Never was Bench of Justice so supply'd,
And Peace by her own Sons defy'd!
With Beaus and Boys, with Bullies and Buffoons!
Just so the
French
reform by their Dragoons.
Momus
in strict Confed'racy with Crime,
Too plain his Project, and too long his Time;
With sublimated Spleen, and Party-Strife,
Debauch'd in Politicks, but grave in Life,
The Bench, the Pulpit, and the Bar,
Supplies with High Church Sons of War:
The Party, not the Manners, he enquires,
And thus he kindles High Church Fires.
W—h
now no more shall modest Men alarm,
Debauch'd by Custom, when he thinks no harm;
Ancient in Vice, and Inn
cent in Crime,
And quite worn out with Sin and Time.
Be Hell born
Ch—s
now the Satyr's Mark.
That swears by Day-light, murthers in the dark;
Supplies his want of Vice by want of Wit,
nd boasts of Crimes he never could commit;
hat Balances his old Accounts with Hell
With L—s that no
an but himself can tell;
angier,
the
Guard
,
and thirty Years Debauch,
ompleated him a Champion of the Church;
ray for that Town, good People, whose Consent,
low'd his Vices, their's should Represent,
nd strove to send the Wretch to Parliament▪
Could stupid
Momus
find no Wretch but this,
To Bully Justice on a Bench of Peace.
Our harden'd Sinners are but Fools to him,
He lives up to the Dignity of Crime,
Bawdy and Blasphemy supply his Tongue,
Hurry the vile Distemper'd Wretch along;
To Villainies of such uncommon size,
Makes Nature blush, and fills Mens surprize.
And should he thirty Years command the Peace,
Our Verse secures him this one Happiness;
The harden'd, self-condemn'd, abandon'd Elf,
Shall never punish
V—n
like himself.
Such,
Momus,
is thy Chequer-work, and Art,
So hast thou Spangl'd every part,
Such Prodigies of Crime possess,
The high deputed Government of Peace.
Momus
himself can never Name,
Tho' Sleepy
Momus
does not know,
Whether he can or no,
In forty Justices, one Man of common Fame.
Some are so scandalous in Lives,
Their Hist'ry has no Negatives:
Here from the Bawdy-house, to th' Bench they go,
And Fine the W—s, they first made so.
There
W—field
Justices, at Sessions meet,
Sit Drinking o're the Judgment Seat,
Till Country Squire gets too Drunk to pay,
Then Bilks the House, and
Quorum
sneaks away.
These
Momus,
are thy blest Reforming Crew,
For whose Advancement all the Whigs withdrew;
And you with hard Mouth'd Wretches fill their Plac
That Swear by
Pistol-Light
to Faces,
That Forge and Bribe, and Perjure all Mankind,
To carry on the Mischief they design'd.
Yet,
Momus,
all things answer not thy End,
In
B—gate
's part, the Devil was not thy Friend;
Satyr, must
B—gate
's Modesty protect,
Who knew himself too drunk to act;
He blush'd to execute the vast extent
Of
Power,
that
Momus
never blush'd to grant;
'Tis hard his Drink shou'd Sence refine,
But see the Modesty of Wine;
B—gate,
the first Converting Church Dragoon,
irst mounts his Horse, to pull Dissenters down;
See him into the Assembly Ride,
The Justice tell the
Priest
he Ly'd.
The Language like the Posture very Wise,
ust as he acted
Peace,
in Grave Disguise.
He knows his Name's too scandalous, to bear,
That Badge of Justice, which he ought to fear;
He can't Conform his Vicious Will,
exert that Whip, he knows he ought to feel;
Some Men have Modesty in Vice,
And he's a Fool indeed, that's never Wise.
But we'll no more the Catalogue Survey,
Momus
himself, has led the way:
May the
Black List,
of his infernal Troop,
Like him to wiser Agents stoop.
The blushing Nation long has seem'd to wait,
When Guilt shou'd make him Abdicate;
That meaner Men of Justice, may take Place,
That have it more in Head, and less in Face.
Nor shall our Verse, examine here the Lists,
Of his exalted Modern-Priests;
How like the rest in Morals and in Sence,
And how by sadder Consequence:
Religion Languishes, and Justice Dyes,
O're run with Vice, and Immoralities;
How sacred Oracles decay,
And Vice pulls down the Church the shortest way.
Tell us no more of Crown and Church,
No more our Loyalty Reproach:
The Men of God pull down your Fabrick more,
Than all the Sons of Hell, that went before:
When Laws with Ignorance o're run,
And Justice Dyes, the State's undone;
When sacred Vestments, sacred Villains hide,
And Crime's by Habit sanctify'd.
Religion Prostitute the Text prophan'd,
Good God, how can we think the
Church
shou'd stand!
These her Foundations undermine,
And then to hide the Vile Design;
The Innocent in Ruder Terms Reproach,
And cry the Danger of the Church!
Nor let our
harity be censur'd here,
Because we Crowds o
Characters forbear.
The Bead Roll of whose Crimes would show,
Too back for our Posterity to know;
And are conceal'd in meer Compassion,
Not to themsel
es a one, but all the Nation;
That Foreign Countries may not see,
Our Ecclesiastick Nudity;
And it become a New Proverbial Jest,
To be as Wicked, as an
English
Priest.
And yet our Lines must to our selves be Just,
Some Crimes may not be told, but others must;
When Men cannot their own D
sgrace with-hold,
What cannot be avoided, must be
old:
Blush, Readers, for a bleeding Nation's Fate,
When we the Name of
A—
relate;
A modest Pen can hardly bear to write,
The Crimes he never blushes to commit.
'Tis hard when Men run up to such a Height,
What Poets would conceal, themselves will write.
Their Actions such a Vein of Crime contain,
'Tis their own Satyr, and they're spar'd in vain.
And should I this one Character forbear,
The Stones themselves the horrid Facts would speak,
How he with Hypocritick Pray'r,
His Peoples Sundays Blessing can prepare,
And damns them all the Week.
Cover'd with Sacred Robes, he's White and Clean
But, black with Slander, 's all debauch'd within;
Yet, lest the Church's Cause should sink,
He dares to tread on the Commandments Brink;
Usurps upon the Keeper of the Fold,
And swears his Curacy's a good Freehold.
And yet this Wretch with horrid Front pretends,
To rank himself among the Church's Friends.
Scandal to all Religions! Were the Church
Once freed from that too just Reproach;
That she does not such Sons of Crime expel,
She'd stand in Spight of all the Gates of Hell.
Was ever Nation thus Buffoon'd,
By her own Teachers she's Lampoon'd.
Ye Hypocrites! If you can understand,
Reform your Clergy, and your Church will stand.
Vice is the Church's Danger and Disease.
'Tis Crime alone destroys her Peace;
Tis Crime lets Error in, and Error Strife,
You'd soon reform her Doctrine in her Life.
f you would then the Church's Fame restore,
Give her but Peace she asks no more:
Peace would turn all her Men of Scandal out,
Tell me the Church that ever stood without!
Tis done! Heaven said Amen, the mighty Blow
Was heard where Discord reigns below.
Th' August Assemblies Hand in Hand proclaim
Their Homage PEACE to thy Eternal Fame;
With Joynt Assent approach the Throne,
Such Thunder needs must strike the
Hydra
down,
To think their High Allies had lost the Day,
And must to hated PEACE give way.
Hell trembled when the weighty News came down,
It shook the Black Imperial Throne;
t struck the Fallen Seraph with Surprize,
He knew the Dying Party ne'er could rise.
When to his Oracle their Crouds repair,
The best Advice he gives them is, Despair.
He spoke, and all hi
Party has obey'd.
ome Trifling Hopes indeed their Fear delay'd;
But when
Britannia
's Sons address'd their Queen,
Despair, that Mark of Hell, was plainly seen;
Pale with the Anguish of their Minds,
Their Envy no Emission finds;
But dumb with Rage, they view the Hated PEAC
That fixes
England
's Happiness
Pity their weaken'd Rage, and take some Care,
Watch 'em, Good People all, lest in Despair
They obey the Dey'l, and hang themselves for Fear
'Tis done! Bright PEACE has got the D
The Mists of Parties flee away.
The Dazling Beams of Heavenly Glory shine,
Immortal PEACE, the Victory's fairly thine.
Where are those Sons of
Belial,
bring them down,
That grudg'd th' Angelick Saint her Crown
That boldly said she should not Reign.
Satyr—produce them, let them all the slain.
Let all those Sons of God and Men appear,
Who Levied first this High-Church War.
Let them the wondrous Declaration read,
That struck their
Hydra
thro' his Hundredth Head.
Let them their Pulpit-Ecchoes contradict.
'Twas there they did just PEACE reject.
'Twas there that Noise of Nothing first they broac
Their Country and their Queen reproach'd;
Frighted our Children wi
h the uncouth Cry
Of Danger to the Church and Monarchy.
Alarm'd the Nation, rouz'd
Britannia
's Sons,
Each Hero to the Place of Hazard runs;
But to their Joy surpriz'd no less,
They found 'twas all in perfect PEACE.
Safety and PEACE in thriving Posture grow,
And none saw Danger here, but those that wish'd i
Let all those Mountebanks of State
Receive for PEACE is to Death to them, their
Let all the Healing Breezes of thy Air,
Stagnate their Hopes of Party-War.
Let Men of Strife and Chagrin feel within
The strong Convulsions of Expiring Sin.
The Nation felt it like a Man possest,
And strong Exorcisms dislodge the Dreadful Guest.
The Struggles of Departing Feud
Will make perhaps some Ravings in the Blood,
Which vented at the Tongue with Rage and Pain,
May cause long Speeches to be made in vain.
'Tis but the Pangs of their Departing Breath,
Are there no Thunders, Tremblings of the Earth,
Day-Stars, and Comets to presage?
Horror oft stirs when Devils quit the Stage.
Al
's vanish'd here, the Fiends withdrew,
Their Party-struggles mean and few.
Some small
Vulcano
's belch'd their Stench and Fire,
But 'twas
en passant,
f—t, and so expire.
Like Meteors in the Air that flie,
As soon as they're Inflam'd they die;
Or Guns, where soon as Air has Vent,
Just as the Noise is made, 'tis spent;
So had our Clamours at th' Approach of PEACE,
Just Life enough to hiss, and then decease.
They're Dead! The blazing Aspect of thy Face,
Immortal PEACE, has clear'd the Place.
See daily how their Fugitives come in,
And Crouds of Captives bow before thy Queen;
The Leaders own the fair Defeat,
And all their Bubbl'd Votaries submit;
Pride boils in some, and makes them scorn to yield,
But Shame has bid them quit the Field,
Submit to unexpected Fate,
And own their Party-Fortunes Desperate;
Nor is this all, Misfortune's ne'er alone,
Now they're in Danger to be quite undone,
The Circumstance is very Dark,
They cannot bite and must not bark;
Or if they do, 'tis Frenzy all, and Feud,
And is but laught at by the Multitude.
Hard Fate of Madmen, that when they're in Pain,
No Men regard when they complain.
Thus Feud and Party-Strife suppress'd and dead,
Millions of Mischiefs with them fled.
Envy with Teeming Prospects swell'd, and big,
Does now the Grave of her own Off spring dig.
Abortive P
ojects daily come,
The Nauseous Froth of her Miscarrying Womb;
Like Monsters by their Parents Hands they die,
And PEACE does calmly all their Rage defie.
What wild Effort? What strange delirious Dreams?
What undigested half-drawn Schemes?
What Inconsistent unsubsisting Thought
Have they from unperforming Envy brought?
What Brainless unconcocted things proceed,
Th' Effects of Windmills in the Head?
What Engines without Form or Shape
The Great Machine of Government to ape?
What Shifts, what Shams, what artless Terms of State,
That hasten rather than prevent their Fate?
Have all our Men of Speeches try'd
Before their sick'ning Party dy'd?
Was ever Head with Brain and Learning stor'd,
That did of old such wondrous things afford?
At one half Turn so gravely mad!
So many mean Incongruous Nothings said:
How weak are all Disg
ises to conceal,
That Folly which its own Defects reveal!
Nonsense infallibly affords
Something that cannot be conceal'd by Words.
And Inconsistence will in Spight of Rule,
If it conceals the K——e, betray the F————l.
Therefore to judge them Termagant and Mad,
Are the
best Natur'd things
that can be said;
For he that can his Native Country curie,
If he is
Di
t
acted, must be worse.
Soft Gentle PEACE, p
cu
iar to thee,
How
less, is thy Victory▪
The Rebels that withstand thy Law,
Are only bound from Harms, and kept in Awe.
Their Schemes indeed are baulk'd, their Projects slain,
Their Persons all in Life remain,
Are safe in their Subjection to thy Name,
Only receive their Punishment in Shame.
Nor does the Gentle Conqu'ror only spare
Her Rebels, but those Rebels taste her Care;
Under he
Soft and Gentle Shade,
he keeps them happy that her Realms Invade;
Prevents them only of that Harm
They'd do themselves, and with her Gentle Charm
he
ts them all her Subjects Blessings Share,
And learns them thus the Difference of Peace and War.
Victorious PEACE, how happy are those Lands
Where willing Princes bow to thy Commands!
No Nations are by far so blest as they
That seek to stoop to thy Eternal Sway;
Thy Kingdom Form, and thy Commands obey.
Britannia,
yet a Stranger to thy Fame,
How does she Glory now she knows thy Name.
vain sha
l War remoter Empires pierce,
And Men of Terror vex the Universe;
thy blest Scepter Governs US at home,
Naio
s will here to pay thee Tribute come;
The Wealth of all the World will round thee flow,
nd Empires to
Britannia
's Scepter bow.
Nations with Envy shall our Safety see,
While
Britain
's Glorious QUEEN shall rule by thee.
CONCLUSION. TO THE QUEEN
HAil, Queen of PEACE, the Nation's best Defen
Terror of Crime, and Shade of Innocence;
They Joy, the Pride, the Pleasure of the Land,
Which You in Plenty guide, in PEACE
comman
Calm as that Heaven whose Circle bounds the Eye,
And bright from true Celestial Majesty.
You Reign admir'd, the Helm with Glory steer,
And give us PEACE amidst the Storms of War.
When we the Course of
England
's Fate review,
We find no Monarch guided right like You;
Your Majesty by Heaven's securer Hand,
Has learnt the True
Arcana
of Command.
Your Ancestors by Policy or Power,
Strove our resign'd Subjection to secure,
And made th' Obedient Nation tamely bear
Some Loads for Quietness, and some for Fear.
The Tottering Throne was Canker like maintain'
By feeding on the Vitals of the Land;
The feeble Carcass of the Government,
By Tyranny and wild Oppression rent,
Dy'd of that Hectick Fever, DISCONTENT.
Reviv'd in You, its Resurrection shows,
What Government to Application owe
:
How Justice calls a Nation from the Dead,
And how the Body's influenc'd by the Head?
They Rul'd by Politicks and studied Arts,
But You have found the Passage to our Hearts.
Despotick Rule can there do Grievance prove,
For Arbitrary Power's no Crime in Love.
MADAM, this Title makes yon absolute,
Where Love's the Bondage, Subjects ne'er Dispute;
rerogatives and Laws are Foreign things,
The Hearts of Subjects are the Strength of Kings.
Your Majesty when You Invite to PEACE,
roves that You can, Heaven Grant You due Success;
oth seek and understand our H
ppiness.
Tis Peace and Union, makes the Nation Thrive,
Give Laws their Birth, and keeps those Laws alive;
nion's the Nation's Life, and Peace the Soul;
nion preserves the Parts, and Peace the whole;
is Peace and Union that Support the Throne,
Union the Peoples Part, and Peace the Crown;
When Bodies Politick seem Sick and Dead,
Union revives the Members, Peace the Head;
The Sisters always Hand in Hand proceed,
Union to fortifie, and Peace to feed.
o Nation can our Happiness Invade,
Union our Hearts secures, an
Peace our Trade;
eligion shares the Blessing these procure,
This will Dissenters, That the Church secure;
nd Christian Graces in Conjunction move,
eace, Charity procures; and Union, Love.
Union is Freedom join'd to Government,
nd Peace is Property in due Extent.
every Article the Blessing's seen,
nion's a Parliament, and Peace the QUEEN:
There Peace and Union once a Land possess,
he Houses always Join, when they Address.
om the same Cause, to the same End they move,
hey arm at Safety, and commence in Love;
he Constituted Parts make up one whole,
fferent in Body, but the same in Soul.
nion's your Lords and Commons Hand in Hand,
ating the steady Posture of the Land.
ce is the People's Joy, which they express,
outing a loud Amen to that Address.
on's your Living Spring, of Means and Ways,
d Peace an unexhausted Fund of Praise;
nion with Hands up lift, seeks Aid from Heaven,
d Peace returns with Thanks, for Aid that's given.
Union's a People, willingly in awe,
And Peace a Princess, Governing by Law.
Union's a People, join'd with just Assent,
To bless their Maker for the Government;
Peace is a Prince, that Joys in that Success,
Of which his People all the Fruits possess.
Thus Princes, when they Invite a Land to Peace,
Both seek and understand their Happiness.
MADAM, when You our Party Peace propose,
You S
ab the Mighty Projects of your Foes;
Your Healing Words, as from your Lips the fall,
Are Wounds struck deep, into their Party-Gall;
But when you stoop to argue and perswade,
Your Words like Darts, the very Soul invade;
The moving Eloquence in Words of Peace,
When Princes Court their Peoples Happiness,
Having something so Unusual, and so Great,
Such soft Impressions in the Soul Create;
As leave no room to Speak, but wonder at.
Peace like the Sun, when it draws near the Pole,
This melts the Frozen Zone, and that the Soul;
Mountains of Party-Fend and Rage give way,
And flie from Peace, as Night absconds the Day.
The strange Transforming Power of Peace appears,
And while You Speak, You mould the Soul that hears:
Thus MADAM, Heaven it self You imitate,
And while You talk of Peace, Your Words Create:
Legions of Human Dev'ls Your Voice Transforms,
And at one Word You laid Three Nations Sto
ms.
Even Satyr feels the Sov'raign Influence,
Satyr provok'd, in Vertue's just Defence;
Engag'd with Devils and the Crimes of Men,
Yet while I Write of Peace, it Calms my Pen.
The Whips and Scorpions, MADAM, thrown away,
You call for Peace, and Satyr must Obey;
What tho' with Injury and Crouds Oppress'd,
Unhappy only as by You Unbless'd;
Yet in his Breast he Crushes his Designs,
And Writes for Peace in his Serenest Lines.
Your Majesty the Pen it self reforms,
And makes him Write of Peace, that Lives in Storm
.
Compass'd with Parties, and the Rage of Men,
You Check the just Resentment of his Pen;
To Temper turns, and with the calmest Air,
He sings that Peace, of which he reaps no share.
Peace is the Basis of Your Glorious Throne,
And Peace, the Brightest Jewel in your Crown,
Tis Peace▪ would make your Enemies Despair;
Tis Peace they more than all your Armies fear.
Union and Peace, Compose the high Intent,
This th' End of Justice, That of Government,
Kings that to any other purpose Reign,
The Sword they bear is always born in Vain,
By differing ways your Government's secur'd,
You by the Scepter Reign, and they the Sword.
These we call Tyrants, tho' a King's the Name,
A Mask of Glory, on a Mock of Fame.
Your MAJESTY, while You to Peace Encline,
Has made your Scepter really Divine;
Kings that like You, the Ends of Ruling know,
re truly Sacred, Heaven Declares them so:
While Heaven and You the self same thing intend,
ou Bless the Means, as You pursue the End.
The Royal Scepter which You timely bore,
And none e'er Grac'd that Royal Scepter more:
o far's Divine, as by the High Decree,
The Means and End Join in Your Majesty;
or Crowns and Dignities are giv'n in Vain,
Where Kings for any End but Justice Reign;
ower thus concurs to General Happiness,
or Justice always ends in Calms and Peace.
Suffer the Poet, MADAM, to aspire,
And hear the Blaze, where You have rais'd the Fire;
Prophetick Ardour makes the strong Impress,
Tis You gave Pinions to his Artless Verse,
umble and Mean, he never us'd to soar,
nd ne'er could say, he was Inspir'd before.
That Secret Hand, that did your Thoughts incline,
or Heaven both mov'd the Act and the Design;
as join'd Your own, to all Your Peoples Peace.
nd on their Blessings, rais'd Your Happiness;
or is this all, for Heaven ne'er acts by Parts,
But forms at once his Empire in our Hearts.
That Hand that thus Your Soul to Peace must move,
Will ne'er deny the Peace he made You Love.
The Calm You move us to, You'll feel within,
There, MADAM, Your Celestial Crowns begin;
eaven there Anticipated You'll Enjoy,
hat Peace must all Your meaner Joys Destroy;
he Satisfactions that may there be known,
rpass the Envy'd Pleasures of Your Crown:
That Heaven has form'd You his Blest Instrument,
To Heal this Heart-sick Nation's Discontent,
That all their Happiness comes handed down,
From Him that gave, by You that wear the Crown;
That Heaven reserv'd this Hour, till You should Reign,
And Chose You from the Bright Descended Train;
And suffer'd
WILLIAM
's self to aim at it in Vain.
That he reserv'd the Glory and Success
For You, whom he Delights and has resolv'd to Bless;
What Transports, MADAM, must possess your Mind!
What Prospects of the Glories still behind!
What Wonders Heaven has yet for You to do!
What vast Rewards of Glory to bestow!
No Pen the soft Impressions can present,
Numbers are vastly short, and Language faint;
No Simile due Parallel affords,
The Thoughts surpass the Agency of Words;
The Poet that conceives it can't reherse,
'Tis above the Inspiration of his Verse;
The Wings of Fancy never soar'd so high,
'Tis only Sacred to Your MAJESTY.
'Tis You alone can feel th' amazing Joy,
Which like the Sun, does fainter Fires Destroy;
No Heart but Yours the Myst'ry can unfold,
The Story must be felt, it can't be Told.
'Tis all a Heaven, as it from Heaven descends,
And only where that Heaven begins, it ends.
For Peace within is Heaven Anticipate,
And does Similitude to Heaven Create;
'Twill open that Bless'd Peace at once, and show
That Presence there, whose Glory makes it so.
'Twill Fire Your Soul with Beams of Sov'raign Grace,
And You'll grow Ripe for Heavenly Crowns apace:
There in Your Brightest Glory You'll appear,
And You that give us PEACE, shall find it there.
FINIS.
THE Female Reign: AN ODE, Alluding to
Horace,
B. 4. Od. 14.
Quae Cura Patrum, quaeve Quiritium, &c.
Attempted in the Style of
Pindar.
Occasion'd by the wonderful Successes of the Arms of Her Majesty and Her Allies. With a
LETTER
to a Gentleman in the Ʋ niversity.
By
Samuel Cobb,
M. A.
LONDON: Printed by
H. Hills,
and Sold by the Booksellers of
London
and
Westminster,
1709.
A LETTER to a Gentleman in the University.
SIR,
THIS comes to Congratulate You on the agreeable News of some late extraordinary Successes, which have bless'd the Arms of Her Majesty, and Her Allies. I leave you to the Printed Papers for a particular Account of those Actions, which have surpriz'd the World; and, we hope, given the last Stroke to the languishing Power of the Common Enemy of
Europe.
They will furnish noble Topics for the Wits of an Ʋ niversity, like yours, who can embellish (if that can be done) the Glories of a
Female Reign
with a juster Sublimity of Verse, than what you will find in the following Performance, which was written several Months ago, and not run over with a hasty Negligence. The Ode, from whence I take my Hint, is accounted by some Critics not inferior to the
4
th of the same Book, which begins thus,
Qualem ministrum fulminis alitem, &c.
And was written in Complement to
Augustus,
on occasion of a famous Victory gain'd by
Tiberius,
as this, which I have aim'd to imitate, was written on the Praise of
Claudius Nero.
I need not inform Men of your Reading and Letters what occasion'd both. The Poet, as he does in almost all his Odes, has shewn a peculiar Artfulness and Elegance, and turns all the Panegyric on the Emperor (who was not in the Action) with
Te concilium, & tuos Praebente Divos.
If You ask wherein I have trod in the Steps of
Horace,
You will find it in the Beginning. I have only kept him in view, and used him only where he was serviceable to my Design. He took the same liberty with
Alcaeus,
as appears from some Fragments of that
Greek
Lyriac, quoted by
Athenaeus.
In my Digressions and Transitions I have taken care to play always in sight, and make every one of them contribute to my main Design. This was the Way of
Pindar,
to read whom, according to
Rapin,
will give a truer Idea of the Ode, than all the Rules and Reflections of the best Critics. I will not pretend to have div'd into him over Head and Ears, but I have endeavour'd to have made my self not the greatest Stranger to his Manner of Writing; which generally consists in the Dignity of the Sentiments, and an elegant Variety, which makes the Reader rise up with greater Satisfaction than he sat down. And that which affects the Mind in Compositions of any sort, will never be disagreeable to a Gentleman of Ingenuity and Judgment. I have avoided Turns, as thinking that they debase the Loftiness of the Ode. You will easily perceive whether I have reach'd that
acer Spiritus & Vis,
recommended by
Horace,
as the Genius of Poetry. Whether you will call the following Lines a
Pindaric
Ode, or Irregular Stanza's, gives me no Disturbance: For however the seeming Wildness of this sort of Verse ought to be restrain'd, the
Strophe, Antistrophe,
&c. will never bear in English, and it would shew a strange
Debauchery in our Taste, if it should, as may be witnessed by the servile Imitation of the Dactyles and Spondees used by Sir
P. Sidney.
But to make an e
of this tedious Epistle; you will see thro' the Whole, that Her MAJESTY is the Chief Heroine of the Ode; and the Moral, at the End, shews the solid Glories of a Reign which is not founded on a pretended Justice, or Criminal Magnanimity.
Yours, &c. S. C
THE FEMALE REIGN: AN ODE.
I.
WHAT can the
British Senate
give
To make the Name of
ANNA
live
By Future People to be sung,
The Labour of each grateful Tongue.
Can faithful Registers or Rhyme
In charming Eloquence, or sprightly Wit,
The
Wonders of her Reign
transmit
To th' unborn Children of succeeding Time?
Can
Painter
's Oil, or
Statuary
's Art
Eternity to Her impart?
No—Titled Statues are but empty things
Inscrib'd to
Royal Vanity,
The Sacrifice of Flattery
To Lawless
Nero
's, or
Bourbonian
Kings.
True Virtue
to Her
kindred
Stars aspires,
Does all our Pomp of Stone and Verse surpass,
And mingling with Aetherial Fires,
No useless Ornament requires
From
Speaking
Colours, or from
Breathing
Brass.
II.
Greatest of Princes!
where the wand'ring Sun
Does o'er Earth's habitable Regions rowl,
From th'
Eastern Barriers
to the
Western Goal,
And sees Thy Race of Glory run
With Swiftness equal to his Own:
Thee on the Banks of
Flandrian Scaldis
sings
The jocund Swain, releas'd from
Gallic
Fear;
The
English Voice
unus'd to hear,
Thee the repeating Banks, Thee every Valley rings.
The
Gaul,
untaught to bear the Flames
Of those who drink the
Maese
or
Thames,
From the
Britannick
Valour flies,
No longer able to withstand
The Thunderbolt launch'd by a
Female Hand,
Or Lightning darted from Her Eyes.
III.
What Treble Ruin
Pious ANNA
brings
On False
Electors,
Perjur'd Kings,
Let the
twice Fugitive Bavarian
tell,
Who from His
Airy
Hope of
better
State
By Lust of Sway,
irregularly
Great,
Like an
Apostate Angel,
fell.
Who, by
Imperial
Favour rais'd,
I'th' highest Rank of Glory blaz'd;
And had till now, unrival'd, shone
More than a King,
contented with His Own.
But
Lucifer
's bold Steps he trod,
Who durst Assault the Throne of GOD,
And for contented Realms of blissful Light;
Gain'd
he
sad Privilege
to be
The
First
in
Solid
Misery,
Monarch of
Hell,
and
Woes,
and
Endless Night.
Corruption of the Best is Worst,
And foul Ambition, like an Evil Wind,
Blights the fair Blossoms of a Noble Mind;
And if a
Seraph
fall, He's
doubly
Curs'd.
IV.
Had
Guile
and
Pride,
and
Envy
grown
In the black Groves of
Styx
alone,
Nor ever had on Earth the
baleful Crop
been sown
The Swain,
without Amaze,
had Till'd
The
Flandrian
Glebe, a guiltless Field:
Nor had He wond'red, when He found
The Bones of Heroes in the Ground.
No Crimson Streams had lately swell'd
The
Dyle,
the
Danube,
and the
Scheld.
But
Evils
are of
Necessary
Growth
To Rouze the Brave, and Banish Sloth.
And some are Born to win the Stars
By Sweat, and Blood, and
Worthy
Scars.
Heroic Virtue is by Action seen,
And Vices serve to make it keen;
And as
Gigantick Tyrants
rise
NASSAU'S
and
ANNA'S
leave the Skies
The
Earth-born Monsters
to Chastise;
While
Cerberus
and
Hydra
grow
For an
Alcides,
or a
MARLBOROUGH.
V.
If, Heav'nly Muse, you burn with a Desire
To Praise the Man whom all admire:
Come from thy
Learnd'd Castalian
Springs,
And stretch aloft thy
Pegaseian
Wings;
Strike the loud
Pyndaric
Strings,
Like the Lark, who soars and sings:
And as you sail the Liquid Skies,
Cast on
The
Menapii
were the ancient Inhabitants of
Flanders.
Menapian
Fields your weeping Eyes:
(For weep they surely must
To see the
bloody Annual Sacrifice
;
To think how the
neglected Dust
Which, with contempt, is basely trod,
Was once the Limbs of Captains, Brave and Just,
The
Mortal Part
of some Great DEMY-GOD:
Who for thrice Fifty Years of stubborn War,
With slaught'ring Arms, the Gun and Sword,
Have dug the
Mighty Sepulcher,
And fell as Martyrs on Record
Of Tyranny Reveng'd, and Liberty Restor'd.)
VI.
See, where at
Audenard,
with Heaps of Slain
Th'
Heroic Man, inspir'dly
Brave;
Mowing a-cross, bestrews the Plain,
And with
new Tenants
crowds the
wealthy
Grave.
His Mind unshaken at the frightful Scene,
His Looks as chearfully serene
The routed Battle to pursue,
As once adorn'd the
Paphian Queen,
When to Her
Thracian Paramour
she flew.
The gath'ring Troops He kens from far,
And with a Bridegroom's Passion and Delight
Courting
the VVar, and
Glowing
for the Fight,
e
new Salmoneus
meets, the
Celtic Thunderer.
Ah cursed Pride! Infernal Dream!
VVhich drove him to this wild Extream
That
Dust
a
Deity
should seem.
hought, as thro' the wond'ring Streets he rode,
Th'
Immortal Man,
or
Mortal God.
VVith
rattling
Brass, and
trampling
Horse
Should counterfeit th'
Inimitable
Force
Of
Divine
Thunder: horrid Crime!
But
Vengeance
is the
Child of Time,
And will
too surely
be repay'd
On his prophane,
Devouted
Head,
VVho durst affront the Powers above,
And their Eternal Flames Disgrace,
Too Fatal, brandish'd by the
Rightful Jove,
Or
(a) Pallas,
who supplies his place.
VII.
The
British Pallas
! who as
Homer
in his Fifth
Iliad,
because the Heroe of that Book is to do
nders beyond the Power of Man, premises in the beginning, that
Pallas
pecularly fitted him for that Day's Exploits.
Homer
's did
For her lov'd
Diomed,
Her
Heroe
's Mind with Wisdom fills,
And
Heavenly
Courage in his Heart instills.
Hence thro' the thickest Squadrons does He ride,
VVith
ANNA
's Angels by his side.
VVith what uncommon Speed
He spurs his foaming, fiery Steed!
And pushes on thro' midmost Fires
VVhere
France
's
Fortune
with
Her Sons
retires.
Now here, now there, the
sweepy Ruin
flies;
Indomit as prope qualis undas
Exercet Auster, Pleaïdum choro
Scindente nubes, impiger hostium
Vexare turmas, & frementem
Mittere equum meaios per ignes.
Sic tauriformis volvitur Ausidu
Qui regna Dauni praefluit Appul
Cum saevit, horrendam
que
cultis
Diluviem meditatur agris.
As when the
Pleiades
arise,
The
Southern Wind
afflicts the Skies.
Then, muttering o'er the Deep, buffets th'
unruly B
Till Clouds and Water seem to joyn.
Or as a
Dyke,
cut by
malicious
Hands
O'erflows the
Fertile Netherlands
;
Thro' the wide Yawn, th' Impetuous Sea
Lavish of his
new Liberty,
Bestrides the Vale, and with tumultuous Noise
Bellows along the delug'd Plain,
Destructive to the ripening Grain
For as th'
Horizon
he destroys:
The weeping Shepherd from an Hill, bewa
s the
Wa
Rei
VIII.
So rapid flows th'
unprison'd
Stream!
So strong the Force of
MINDLEHEIM
!
In vain the Woods of
Audenard
Would shield the
Gaul,
a fenceless Guard.
As soon may Whirlwinds be with-held
As His Passage o'er the
Scheld.
In vain the Torrent would oppose,
In vain
arm'd
Banks, and numerous Foes,
Who with inglorious haste retire,
Fly faster than the River flows,
And Swifter than our Fire.
endosm
from far upbraids their
nimble Shame,
And pleads his
Royal Master
's Fame.
by
Conde
's
Mighty Ghost
▪ he cries,
By
Turenne, Luxemburg,
and All
Those Noble Souls, who fell a Sacrifice
At
Near this Place the Prince of
Conde
gave the
Spaniards
a very great
throw, 1648.
Lens,
at
Fleurus,
and at
Landen
Fight,
top, I conjure, your ignominious Flight:
But
Fear
is deaf to
Honour
's Call.
Each frowning Threat and soothing Prayer
Is lost in the regardless Air.
As well He may
The Billows of the Ocean stay,
While
CHURCHILL,
like a driving Wind,
Or
High Spring-Tide,
pursues behind,
d with redoubled Speed urges their forward Way.
IX.
Nor less,
Euginious,
Thy Important Care,
Thou Second Thunderbolt of War!
Partner in Danger and in Fame,
With
Marlborough
's the Winds shall bear
To distant Colonies Thy conqu'ring Name.
Nor shall the Muse forget to sing
From Harmony what Blessings spring.
To tell how Death did
enviously
repine
To see a
Friendship
so Divine.
When in a Ball's destroying shape she past,
And mark'd Thy threatned Brow at last.
But durst not touch that Sacred Brain
Where the Concerns of
Europe
Reign;
For straight she bow'd her ghastly Head,
She saw the
Mark of Heaven,
and fled.
As Cruel
Brennus
once,
insulting Gaul,
When he, at
Allia
's
fatal
Flood,
Had fill'd the Plains with
Roman
Blood,
With
conscious
Awe forsook the
Capitol,
Where
Jove,
Revenger of Prophaneness, stood
X
But where the
Good
and
Brave
Command,
What
Capitol,
what Castle can withstand?
Virtue,
as well as Gold, can pass
Thro' Walls of Stone, and Towers of Brass.
LISLE,
like a Mistress, had been courted long,
And always yielded to the Bold and Young:
The fairest
Progeny
of
Vauban
's Art,
Till
Savoy
's Warlike Prince withstood
Her frowning Thunders, and thro' Seas of Blood
Tore the bright Darling from th' Old Tyrant's Hea
Such
He bore a considerable share in the Glory of that Day on w
B
da
was taken.
Buda
saw Him, when Proud
He was
Bassaw
of the City, and lost his Life on the Br
ach.
Apti
fel
Unhappy, Valiant Infidel
!
Who, Vanquish'd by superior Strength,
Surrendred up his haughty Breath,
Upon the
Breach
measuring his manly Length▪
And shu'd the
Bow-string
by a Nobler Death.
XI.
Such
This was a fatal Battle to the
Turks
in the Year 1687. Prince
Eugene
the Regiments of his Brigade was the first who enter'd the Trenches▪ for that reason had the Honour to be the first Messenger of this happy
to the Emperor.
Harscham
's Field beheld Him in his Bloom,
When
Victory
bespoke him for her Own,
Her Favourite, immortal Son,
And told of better Years revolving on the Loom
How He should make the
Turkish Crescent
wane,
And choak
Vicem gerit ill
Tonantis.
This Battle was fought on the 10th of
October
1697; where Prince
e
Commanded in Chief; in which there never happen'd so great and
ible a Destruction to the
Ottoman
Army; which sell upon the Princi-Commanders more than the Common Soldiers; for no less than Fit
ee
, (Five of which had been
Viziers
of the Bench) were kill'd, besides Supream
Vizier.
Tibiscus
with the Slain.
While
Viziers
lay beneath the lofty Pile
Of slaughter'd
Bassaws
who o'er
Bassaws
rowl'd)
And all his numerous Acts she told
From
Latian Carpi
down to
Flandrian LISLE.
Where every Day new Conquests should produce,
Labour for Envy, and a Muse.
Where with her rattling Trumpet's sound
Fame
should shake the Hills around;
Should tell how
WEBB,
nigh woody
Wynendale.
Argu'd each Inch of the
important
Ground.
So much in Virtue's Scale
True Valour Numbers can out-do,
And
Thousands
are but
Cyphers
to a few.
XII.
Honour
with open Arms receives at last
The Heroes, who thro'
Virtue
's Temple past.
And show'rs down Lawrels from Above
On those whom Heav'n and
ANNA
Love.
And some,
not sparingly,
she throws
For the
Young Eagles,
who could try
The
Faith
and
Judgment
of the Sky,
And dare the Sun with steddy Eye,
For
Hanover
's and
Prussia
's Brows,
Eugenes
in
bloom,
and
future Marlboroughs.
To
Hanover, Brunswiga
's Second Grace,
Descendant from a long
Imperial
Race,
The Muse directs an unaffected Flight,
And Prophecies, from so serene a Morn,
To what clear Glories He is Born,
When blazing with a full
Meridian
Light
He shall the
British
Hemisphere adorn.
When
Mars
shall lay his batter'd Target down,
And He (since Death will never spare
The Good, the Pious, and the Fair)
In his
ripe Harvest
of Renown,
Shall after his
Great Father
sit,
(If Heav'n so long a Life permit)
And having swell'd the flowing Tide
Of Fame, which he in Arms shall get,
The Purchase of an
Honest Sweat,
Shall safe in stormy Seas
Britannia
's
Vessel
guide.
XIII.
Britania
's Vessel, which, in
ANNA
's Reign
And prudent
Pilocy,
enjoys
The Tempest, which the World destroys,
And rides Triumphant o'er the Subject Main,
O may She soon a quiet Harbour gain!
And sure the
Promis'd Hour
is come,
When in soft Notes the
Peaceful Lyre
Shall still the Trumpet and the Drum,
Shall play what Gods and Men desire,
And strike
Bellona
's Musick dumb.
When
War,
by Parents curst, shall quit the Field
Unbuckle his bright Helmet, and to rest
His weary Limbs, sit on his
idle
Shield
With Scars of Honour plow'd upon his Breast.
But if the
Gallic Pharoah
's stubborn Heart
Grows fresh for Punishment, and hardens still,
Prepar'd for th'
irrecoverable Ill.
d force th'
Unwilling
Skies to act the Last
Ungrateful
Part:
Thy Forces,
ANNA
▪ like a Flood, shall whelm
Heav'n does
Scepter'd Innocence
maintain)
His famish'd, desolated Realm,
nd all the Sons of
Pharamond
in vain
(Who with
dishonest
Envy see
he sweet
forbidden
Fruits of
distant
Liberty)
Curse their
igid
Salic Law,
and wish a
Female Reign.
XIV.
A
FEMALE REIGN,
like Thine,
O
ANNA, British
Heroine!
To Thee afflicted Empires fly for Aid
Where e'er Tyrannic Standards are display'd,
From the wrong'd
Iber
to the threatned
Rhine.
Thee, Where the
Golden-sanded Tagus
flows
Beneath fair
The Old Name of
Lisbon,
said to be Built by
Ulysses.
Ulyssippo
's Walls
The frighted
Lusitanian
calls;
Thee, they who drink the
Sein,
with those
Who plow
Iberian
Fields, implore
To give the lab'ring World Repose,
And
Universal Peace
Restore.
Thee
Gallia,
mournful to survive the Fate
Of her fall'n Grandeur, and departed State,
By sad Experience taught to own
That
Virtue
is a safer Way to Rise,
A shorter Passage to the Skies
Than
Pellion
upon
Ossa
thrown:
For they who by deny'd Attempts presume
To reach the
Starry Thrones,
become
Sure Food
for Thunder, and condemn'd to how
In
The Old Name of
Lisbon,
said to be Built by
Ulysses.
Aetna,
or in
Two Mountains where
Jupiter
Lodg'd the Giants.
Arima
to rowl
By an inevitable Doom,
Gain but a Higher Fall, a
Mountain
for their
Tomb.
FINIS.
THE MEDAL. A SATYR AGAINST SEDITION. By the Author of ABSALOM and ACHITOPHEL.
Per
Graiû
populos, mediaeque per
Elidis
Urbem
Ibat ovans;
Divúmque
sibi poscebat Honores.
LONDON:
rinted and Sold by
H. Hills,
in
Black-Fryars,
near the Water-side, 1709. Price One Penny.
UPON THE AUTHOR of the MEDAL.
ONCE more our awful Poet Arms, t' engage
The threatning Hydra Faction of the Age:
Once more pr
pares his dreadful Pen to wield,
And ev'ry Muse attends him to the Field:
By Art and Nature for this Task design'd,
Yet modestly the Fight he long declin'd;
Forbore the Torrent of his Verse to pour,
Nor loos'd his Satyr till the needful Hour:
His Sov'reign's Right by Patience half betray'd,
Wak'd his Avenging Genius to its Aid.
Blest Muse, whose Wit with such a Cause was Crown'd,
And blest the Cause that such a Champion found.
With chosen Verse upon the Foe he falls,
And black Sedition in each Quarter galls;
Yet, like a Prince with Subjects forc'd to engage,
Secure of Conquest he rebates his Rage;
His Fury not without Distinction sheds,
Hurls mortal Bolts but on devoted Heads:
To less infected Members gentle found,
He spares, or else pours Balm into Wound.
such gen'rous Grace th' ingrateful Tribe abuse,
And trespass on the Mercy of his Muse;
Their wretched dogrell Rhimers forth they bring
To snarl and bark against the Poets King;
A Crew, that scandalize the Nation more
Than all their Treason-canting Priests before;
On these he scarce vouchsafes a scornful Smile,
But on their Pow'rful Patrons turns his Style.
A Style so keen, as ev'n from Faction draws
The vital Poyson, stabs to the Heart their Cause.
ake then, great Bard, what Tribute we can raise;
Accept our Thanks, for you transcend our Praise.
N. TATE.
EPISTLE TO THE WHIGS.
FOR to whom can I dedicate this
Poem,
with so much Justice as to you? 'T
s the Representation of your own Heroe: 'tis th
Picture drawn at length, which you prize and admire so much i
little. None of your Ornaments are wanting; neither the Landscap
of the
Tower,
nor the Rising Sun; nor the
Anno Domini
of your Ne
Sovereign's Coronation. This must needs be a grateful Undertaking
your whole Party: Especially to those who have not been so happy
to purchase the Original. I hear the
Graver
has made a good Marks of it: all his Kings are bought up already; or the value of the R
mainder so inhanc'd, that many a poor
Polander,
who would be gl
to worship the Image, is not able to go to the Cost of him: But must
content to see him here. I must confess I am no great
rtist; but Sig
Post painting will serve the turn to remember a Friend by; especial when better is not to be had. Yet for your Comfort the Lineame
are true: and though he fate not five times to me, as the did to
yet I have consulted History; as the
Italian
Painters do, when th
wou'd draw a
Nero
or a
Galigul
;
though they have not seen t
Man, they can help their Imagination by a Statue of him, and s
out the Colouring from
Suetomus
and
Tacitus.
Truth is, you mig
have spar'd one side of your Medal: the Head would be seen to m
advantage, if it were plac'd on a Spike of the
Tower;
a little nearer
the Sun. Which wou'd then break out to better purpose. You tell
your Preface to the
No-Protestant Plot,
that you shall be forc'd
after to leave off your Modesty: I suppose you mean that little which
left you: for it was worn to Rags when you put out this Medal.
ver was there practis'd such a piece of notorious Impudence in the f
of an Establish
d Government. I believe, when he is dead, you
wear him in Thumb-Rings, as the
Turks
did
Scanderbeg;
as if
were Virtue in his Bones to preserve you against Monarchy. Yet
this while you pretend not only Zeal for the Publick Good, but a due
eration for the Person of the King. But all Men, who can see an
before them, may easily detect those gross Fallacies. That it is necessa
y for Men in your Circumstances to pretend both, is granted you; for without them there could be no ground to raise a Faction. But I would ask you one civil Question, what right has any Man among you, or any Association of Men, (to come nearer to you,) who out of Parliament, cannot be consider'd in a publick Capacity, to meet, as you daily do, in Factious Clubs, to vilify the Government in your Discourses, and to libel it in all your Writings? Who made you Judges in
Isra
l?
Or how
it consistent with your Zeal of the Publick Welfare, to promote Sedition? Does your Definition of Loy
l, which is to serve the King according to the Laws, allow you the Licence of traducing the Executive Power, with which you own he is invested? You complain that his Majesty has lost the Love and Confidence of his People; and by your very urging it, you endeavour what in you lies, to make him lose them. All g
od subjects abhor the thought of Arbitrary Power, whether it be in one or many: if you were the Patriots you would seem, you would not at this
ate incense the Multit
de to assume it; for no sober Man can fear it, either from the King's Disposition, or his Practice; or even, where you would odiously lay it, from his Ministers. Give us leave to enjoy the Government and the Benefit of Laws under which we were born, and which we desire to transmit to our Posterity. You are not the Trustees of the publick Liberty: and if you have not right to petition in a Croud, much less have you to intermeddle in the Management of Affairs; or to arraign what you do not like: which in effect is every thing that is done by the King and Council Can you imagine that any reasonable Man will believe you respect the Person of his Majesty, when
apparent that your Seditious Pamphlets are stuff'd w
th particular Reflections on him? If you have the Confidence to deny th
s, 'tis easie to
e evinc'd from a thousand P
ssages, which I only forbear to quote, because I desire they should d
e and be forgotten. I have perus'd many of
ur Papers; and to shew you that I have, the third part of your
No-Protestant Plot
is much of it stolen from your dead Author's Pamphlet
ll'd the
Growth of Popery;
as manifestly as
Mil
on
's Defence of the
English
People, is from
Bucha
a
de jur
regn
apud Sco
os:
or your first Covenant, and new Associa
ion, from the holy League of the
French Guisards.
Any one who reads
D
vila,
may trace your Practices all a
ong. There were the same pretences for Reformation, and Loyalty, the
ame Aspersions of the King, and the same grounds of a Rebellion. I
ow not whether you will take the Historian's word, who says it was
eported, that
P
ltrot
a
Hugonot,
murther'd
F
ancis
Duke of
Guise
by
he Instigations of
Theodore Reza:
or that it was a
Hug
ot
Minister,
therwise call'd a
Presbyterian,
(for our Church abhors so devilish a
enet) who first writ a Treatise of the Lawfulness of d
p
sing and mur
hering Kings, of a different Persuasion in Religion: But I am able to
rove from the Doctrine of
Calvin,
and Principles of
Bu
h
man,
that
hey set the People above the Magistrate; which if I mistake not, is your own Fundamental; and which carries your Loyalty no farther than your liking When a Vote of the House of Commons goes on your side you a
e as ready to observe it, as if it were pass'd into a Law: But wh
you are pinch'd with any former, and yet unrepealed
Act of Parli
ment
you declare that in some Cases, you will not be oblig'd by it. The Passage is in the same third part of the
No-Protestant Plot;
and is
plain to be denied. The late Copy of your intended Association, you neither wholly justifie nor condemn: But, as the Papists, when they are u
oppos'd▪ fly out into all the Pageantries of Worship; but in times
War when they are hard press
d by Arguments, ly close intrench
d behind the
Council of
nt:
So, now, when your Affairs are in a lo
Condition, you d
re not pretend that to be a legal Combination,
whens
ever you are afloat. I doubt not but it will be maintain'd a
justified to purpose For indeed there is nothing to defend it but t
Sword: 'tis the proper time to say any thing, when Men have all thing in their power.
In the mean time you wou'd fain be nibling at a Parallel betwixt t
Association, and that in the time of Queen
Elizabeth.
But there th
s small difference betwixt them, that the ends of one are directly opposite to the other: one with the Queen's Approbation, and Conjuncti
as Head of it; the other without either the Consent, or Knowledge the King, against whose Authority it is manifestly design'd. There
you do well to have recourse to your last Evasion, that it was contri
by your Enemies, and shuffled into the Papers that were seiz'd: wh
yet you s
e the Nation is not so easie to believe as your own Jury:
the Matter is not difficult, to find
12
Men in
Newgate,
who wou'd
quit a Malefactor.
I have one only Favour to desire of you at parting, that when
think of answering this
Poem
▪ you wou'd employ the same Pens aga
it, who have combated with so much Success against
Absalom
and
A
tophel:
for then you may assure your selves of a clear Victory, w
the least Reply. Rail at me abundantly; and, not to break a Custo
do it without Wi
: By this Method you will gain a considerable Pe
which is wholly to wave the Answer of my Arguments. Never own
bottom of your Principles, for fear they shou'd be Treason. Fall seve
ly on the Miscarriages of Government; for if
candal be not al
ow you are no free born Subjects. If God ha
not bless'd you with the
l
nt of R
iming, make u
e of my poor Stock and welcome: let
Verses run upon my Feet: and for the utmost Refuge of notorious B
heads, reduc
d to the last extremity of Sense, turn my own Lines
me, and in utter Despair of your own Satyr, make me Satyrize my
Some of you have been driven to this Bay already; but above all
rest commend me to the Non-Conformist Parson, who writ the
Whip
Key.
I am afraid it is not read so much as the Piece deserves, bec
the Bookseller is every Week crying help at the end of his
Guzette,
g
t it off. You see I am charitable enough to do him a Kindness,
it may be publish'd as well as printed; and that so much Skill in Hebrew Derivations, may not lie for Waste-Paper in the Shop. Yet I half suspect he went no farther for his Learning, than the Index of Hebrew Names and Etymologies, which are printed at the end of some
English
Bibles. If
Achitophel
signifie the Brother of a Fool, the Author of that Poem will pass with his Readers for the next of Kin. And perhaps 'tis the Relation that makes the Kindness. Whatever the Verses are; buy 'em up I beseech you out of pity; for I hear the Conventicle is shut up, and the Brother of
Achitophel
out of Service.
Now Footmen, you know, have the Generosity to make a Purse, for a Member of their Society, who has had his Livery pull'd over his Ears: and even Protestant Socks are bought up among you, out of Veneration to the Name. A Dissenter in Poetry from Sense and
English,
will make as good a Protestant Rhimer, as a Dissenter from the Church of
Engl
nd
a Protestant Parson. Besides, if you encourage a young Beginner, who knows but he may elevate his Style a little, above the vulgar Epithe
s of prophane and sawcy Jack and Atheistick Scribler, with which he treats me, when the Fit of Enthusiam is strong upon him: by which well-manner'd and charitable Expressions, I was certain of his Sect before I knew his Name. What would you have more of a Man? he has damn'd me in your Cause from
Genesis
to the
Revelations:
And has half the Texts of
both the
Testaments
against me, if you will be so civil to your selves as to take him for your Interpreter; and not to take them for
Irish
Witnesses. After all perhaps you will tell me, that you retain'd him only for the opening of your Cause, and that your main Lawyer is yet behind. Now if it so happen he meet with no more Reply than his Predecessors, you may either conclude, that I trust to the Goodness of my Cause, or fear my Adversary, or disdain him, or what you please, for the short on't is, 'tis indifferent to your humble Servant, whatever your Party says or thinks of him.
The Medal: A SATYR AGAINST SEDITION
OF all our Antick Sights, and Pageantry,
Which
English
Idiots run in Crouds to see,
The
Polish Medal
bears the Prize alone:
A Monster more the Favourite of the Town
Than either Fairs or Theatres have shown.
Never did Art so well with Nature strive;
Nor ever Idol seem'd so much alive?
So like the Man; so golden to the sight,
So base within, so counterfeit and light.
One side is fill'd with Title and with Face;
And, lest the King shou'd want a regal Place,
On the reverse, a Tow'r the Town surveys;
O'er which our mounting Sun hi
Beams displays.
The Word pronounc'd aloud by Shrieval Voice,
Laetamur,
which, in
Polish,
is
rejoyce.
The Day, Month, Year, to the great Act are join'd,
And a new Canting Holiday design'd.
Five Days he sate, for every Cast and Look;
Four more than God to finish
Adam
took.
But who can tell what Essence Angels are,
Or how long Heav'n was making
Lucifer!
Oh, cou'd the Style that copy'd every Grace,
And plough'd such Furrows for an Eunuch Face,
Cou'd it have form'd his ever-changing Will,
The various Piece had tir'd the Graver's Skill!
A Martial Hero first, with early Care,
Blown, like a Pigmy by the Winds, to War.
A Beardless Chief, a Rebel, e'er a Man:
So young his Hatred to his Prince began.)
Next this, (How wildly will Ambition steer!)
A Vermin, wriggling in the Usurper's Ear.
B
tt'ring his venal Wit for Sums of Gold
He cast himself into the Saint-like Mould;
Groan'd, sigh'd and pray'd, while Godliness was Gain;
The
udest Bag-pip
of the Sqeaking Train.
ut, as 'tis hard to cheat a Juggler's Eyes,
His open Lewdness he cou'd ne'er disguise.
There split the Saint: for Hypocritick Zeal
llows no Sins but those it can conceal.
Whoring to Scandal gives too large a scope:
aints must not trade; but they may interlope.
h' ungodly Principle was all the same;
ut a gross Cheat betrays his Partner's Game.
esides, their pace was formal, grave and slack:
is nimble Wit out-ran the heavy Pack.
et still he found his Fortune at a stay;
Whole Droves of Blockheads choaking up his way:
They took, but not rewarded, his Advice;
illain and Wit exact a double Price.
w'r was his aim: But, thrown from that pretence,
he Wretch turn'd Loyal in his own Defence;
nd Malice reconcil'd him to his Prince.
m, in the Anguish of his Soul he serv'd;
warded faster still than he deserv'd.
hold him now exalted into Trust;
s Counsel's oft convenient, seldom just.
'n in the most sincere Advice he gave,
e had a grudging still to be a Knave.
The Frauds he learnt in his Fanatick Years
Made him uneasie in his Lawful Gears.
At best as little honest as he cou'd:
And, like white Witches, mischievously good.
To his first Byass, longingly he leans;
And
rather
wou'd be great by wicked means.
Thus, fram'd from Ill, he loos'd our Triple hold;
(Advice unsafe, precipitous, and bold.)
From hence those Tears! that
Ilium
of our Woe!
Who helps a pow'rful Friend, fore-arms a Foe.
What Wonder if the Waves prevail so far,
When He cut down the Banks that made the Bar?
Seas follow but their Nature to invade;
But he by Art our Native Strength betray'd.
So
Sampson
to his Foe his force confest;
And, to be shorn, lay slumb'ring on her Breast.
But, when this fatal Counsel, found too late,
Expos'd its Author to the publick Hate;
When his just Sovereign, by no impious way;
Cou'd be seduc'd to Arbitrary sway;
Forsaken of that Hope, he shifts the sail;
Dri
es down the Current with a pop'lar Gale;
And shews the F
end confess'd without a Veil.
He preaches to the Crowd, that Pow'r is lent,
But not convey'd to Kingly Government;
That claims successive bear no binding force;
That Coronation Oaths are things of course;
Maitains the Multitude can never err;
And sets the People in the Papal Chair.
The Reason's obvious;
Int'rest never lyes
;
The most have still their Int'rest in their Eyes;
The Pow'r is always theirs, and Pow'r is ever wise.
Almighty Crowd, thou shorten'st all dispute;
Power is thy Essence; Wit thy Attribute!
Nor Faith nor Reason make thee at a stay,
Thou leap'st o'er all Eternal Truths, in thy
Pindarique
wa
Athens,
no doubt, did righteously decide,
When
Phocion
and when
Socrates
were try'd:
As righteously they did those dooms repent,
Still they were wise, whatever way they went.
Crouds err not, though to both Extreams they run;
To kill the Father, and recal the Son.
Some think the Fools were most, as times went then;
But now the World's o'er-stock'd with prudent Men.
The common Cry is ev'n Religion's Test;
The
Turks
is, at
Constantinople,
best;
dols in
India,
Popery at
Rome
;
And our own Worship only true at home.
And true, but for the time, 'tis hard to know
How long we please it shall continues so.
This side to day, and that to morrow burns;
So all are God a mighties in their turns.
A Tempting Doctrine, plausible and new:
What Fools our Fathers were, if this be true?
Who, to destroy the seeds of Civil War,
nherent Right in Monarchs did declare:
And, that a lawful Pow'r might never cease,
Secu
'd Succession, to secure our Peace,
Thus Property and Sovereign Sway, at last
n equal Balances were justly cast:
But this new
Jehu
spurs the hot-mouth'd Horse;
nstructs the Beast to know his Native Force:
To take the Bit between his Teeth and fly
To the next headlong Steep of Anarchy.
Too happy
England,
if our good we knew;
Wou'd we possess the Freedom we pursue!
The lavish Government can give no more:
et we repine; and plenty makes us poor.
God try'd us once; our Rebe-fathers fought:
e glutted 'em with all the Pow'r they sought:
ll, master'd by their own usurping Brave,
he free-born Subject sunk into a Slave.
We loath our Manna, and we long for Quails;
h, what is Man, when his own Wish prevails!
ow rash, bow swift to plunge himself in Ill
;
roud of his Pow'r, and boundless in his Will
That Kings can do no wrong we must believe:
None can they do, and must they all receive?
Help Heav'n! or sa
ly we shall see an Hour,
When neither wrong nor right are ni their Pow'r!
Already they have lost their best Defence,
The Benefit of Laws, which they dispence.
No Justice to their righteous Cause allow'd;
But baffled by an Arbitrary Croud.
And Medals grav'd, their Conquest to record,
The Stamp and Coyn of their adopted Lord.
The Man who laugh'd but once, to see an Ass
Mambling to make the cross-grain'd Thistles pass:
Might laugh again, to see a Jury chaw
The Prickles of unpalatable Law.
The Witnesses, that, Leech-like, liv'd on Blood,
Sucking for them were med'cinally good;
But, when they fasten'd on
their
fester'd Sore,
Then, Justice and Religion they forswore;
Their Maiden Oaths debauch'd into a Whore.
Thus Men are rais'd by Faction, and decry'd;
And Rogue and Saint distinguish'd by their Side.
They rack ev'n Scripture to confess their Cause;
And plead a Call to preach, in spight of Laws.
But that's no News to the poor injur'd Page,
It has been us'd as ill in every Age;
And is constrain'd, with Patience, all to take;
For what Defence can Greek and Hebrew make?
Happy who can this Talking Trumpet seize;
They make it speak whatever Sense they please!
'Twas fram'd, at first, our Oracle t' enquire;
But, since our Sects in Prophecy grow higher,
The Text inspires not them; but they the Text inspire.
London,
thou great
Emporium
of our Isle,
O, thou too bounteous, thou too fruitful
Nile,
How shall I praise or curse to thy Desert!
Or separate thy Sound, from thy corrupted part!
I call'd thee
Nile
; the parallel will stand:
Thy Tides of Wealth o'erflow the fatten'd Land;
et Monsters from thy large Increase we find.
ngender'd on the Slyme thou leav'st behind.
edition has not wholly seiz'd on thee;
Thy nobler Parts are from Infection free.
r
Israel
's Tribes thou hast a numerous Band;
ut still the
Canaanite
is in the Land.
Thy Military Chiefs are brave and true;
or are thy disinchanted Burghers few.
The Head is Loyal which thy Heart commands;
ut what's a Head with two such gouty Hands?
The wise and wealthy love the surest way;
nd are content to thrive and to obey.
t Wisdom is to Sloth too great a Slave;
one are so busie as the Fool and Knave.
Those let me curse; what Vengeance will they urge,
Whose Ordures neither Plague nor Fire can purge;
or sharp Experience can to Duty bring,
or angry Heaven, nor a forgiving King!
Gospel-phrase their Chapmen they betray:
Their Shops are Dens, the Buyer is their Prey.
The Knack of Trades is living on the Spoil;
They boast e'en when each other they beguile.
Customs to steal is such a trivial thing,
That 'tis their Charter to defraud their King.
ll hands unite of every jarring Sect;
They cheat the Country first, and then infect.
They, for God's Cause their Monarchs dare dethrone;
nd they'll be sure to make his Cause their own.
hether the plotting Jesuit lay'd the Plan
Of murth'ring Kings, or the
French
Puritan,
our Sacrilegious Sects their Guides out-go;
nd Kings and Kingly Pow'r wou'd murther too.
What means their Trait'rous Combination less,
Too plain t' evade, too shameful to confess.
ut Treason is not own'd when 'tis descry'd;
uccessful Crimes alone are justify'd.
The Men, who no Conspiracy wou'd find,
Who doubts, but had it taken, they had join'd.
Join'd, in a mutual Cov'nant of Defence;
At first without, at last against their Prince.
If Sovereign Right by S
vereign Pow'r they scan,
The same bold Maxim holds in God and Man
:
God were not safe, his Thunder cou'd they shun
He shou'd be forc'd to crown another Son.
Thus, when the Heir was from the Vineyard thrown,
The rich Possession was the Murth'rers own.
In vain to Sophistry they have recourse:
By proving theirs no Plot, they prove 'tis worse;
Unmask'd Rebellion, and audacicus Force.
Which, though not Actual, yet all Eyes may see
'Tis working, in th' immediate Pow'r to be;
For, from pretended Grievances they rise,
First to dislike, and after to despise.
Then,
Cyclop
-like in humane Flesh to deal,
Chop up a Minister, at every Meal;
Perhaps no
wholly to melt down the King;
But clip his Reg
l Rights within the Ring.
From thence t' assume the pow'r of Peace and War;
And ease him by degrees of publick Care.
Yet, to consult his Dignity and Fame,
He shou'd have leave to exercise the Name;
And hold the Cards, while Commons play'd the Game.
For what can Pow'r give more than Food and Drink,
To live at Ease, and not be bound to think?
These are the cooler Methods of the Crime;
But their hot Zealots think 'tis loss of time:
On utmost Bounds of Loyalty they stand,
And grin and whet like a
Croatian
Band;
That waits impatient for the last Command.
Thus Out-laws open Villainy maintain;
They steal not, but in Squadrons scour the Plain:
And, if their pow'r the Passengers subdue;
The most have right, the wrong is in the Few.
Such impious Axiomes foolishly they show;
For, in some Soils Republicks will not grow:
Our Temp' rate Isle will no Extreams sustain,
Of pop'lar Sway, or Arbitrary Reign
But slides between them both into the best;
Secure in Freedom, in a Monarch blest.
And though the Climate, vext with various Winds,
Works through our yielding Bodies on our Minds,
The wholsome Tempest purges what it breeds;
To recommend the Calmness that succeeds.
But thou, the Pander of the Peoples Hearts,
O Crooked Soul, and Serpentine in Arts,)
Whose Blandishments a Loyal Land
have whor'd,
And broke the Bonds she plighted to her Lord;
What Curses on thy blasted Name will fall!
Which age to Age their Legacy shall call;
or all must curse the Woes that must descend on all.
Religion thou hast none: thy
Mercury
Has pass'd through every Sect. or theirs through Thee.
ut what thou giv'st, that Venom still remains;
nd the pox'd Nation feels Thee in their Brains.
What else inspires the Tongues, and swells the Breasts
Of all thy bellowing Renegado Priest
,
hat preach up thee for God; dispence thy Laws;
nd with thy Stumm ferment their fainting Cause?
sh Fumes of Madness raise; and toil and sweat
To make the formidable Cripple great.
t, shou'd thy Crimes succeed, shou'd lawless Pow'r
Compass those Ends thy greedy Hopes devour,
Thy Canting Friends thy Mortal Foes wou'd be;
Thy God and Theirs will never long agree.
or thine, (if thou hast any,) must be one
That lets the World and Humane Kind alone;
jolly God, that passes hours too well
o promise Heav'n, or threaten us with Hell.
hat unconcern'd can at Rebellion sit;
nd wink at Crimes he did himself commit.
Tyrant theirs; the Heav'n their Priesthood paints;
Conventicle of gloomy sullen Saints;
Heav'n, like
Bedlam,
slovingly and sad;
ore-doom'd for Souls, with false Religion mad.
Without a Vision Poets can fore-shew
hat all but Fools, by common Sense my know:
If true Succession from our Isle shou'd fail,
And Crouds profane, with impious Arms prevail,
Not thou, nor those thy Factious Arts ingage
Shall reap that Harvest of Rebellious Rage,
With which thou flatter'st thy decrepit Age.
The swelling Poison of the sev'ral Sects,
Which wanting vent, the Nation's Health infects,
Shall burst its Bag; and fighting out their way
The various Venoms on each other prey.
The
Presbyter,
pufft up with spiritual Pride,
Shall on the Necks of the lewd Nobles ride:
His Brethren damn, the Civil Pow'r defy;
And parcel out Republick Prelacy.
But short shall be his Reign: his rigid Yoke
And Tyrant Pow'r will puny Sects provoke;
And Frogs and Toads, and all the Tadpole Train
Will croak to Heav'n for help, from this devouring Cran
The Cut-throat Sword and clamorous Gown shall jar,
In sharing their ill-gotten Spoils of War:
Chiefs shall be grudg'd the part which they pretend,
Lords envy Lords, and Friends with every Friend
About their impious Merit shall contend.
The surly Commons shall Respect deny;
And justle Peerage out with Property.
Their Gen'ral either shall his Trust betray,
And force the Crowd to Arbitrary Sway;
Or they suspecting his ambitious Aim,
In hate of Kings shall cast a new the Frame;
And thrust out
Collatine
that bore the Name.
Thus in-born Broils the Factions wou'd ingage;
Or Wars of Exil'd Heirs, or Foreign Rage,
Till halting Vengeance overtook our Age:
And our wild labours, wearied into Rest,
Reclin'd us on a rightful Monarch's Breast.
—Pudet haec opprobria, vobis
Et dici potuisse, & non potuisse refelli.
FINIS.
Love given over: OR, A SATYR AGAINST THE Pride, Lust, and Inconstancy,
&c.
OF WOMAN. WITH SYLVIA'S REVENGE, OR, A SATYR AGAINST MAN, In Answer to the
Satyr
against
Woman.
Amended by the AUTHOR.
LONDON
inted and Sold by
H. Hills,
in
Black-fryars
near the Water-side. 1710.
To the Reader.
THE Pious Endeavours of the Gown, have not prov
more ineffectual towards reclaiming the Errors of a v
tious Age, than
Satyr
(the better way, tho' less practis'd) t
Amendment of Honesty, and good Manners among us. Nor
it a wonder, when we consider that Women, (as if they ha
the ingredient of Fallen-Angels in their Composition) the mo
they are lash'd, are but the more hardned in Impenitence: A
as Children in some violent Distemper, commonly spit out th
cherishing Cordials, which, if taken, might chase away t
Malady: So they (inspir'd as 'twere with a natural aversness to Virtue) despise that wholsom Counsel, which is Religously design'd for their future good, and happiness. Judge the
if
Satyr
ever had more need of a sharper sting than now: wh
hen can look out of his Cell on no side but sees so many obje
beyond the reach of indignation. Nor is it altogether unresonable for me (while others are lashing the Rebellious Tim
into Obedience) to have one fling at
Woman,
the Origi
of Mischief. I'm sensible I might as well expect to see Tr
and Honesty uppermost in the World, as think to be free fr
the bitterness of their Resentments: But I have no reason to concern'd at that; since I'm certain my Design's as far fr
offending the good, (if there are any amongst 'em that can said to be so) as those few that are good, would be offended their Reception into the Eternal Inhabitations of Peace, to Crown'd there with the Sacred Reward of their Labours. for those that are ill, if it Gall them, it succeeds according my wish; for I have no other design but the Amendmen
Vice, which if I could but in the least accomplish, I should well pleas'd; and not without reason too; for it must need some satisfaction to a young unskilful Archer, to hit the
Mark he ever aim'd at.
Love given over: OR, A SATYR against WOMAN.
AT length from Love's vile Slav'ry I am free,
And have regain'd my ancient Liberty:
e shook those Chains off which my Bondage wrought,
n free as Air, and unconfin'd as Thought;
or Faithless
Sylvia
I no more adore,
neel at her Feet, and pray in vain no more:
o more my Verse shall her fled Worth proclaim,
nd with soft Praises celebrate her Name:
er Frowns do now no awful Terrors bear;
er Smiles no more can cure or cause Despair.
ve banish'd her for ever from my Breast,
anish'd the proud Invader of my Rest,
anish'd the Tyrant-Author of my Woes,
That robb'd my Soul of all its sweet repose:
ot all her treach'rous Arts bewitching Wiles,
der Sighs, her Tears, nor her deluding Smiles,
hall my eternal Resolution move,
Or make me talk, or think, or dream of Love:
The whining Curse I've banish'd from my Mind,
nd with it, all the Thoughts of Womankind.
Come then my Muse, and since the Occasion's fair;
gainst that Sex proclaim an endless War;
Which may renew as still my Verse is read,
nd live, when I am mingled with the dead.
Woman! by Hev'ns the very Name's a Crime,
nough to blast, and to debauch my Rhyme.
ure Heav'n it self (intranc't) like
Adam
lay,
Or else some banish'd Fiend usurp't the
way
When
Eve
was form'd; and with her usher'd in
lagues, Woes, and Death, and a new World of Sin.
The fatal Rib was crooked and unev'n,
From whence they have their Crab-like Nature giv'n;
Averse to all the Laws of Man and Heav'n.
O
Lucifer,
thy Regions had been thin,
Wer't not for Woman's propagating Sin:
'Tis they alone that all true Vices know;
And send such Throngs down to thy Courts below:
Nay there is hardly one among 'em all,
But envics
Eve
the Glory of the Fall:
Be cautious then, and guard your Empire well;
For should they once get Power to rebel,
They'd surely raise a Civil-War in Hell,
Add to the Pains you feel, and make you know,
W'are here above, as Curst as you below.
But we may thank our selves; is there a Dog,
Who when he may have Freedom, wears the Clog?
But Man, vain Man, the more imprudent Beast,
Drags the dull weight when he may be releas't:
May such, (and, ah! too many such we see)
While they live here, just only live, to be
The Mark of Scorn, Contempt and Infamy.
But if the Tide of Nature boistrous grow,
And would Rebelliously its Banks o'erflow,
Then chuse a Wench, who (full of lewd Desires)
Can meet your Floods of Love with equal Fires;
She only damns the Soul: but an ill Wife
Damns that, and with it all the Joys of Life:
And what vain Blockhead is so dull, but knows,
That of two Ills the least is to be chose?
But now, since Woman's Lust I chance to name,
Woman's unbounded Lust I'll first proclaim:
And show that our lewd Age has brought to view,
What
Sodom,
when at worst, has blusht to do.
True, I confess, that
Rome
's Emperial Whore,
(More Fam'd for Vice than for the Crown she wore)
Into the publick Stews (disguis'd) wou'd
hrust,
To quench the raging Fury of her Lust;
And by such Actions bravely got her Name,
Born up for ever on the Wings of Fame:
et this is poor, to what our Modern Age
as hatch'd, brought forth, and acted on the Stage:
Which for the Sex's Glory I'll rehearse;
nd make that deathless, as that makes my Verse.
Who knew not (for to whom was she unknown)
or late prodigious
Bewley?
(true, she's gone
o answer for the num'rous Ills she's done;
o
if there is no Hell for such as she,
eav'n is unjust, and that it cannot be.)
Albion
's Isle fast rooted in the Main,
es the rough Billows raging force Disdain,
hich tho' they foam, and with loud Terror roar,
t they can never reach beyond the Shore.
o she with Lust's Enthusiastick Rage,
ustain'd all the salt Stallions of the Age.
Whole Legions she encounter'd, Legions tyr'd;
satiate yet, still fresh Supplies desir'd.
ustrious Bawd! may thy Name live, and be
bhorr'd by all, as 'tis abhorr'd by me;
hou foremost in the Race of Infamy!
t Bodies must decay; for 'tis too sure,
There's nothing from the Jaws of Time secure,
et when she found that she could do no more,
hen all her Body was one putrid Sore,
dded with Pox, and Ulcers quite all o'er;
en then, by her delusive treach'rous Wiles,
or that's most specious still, which most beguiles)
'enroll'd more Females in the List of Whore,
an all the Arts of Man e'er did before.
est with the pond'rous Guilt, at length she fell,
d through the solid Centre sunk to Hell
e murm'ring Fiends all hover'd round about,
in hoarse Howls did the great Bawd salute;
az'd to see a sordid lump of Clay,
n'd with more various bolder Crimes than they:
or were her Torments less; for the dire Train,
on sent her howling through the rowling Flame,
the sad Seat of everlasting Pain.
Creswel,
and
Stratford,
the same Path do tread,
In Sin's black Volume so profoundly read,
That whensoe'er they die, we well may fear,
The very Tincture of the Crimes they bear,
With strange Infusion may inspire the Dust,
And in the Grave commit true Acts of Lust.
And now, i
so much to the World's reveal'd,
Reflect on the vast stores that lie conceal'd,
How oft into their Closets they retire,
Where flaming Dil—does inflame Desire,
And Gentle Lap-d—s feed the am'rous fire.
How curst is Man! when Brutes his Rivals prove,
Ev' in the Sacred Business of his Love!
Unless Religion pious Thoughts instil,
Shew me the Woman that would not be ill,
If she conveniently could have her will.
And when the Mind's corrupt, we all well know,
The Actions that proceed from't must be so.
Their Guilt's as great who any ill wou'd do,
As their's who actually that ill pursue,
That they would have it so their Crime assures;
Thus, if they durst, most Women would be Whores.
That is, (and 'tis what all Men will allow)
There's many wou'd be so, that yet seems vertuous now
Forgive me, Modesty, if I have been,
In any thing I have mention'd here, obscene;
Yet stay—Why should I ask that Boon of thee,
When 'tis a doubt if such a thing there be?
For Woman, in whose Breasts thou'rt said to reign,
And show the glorious Conquests thou dost gain,
Despises thee, and only courts the Name:
(Sounds, tho' we cannot see, yet we may hear,
And wonder at
heir echoing through the Air)
Thus, l
d by what delusive Fame imparts,
We think thy Throne's erected in their Hearts;
But w'are deceiv'd, as faith we ever were,
For if thou art, I'm sure thou art not there:
Nothing in those vile Mansions does reside,
But rank Ambition, Luxury and Pride.
Pride is the Deity they most adore,
Hardly their own dear selves they cherish more:
Survey their very Looks, you'll find it there;
How can you miss it when 'tis ev'ry where?
Some through all hunted Natures Secrets trace.
To fill the Furrows of a wrinkl'd Face;
And after all their toyl (pray mark the Curse)
They've only made that which was bad much worse,
As some in striving to make ill Coin pass,
Have but the more discover'd that 'twas Brass.
Nay, those that are reputed to be fair,
And know how courted, how admir'd they are,
Who one would think God had form'd so compleat,
They had no need to make his Gifts a Cheat;
Yet they too in Adulteration share,
And wou'd in spight of Nature, be more fair.
Deluded Woman! tell me, where's the Gain,
In spending Time upon a thing so vain?
Your precious Time, (O to your selves unkind!
When 'tis uncertain you've an hour behind
Which you can call your own: For tho' y'are Fair.
And beautiful as Guardian Angels are?
Adorn'd by Nature, fitted out by Art,
In all the Glories that delude the Heart:
Yet tell me, tell; have they the pow'r to save?
Or can they privilege you from the Grave;
The Grave, which favours not the Rich or Fair;
Beauty with Beast lies undistinguish'd there.
But hold—methinks I'm interrupted here,
By some vain Fop I neither Love nor Fear:
Who in these words his weakness does reveal,
And hurts that Wound which he shou'd strive to heal.
'Soft, Sir, methinks you too inveterate grow;
'And more your Envy than Discretion show.
'Who'd blame the Sun because he shines so bright,
'That we can't gaze upon his dazling Light,
'When at the same time he chears the Earth,
'And gives the various Plant and Blossoms Birth?
'How does the Winter look, that naked thing,
'Compar'd to the fresh Glories of the Spring?
'Rivers adorn the Earth; the Fish, the Seas;
'Flowers and Grass, the Meadows; Fruit, the Trees;
'The Stars, the Fields of Air thro' which they ride;
'And Woman all the Works of God beside:
'Yet base detracting Envy won't allow
'They should adorn themselves; then pray, Sir, now
'Produce some Reasons why you're so severe;
'For, envious as you are, you know they're fair.
And so were
Sodom
's Apples heretofore,
But they were still found rotten at the Core.
Nature without dispute made all things fair;
And dress'd 'em in an unaffected Air:
The Earth, the Meadows, Rivers, ev'ry Flower.
Proclaim the Skill of their great Maker's Pow'r;
But they, as they were made at first, remain,
And all their ancient Lustre still retain.
Nothing but vain fantastick Woman's chang'd;
And through all Mischiefs various Mazes rang'd▪
Yet that they're beautiful is not deny'd;
But tell me are the Unhandsome free from Pride?
No, no; the Strait, the Crooked, Ugly, Fair,
Have all, promiscuously, an equal share.
Thus, Sir, you see how they're estrang'd and stray'd.
From what by Nature they at first were made.
Already many of their Crimes I've nam'd,
Yet that's untold for which they most are Fam'd:
A Sin (tall as the Pyramids of old)
From whose aspiring top we may behold
Enough to damn a World!—what should it be,
But (Curse upon the Name!)
Inconstancy?
O tell me, does the World those Men contain,
(For I have look'd for such, but look'd in vain)
Who ne'er were drawn into that fatal Snare:
Fatal I call it, for he's curst that's there.
Inspir'd then by my Fellow-sufferers wrongs,
And glad I am, the Task to me belongs;
I'll bring the Fiend unmask'd to humane sight,
Tho' hid in the black Womb of deepest Night.
No more the Wind, the faithless Wind, shall be
A Simile for their Inconstancy,
For that sometimes is fixt; but Woman's Mind
Is never fixt, or to one Point inclin'd:
Less fixt than in a Storm the Billows are,
Or trembling Leaf the
Aspen
-Tree does bear,
Which ne'er stand still, but (ev'ry way inclin'd)
Turn twenty times with the least breath of wind.
Less fixt than wanton Swallows while they play
In the Sun-beams, to welcome in the Day:
Now yonder, now they're here, as soon as there,
In no Place long, and yet are ev'ry where.
Lake a toss'd Ship their passions fall and rise
One while you'd think it touch'd the very Skies,
When streight upon the S
n
it groveling lies.
Ev'n she her self,
Sylvia,
th' lov'd and Fair,
Whose one kind Look cou'd save me from Despair;
She, she whose Smiles I valu'd at that rate,
To enjoy them I scorn'd the Frowns of Fate;
Ev'n she her self, (but Ah! I'm loth to tell,
Or blame the Crimes of one I lov'd so well;
But it must out) ev'n she, swift as the Wind,
Swift as the airy Motions of the Mind,
At once prov'd false, and perjur'd, and unkind.
Here they to Day invoke the Pow'rs above,
As Witnesses to their Immortal Love;
When (lo!) away the airy Fantom flies,
And e'er it can be said to live, it dies:
Thus all Religious Vows they break,
With the same Ease and Freedom as they speak.
Nor is that sacred Idol, Marriage, free,
Marriage! which musty Drones affirm to be
The tye of Souls, as well as Bodies! nay,
The Spring that does through unseen Pipes convey
Fresh Sweets to Life, and drives the bitter Dregs away!
The Sacred Flame, the Guardian Pile of Fire,
That guides our Steps to Peace! nor does expire,
Till it has left us nothing to desire!
Ev'n thus adorn'd, the Idol is not free
From the sw
ft turns of their Inconstancy.
Witness th'
Ephesian
Matron —
Who to the Grave with her dead Husband went,
And clos'd her self up in his Monument;
Where on Marble she lamenting lay,
n sighs, she spent the Night; in Tears, the Day,
And seem'd to have no use of Life, but mourn it all away,
The wond'ring World extoll'd her faithful Mind,
Extoll'd her as the best of Woman-kind:
But see the World's Mistake; and with it, see
The strange effect of wild Inconstancy?
or she her self, ev'n in that Sacred Room,
With one brisk, vig'rous On-set was o'ercome,
nd made a Brothel of her Husband's Tomb:
Whose pale Ghost trembl'd in his Sacred Shrowd,
Wond'ring that Heav'n t
' Impious Act allow'd:
orror in Robes of Darkness stalkt around;
nd through the frighted Tomb did Groans resound,
he very Marbles wept, the Furies howl'd,
nd in hoarse Murmurs their Amazement told.
ll this shook no
the Dictates of her Mind,
t with a Boldness, suited to her kind,
She made her Husband's Ghost, (in Death, a Slave!)
Her necessary Pimp ev'n in his Grave!
What need I fetch these Instances from old?
There now live those that are as bad, and bold,
Of Quality too, Young, Vig'rous, Lustful, Fair;
But for their Husbands sakes their Names I spare.
Are these (ye Gods) the Virtues of a Wife?
The Peace that crowns a Matrimonial Life?
Is this the Sacred Prize for which we fight,
And hazard Life and Honour with delight?
Bliss of the Day, and Rapture of the Night?
The Reins, that guide us in our wild Careers,
And the Supporter of our feeble Years?
No, no, 'tis Contradiction; rather far
They are the cause of all our Bosom War:
The very Source, and Fountain of our Woe,
From whence Despair, and Doubt for ever flow:
The Gall, that mingles with our best delight;
Rank to the Taste, and nauseous to the Sight:
A Days, the weight of Care that clogs the Breast,
At Night the Hags that does disturb our Rest,
Our mortal Sickness in the midst of Health;
Chains in our Freedom; Poverty in Wealth:
Th' Eternal Pestilence, and Plague of Life;
Th' Original, and Spring of all our Strife;
These rather are the Virtues of a clam'rous Wife!
O why, ye awful Pow'rs, why was't your Will?
To mix our solid Good with so much Ill?
But you foresaw our Crimes wou'd soar too high,
And so made them your Vengeance to supply:
For not the wild destructive waste of War,
Nor all the endless Lab'rinths of the Bar,
Famine, Revenge, perpetual loss of Health,
No, nor that grinning Fiend, Despair it self,
When it insults with most tyrannick sway,
Can plague or torture Man so much as they.
But hold —don't let me blame the Pow'rs Divine;
Or at the wondrous Works they made, repine.
All at first was good, form'd by the unerring Will,
Tho' much has since degen'rated to ill.
Ev'n Woman was (say they) made chaste and good;
But Ah! not long in that blest State she stood;
Swift as a Meteor glides thro' Air she fell,
And show'd, to love that Sex too much, is one sure way to Hell
But stop my Pen; for who can comprehend,
Or trace those Crimes, which n
'er can have an end?
The Sun, the Moon, the Stars that gild the Sky,
The World, and all its Glories too must dye,
And in one universal Ruin lye:
But they ev'n Immortality will gain,
And live—but must for ever live in pain;
For ever live, damn'd to eternal Night,
And never more review the Sacred Light.
Beware then, dull, deluded Man, beware;
And let not vicious Women be the Snare,
To make you the Companions with 'em there:
Scorn their vain Smiles, their little Arts despise,
And your Content at that just value prize,
As not to let those rav'nous Thieves of Prey
Rifle, and bear the sacred Guest away;
'Tis they, 'tis they that rob us of that Gem;
How could we lose it were it not for them?
Avoid 'em then, with all the gaudy Arts,
They daily practise to amuse our Hearts;
Avoid 'em, as you wou'd avoid their Crimes,
Or the mad Follies that infest the Times.
But now shou'd some (for doubtless we may find
Many a stupid Ass among Mankind,)
Shou'd such contemn the wholsome Rules I give,
And in contempt of what I've spoke, still live
Like base soul'd Slaves, and Fetters chuse to wear,
When they may be as unconfin'd as Air,
Or the wing'd Race that do inhabit there;
May all the Plagues an ill Wife can invent,
Pursue 'em with eternal Punishment:
May they—but stay, may Curses I forestall;
For in that Curse I've comprehended all—
But say, Sir, if some Pilot on the Main
Shou'd be so mad, so resolutely vain,
To steer his Bark upon that fatal Shore,
Where he has seen ten thousand wrack't before,
Tho' he shou'd perish there; say, wou'd you not
Bestow a Curse on the Notorious Sot;
Trust me, the Man's as much to blame as he,
Who ventures his frail Bark out wilfully,
On the Wild, Rocky, Matrimonial See;
When round about, and just before his Eyes,
Such a destructive waste of fatal Ruine lies.
FINIS.
The Epistle Dedicatory to the Snarling Curs the CRITICKS.
AND why all this Noise and Splutter against the Women, Harmless Creatures▪ What have they done to deserve so many Lampoons, Libels, Satyrs? But methinks Gentlemen, 'tis not fair Dealing to commit A
ts of open Hostility before you proclaim a War. And we know what Feats you brag have been done, by our little Fire-ship call'd the Satyr against Woman: This Preface therefore is only to let you know, that we have rig'd our a Female Man of War (if that been't Nonsense) with 30 G
s of a side, which I'gad Gentlemen, (as Mr. Bays has it) we hope will maul you: and so much for that Point.
But Now—what now? why, it seems 'twas Nero, and not Caligula, that made such a Wish, mention'd in Page 2d. Why Gentlemen, I hope you'll excuse the want of Learning in a Woman; since upon my word, I never read Suetonius nor Tranquills, for you all know, That a Box of Marmalade, Culpepper's Midwifery, a Prayer-Book, and two or three Plays, is all the Furniture of a Woman's Study,
If any of the Characters suit with some Persons to me unknown, I solemnly profess, there is not one of them levell'd against any Person whatsoever, but a Skilful Painter may by the strength of Fancy, draw a Face representing some Body, tho' no Body s
for the Picture.
Madam,
TH' Invasion first with fierce Assaults began,
And scatter'd wild Disorder as it ran,
It was a War betwixt our
Sex
and
Man.
With haughty Pride the bold Triumphers boast,
And cry the weaker Vessel's sunk and lost;
Trophies along the gaudy
Strand
display
d,
And never such Insulting
Poeans
made.
Yet true it is, without a Blush we own,
Our Force in part was scatter'd and o'erthrown▪
With Fright surpriz'd we knew not then the Foe,
With Noise they hurry'd on, and flush't with show;
Yet still unmov'd our Body did remain,
They only took some Straglers on the Plain.
To you the News with winged haste we bore,
You smil'd, and bid us stand, and said no more.
Long you delay'd indeed to aid us there,
And they mistook your Scorn of them, for fear.
You sent one
Muse
to view their Strength, she came
And told you 'twas but Noise and babling Fame.
Unguarded, and how loose the Forces lay,
And would you then advance you'd with the Day.
With this alarm'd your God-like Genius rose,
Lord! how agast appear'd your frighted Foes?
At your approach, foil'd and disarm'd they yield,
And scatter strange Confusion o'er the Field.
With Numbers sweetly rank't you brought us Aid,
nd shew you can defend us and invade:
bmissive at your Feet their General craves,
And you a
Pleasure wound the baff
d
laves.
M P.
A SATYR against MAN.
THen must it thus, Ye Heavens for ever be,
Will no kind Fate our Sex from Censure free?
Must ill-bred
Satyrs
chase us through the World,
And shall no Thunder at the Slaves be hurl'd?
Ye Gods! how long shall injur'd Virtue groan?
How long shall Innocence be trampl'd on?
Shall a bold Scribling Fop whose Head contains,
A Thousand Maggots for One Dram of Brains,
In Doggrel Rhime, and much more Doggrel Sense,
Vomit six Pen'worth of Impertinence;
Thrust it abroad, and in a Stile not common,
Call it forsooth—
A Satyr against Woman
?
A pretty Title—sure the Book must sell,
Cries a Clapt-Spark, and likes it wondrous well,
Another Laughs, and Snuffling in the Nose,
E'gad (says he) the Subjects rarely chose;
A third,—but hold, the Slaves I must engage,
Inspire me
Juno
with a Woman's Rage,
A Rage like that, when you by Spies were told,
How finely
Jupiter
intreagu'd with Gold;
Or when the Shape of Bull and Swan put on,
To get some Mortal Maiden-Head was gone:
Assist dear Goddess, teach me how to write,
Inform my Satyr when, and where to bite,
That all the Race of lewd inconstant Men,
May curse the time they rous'd a Woman's Pen▪
'Tis done,—a glowing heat my Breast inspires,
Revenge inflames me with its eager Fires;
Oh were the Races of Mankind in my Power,
By all my Hopes, they should not live an hour,
By Heaven,
Caligula,
'twas bravely done,
To wish all Necks in
Rome
were shrunk to one,
That at one blow they might receive their Fate,
Yet
Caesar,
you were moderate in your hate,
A part of
Mankind,
at your Rage would fall,
But mine, (
would Heaven would grant it
) flies at all.
Fear not my
Muse
the
Monster
to engage,
But slight the passes of a
Scribler
's Rage;
What tho' he struts in big affected Notes,
You know the
Muses
still wear Petticoats,
Those
Darling Shes,
their Sexes Cause will own,
Shall
Angel-Woman
be by
Man
o'erthrown?
—
Man,
the ignoble word of Tell-tale Fame,
My Paper blisters as I write the Name,
Man,
must I then the hated Name rehearse,
Lord
! how it stains my Ink and spoils my Verse,
Man,
by some angry God in passion hurl'd
Down, as a Plague to vex the Female World.
A Spirit of Air and Flame may be withstood,
But who can shun a
Devil
of Flesh and Blood?
Man
! hold my
Muse,
thy Epithets give o'er,
A Nobler Task will soon employ thy Store,
Expose the Wretch in all his vicious Shapes,
Trace him through all Disguises, all Escapes,
For tho' his Vices are become his Trade,
Yet Vice will sometimes Act in Masquerade.
Let no fond pity thy Resentments spare,
Let nought of
Woman
make the Lash forbear;
Let him be
Fop, Pimp, Cully, Fool,
or
Knave,
Lash till he fly for shelter to the Grave:
That undeluded Females may be shown,
What a choice Creature 'tis they dote upon.
Nature has scarce wrote
Man
upon his Chin;
But strait to Love the Stripling does begin.
Tho' what it is he understands no more,
Than
Sailors
did the
Compass
heretofore.
Whether the
Play-house, Church,
or
Boarding-School,
Did with a
Mistress
furnish the young
Fool,
We cannot tell—but one at last is found,
Whose Charms the Heart of young
Philander
Wound
The Trifle humbly at her Feet he lays,
nd has the Way of Courtship now a days:
ome
Present
—for a Bribe does slily use,
o by a Gift—his want of Gifts excuse;
nd that his Plot be more securely laid,
e gets an Interest in the
Chamber-Maid
:
ut if from's Vows she turns her Scornful Eyes,
nd with disdain his formal Courtship flyes;
Lunatick transform'd he then despairs,
ooks wild, storms, rages, and devoutly swears,
That if his
Sylvia
sends another Frown,
imself, himself, the Wretch himself will drown
efore th' arrival of the next days Sun,
nd the next Tavern sees the
Business
done.
ollow my
Muse,
you may if not too Clamorous,
n a
Red-Sea
of
Claret
find Sir
Amorous.
Where powerful Love, yields to more powerful
Wine,
And prompts his Fancy to some new Design:
His former
Mistress
like a Cast off
Suit,
Thrown by—another does his Heart recruit,
o whom obliging Nature has been kind,
n all the Gifts of
Body
and of
Mind,
Nor must her Fortune be forgot behind;
'ith her he uses all the little Arts,
nvented to surprize unguarded Hearts.
No T
eats are wanting that may bribe her Sense,
And to her Heart convey soft Love from thence.
o Balls and Plays she's daily usher'd in,
Tell me St.
Jaeme
's-
Park
how oft you've seen
The perjur'd Wretch conduct her through the
Grove,
And whisper Tales of his pretended Love.
How oft he kist her hand, and softly
re,
That she, and none but she he could adore,
When the same time he Ogl'd at a Whore.
His vig'rous Courtship overcomes the
Fair,
She can no longer such brisk Sallyes bear.
With blushes which too well the Heart discover,
The cred'lous
Phillis
owns her self a Lover,
Which mighty Secret when the
Wretch
has known
Retires, and all his Passion does disown▪
Disown't said I?—Ah certainly he'd none;
And 'its a part of his Diversion made,
To tell the World how th'
Fair One
was betray'd,
Your
Thunder Gods
! to strike the Villain dead.
O could my Pen dart Lightning at the Slave,
A Fate deserv'd his Perjuries should have:
But a Curst Impotence attends me still,
And Men must for the Deed accept the Will;
But yet to show how far a Woman's Passion
Exceeds that Modish Raillery now in fashion.
For once let cheated
Ariadne
speak,
And if you any sense of Shame partake:
Know perjur'd
Men,
'twill make your Hearts to ake.
And will oblige our injur'd Sex to know it,
The Story's true, no matter who's the Poet.
When
Thesius
false by unexpected Theft,
Had
Ariadne
on black
Naxos
left,
By him and this kind Sex expos'd a Prey
To Wolves and Tygers milder Beasts than they,
Long her low Love and Nature's servile Chain,
Her just, her pious Curses did restrain:
But when far off his Perjur'd Gally flies,
And rising Billows screen her following Eyes,
All
Woman
in her's banish'd by despair,
Leaving a brave a dreadful Angel there;
Thus did She all his treacherous Sex engage,
And thus curst on, inspir'd with Heav'nly Rage.
Fly Villain, Monster, Traytor, if I can,
I'll call thee more than all, I'll call thee Man.
Man
—Nature's Blush, Medly of Lust and Blood,
All
Man
—degen'rate from thy Native Mud,
Pure Sedement of Chaos, Devil all o'er,
Thy self thy self, what need I call the more;
Perjur'd, and Treach'rous, Monstrous, and Ingrate,
Deadly's your Love, more deadly than your Hate.
Your charming Eyes are those which have betray'd,
A tame, an easie, fond believing Maid.
Find me one Wretch in all your Hellish Bands,
Whose Tongue han't done more Murders than his Hands.
Crocadile are your Tears, sly silent Lyes,
Hyena
's Voice, and Cockatrices Eyes.
Angels before you've cheated us, and then,
The Cloven-foot peeps out, and you'r all Devils agen.
When I my own weak Soul and Sex review,
I hate my self and them as much as you.
Why has black Destiny oblig'd us thus,
To dote upon a Mortal-
Incubus
?
Oh that I could on the tame Fools prevail,
W
'd die to make their vip'rous Off-spring fail
'
'Twould be but one curst Age before they fell,
And moulder'd back into their native
Hell.
By Heaven, 'twas nobly wisht and bravely thought,
Were all our
Sex
with such Intentions fraught,
Hell
would not long the treacherous Vermin spare,
For slighted Love who can with Patience bear?
And tho' our
Spark
was Perjur'd once before,
He'll tick with
Hell
for one false Promise more,
And a whole Race of feigned Vows run o'er.
No
Woman
shall monopolize his Heart,
But every
Female
shall pretend a part.
Inconstancy the Practic'd Vice of th' Age,
Makes him all
Women
that he sees engage.
One
Woman
takes him with her charming Air,
This 'cause she's
Black,
the other 'cause she's
Fair.
Now now he dies for
Sylvia
's
Charming Eyes,
Till
Caelia
's Singing did his Soul surprize;
His
trifling
Heart she for a while possest,
Till 'twas remov'd to
Rosalinda
's Breast:
She could not long of her new Treasure boast,
The Skittish thing soon took another Post.
Octavia
next would the Gay
Bubble
claim,
But still for
Daphne
he'd a greater Flame;
For her he languisht in soft fond Desire,
ill
Florimena
set his Heart on fire.
A while indeed he revel'd in her Arms,
But soon was captiv'd with
Almeria
's Charms▪
or full six hours she held her
Aiery
Lover,
T
ll
Arabella
did new Charms discover:
Her welcome Guest she did not long enjoy,
But
Lydia
was presented with the
Toy
;
And tho' she'd Magick that might cause its stay,
Yet
Claristilla
beckon'd it away:
n two hours time the inclination fled,
nd
Belvedira
reigned in her stead;
s Mistress long she had not bore Command,
ut th' Scepter was resign'd to
Flora
's Hand,
alse as the Wind, inconstant as the Weather,
ran away from her the Lord knows whither.
His Love being thus in various Channels cut,
old Lust flows in, as fast as Love ebbs out.
ust, like a Fiend his Soul doth haunt and vex,
ust, the Familiar
Devil
of the Sex;
ll sense of Reputation once abhorring,
e lists himself a Proselyte for Whoring.
Whoring—what pleasure does the sound afford?
horing, that lovely fine delicious Word,
A Virtuous Woman's troubled with Ill-Nature,
But yet a Whore's a most obliging Creature,
With her all his broken Vows repeats,
With her he values no Expence in Treats.
Whatever her fond Appetite can crave,
Tis but to ask, and she as soon shall have.
The
Park
and
Play-house
see 'em still together,
And he's her
Cully
for all sorts of Weather;
And tho' some Years before the
Nothing
fled,
Yet he'll be thought to have her
Maiden-head.
A vicious Constancy he now will own,
And is not weary of her Service grown;
While in her Lap th' inchanted Coxcomb rocks,
She lovingly requites him with a
P
—
But hold a-while m'unwary head-strong Muse,
In taxing
Men
I my own Sex Accuse,
The Dart which at the other Sex was thrown,
Recoils with all its Force upon our own:
And while the
Cully
I would fain explore,
In lively Colours display the
Whore.
Like
Sampson
's Foxes tail to tail they're ty'd,
And who, the Loving Couple would divide?
Yet this for
Jilts
must in excuse be said,
'Twas false, base treach'rous
Man
that them betray'd,
And if some Hellish Arts and Tricks they know,
To you kind Men, they all their Knowledge owe,
They were not Devils till you made 'em so.
From
Fluxing
or from private
Hot House
come,
For our last mentioned
Cully
make some Room.
Who tho' severely chastened for his Sins,
His much lov'd Trade of Whoring soon begins,
So Flood-gates which have long stopt Water-course,
When opened make it fly with greater force.
Not virtuous Ladies in his Lust he'd spare,
Did not their Frowns make the bold Wretch forbear.
His Lust all manner of distinction Damns,
'Twixt
Country nut-brown,
or fine
Court Madams.
Ugly
or
handsome, fair, black, brown,
or
yellow,
Tall, short, fat, lean,
he swears she's not her fellow.
Abroad he fastens upon all he meets,
The Sexes common
Scare crow
in the Streets.
Where Widows, Wives, and Maids, he boldly seizes,
Ones Breast, and t'others Hand he rudely squeezes.
But if he finds 'em civil or not right,
Damn 'em, says he, they're, Virtuous out of spite.
He roves not long till some kind
Jenny
pass,
And she with him takes one refreshing Glass.
Some paultry
Chink
to tempt her he'll expose,
And she on him a swinging
Clap
bestows.
Who in few days finding his old Guest come;
At some
Quack Doctors
takes a private Room,
The
Quacks
those lewd Impostors of the times,
Fam'd for their
Pills,
their
Spirits,
and their
Rhimes.
With promis'd hopes, expecting
ops betray,
And send them more Distemper'd thence away,
Call'd of their Health, and cheated of their Pay.
Death through the Town is scatter'd in their Bills,
And Execution swallow'd with their
Pills.
'Twould blast a modest Muse t'approach too near,
A Dire Infection stains the neighbouring Air.
Here draw the Veil and let the Wretches lie,
Cursing the effects of their base Leachery.
What Gaudy thing from
China
or
Japan,
Is this appears?—it cannot sure be Man.
And yet it talks, and looks, and walks like one,
Of those we call the modish Sparks o'th' Town.
Man's the least part about him that appears,
Sure he was got between some
Taylors
Shears.
Oh
what a breadth, what mighty Port he bears;
A dozen Farms upon his back he wears.
Point
de Venee
must now adorn his Knees;
Whose Ancestors wore nought but homely Frieze.
n a long
Wig
must our Sir
Taudry
strut
;
Whose Father wore the old
Geneva
-cut.
Dressing himself till noon the Fop must be,
The
Royal Soveraign
's sooner rig'd than he.
Each day he spends some hours before the Glass,
To make himself a most accomplisht
Ass.
Studies new Smiles and Cringes when alone,
And practices abroad what there was done;
Pride is the
Mistress
he does hourly serve,
His Ear is bor'd and he must never swerve:
Price, which to learn the
Women
but begin,
n
Men
is grown a most habitual Sin.
Along the
Park
methinks I see him pass,
With formal steps he traverses the Grass;
f any
Ladies
Eyes but towards him move,
He thinks, (
Vain Fool,
) that they're with him in Love.
But if t'advance, and to him come but nigh,
He gives 'em the kind squint and passes by;
Indeed he does it most Judiciously.
Then
Spanish Snush,
to
Modish Nose
is put,
At which Perfum'd
Handkerchief
's drawn out;
T'adjust some bold disorder in the Face,
And put the
Chin-patch
in it proper place.
Then hums a Tune passing through the Streets
With his dear Friend, the brisk Sir
Fopling
meets;
With open Arms they embrace—Dear
Jack
how is't?
Welcome from
France,
and then I think they kist.
What News from
Paris
? Are the
Ladies
fine?
Shall we at
Locket
's Ordinary Dine?
What Novels, Songs, or Fashion hast brought over,
Are th'
Ladies
kind, I prithee
Jack
discover?
And thus does more Impertinence run thro'
Than ever Gossips at a
Christning
knew.
Nay—'tis not all his Huffing shall excuse,
The
Bully
from the Lash of angry
Muse
;
Bully,
how great i'th' Mouth the
Accent
sounds;
Bully
who nothing breaths but
Bl———d
and
W—d
;
Some
Devil
did sure on Nature act a Rape,
And his own Likeness get in humane shape;
More Oaths and Curses not the Damned Vent,
Than from the
Bully
's
Brimstone-Lungs
are sent.
The
Devil
himself is all amaz'd to see,
A Wretch more impiously bold than he;
He for one daring Act was sent to
Hell,
But th' others loud G—————d D————m's who can tell?
Like
Tom
a
Bedlam
he invades the Streets,
And Quarrels, Huffs, and Fights with all he meets.
But if that one whose Valour seems to stoop,
To Noise and Nonsense, take the Villain up;
And satisfaction for the Affront demand,
Sir
Fright-All
lowers his
Top-sail
to your hand.
Your Pardon Sir, says he, I must request,
By G——— I thought you'd understood a Jest,
His Bilboe sh
ath'd he decently retires,
Tutor to young raw
Fops
and Country
Squires,
Would you my
Muse
of
Hell
the Picture view,
And what distracted Looks the
Damned
shew;
Go to some Gaming-Ordinary where,
Shamwell
and
Cheatly
and such Rooks repair,
To sharp the City
Prigg
or Country-
Heir.
Oaths loud as Thunder, shake the trembling Room,
And pointed Curses sign each others Doom.
The
Pox,
the
Plague,
and all the Ills that fall,
On wretched Mort
ls on themselves they call;
While th
y by the uncertain chance of
Dice,
Lose Mannors, Lands, and Lordships in a trice.
And what Old
Gripe well,
Scores of Years was getting,
I
oft at
in an
sitting▪
The loss of
Guineas
proves the loss of sense.
r against Chance how can there be Defence?
nger, Despair and Fury fill the Face;
nd
Passion
justles
Reason
out of Place.
t last a Wretch with whom the
Furies
dwell,
by a fatal thrust dismist to Hell.
inform old
Nick,
that all the rest agree,
ortly to come and bear him Company.
The keeping Spark should next have been expos'd,
t that's a Text has one great
Poet
pos'd,
Satyr
cannot fright him into shame,
hose Presence damn'd the well-wrote
Limber ham.
ought have told what Arts and Tricks are laid,
snare the vertuous young unthinking Maid.
What sly decoys are us'd t'intrap the Fair?
What trusty Pimp did in the Office share?
hat Rev'rend
Bands
made use of to intice.
The Fair One's liking of that modish Vice?
o
she at last is guided to his Arms;
Where Victor like he triumphs in her Charms.
o
long she does the Airy Title hold,
nd how her Joys are scarce a twelve Month old,
efore kind
Keeper
takes another Miss;
t sad experience knows too much of this.
My Task were endless, I should never stop;
ere I oblig'd t'expose each sort of
Fop.
he rambling
Fop
from
France
but newly come,
hat went out sound and brought Diseases home.
he squeamish
Fop
so nice in all things grown,
Courtly
has his fellow
Fools
in Town.
The
Lazy Fop
that lies a Bed till Noon,
nd wonders how he chanc'd to rise so soon:
The
Fop
which does to business make pretence,
et never guilty known of too much Sense;
The City
Fop
that modish would appear,
nd puts on Sword and Wig at
Temple-bar.
The Cringing
Fop
that does to all Men bow;
The Sharping
Fop
that lives the Lord knows how▪
The Noisy
Fop
would talk a Man to Death,
The Swearing
Fop
that lives on perjur'd Breath:
ut hold—I might as well attempt to show
hat various Weeds on Banks of
Nilus
grow:
hat sorts of Monsters
Africks
Desarts bear,
tell how many sorts of
Fops
there are;
e need not long be puzzl'd how to call Men,
Fop
is grown a common Name for all Men.
Forgetful
Muse
that 'mongst the Slaves that vex,
And daily torture our too harmless Sex,
You should forget that hateful Plague of Life,
Husband, the Constant
Jaylor
of a Wife
;
Husband—the curst Alotment of our Fate,
Husband, the thing which of all things we hate;
Fops plague us but by turns, and then they've done,
But
Husbands
Plagues are ever but begun;
And tho' each Day, we wish the Slav'ry done,
We find our Chains as constant as the Sun.
If
Jealousie,
That Maggot of the Pate,
Possess the Sot, how violent is his Hate?
What curst Suspicions haunt his tortur'd Mind,
And make him look, for what he would not find?
To th'
Looking-glass
he dare not cast an Eye,
For fear he should his
fine Brow-Antlers
Spy,
Nothing but Females must i'th' House appear,
And not a Dog or Cat that's Male be there:
Nay lest th' unhappy Wife should have her Longings,
He cu
s out all the Men i'th'
Tapstry-Hangings.
If but a harmless Letter to her's sent,
He'll make it own worse than e'er it meant,
And e'er the Letter from his hands be cast,
He'll make it speak some deadly Crime at last.
In a curst Garret cloyster'd up for Life,
Lives
Female-Innocence
miscall'd a Wife.
Deny'd those Pleasures are to Virtue granted,
Yet by the
Devil
of a
Husband
haunted:
For a Release, she cannot hope nor pray,
Till milder, Death take him, or her away:
If her she's happy—and if him she's blest;
Till to her Arms she take a second Guest:
But where's a Woman of all Sense so void,
Won't shun—
That Gulph wherein she'd like t've been destroy'd
If Beauty, Wit, or Complaisance could do,
Here's Woman that can all these Wonders shew;
Beauty that might new Fire to
Hermits
lend,
And Wit which serves that Beauty to defend.
When courted, she did Wonders with her
Charms,
Till
Parson
conjur'd her to
Husbands
Arms.
And tho' the same Perfections still remain,
Yet nothing now can the Dull Creature gain;
No Looks can win him, nor no Smiles invite;
The Wretch does her and her Endearments
ight;
And leaves those Graces which he should adore,
To dote upon some ugly
Suburo Whore
▪
Whilst poor neglected Spouse remains at home,
With discontent and sorrow overcome.
No Prayers nor Tears, nor all the Virtuous Arts,
Which Women use to tame Rebellious Hearts
Can the Incorrigible Husband move,
And make him own his once so promis'd Love.
Consider, Lord! 'twould make his Head grow giddy,
He says he is not yet for
Bedlam
ready:
But the next time that you thro'
Ludgate
pass,
Through Grates you'll see the loving
Spend-All
's Face▪
And 'twill some Pleasure be the
Wretch
to view,
Angling for single Money in a Shoe.
Tell me you grave Disputers of the Schools,
You Learned
Cox Combs,
and you well-read
Fools
:
You that have told us
Man
must be our
Head
:
And made Dame Nature
Pimp
to what you've said,
Tell me when
Husband
drencht in
Claret
reels,
nd slips by th' Motion of his treach'rous
Heels.
That
Head
he has we all confess and own,
But what's the Head, when once the Sense is gone?
Oh! she's a happy, too too happy Bride,
That has a
Husband
snoring by her side:
elching out
Fumes
of undigested
Wine,
nd lies all Night like a good-natur'd
Swine
:
Whose snoring serves for Musick to her Ears;
nd keeps true Consort with her silent Tears:
That can himself no more than
Chaos
move,
nd still neglects the great Affair of
Love.
he may indeed assume the Name of
Wife,
ut others know she's but a Nurse for
Life.
A Drunken
Husband
may pretend good Nature
ut here's a
Sullen Matrimonial-Creature
;
ill, and will not, will ask, and will deny;
Peevish, Cross, and cannot tell for why.
ot one kind Look he will to Spouse afford,
ot one kind Smile, perhaps not one good Word.
ll the obliging Arts that she can use,
o reconcile this angry peevish Spouse;
vail no more, than if she took delight
washing Bricks, or swarthy
Negroes
white,
ns
and
Tygers
Men have learnt to tame,
etaining nothing frightful but their Name:
ith low Submission have their Keepers own'd,
nd trembled when their Masters have but frown'd▪
t
Man,
unruly
Man,
that Beast of Reason,
ainst Woman still continues in his Treason:
No Charms his damn'd ill-nature can release,
Satan,
must only
Satan
Dispossess.
Are these ye
Gods,
the
Sov'reigns
we must own?
Must we before these golden Galves bow down?
Forgive us Heaven if we renounce the Elves,
We'll make a Common-Wealth among our selves:
Where, by the Laws that we shall then Ordain,
We'll make it Capital to mention
Man.
Man,
we'll for ever banish from our sight,
Not talk by day, nor think of them by night:
We'll shun their Courtship, as we'd do the Plague,
And loath 'em more, than they a toothless-Hag:
'Tis not their Sighs, their Cringing nor their Prayers,
Their supple Whinings, nor their treach'rous Tears.
That shall one kind Return for ever gain:
But when t' oblige us they've done all they can,
We'll laugh, deride, and scorn the
Foppish
Sex;
And wrack Invention for new ways to vex.
Till they to shun us, prompted by Despair;
Or drown themselves, or hang in cleanly Air.
Thus when to Hell by Shoals the
Men
are hurl'd▪
Women
will Reign as Monarchs of the World.
But if amongst us there should chance to be,
On s
ly fond regardless foolish
She
:
That spight of all our
Edicts
will maintain,
A League with that detested Creature
Man
:
Good Counsel first shall strive to bring her off;
But if the Fool with that good Method scoff;
We'll try what next our heavy Threa
'nings do;
But her curst Treasons, if she still pursue.
If she the freedom of her Sex will leave,
And love a Wretch she knows that will deceive?
From Pity we'll exempt the Female Sot;
That wretched thing, a
Husband
be her Lot.
Jealous by Day, and Impotent by Night;
Have neither shape nor mein to please the Sight.
Diseas'd in Body and deform'd in Soul,
Conceited, Proud, yet all the while a Fool.
Poor to a Proverb, Lazy, yet as Poor,
And still want Credit for to run on Score.
May she with him spin out a tedious Life;
Blest with that much admir'd Title
Wife.
And may no
Female
better
Fate
partake,
That dares profane the whols
m
Laws
we make.
FINIS.
THE Long Vacation: A SATYR. Address'd to all Disconsolate Traders.
LONDON:
inted and Sold by
H. Hills,
in
Black-fryars,
near the Water-side. 1709.
THE PREFACE.
TO all you Gentlemen (if so I may stile you, since you are hardly well-bred, and tell so many Lies every Day behind the Counter) who are born Cookneys, and
ive within the Sound of
Bow-Bell,
I make these following Papers as a Present, well knowing, that you now sit biting
our Fingers in your Shops, or toying with your Wives, and
ave little or nothing to do. All the fine Birds are flown, be
Beau Monde
have forsaken you, and what you get now,
believe, in a whole Summer's Day, you may put in your Eyes,
nd 'twill no ways hinder you from seeing your Horns, unless
ou are fond of those Vipers which you hug in your Bosoms; and
re so wonderfully complaisant to your Wives that you will give
m no manner of Occasion to think you any ways troublesome
nd impertinent, by having jealous Pates, or encroaching up
n that Liberty and Freedom, which your Wives, as Citizens
hink, they have a Charter for.
Perhaps the following Lines may give you some Entertain
ent, or serve to amuse you a While, 'till Fame's loud Trum
t shall eccho a Victory to our Shore, which will be more a
eable to you, than those stollen Delights, which your Help
es are now enjoying your absence, are to them. But, alas!
t most of you are hornify'd, is no more News, (tho' you mentedly enough put the Disgrace in your Pockets) than if
y one should say, there is Bribery us'd in Elections; that some the Parliament House are wiser than others; or that a young
idow, who has had the Pleasure of the shaking of the She
ts,
ls to be marry'd again. Come, come, take Heart of Grace, my Lads; don't be disconsolate; I make no Doubt, but that you will shortly hear of a Battle, that will find you Yalk enough for all the Vacation, and set your Tongues a moving as nimbly in every Coffee-house you come at, as that of
Court-Lady somewhat overtaken with drinking Harts-hor
and Brandy.
As I said before, seeing you have little or nothing to do tho' you had rather be accounted Cuckolds, than jealous Hu
bands, yet it would not be amiss to visit your Wives once
Week, that so by the Beating of their Pulse, you may discove
whether their Blood be in a Ferment or no, or when last thei
Bodies had some unlawful Agitations. Besides, since Natu
is very craving, and her Wants must one Way or other be su
ply'd, it would be better for you to enjoy the lawful Embrace of your own Spouses, than engender with that fulsome Crap
which at this dead Time of the Year is left in Town.
I protest I almost pity you, and am sorry, that your Wiv
should so impose upon you. Some roaring Bully, or recruiti
Officer in the Country, makes his own Game with them; an
Women are in one Respect the Reverse of the Turkey-Coc
they are wonderfull affected with a Red Coat. Since th
your Shops are so empty of Customers, and your Trade is so dea
I would advise you to repent of all the Lies that you told b
hind your Counters last Term, to make your Accompts up bo
between God and Man; go to Church with a safe Conscience read the News chearfully; and since your Circumstances
present will not allow you to drink Wine, fancy Tea and Coffe
B
rgundy and Campaign.
THE Long Vacation.
BLESS us! how silent is the noisy Gown?
How quiet are the
Temples, Park,
and Town?
As if
Astraea
(Great in
Anna
's Reign)
Had banish'd Law to some deserted Plain.
No Gouty J—ce sits upon the Bench,
ndulgent to a Bottle and a Wench;
Altho' his Rev'rend Garb, and Brow severe,
Promise his Morals, and his Sould austere.
Now sacred Peace, finds a secure Retreat
Where Laws and Justice held their awful Seat:
Not on Demurrers now the Serjeants drudge,
Nor crabbed Pleas detain the hungry Judge.
Each S— now may rest in Elbow-Chair
His veterane Limbs, broke with nocturnal Care,
n turning over Volumes, and the Fair.
No knotty Doubts his solid Ease beguile,
His Rev'rend
Coke
the dusty Cobwebs spoil:
Grave
Littleton,
and
Leveing
too, lie idle,
He reads them now no oftner than the
Bible.
The jangling Laws, tho' insolently rude,
Dare not upon his peaceful Hours intrude.
Wine chears his Soul, and his obliging Eyes
hew he's not dead to charming Mistresses;
Tho' at the Bar, in Term you'd hardly think,
That he had Pow'r enough to whore or drink;
But that the charming Beauties of the Fair,
Were far above his Notice, or his Care,
uch Furrows in his aged Cheeks appear:
Yet ho's his Looks, an Air most solemn shew,
His powder'd Wig discovers he's a Beau;
And that when serious Business don't intrude,
His Worship can be both gallant and lewd.
THe
C—t
's
Kitchin,
as his Brains is cold,
No longer now litigious Crowds make bold
To knock him up, and buy their Peace with Gold.
No more he sees his Chambers like a Fair,
Of Clients full, and nev'r a Pauper there.
No longer now he props with noblest Wines
His Age, and at the
Devil
sups and dines.
Nor does the Porter light him to his Bed
'Twixt Twelve and One, by trusty Drawers led.
The Petty-fogger, who keeps such a House
Would starve a Church, or ancient College Mouse,
Hangs down his Ears, and now begins to miss
His sumptuous Meals, and Term-time Luxuries:
Just as his Looks, so does his Purse grow thin,
Paleness without, and Emptiness within.
Quickly he thinks it prudent to repair
To some convenient Seat for Country Air;
Carrying himself with Paultry present down,
His Board he spunges on some Rural Clown,
'Till the kind Term returns him to the Town.
Trusting in Impudence, which seldom fails,
Some silvane Nymph, perchance, the Fop assails.
The ruddy Maid at first receives his Flame,
And vows her Spark's
a pretty Gentleman
;
Tho' whatsoe'er he to his Mistress says,
Is stoll'n from
D'Urfey
's, or from
Settle
's Plays:
In vain he shews th' abundance of his Sense,
And charms the Fair with borrow'd Eloquence▪
For soon malicious Fortune makes it clear,
That he's som paultry tricking
Wappineer:
Good Gods! how dull his Courtship is! How lame
How soon he quits his bold presumptuous Flame!
Wing'd with Disgrace, he flies the Hills and Groves,
And Vallies, conscious of his slighted Loves;
He hastes to Town, there meets what he deserves,
And twice two Months the Scoundrel Scribler starves;
Till the returning Winter chears the Laws,
And the glad Term, a Scene of Business draws.
Thus, when the Woods, by some Autumnal Blast,
Their verdant Leaves, and shady Honours cast,
The sick'ning Trees, their ravish'd Beauties mourn,
Till circling Hours the joyful Spring return;
Till the warm Sun, with his resplendent Beams,
Thaws Nature's Bolts, and soon unlocks the Streams:
His vital Heat, the flowing Rills enlarge,
And the glad Fish from Icy Nets discharge.
So at th' Appearance of the blooming Spring,
The Feather'd Quoiristers rejoyce and sing:
While they in Fields, their tuneful Notes prepare,
And with soft Musick, bless th' harmonious Air.
The weary Press, at Ease in Safety sleeps,
No supple Oil the Polish'd Iron keeps,
The Hawkers now we very rarely meet,
Faction and Treason venting in the Street.
From
Will
's and
Tom
's, the well-dress'd Youths are fled,
And Silence there with Poppies binds her Head.
To Country Seats the Men of Sense go down,
And for their rural Joys neglect the Town.
Some few sham Battles bellow'd out at Night,
And Apparitions now the Mob affright.
Commets and Armies, fighting in the Air,
Seen by the Lord knows whom, the Lord knows where.
Our tuneful Bards, and Pamphleteers are fled,
Morphew
and
Bragge
protest their Trade is dead.
Upon the Stage no new-born Scenes arise,
No Lightnings flash from
Imoinda
Eyes.
The Bastard's Blood not injur'd
Edgar
spills,
o save a Father, not a Brother kills:
Nor yet blind
Gloucester
's sad Intent defeats,
And his rash Sire with pious Falshood cheats;
Near
Elsenore,
nor
Hamlet
's regal Ghost,
Speaks to his Son on young
Horatio
's Post;
Themselves, not
Aetius,
or
Lucina
kill,
The passive Subjects to a Tyrant's Will.
With lawless Fires, nor does not
Barry
burn,
And lewdly act the Daughter of the Sun.
No captive
Bajazet,
or Heroes storm;
No
Desdamona,
with Angelick Form,
Is doom'd (most lovely as she is) to die,
For her
Othello
's hot-brain'd Jealousy.
No lost
Statira,
with her blooming Charms,
Ensnares Great
Phillip
's from Wars and Arms:
No diff'rent passions now the Hero move,
And wreck his Soul 'twixt Empire and Love.
Here no Sir
Fopling,
with his modish Dress,
Laughs at the Age's monst'rous Fopperies,
No merry Beggars here their Revels keep;
The Poets starve, and the nine Sisters sleep.
Far from the Town the fair
Camilla
fled,
To
Tunbridge,
there the rural Grass to tread.
Arsinoe,
the Theatre forsakes,
And from
Augusta
far her Lodging takes.
The Actors too, must take the pleasant Air,
To
Oxford
some, to
Sturbridge
some repair,
And quite debauch the hopeful Students there.
There in some Country Shed, —
The Tinfel Kings contentedly lie down,
And quite forget the Business of a Crown.
No costly Wines, their wond'ring Gust surprize,
Brandy and Ale their Royal Thirst suffice;
And when their Hearts by nappy Bowls made light,
Some ruddy Blouze sprawl in their Arms at Night;
Whose vig'rous Race are well by Fate decreed,
To help our Peers, and mend
St.
—'s Breed.
The
British
Beauties, now in Crowds resort
Within
Vinsoria
's Walls, or
Hampton-Court,
Where Royal
Anna
keeps her stately Seat,
And free from Crowds, enjoys a soft Retreat.
Some to the
Bath
most cautiously repair,
To keep their Beauties from polluted Air;
And blooming Nature Fence from fatal Shocks,
Both of the lesser and the greater Pox:
There they a thousand Pangs and Joys impart,
And with sure Arrows wound the boldest Heart:
There they display the Glories of their Eyes,
And make unguarded Man a Sacrifice;
Between their Bed, the Toylet and their Glass,
And giving Visits, all their Moments pass:
Th' admire the Beaus and are by them admir'd,
With equal Charms the wanton Crowd is fir'd:
They laugh, they sport, they dance, they toy and sing,
No days nor Hours the Fops to Reason bring.
Here
Clòe
once most insolently coy,
Who hated Love, and Love's surprizing Joy;
She, who in Town, the fiercest Storms withstood,
Plainly discovers now she's Flesh and Blood,
And gives her Virgin-Treasure, which before
She valu'd higher than the glitt'ring Store
Of
Tagus
Golden Sands. —
Athiests and Parsons here, alike repair,
To drink the Waters, and imbibe the Air:
Bawds, Matrons, Punks, commend the pregnant Steel;
But something else the fertile Ladies feel.
Sharpers, at Dice, consume the wasting Day;
The Fair for something else than Money play:
And when vast Sums these lovely Losers set,
They, with their Persons, pay the desp'rate Debt.
They Cit to
Epsom
brings that Chain of Life,
That sawcy, scolding Termagant, his Wife;
Where, for two Months, that she may gay appear,
He spends the future Gains of half a Year.
Whate'er the Hills or richer Vales produce,
The Swains prepare for her luxurious Use.
Mutton the Downs,
Case-Hanton
Trouts afford,
And ev'ry
Park
finds Ven'son for her Board.
But little thinks the wild expensive Fair,
What fertile Ills her Vanities prepare.
Twice e'er the fiery Coursers of the Sun,
Have view'd each Pole, (their annual Labour done)
In the
Queen's-B
nch
we shall her Husband meet,
In
Ludgate
lock'd, or Pris'ner in the
Fleet.
Commission'd Harpies his Effects shall claim,
And the
Gazette
shall publish thrice his Name.
But fearless now of Dangers unforeseen,
He haunts the Walks, the Coffee-house, and Green.
Waters and Wine do all his Hours divide,
Heated and cool'd by their alternate Tide.
With Mirth and Wine th' uxorious Coxcomb drunk,
Little Regards his dear dissembling Punk,
Who, to the crowded Play-house, 'mongst the Beaus,
Resorts, or else to
New Spring-Garden
goes:
For here the famous
Powell.
Roscius
of the Age,
In tragick Buskins treads the rural Stage.
The ancient Bards in long lost Plays revive,
And by their Wit, th' industrious Actors thrive.
Each conscious Scene th' am'rous Jilt admires,
And in her Bosom, feels extinguish'd Fires.
For some loose Actor's brawny Back she burns,
Is lewd again, and her hot Fit returns.
Gods! how she praises
Valentinian
's Shape,
And sighing, wishes chast
Lucina
's Rape!
With that fierce Joys could she
One of the Libertines Companions.
Antonio
meet,
Was he not quite so lewd, and more discreet!
For bold
Almanzor
's Strength the Wanton dies,
And views his Action with desiring Eyes.
When the gay Scenes are o'er, the Fair retreat
To silent Shades, where they their Lovers meet;
And in fresh Raptures, all their Joys repeat.
The Country 'Squire makes his Acquaintance drunk,
And falls enamor'd on some
London
Punk,
Who sets the rustick Coxcomb all on Fire,
And Warms his Breast with impudent Desire.
Hither the
Covent-Garden
Crack repairs,
With bought Complection, and with borrow'd Hairs▪
And while her Spark whole Towns to Ashes turns,
His Dam'sel here intriguing Coxcombs burns.
At first, my Lord, with a reluctant Frown,
Pulls up her Cloaths and throws the Wanton down▪
But when Necessity and Want assail,
Int'rest and Gain above her Pride prevail:
On easy Terms she'll on the Grass be still,
And let his Lordship's Butler kiss his Fill.
The smiling Semptress now her Shop forsakes,
Here vents her Ware, and better Bargains makes.
Here in unlawful Joys, and stoll'n Delight,
Both Rich and Poor spend the polluted Night.
The Bankrupt Vintners starve for want of Trade,
Few Payments now are to the Merchants made.
Score in the Bar,
the Master seldom bawls,
Nor little Bell, the tardy Drawer calls.
Rarely the Cook now Cutlets broils of Veal,
But unemploy'd, into the Cellar steals:
There she and
Tom,
to broach a Cask combine,
And 'gainst a Butt she spills her Master's Wine.
Few drunken Catches now at Night we hear,
Sad pensive Looks in ev'ry Post appear:
Their
Dragon, Horns,
and
Fish
neglected lie,
And all the Rubies in their Faces die.
No dirty Feet pollute their cleanly Floors,
Nor three for two the sleepy Mistress scores:
Whilst new-come Guests, past one, disturb her Nap,
And to get in, at the clos'd wicket rap.
Their Brewings, Mixtures, all are at a Stand,
And their Prick'd Cyder, frets upon their Hand.
The Merchant now to rural Village runs,
Enjoys the Country Air, and scapes his Duns;
Who only now can teaze him by the Post,
For Goods exported in the
Tygar,
lost.
The buzzing
Change,
and
Gresham
's Walks grow thin,
Catch-poles without, and Brokers sweat within.
Few others to the stately Dome repair,
Now unfrequented as a House of Pray'r.
Guy
's Infantry unarm'd, and idle stands,
No Quarts or Glasses tire their trembling Hands.
To
Jonathan
's but few Stock-Jobbers go,
They only meet to forge good News, or so.
The Quack forbears to swell the Weekly Bills,
And avaritious Death but slowly kills.
Fevers can scarce the Doctor's Room supply,
And cheap and honestly the Vulgar die.
The Sexton groans to view his rusty Spade,
And greedy Curates moan their Want of Trade▪
The Bearers sigh, and the sad Passing-Bell
Bur rarely now the Deads Departure tell.
Late to the
Park
no whining Beaus repair,
And tell their Passion to th' am'rous Fair:
No burning Flambeaux light the dolesome Shade,
Nor Waxen Beams strike thro' the verdant Glade.
The fierce Patroul, which march the Rounds by Night,
Wild Ducks and Geese their sole Spectators fright.
Round the Canal no new-made Prints appear;
No cooing Lovers in the Grove we hear;
The waking Soldiers only guard the Deer.
On the Parade no haughty Col'nels meet,
In Order to consult where they may eat;
Or to advise who sells the noblest Wine,
And where from Duns they may securely dine.
Young Ensigns now at
Man
's no longer swear,
Nor cully'd Gamesters fret and wrangle there.
Trick-track and Basset now no longer please,
And Cards are banish'd, but from Refugees.
The Parson in a melancholy Tone
Harrangues at Church, now half his Flock is gone.
Each Rev'rend Accent now neglected falls,
C
— prays, and
P—d
to little purpose bawls.
His num'rous Parish various Journeys take,
These for the
Bath,
and those for
Tunbridge
make;
And the lost Sheep their past'ral Lord forsake.
The B—s to their proper Sees repair,
For Conscience some, and some for Country Air,
And grace with Lawn, their rich Cathedral-Chair.
B
—, whose Tongue is merry and divine,
Can't to the Town, his wand'ring Lambs confine.
His pretty Audience crowd to
Hudsons-Lane,
And the Saint-Player, yields to the Prophane.
The godly, conscientious Holder-forth,
For rural Pleasure, leaves the
Bull and Mouth,
And lodges at some Country Quaker's Inn,
Mov'd by the Spirit, and the Light within,
Where holy Sister, with religious Seed
Is fructify'd, and bears a pious Breed.
Others to
Bristol
's noted Fair retreat,
And with a pious Fraud, th' Ungodly cheat.
But nobler Youth, a lovelier Game pursue,
And at
St. Edmund
's Virgin-Beauties view,
Whose nat'ral Blushes raise ungovern'd Fires,
And warm the Wildest with sincere Desires.
From Hills and Vales a Tide of Beauty flows,
And a new Spring the glitt'ring Meadow shows.
Their lovely Bloom takes the most guarded Heart,
And Nature fram'd 'em in Despight of Art.
The love-sick Beaus with real Passion burn,
Unhurt they came, but wounded Home return▪
Wisdom nor Pow'r the Great or Wise secure,
Where Beauty wounds, and Fame denies a Cure▪
No wanton Art their firm Affections win,
Scorn rules without, and Honour guards within;
Their equal Minds no troubl'd Passions try,
But all's serene as the superior Sky.
Here Love does all his keenest Darts prepare,
And keeps a Magazine in ev'ry Fair.
At lovelier Breasts ne'er
Cupid
bent his Bow,
Nor stronger Charms
Arabian
Virgins know;
Tho' when their Joys Great
Mecca
's Priest did prove,
He found a Heav'n, and fix'd its Bliss in Love.
With Eyes like theirs,
Venus
did once perswade
The
Trojan
Youth, when he for Love betray'd
High
Ilium
's Tow'rs, and low his City lay'd;
On
Venus
only he conferr'd the Prize,
For matchless Beauty, and bewitching Eyes.
But should once more that am'rous Swain revive,
And o'er the Seas at
Bury
Fair arrive,
Not one alone would claim the Prize, but all,
And each he'd judge deserv'd the Golden Ball.
To
Granta
's Str
ams the studious Youths retreat,
Where Arts prophane, and sacred Knowledge meet;
And where the Muses chu
e their Halcyon Seat.
Learning, by Chance, to other Climes resorts,
But here she keeps her sage eternal Courts.
To her Apartments, all Admittance find,
Whose pleasing Fetters circumscribe the Mind:
Her Labour, Nature's dark Recesses shows,
And the coy Maid, by Time, familliar grows.
Thro' ev'ry Maze, Art sees the Virgin clear,
And her bright Charms without a Vail appear.
There
Galen
's Sons learn
Paan
's balmy Skill,
Use wholesome Med'cines, and forget to kill:
The various Force of Trees and Plants they know,
From the tall Cedar, to the Shrubs below.
The Seeds of Things these Rev'rend Sages tell,
Why Roses sweet as
Indian
Spices smell;
Whence lofty Elms by Ivy are entwin'd.
Why in deep Slumbers drossy Poppies bind;
Why potent Opiats stop the haughty Pride
Of raging Pests, and cool Life's purple Tide;
Whence lazy Colds heat the fermenting Blood;
And why the Bark stagnates the boiling Flood;
What Accidents give Plagues and Fevers Birth;
Which scorch these mouldring Tenements of Earth;
The Scurvy, what malignant Atoms breed;
What swelling Springs the tumid Dropsy feed.
lomon, the Royal Simpler by th' Almighty taught,
Who first prescrib'd, and Cures predestin'd wrought,
With readier Art could scarce the Sick relieve,
Or sooner Health to wounded Patients give,
han skilful Leaches, who, near
Cambridge.
Granta
's Shore,
ature inspect, and all her Pow'rs explore.
Others to bolder Themes their Thoughts direct,
nd all the Wonders of the Sky detect;
heir Art explains—
How angry Winds the Heav'ns with Horror shake,
And lab'ring Clouds with dreadful Thunder break;
Why Light'ning flashes from the Realms above,
And Streams of Fire in rapid Torrents move;
Whence bearded Meteors threaten in the Sky,
And shed their baleful Influence as they fly;
What pow'rful Force the
Alps
asunder breaks,
And why the Earth with dire Convulsions quakes.
From Realms above they view the hoary Deep,
Where mighty Stores the Mother Waters keep;
Where murm'ring
Thetis
lulls her infant Waves,
Beneath Earth's Bottom, and her farthest Caves;
Where Night and Horror bear eternal Sway,
Secure from Light, and radiant Beams of Day.
There these dark Pow'rs their dusky Godheads hide.
And wrapt in Mists, their sooty Empire guide.
There sacred Bards in humble Cells confin'd,
Sore thro' the Heav'ns with their aspiring Mind.
Homer,
the Brave, to War and Battles warns,
Urges the slothful, and the tim'rous Arms.
A
acreon
there, does the Recluses move
To soft Delight, and
Sapho
bids them love.
Hesiod,
the Birth does of the Gods rehearse,
And fictious Pow'rs immortal, prove by Verse.
'Tis he to
Jove,
that does his Thunder give,
The Poet makes the Cloud-Compeller live.
Pindar,
in bold unimitable Strains,
Soars high, and tow'ring wings th' Aetherial Plains▪
A thousand Joys the safe Collegiates please,
And bless their Hours with Happiness and Ease.
Did but the Crowd, which in
Augusta
dwells,
Taste the soft Bliss of these retired Cells,
The Term's Approach, th' instructed Youth would fear▪
And a Vacation wish throughout the Year.
FINIS.
THE Yorkshire-Racers, A POEM.
n a LETTER from
H———— S———————ton,
to his Friend
T————— P————————n.
LONDON.
nted for the Use of all Sorts of
Iockeys,
whether
North, South, East,
or
West.
THE Yorkshire-Racers.
FRet not, dear
TOM,
that thou ha'st lost the Race;
You shew'd good Skill, and rid it with a Grace.
But some must lose; and since it was your Fate,
Envy not those, whose Luck has won the Plate:
Your Friends and ours their utmost Skill did shew;
And as you jockey'd us, we jockey'd you.
Lord
D.
PROBUS
came first, and rid it like the Wind;
The slower Racers whipp'd and spurr'd behind.
A well-bred Horse, his Fore-hand is but course,
With a slack he Rein distanc'd ev'ry Horse.
His Feeding's good, his Airing's clear and pure;
He moves with Order, and his Steps are sure.
He's tender-mouth'd, manag'd with easy Bit;
Runs true to th' last, and has no reisty Fit;
Keeps the right Track, and scorns to glent aside;
None can a truer
English
Horse bestride.
Sir
W. S.
EUCUS
came next, a batter'd fiery Steed,
Descended from the old
Cromwellian
Breed.
He yells and neighs, and in Horse-language swears,
Snorts, paws, and champs, rouses his Ass's Ears:
But what is worse, he's maukeen, and half mad,
Has tasted Blood, and must by Blood be fed.
This founder'd Stallion, gentle as a Bear,
May serve to horse some course
East
riding Mare;
Or being spavin'd, wind-gall'd, full of Flaws,
May make a Pack-Horse for the good old Cause:
H's run his last, his racing Days are done,
And leaves his Vertues to an hopeful Son.
Mr.
D.
AULUS
came next, a right
New-Market
Crimp,
He runs off fast, but has a plaguy Limp;
A Hinch in's Gate, (as in the
North
we cry)
Sometimes he stumbles, oft he treads awry.
Back'd by old
ROKUS,
and his
Pagan
Crew,
Went off so fast, he did not run, but flew;
But soon his Sinews fail'd, his Pastorns feeble grew;
L—d
W▪
ROKUS
did manage well on
AULUS
Side,
Gawster'd and bawl'd, and often swore and ly'd;
Vow'd him an Horse of noble Stud and Breed;
But none who
ROKUS
knew, will
ROKUS
heed;
An errant Jockey, born to lie and cheat;
He ne'er rid true, nor carry'd Horse-man's Weight;
By Fraud he thrives, by Villainy grows great.
Sir
A. K.
CAIUS
run well, and bravely rid his Course,
He started last, but prov'd a true-bred Horse;
Runs light and fine; for the next Plate he'll shew
A Pair of Heels to distance
EUC.
and
AU.
His Training's good, his Limbs are fine and clear,
No knavish Wind-galls do in him appear.
The modern Spavins have not made him limp,
Nor the Court-Jokeys match'd him for a Crimp▪
Runs true to th' last, his Wind no Taint has got,
'Mongst Racers now an epidemick Fau't.
His Sire was staunch, of honest
English
Breed,
Sure then the Colt will have both Truth and Speed!
Mr.
W.
LENTO
came lagging on, a formal Steed,
Of
Spanish
Gravity, and
Spanish
Speed;
His Steps he counts, and numbers every Stroke,
As if he were in Cavalcade to walk;
Or measuring out the Course with sober Stride,
Whilst whipp'd and spurr'd the Racers by him ride▪
In pompous City-Triumph he may do,
Wear the great Saddle at a Lord-May'r's Show;
But for a
Northern
Race he's much too slow.
Courage he wants, with active Speed and Fire,
The noble Vertues of his martyr'd Sire:
Honest, but slow; a true
Festina Lente,
If match'd again, the Odds to one, are twenty.
The tawny
Mr.
L▪
OSMAN,
sprung from
Turkish
Sire,
A Beast unruly, full of Flame and Fire;
Never well-broke, impatient of his Rein,
Champs on the Bit, bounces, and fumes amain;
Scorns to be rid, or train'd, an head-strong Horse,
By Chance has won a little paultry Course.
The Race he'd lost, had not
JOCUNDO
lent
His winning Whip, and lash'd him as he went:
For tho' he cracks of Native Speed and Heels,
He's only swift in Wickedness and Ills.
For the next Plate he'll spare no Pains or Cost,
Tho' oft he runs o'th' wrong Side of the Post.
Mr.
W.
SANCTO
run strong, and strain'd him till he stard
Fear and Disorder in his Looks appear'd.
Grim
OSMAN
swore, and zealous
SANCTO
pray'd;
Yet at the Bottom
SANCTO
's but a Jade:
The Rascal Principles lurk in his Blood,
And Nature Education hath withstood;
Not worth a Button, should he
OSMAN
beat,
He'll prove a Crimp, that's (
Anglice
) a Cheat.
A merry
Greek
we may
Sir
J. B.
of
P.
JOCUNDO
call,
Fearless of Danger, Sprightly, Runs at all;
Treads safe, and at the Bottom's true and good,
Tho' late he wore the Liv'ry Cloths and Hood;
With Curb some thought to've rid this bonny Steed,
Taught him to pace and amble, as They did;
Made him a Stalking-Horse, a Pad of State,
To Neigh, or as they please, Vociferate.
JOCUNDO
scorn'd to Bray, or be their Ass,
So lost his Liv'ry, and was turn'd to grass.
n Time to come, kind Fate the Wheel may move,
That he a Charging-Horse 'gainst some may prove.
Oh! that my silly Pencil could depaint
This Course betwixt
JOCUNDO, TURK,
and SAINT.
Here Palmestry and mystick Arts were try'd,
With Buttocking, or else they are bely'd;
Here Scarves, silk Stockings, Stays, and silver Ladles,
Were Stirrops helpful to get into th' Saddles.
Mr.
A.
and Mr.
S.
QUAERE
and
CALCAR
both at
Rippon.
Noppir
run,
The interloping
Sir
R. B.
TIT was quite undone;
At double Distance poorly did he move,
Yet did his best to please his
L—d
W.
Lord above.
Spur-gall'd and cut, from Neck to Buttock flee'd,
This poor pretending Colt is almost dead;
Besides his Stable-Room and Keeping are unpaid.
Thus aspiring Tools are whipp'd and spurr'd,
To gratify some proud insulting L — d,
Who to their Sores and Galls no Bal
am will afford.
CALCAR
's a well-bred Colt, and true may ride,
If glitt'ring Baubles turn him not aside.
His Sire runs well, and keeps a steady Course;
Then
CALCAR,
sure, may prove an useful Horse.
Old
A. B.—p of
Y.
ORTHODOX,
the Gray, was
CALCAR
's Sire,
A noted Steed for Vigor, brisk as Fire;
An early Courage did his Fame advance
Against the Bulls of
Rome,
and Wolves of
France.
Tho' now he's bent by Years, and Cares opprest,
And sometimes kick'd by an unruly Beast:
Th' old
English
Course he keeps, gads not astray,
Jumps o'er each little Saw-pit in the Way,
Contemns each Ass, tho' loudly he may Bray.
In highest Stall his Merits do him place,
And spight of Malice, is an Horse of Grace.
Where the old
Knaresborough.
Chaos
sits in awful State
Mr.
B.
and Mr.
S.
QUADRATO
and
ROTUNDO
won the Plate.
Here Rocks from lapidescent Juices grow,
From healing Fountains, Life and Vigour flow,
And barren Females pregnant Secrets show.
Prancing
QUADRATO
here is Lov'd and known;
His Courage gives him Praise, his Speed Renown.
This Sea-horse once
Leviathan
attack'd,
Had hook'd his Nose, had he been fairly back'd;
But the Great Monster broke the harping Line;
For in his Aid, the Gramps and Sea-Calves join,
And Terrene Knav'ry, pleads for Villainy Marine.
Thus far'd it with
QUADRATE.
Thrice happy we,
Would ev'ry Courser Courage shew like thee!
Or would
ROTUNDO
's Arts like thine appear,
But
Problem
hard the Circle is to square,
Or make a Round-head turn a Cavalier.
Mr.
J.
of
K.
Mr.
M.
of
A.
RAW-HEAD
and
BLOODY-BONES,
two frightful Steeds,
Of equal Parts, of equal Heels and Heads;
Both by Dame
Nature
blended in a Bowl,
A double Body, but a single Soul.
This, like a solid Dumplin, boil'd in Pot,
That, like a Fritter, best when piping hot.
For sober Parts, this does Advancement find;
That for th' illustrious Glories of his Mind.
This casts the Water of a sickly State;
That Judgment gives, all Oracle of Fate,
And yet but one identical Clod-pate.
Thus have I seen the Head of
COLLY
's Son,
By skilful Cook, split, and made two from one;
The pale Side boil'd, the other grill'd with Bread,
This taught to judge, and this to talk and plead,
Yet both were one Original Calve's-head.
The
Isurian
Plate this noble Pair hath won,
By Duke
D. of
N.
HOLDF ASTO
train'd and taught to run.
Th'
Ebraukian
Race the two
York,
Sir
W. R.
and Mr.
B.
VOLANTO'S
gain;
They neither whipp'd, nor spurr'd, nor made one Strain,
But half-bred Horses, gallop as they please,
And both infected with the same Disease.
Their Wind's not good, they seldom gallop true;
They trot, and pace, canter, and amble too.
They will not gallop fine; and what is more,
They're apt to put the wrong Foot oft before.
Were they well manag'd by a Man of Skill,
Way'd to the Course, and gallop'd true and well,
They'd win the Plate, and bear away the Bell.
For the small
Brasian
Plate
Malton,
Mr.
S.
LEPULLUS
run;
A Course which oft his head-strong Sire had won.
A promising Colt, of hopeful Heels and Speed,
But Faults oft lurk in the paternal Seed;
From vicious Stallions, ill-bred Colts proceed.
With him old
Mr.
P.
SACCAR
as a Collegue joins,
Weak in the Gaskins, feeble in the Loins,
All patch'd and paultry, a
New-Market
Cheat,
Batter'd and founder'd both in Head and Feet.
He ne'er runs true, at ev'ry Turn gets Ground,
In others Losses still his Gain he found;
But Good ill-got, prove rotten and unfound.
Mr.
S.
and Mr.
P
's Antagonists.
TANDEM
and
SLY
against them both contend;
And
TANDEM
stakes both for himself and Friend.
Their utmost Skill these noted Jockeys show,
As far as
Yorkshire
Horsemanship can go:
From diff'rent Posts the various Racers start;
The dubious Plate is claim'd on either Part;
And different Judges, chose on either Side,
All shout, they've won, and Victory is cry'd.
Mr.
J.
a Coalgetter.
CARBONO
the sole Arbiter is made,
For
Fosse Sapientiae
guards his Head;
Yet Courage fails, and his poor Heart's afraid.
Thus private Int'rest makes Men Dastards grow;
Some own a God above, some Lords below,
To the Great
HIPPODROME
all's now referr'd,
Where Causes for Affection oft are heard;
Where byass'd Judges rule; and what is worse,
Determine Races as they like the Horse;
Where he who wins, a Loser oft is made,
And a good Horse is voted but a Jade,
And selling Wind, is grown a thriving Trade.
Cunning
CARBONO
now the Cause transfers
From's own Tribunal, to the Senator's.
CARBONO
is a spick and span new 'Squire,
The Cent'ral Son of subterranean Sire,
And, Salamander like, subsists by Fire;
True Heir to
PLUTO, VULCAN
's eldest Son,
Who thro' th' Abyss, long Voyages have run
Without the Guidance of the Stars or Moon;
Seen Mother
Chaos
in her native Bed.
Before she'd wash'd her Hands, or comb'd her Head;
Beheld the Elements in Rubbish lie,
E'er this was taught to sink, and that to flie.
Here he his Option made; the Choice was Fire,
The Patient granted, as he did require.
Hence he the Force of Winter-Rage does tame,
And chilling
BOREAS
dreads his pow'rful Name;
He masters all the Strength of Ice and Snow,
Can, with his Breath, the frozen Mountains thaw;
He
Greenland
into
Italy
can turn;
And,
CAESAR
like, he'll conquer, or he'll burn.
The fiery Element he does supply,
And at his Pleasure, Man must starve or fry.
No smoaky Idol ever was ador'd
Like this infernal Necromantick L—d.
Vast Caravans attend his Court each Hour,
And darling Wealth into his Bosom pour;
From ev'ry Part his humble Vot'ries come,
Empty their Purses, yet go loaded Home.
His Pow'r is great, Armies he can command,
And from the
Stygian
Lake calls his Train-band.
Grim
PLUTO
trembles, if he do but srown,
And the black Regions scarce dare call his own.
Fear's an Invasion from his dreadful Pow'r,
And finds his Scepter sinking ev'ry Hour.
Thus does
CARBONO
keep both Worlds in Awe,
Above he domineers, and rules below.
The sulph'rous Damps stifle my tender Muse,
Some nobler Subject gladly would she chuse;
Her Wings grow heavy, and her Flight is low,
And want of Strength her feeble Pinions show;
Fain would she breathe a while, and try her Skill,
To plume herself, and prune each weary Quill;
That the heroick
TACKERS
she may praise,
And crown their Mem'ries with immortal Bays.
The Subject's great, requires a tow'ring Flight,
And calls for all that's excellent and bright.
To draw their Acts, requires a Master's Hand,
And
DOLL
's or
KNELLER
's Pencil may command.
My feeble Colours never can express
Their sterling Courage, Truth, and Steadiness;
Immortal Heroes of the darling Tribe.
Since
CAESARS
only
CAESARS
can describe,
Let me the Sketches of their Vertue draw,
Those Out-Lines with true
English
Courage shew.
Th' unfinish'd Piece I'll leave to some great Hand,
Whose Pencil livelier Colours can command.
When Vertue was a Crime, you durst be good,
Firm to the Church, and steady to your God,
And true, when Truth was neither seen, felt, heard, nor understood.
You scorn'd the Frowns of C—t, despis'd the Great,
Oppos'd the rampant Villainy of Fate;
God and his Church's Cause you never sold,
or barter'd off your Consciences for Gold;
You shar'd not in the Gains of publick Chink,
Nor at exorbitant Accounts would wink;
or damn'd the Bill to make us just and true,
ypocrisy to quash, and Sin undo.
ou strove to make us honest, if you cou'd;
ut we rebell'd, and all your B— withstood;
ttl'd Hypocrisy, our Folly chose,
id Gospel-Decency with Zeal oppose,
nd made Men Atheists by new A————s and L————s.
ur Freeborn Right to Sin we did maintain,
llow'd dissembling both with God and Man;
As our Fore-fathers for
BARABBAS
cry'd,
The saving
JESUS
we have crucify'd;
Old
MƲ GGLETON
we've made a Babe of Grace,
LAELIUS SOCINUS
claims a nobler Place;
GEORGE FOX
's Gospel with St.
JOHN
's may vie,
And
TOLAND
's Faith exclude all Mystery.
On a safe Level ev'ry Sect does stand,
And S—e
Protection justly may command.
Hail, Master, crucify, are now the same,
And Christian is an odd and motely Name.
The woven Coat is patch'd with Shreds and Rags,
And Jockey now of Grace and Saint-ship brags.
To Unity and Peace we've bid good Night,
And learnt to praise the Deeds of forty eight.
We shape Religion as we shape our Cloaths,
And daily strive t' advance the good old Cause.
Here
GOG
and
MAGOG
their sly Interests join
With buckram Quaker, and soft Libertine.
Old
LOYOLA
the saving Jump puts on,
And
LESSIUS
calls the independant Son.
SUAREZ
and
CALVIN
Hand in Hand do walk,
Cov'ring their Knav'ry with the self same Cloak.
Impunity and Safety are the Word,
We value not our Enemies a T—d.
Briars and Thorns no longer are a Curse,
By spick and span new Laws these Shrubs we nurse.
The harmless Nettle now has lost its Sting,
JACK
Presbyter can cry,
God save the King.
Thus by the Rules of modern Policy,
Scaffold and Ax are Signs of Loyalty.
But you these growing Villanies foresaw;
Aim'd to secure us by a wholesome Law,
Did all that noble Patriots could invent,
To serve the Queen, the Church, and Government.
We loath'd our Manna, did your Acts despise,
And scorn'd, by former suff'rings, to grow wise.
Foster'd they lie like Serpents in our Breasts,
'Till Warmth shall both erect their Stings and Crests.
FINIS.
A Catalogue of Poems,
&c.
Printed and Sold by
H. Hills,
in
Black-Fryars,
near the
Water-side;
where several more may be had that are not here Inserted.
A Congratulatory Poem on Prince
George
of
Denmark,
&c. on the Success at Sea.
Marlborough
Still Conquers.
The Flight of the Pretender.
Honesty in Distress, a Tragedy.
The Kit-Cats a Poem,
&c.
Wine, a Poem,
&c.
Cyder, with the Splendid Shilling.
The Pleasures of a Single Life,
&c.
Faction Display'd.
Moderation Display'd.
The Duel of the Stags.
&c.
Coopers-Hill, by Sir
J. Denham.
An Essay on Poetry, by the Earl of
Murlgrave.
Absalom
and
Achitophel.
The Plague of
Athens.
A Satyr against Man and Woman.
The Forgiving Husband.
Instructions to
Vanderbank.
The Temple of Death.
An Essay on Translated Verse, by the Earl of
Roscomon.
Horace
: Or the Art of Poetry.
The History of Insipids.
The Swan-Trip-Club.
Lucretius
on Death,
&c.
The Medal against Sedition.
Bellizarius
a great Commander.
Daphnis,
or a Pastoral Elegy,
&c.
A Poem on the Countess of
Abingdon.
Nundinae Sturbrigiences.
Tunbrigialia.
An Ode on the Incarnation,
&c.
Hoglandiae Descriptio.
Milton
's Sublimity on Cyder.
Bosworth-feild,
by Sir
John Beaumount,
Bar.
Canary Birds Naturaliz'd.
Art of Poetry, by
Boileau.
Poems on the Death of the late Queen
Mary.
Baucis
and
Philemon,
&c.
Circus,
a Satyr: Or the Ring in
Hide Park.
St.
James
's
Park,
a Satyr.
The Spleen, a Pindarique Ode,
&c.
Philips
's Pastorals.
A Letter from
Italy,
to my Lord
Halifax,
with other Poems.
Blenheim,
a Poem, by
Phillips.
Mac-Flecknoe,
by
J. Dryden; &c.
The Female Reign, an Ode,
A Poem on the Taking St.
Mary
's.
Windsor Castle,
a Poem.
The Servitor, a Poem.
The Campaign, by Mr.
Addison.
The Counter-Scuffle, a Poem.
Don
Francisco Sutorioso.
Consolation to
Mira
mourning,
A Panegyrick on
Oliver Cromwel,
with three Poems on his Death.
A Poem in Defence of the Church of
England.
The Apparition, a Poem.
The
Hind
and
Panther
Transvers'd to the Story of the Country Mouse and City Mouse.
Dr.
Gath
's Dispensary.
Memoirs on
John Hall,
the Famous Robber,
&c.
Mr
Shaftoe
's Narrative giving an Account of the Birth of the Pretended Prince of
Wales,
&c.
The True-Born
Englishman.
The Husband, a Poem.
The Commoner, a Poem.
A Hymn to the Pillory.
The Rambling Fudle-Caps.
D'Foe,
on the Storm.
The Wife, a Poem.
The Long Vacation.
LUCRETIUS: A POEM AGAINST THE Fear of Death.
WITH AN ODE In MEMORY of The Accomplish'd Young Lady Mrs.
ANN KILLIGREW,
Excellent in the
wo Sister Arts of Poetry and Painting.
LONDON:
inted and Sold by
H. Hills,
in
Black-Fryars,
near the Water-side, 1709. Price One Penny.
LUCRETIUS A POEM AGAINST The Fear of Death
WHat has this Bugbear Death to frighten Man,
If Souls can die, as well as Bodies can?
For, as before our Birth we felt no Pain
When punick Arms infested Land and Main,
When Heav'n and Earth were in Confusion hurl'd
For the debated Empire of the World,
Which aw'd with dreadful Expectation lay,
Sure to be Slaves, uncertain who shou'd sway:
So, when our mortal Frame shall be disjoyn'd,
The lifeless Lump, uncoupled from the Mind,
From Sense of Grief and Pain we shall be free;
We shall not feel, because we shall not
Be.
Though Earth in Seas, and Seas in Heav'n were lost,
We shou'd not move, we only shou'd be tost.
Nay, ev'n suppose when we have suffer'd Fate,
The Soul cou'd feel in her divided state,
What's that to us, for we are only we
While Souls and Bodies in one Frame agree?
Nay, tho' our Atoms shou'd revolve by chance,
nd Matter leap into the former Dance;
Tho' time our Life and Motion cou'd restore,
nd make our Bodies what they were before.
What Gain to us wou'd all this bustle bring,
The new made Man wou'd be another thing;
Then once an interrupting pause is made,
That Individual Being is decay'd.
e, who are dead and gone, shall
ear no part
all the Pleasures, nor shall feel the smart,
Which to that other Mortal shall accrew,
Whom of our Matter Time shall mould anew.
or backward if you look, on that long space
f Ages past, and view the changing Face
f Matter, tost and variously combin'd
sundry Shapes, 'tis easie for the mind
rom thence t' infer, that Seeds of things have been
the same Order as they now are seen:
Which yet our dark Remembrance cannot trace,
ecause a pause of Life, a gaping space
as come betwixt, where Memory lies dead,
nd all the wandring Motions from the Sense are fled.
or whosoe'er shall in Misfortunes live
Must
Be,
when those Misfortunes shall arrive;
nd since the Man who
Is
not, seels not Woe,
For Death exempts him, and wards off the Blow,
Which we, the living, only feel and bear)
What is there left for us in Death to fear?
When ocne that pause of Life has come between,
is just the same as we had never been.
nd therefore if a Man bemoan his Lot,
hat after Death his mouldring Limbs shall rot,
Flames, or Jaws of Beasts devour his Mass,
now he's an unsincere, unthinking Ass.
secret Sting remains within his mind,
The Fool is to his own cast Offals kind;
e boasts no sense can after Death remain,
et makes himself a part of Life again,
s if some other He could feel the pain.
If, while he live, this Thought molest his Head,
What Wolf or Vulture shall devour me dead.
He wasts his Days in idle Grief, nor can
Distinguish 'twixt the Body and the Man:
But thinks himself can still himself survive;
And what when dead he feels not, feels alive.
Then he repines that he was born to die,
Nor knows in Death there is no other He,
No living He remains his Grief to vent,
And o'er his senseless Carcass to lament.
If after Death 'tis painful to be torn
By Birds and Beasts, then why not so to burn,
Or drench'd in Floods of Honey to be soak'd,
Imbalm'd to be at once preserv'd and choak'd;
Or on an airy Mountain's Top to lie
Expos'd to Cold and Heav'ns Inclemency,
Or crouded in a Tomb to be opprest
With Monumental Marble on thy Breast?
But to be snatch'd from all thy Houshold Joys,
From thy Chast Wife, and thy dear prattling Boys,
Whose little Arms about thy Legs are cast,
And climbing for a Kiss prevent their Mother's hast,
Inspiring secret Pleasure thro' thy Breast,
All these shall be no more: thy Friends opprest,
Thy Care and Courage now no more shall free:
Ah Wretch, thou cry'st, ah! miserable me.
One woful Day sweeps Children, Friends, and Wife,
And all the brittle Blessings of my Life!
Add one thing more, and all thou say'st is true;
Thy want and wish of them is vanish'd too,
Which well consider'd were a quick Relief,
To all thy vain imaginary Grief.
For thou shalt sleep and never wake again,
And quitting Life, shall quit thy living Pain.
But we thy Friends shall all those Sorrows find,
Which in forgetful Death thou leav'st behind,
No time shall dry our tears, nor drive thee from our mind.
The worst that can befal thee, measur'd right,
s a sound Slumber, and a long good Night.
Yet thus the Fools, that would be thought the Wits,
Disturb their Mirth with melancholy Fits,
When Healths go round, and kindly Brimmers flow,
Till the fresh Garlands on their Foreheads glow;
They whine, and cry, let us make haste to live,
hort are the Joys that human Life can give.
Eternal Preachers, that corrupt the Draught,
nd pall the God that never thinks, with Thought;
deots with all that Thought, to whom the worst
Of Death, is want of Drink, and enless Thirst,
Or any fond Desire as vain as these,
or ev'n in Sleep, the Body wrapt in Ease,
upinely lies, as in the peaceful Grave,
nd wanting nothing, nothing can it crave.
Were that sound Sleep Eternal it were Death,
et the first Atoms then, the Seeds of Breath
re moving near to Sense, we do but shake
nd rouze that Sense, and streight we are awake.
Then Death to us, and Death's Anxiety
less than nothing, if a less cou'd be.
or then our Atoms, which in order lay,
re scatter'd from their heap, and puff'd away,
nd never can return into their place,
When once the pause of Life has left an empty space.
nd last, suppose Great Nature's Voice shou'd call
o thee, or me, or any of us all,
What dost thou mean, ungrateful Wretch, thou vain,
hou mortal thing, thus idly to complain,
nd sigh and sob, that thou shalt be no more?
or if thy Life were pleasant heretofore,
all the bounteous Blessings I cou'd give
hou hast enjoy'd, if thou hast known to live,
nd Pleasure not leak thro' thee like a Sieve,
Why dost thou not give thanks as at a plenteous Feast
am'd to the Throat with Life, and rise and take thy Rest?
But if my Blessings thou hast thrown away,
If indigested Joys pass'd thro' and wou'd not stay,
Why dost thou wish for more to squander still?
If Life we grown a Load, a real Ill,
And I wou'd all thy Cares and Labours end,
Lay down thy Burden Fool, and know thy Friend.
To please thee I have empti'd all my Store,
I can invent, and can supply no more;
But run the round again, the round I ran before.
Suppose thou art not broken yet with Years,
Yet still the self-same Scene of things appears,
And wou'd be ever, cou'dst thou ever live;
For Life is still but Life, there's nothing new to give.
What can we plead against so just a Bill?
We stand convicted, and our Cause goes ill.
But if a Wretch, a Man opprest by Fate,
Shou'd beg of Nature to prolong his Date,
She speaks aloud to him with more Disdain,
Be still thou Martyr Fool, thou covetous of Pain.
But if an old decrepit Sot lament;
What thou (She cries) who hast out-liv'd content!
Dost thou complain, who hast enjoy'd my Store?
But this is still th' effect of wishing more!
Unsatisfy'd with all that Nature brings;
Loathing the present, liking absent things;
From hence it comes thy vain Desires at strife
Within themselves, have tantaliz'd thy Life,
And ghastly Death appear'd before thy sight
E'er thou hadst gorg'd thy Soul, and Senses with delight
Now leave those Joys unsuiting to thy Age,
To a fresh Comer, and resign the Stage.
Is Nature to be blam'd if thus she chide?
No sure; for 'tis her Business to provide,
Against this ever changing Frame's decay,
New things to come, and old to pass away.
One being worn, another Being makes;
Chang'd but not lost; for Nature gives and takes:
New Matter must be found for things to come,
And these must waste like those, and follow Nature's Doom.
All things, like thee, have time to rise and rot;
And from each other's Ruin are begot;
For Life is not confin'd to him or thee;
Tis giv'n to all for Use; to none for Property.
Consider former Ages past and gone,
Whose Circles ended long e'er thine begun,
Then tell the Fool, what part in them thou hast?
Thus may'st thou judge the future by the past.
What Horror seest thou in that quiet State,
What Bugbear Dreams to fright thee after Fate?
No Ghost, no Goblins, that still passage keep,
But all is there serene, in that eternal Sleep.
For all the dismal Tales that Poets tell,
Are verify'd on Earth, and not in Hell.
No
Tantalus
looks up with fearful eye,
Or dreads th' impending Rock to crush him from on high:
But Fear of Chance on Earth disturbs our easie Hours:
Or vain imagin'd Wrath, of vain imagin'd Pow'rs.
No
Tityus
torn by Vultures lies in Hell;
Nor cou'd the Lobes of his rank Liver swell
To that prodigious Mass for their eternal Meal.
Not tho' this monstrous Bulk had cover'd o'er
Nine spreading Acres, or nine thousand more;
Not tho' the Globe of Earth had been the Giants Floor.
Nor in eternal Torments cou'd he lie;
Nor cou'd his Corps sufficient Food supply.
But he's the
Tityus,
who by Love opprest,
Or Tyrant Passion preying on his Breast,
And ever anxious Thoughts is robb'd of Rest.
The
Sisiphus
is he, whom Noise and Strife
educe from all the soft retreats of Life,
To vex the Government, disturb the Laws,
Drunk with the Fumes of popular Applause,
He courts the giddy Croud to make him great,
And sweats and toils in vain, to mount the sovereign Seat.
For still to aim at Pow'r, and still to fail,
Ever to strive and never to prevail,
What is it, but in Reason's true Account
To heave the Stone against the rising Mount?
Which urg'd, and labour'd and forc'd up with Pain,
Recoild and rowls impetuous down, and smokes along t
Pla
Then still to treat thy ever craving mind
With ev'ry Blessing, and of ev'ry kind,
Ye never fill thy rav'ning Appetite,
Though Years and Season vary thy Delight,
Yet nothing to be seen of all thy store,
But still the Wolf within thee barks for more.
This is the Fable's Moral, which they tell
Of fifty foolish Virgins damn'd in Hell
To leaky Vessels, which the Liquor spill;
To Vessels of their Sex, which none cou'd ever fill.
As for the Dog, the Furies, and their Snakes,
The gloomy Caverns, and the burning Lakes,
And all the vain infernal Trumpery,
They neither are, nor were, nor e'er can be.
But here on Earth the guilty have in view
The mighty Pains to m
ghty Mischiefs due:
Racks, Prisons, Poisons,
Tarpeian
Rock,
Stripes, Hangmen, Pitch, and suffocating Smoak,
And last, and most, if these were cast behind,
Th' avenging horror of a Conscious mind;
Whose dealy Fear anticipates the Blow,
And sees no end of Punishment and Woe:
But looks for more, at the last Gasp of Breath:
This makes an Hell on Earth, and Life a Death.
Mean time when Thoughts of Death disturb thy Head;
Consider,
Ancus
great and good is dead;
Ancus
thy better far, was born to die,
And thou, dost thou bewail Mortality?
So many Monarchs with their mighty State,
Who rul'd the World, were over-rul'd by Fate.
That haughty King, who Lorded o'er the Main▪
And whose stupendo
s Bridge did the wild Waves restrain,
(In vain they foam'd, in vain thy threatned Wreck,
While his pro
d Le
ions march'd upon their Back:)
Him Death, a greter Monarch, overcame;
Nor spar'd his Guards the more, for their Immortal Name.
The
Roman
Chief, the
Carthaginians
dread,
Scipio
the Thunder-Bolt of War is dead,
And like a common Slave, by Fate in Triumph led.
The Founders of invented Arts are lost;
And Wits who made Eternity their Boast.
Where now is
Homer
who possest the Throne?
Th' immortal Work remains, the mortal Author's gone.
Democritus
perceiving Age invade,
His Body weaken'd and his Mind decay'd,
Obey'd the Summons with a chearful Face;
Made haste to welcome Death, and met him half the Race.
That Stroke, ev'n
Epicurus
cou'd not bar,
Though he in Wit surpass'd Mankind as far
As does the Mid-day Sun, the Mid-night Star.
And thou, dost thou disdain to yield thy Breath,
Whose very Life is little more than Death?
More than one half by lazy Sleep possest;
And then a wake, thy Soul but nods at best,
Day-dreams and sickly Thoughts revolving in thy Breast.
Eternal Troubles haunt thy anxious Mind,
Whose Cause and Cure thou never hop'st to find;
But still uncertain, with thy self at strife,
Thou wander'st in the
Labyrinth
of Life.
O, if the foolish Race of Man, who find
A weight of Cares still pressing on their Mind,
Cou'd find as well the Cause of this unrest,
And all this Burthen lodg'd within the Breast,
Sure they wou'd change their Course; nor live as now,
Uncertain what to wish or what to vow.
Uneasie both, in Country and in Town,
They search a place to lay their Burthen down.
One restless in his Palace, walks abroad,
And vainly thinks to leave behind the Load.
But straight returns; for he's as restless there;
And finds there's no Relief in open Air.
Another to his
Villa
wou'd retire,
And spurs as hard as if it were on Fire;
No sooner enter'd at his Country Door,
But he begins to stretch, and yawn and snore;
Or seeks the City which he left before.
Thus every Man o'er-works his weary Will,
To shun himself, and to shake off his ill;
The shaking Fit returns and hangs upon him still.
No prospect of Repose, nor hope of Ease;
The Wretch is ignorant of his Disease;
Which known wou'd all his fruitless Trouble spare;
For he wou'd know the World not worth his Care:
Then wou'd he search more deeply for the Cause;
And study Nature well, and Nature's Laws:
For in this moment lies not the Debate;
But on our future, fix'd, Eternal State;
That never-changing State which all must keep
Who Death has doom'd to everlasting Sleep.
Why are we then so fond of mortal Life,
Beset with Dangers and maintain'd with Strife?
A Life which all our Care can never save;
Our Fate attends us; and one common Grave.
Besides we tread but a perpetual round,
We ne'er strike out; but beat the former Ground,
And the same maukish Joys in the same Track are found.
For still we think an absent Blessing best;
Which cloys, and is no Blessing when possest;
A new arising Wish expels it from the Breast▪
The feav'rish Thirst of Life increases still;
We call for more, and more, and never have our Fill▪
Yet know what to Morrow we shall try,
What Dregs of Life in the last Draught may lie.
Nor, by the longest Life we can attain;
One moment from the length of Death we gain;
For all behind belongs to his Eternal Reign.
When once the Fates have cut the mortal Thread,
The Man as much to all Intents is dead,
Who dies to day, and will as long be so,
As he who dy'd a thousand Years ago.
To the Pious Memory of the Accomplish'd Young Lady Mrs.
ANN KILLIGREW.
Excellent in the two Sister Arts of Poesy and Painting. An
ODE.
I.
THou youngest Virgin-Daughter of the Skier,
Made in the last Promotion of the
Blest;
Whose Palms, new pluck'd from Paradice,
In spreading
Branches
more sublimely rise,
Rich with Immortal Green above the rest:
whether, adopted to some Neighbouring Star,
Thou roll'st above us, in thy wand'ring Race,
Or, in Procession fixt and regular,
Mov'd with the Heav'ns Majestick Peace;
Or, call'd to more Superiour
Bliss,
Thou tread'st, with Seraphims, the vast
Abyss.
What ever happy Region is thy place,
Cease thy Celestial Song a little space;
(Thou wilt have time enough for Hymns Divine,
Since Heav'ns Eternal Year is thine.)
Here then a Mortal Muse thy Praise rehearse,
In no ignorable Verse;
But such as thy own Voice did practise here,
When thy First
fruits of Poesie were givn'd;
To make thy self a welcome Inmate there:
While yet a young Probationer,
And Candidate of Heav'n.
II.
If by Traduction came thy Mind,
Our Wonder is the less to find
A Soul so charming from a Stock so good;
Thy Father was transfus'd into thy
Blood
:
So wert thou born into a tuneful strain,
(An early, rich, and inexhausted Vein.)
But if thy Prae-existing Soul
Was form'd, at first, with Myriads more,
It did through all the Mighty Poets roul,
Who
Greek
or
Latin
Laurels wore.
And was that
Sappho
last, which once it was before▪
If so, then cease thy flight, O
Heaven-born Mind!
Thou hast no
Dross
to purge from thy Rich Ore:
Nor can thy Soul a fairer Mansion find,
Than was the
Beauteous
Frame she left behind:
Return, to fill or mend the Quire, of thy Celestial kind.
III.
May we presume to say, that at thy
Birth,
New Joy was sprung in
Heav'n,
as well as here on
Earth.
For sure the milder Planets did combine
On thy
Auspicious
Horoscope to shine,
And ev'n the most malicious were in Trine.
Thy
Brother-Angels
at thy
Birth
Strung each his Lyre, and tun'd it high,
That all the People of the Sky
Might know a Poetess was born on Earth.
And then if ever, mortal Ears
Had heard the Musick of the Spheres!
And if no clust'ring Swarn of
Bees
On thy sweet Mouth distill'd their Golden Dew,
'Twas that, such vulgar Miracles,
Heav'n had not leisure to renew:
For all the
Blest
Fraternity of Love
Solemniz'd there thy
Birth,
and kept thy Holy day above.
IV.
O Gracious God! How far have we
Prophan'd thy Heav'nly Gift of Poesy?
Made prostitute and profligate the Muse,
Debas'd to each obscene and impious Use,
Who Harmony was first ordain'd
Above
For Tongues of
Angels,
and for
Hymns
of
Love?
O wretched We! why were we hurry'd down
This lubrique and adult'rate Age,
(Nay added fat Pollutions of our own)
T' increase the steaming Ordures of the Stage?
What can we say t' excuse our
Second Fall
?
Let this thy
Vestal,
Heaven, attone for all?
Her
Arethusian
Stream remains unsoil'd,
Unmixt with Foreign Filth, and undefil'd,
Her Wit was more than Man, her Innocence a Child!
V.
Art
she had none, yet wanted none:
For Nature did that Want supply,
So rich in Treasures of her Own,
She might our boasted
Stores
defy:
Such Noble Vigour did her Verse adorn,
That it seem'd borrow'd, where 'twas only born.
Her Morals too were in her
Bosom
bred,
By great Examples daily fed,
What in the best of
Books,
her Father's Life, she read.
And to be read her self she need not fear,
Each Test, and ev'ry Light, her Muse will bear,
Though
Epictetus
with his Lamp was there.
Ev'n Love (for Love sometimes her Muse exprest)
Was but a
Lambent-flame
which play'd about her
Breast:
Light as the Vapours of a Morning Dream,
So cold her self, whilst she such Warmth exprest,
'Twas
Cupid
bathing in
Diana
's Stream.
VI.
Born to the spacious Empire of the
Nine,
One wou'd have thought, she shou'd have been content
To manage well that mighty Government;
But what can young ambitious Souls confine?
To the next Realm she stretcht her Sway
For
Painture
near adjoyning lay,
A plenteous Province, and alluring Prey.
A Chamber of Dependencies
was fram'd,
(As Conquerors will never want pretence,
When arm'd, to justifie th' Offence)
And the whole Fief, in right of Poetry she claim'd.
The Country open lay without Defence:
For Poets frequent In-rodes there had made,
And perfectly cou'd represent
The Shape, the Face, with ev'ry Lineament;
And all the large Demains which the
Dumb-sister
sway'd,
All bow'd beneath her Government,
Receiv'd in Triumph wheresoe'er she went.
Her Pencil drew, what e'er her Sold design'd,
And of the
happy Draught
surpass'd the
Image
in her
Mind.
The
Sylvan
Scenes of Herds and Flocks,
And fruitful Plains and barren Rocks,
Of shallow
Brooks
that flow'd so clear,
The bottom did the top appear;
Of deeper too and ampler Floods,
Which as in Mirrors, shew'd the Woods;
Of lofty Trees, with sacred Shades,
And Perspectives of pleasant Glades,
Where Nymphs of brightest Form appear,
And shaggy Satyrs standing near,
Which them at once admire and fear.
The Ruines too of some Majestick Piece,
Boasting the Pow'r of ancient
Rome
or
Greece.
Whose Statues, Freezes, Columns broken lie,
And tho' defac'd, the Wonder of the Eye,
What
Nature, Art,
bold
Fiction
e'er durst frame,
Her forming Hand gave Feature to the Name.
So strange a Concourse ne'er was seen before,
But when the Peopl'd
Ark
the whole Creation bore.
VII.
The Scene then chang'd, with bold Erected Look
Our Martial King the sight with Reverence strook:
For not content t' express his Outward Part,
Her Hand call'd out the Image of his Heart,
His Warlike Mind, his Soul devoid of Fear,
His High-designing
Thoughts,
were figur'd there,
As when, by Magick, Ghosts are made appear.
Our Phenix Queen was portray'd too so bright,
Beauty
alone cou'd
Beauty
take so right:
Her Dress, her Shape, her matchless Grace,
Were all observ'd, as well as Heavenly Face.
With such a Peerless Majesty she stands,
As in that Day she took the Crown from sacred Hands:
Before a Train of Heroins was seen,
In
Beauty
foremost, as in Rank, the Queen!
Thus nothing to her
Genius
was deny'd,
But like a
Ball
of Fire the further thrown,
Still with a greater
Blaze
she shone,
And her bright Soul broke out on ev'ry side.
What next she had design'd, Heaven only knows,
To such Immod'rate Growth her Conquest rose,
That Fate alone its Progress cou'd oppose.
VIII.
Now all those Charms, that blooming Grace,
The well-proportion'd Shape, and beauteous Face,
Shall never more be seen by mortal Eyes;
In Earth the much lamented Virgin lies!
Not Wit, nor Piety cou'd Fate prevent;
Nor was the cruel
Destiny
content
To finish all the Murder at a Blow,
To sweep at once her
Life,
and
Beauty
to;
But, like a harden'd Felon, took a Pride
To work more mischievously slow,
And plunder'd first, and then destroy'd.
O double Sacrilege on things Divine,
To rob the Relique, and deface the Shrine!
But thus
Orinda
dy'd:
Heaven, by the same Disease, did both translate,
As equal were their Souls, so equal was their Fate.
IX.
Mean time her
Warlike Brother
on the Seas
His waving Streams to the Winds displays,
And vows for his Return, with vain Devotion, pays,
Ah, Generous Youth, that Wish forbear,
The Winds too soon will wast thee here!
Slack all thy Sails, and fear to come,
Alas, thou know'st not, thou art wreck'd at home!
No more shalt thou behold thy Sister's Face,
Thou hast already had her last Embrace.
But look aloft, and if thou ken'st from far,
Among the
Pleiad
's a New-kindled Star,
If any Sparkles, than the rest, more bright,
'Tis she that shines in that propitious Light.
X.
When in mid-Air, the Golden Trump shall sound,
To raise the Nations under Ground;
When in the Valley of
Jehosaphat,
The Judging God shall close the Book of Fate;
And there the last
Assizes
keep,
For those who Wake, and those who Sleep;
When ratling
Bones
together fly,
From the four Corners of the Sky,
When Sinews o'er the Skeletons are spread,
Those cloath'd with Flesh, and Life inspires the Dead;
The Sacred Poets first shall hear the Sound,
And foremost from the Tomb shall bound:
For they are cover'd with the lightest Ground,
And streight, with in-born Vigour, on the Wing
Like mounting Larks, to the New Morning sing.
There
Thou,
sweet Saint, before the Quire shalt go,
As Harbinger of Heaven, the Way to show,
The way which thou so well hast learnt below.
FINIS.
ELEONORA: A PANEGYRICAL POEM, Dedicated the MEMORY Of the Late COUNTESS OF ABINGDON.
LONDON:
inted and Sold by
H. Hills,
in
Black-Fryars,
near the Water-side, 1709. Price One Penny.
To the Right Honourable the EARL of
ABINGDON,
&c.
MY LORD,
THE Commands, with which You honour'd me some Months ago, are now perform'd: They had been sooner; but betwixt ill Health, some Business, and many Troubles, I was forc'd to deferr them till this time.
Ovid,
going to this Banishment, and Writing from on Ship-board to his Friends, excus'd the Faults of his Poetry by his Misfortunes; and told them, that good Verses never flow, but from a serene and compos'd Spirit. Wit, which is a kind of
Mercury,
with Wings fasten'd to his Head and Heels, can fly but slowly, in a damp Air. I therefore chose rather to Obey You late, than ill: if at least I am capable of writing any thing▪ at any time, which is worthy Your Perusal and Your Patronage. I cannot say that I have escap'd from a Shipwreck; but have only gain'd a Rock by hard swimming; where I may pan
a while and gather Breath: For the Doctors give me a sad Assurance that my Disease never took its leave of any Man, but with a purpose to return. However, my Lord, I have laid hold on the Interval, and manag
d the small Stock which Age has left me, to the best Advantage, in performing this inconsiderable Service to my Lady's Memory. We, who are Priests of
Apollo,
have not the Inspiration when we please; but must wait till the God comes rushing on us, and invades us with a Fury, which we are not able to resist: which gives us double Strength while the Fit continues, and leaves us languishing and spent, at its Departure. Let me not seem to b
ast, my Lord; for I have really felt it on this Occasion; and prophecy'd beyond my natural Power. Let me add, and hope to be believ'd, that the Excellency of the Subject contributed much to the Happiness of the Execution: And that the weight of thirty Years was taken off me, while I was writing. I swom with the Tide, and the Water under
e was buoyant. The Reader will easily observe that I was transported, by the Multitude and Variety of my Similitudes; which are generally the Product of a luxuriant Fancy; and the Wantonness of Wit. Had I call'd in my Judgment to my Assistance, I had certainly retrench'd many of them. But I defend them not; let them pass for beautiful Faults amongst the better sort of Criticks. For the whole Poem, though written in that which they call Heroick Verse,
s of the Pind
rick Nature, as well in the Thought as the Expression; and as such, requires the same Grains of Allowance for it. It was intended, as your Lordship sees in the Title, not for an Elegy, but a Panegyrick. A kind of Apotheosis, indeed; if a Heathen Word may be applyed to a Christian Use. And on all Occasions of Praise, if we take the Ancients for our Patterns, we are bound by Prescription to employ the Magnificence of Words, and the force of Figures, to adorn the Sublimity of Thoughts.
Isocrates
amongst the
Grecian
Orators, and
Cicero,
and the younger
Pliny,
amongst the
Romans,
have left us their Precedents for our security: For I think I need not mention the inimitable
indar,
who stretches on these Pinnions out of sight, and is carried upward, as it were, into another World.
This at least, my Lord, I may justly plead, that if I have not perform'd so well as I think I have, yet I have us'd my best Endeavours to excel my self. One Disadvantage I have had, which is, never to have known, or seen my Lady: And to draw the Lineaments of her Mind, from the Description which I have receiv'd from others, is for a Painter to set himself at work without the living Original before him. Which the more beautiful it is, will be so much the more difficult for him to conceive; when he has only a relation give him, of such and such Features by an Acquaintance or a Friend; without the Nice Touches which give the best Resemblance▪ and make the Graces of the Picture. Every Artist is apt enough to flatter himself, (and I amongst the rest) that that their own ocular Observations, would have discover'd more Perfections, at least others, than have been deliver'd to them: Though I have receiv
d mine from the best hands, that is, from Persons who neither want a just Understanding of my Lady's Worth, nor a due Veneration for her Memory.
Doctor
Donn
the greatest Wit, though not the greatest Poet of our Nation, acknowledges, that he had never seen Mrs.
Drury,
whom he has made immortal in his admirable Anniversaries; I have had the same fortune; though I have no succeeded to the same Genius. However, I have follow
d his Footsteps in the Design of his Panegyrick, which was to raise an Emul
tion in the living, to Copy out the Example of the dead. And therefore it was, that I once intended to have call'd this Poem, the Pattern: And though on a s
cond Consideration, I chang'd the Title into the Name of that Illustrious Person, yet the Design continues, and
Eleonora
is still the Pattern of Charity, Devotion, and Humility; of the best Wife, the best Mother, and the best of Friends.
And now, my Lord, though I have endeavour'd to answer Your Commands, yet I could not
nswer it to the World, nor to my Conscience, if I gave not Your Lordship my Testimony of being the best Husband now living: I say my Testimony only: For the Praise of it, is given You by Your self. They who despise the Rules of Vertue both in their Practice and their Morals, will think this a very trivial Commendation. But I think i
the p
culiar Happiness of the Countess of
Abingdon,
to have been so truly lov'd by you, while she was living, and so gratef
lly honour'd, after she was dead. Few there are who have either had, or co
'd have such a Loss; and yet fewer who carried their Love and Constancy beyond the Grave. The exteriours of Mourning▪ a decent Funeral, and black Habits, are the usual sti
s of Common Husbands: and perhaps their
deserve no better than to be mou
d with Hypocrisie▪ and forgot with ease. But you have distinguish'd your self from ordinary Lovers, by a real, and lasting Grief for the Deceas'd. And by endeavouring to raise for her, the most durable Monument, which is that of Verse. And so it would have prov'd, if the Workman had been equal to the Work; and your Choice of the Artificer, as happy as your Design. Yet▪ as
Phidias
when he had made the Statue of
Minerva,
cou'd not forbear to ingrave his own Name, as Author of the Piece: so give me leave to hope, that by subscribing mine to this Poem, I may live by the Goddess, and transmit my Name to Posterity by the Memory of Hers. 'Tis no Flattery to assure Your Lorship, that she is remember'd in the present Age, by all who have had the Honour of her Conversation and Acquaintance. And that I have never been in any Company since the News of her Death was first brought me, where they have not ex
ol'
her Virtues; and even spoken the same things of her in Prose, which I have done in Verse.
I therefore think my self oblig'd to thank Your Lordship for the Commission which You have given me: How I have acquitted my self of it, must be left to the Opinion of the World, in spight of any Protestation, which I can enter against the present Age, as Incompetent or Corrupt Judges. For my Comfort they are but
Englishmen,
and as such, If they Think ill of me to Day, they are inconstant enough, to Think well of me to Morrow. And after all, I have not much to thank my Fortune that I was born amongst them. The Good of both Sexes are so few▪ in
ngland,
that they stand like Exceptions against General Rules: And though one of them has deserv'd a greater Commendation, than I cou'd give her, they have taken care, that I shou'd not tire my Pen, with frequent Exercise on the like Subjects▪ that Praises, like Taxes, shou'
be appropri
ted; and left almost as Individual as the Person. They say my Talent is Satyr; if it be so, 'tis a fruitful Age; and there is an extraordinary Crop to gather. But a single Hand is insufficient for such a Harvest: They have sown the Dragons Teeth themselves; and 'tis but just they shou'd reap each other in Lampoons. You, my Lord, who have the Character of Honour, though 'tis not my Happiness to know You, may stand
side, with the small Remainders of the
English
Nobility, truly such, and unhurt your selves, behold the mad Combat. If I have pleas'd you, and some few others, I have obtain'd my end. You see, I have disabled my self, like an Elected Speaker of the House; yet like him I have undertaken the Charge; and find the Burden sufficiently recompenc'd by the Honour. Be pleas'd to accept of these my unworthy Labours, this Paper Monument; and let her Pious Memory, which I am sure is Sacred to You, not only Plead the Pardon of my many Faults, but gain me your Protection, which is ambitiously sought by,
MY LORD,
Your Lordship's most Obedient Servant,
JOHN DRYDEN.
ELEONORA: A Panegyrical Poem, Dedicated to the Memory of the Late Countess of
ABINGDON.
The Introduction.
AS, when some Great and Gracious Monarch dies,
Soft Whispers, first, and mournful Murmurs rise
Among the sad Attendants; then, the Sound
Soon gathers Voice, and spreads the News around,
Through Town and Country, till the dreadful Blast
Is blown to distant Colonies at last;
Who, then perhaps, were off 'ring Vows in vain,
For his long Life, and for his happy Reign:
So slowly, by degrees, unwilling Fame
Did Matchless
Eleonora
's Fate proclaim,
Till publick, as the Loss, the News became.
The Nation felt it, in th' extreamest parts;
With Eyes o'erflowing, and with bleeding Hearts:
Of her Charity.
But most the Poor, whom daily she supply'd;
Beginning to be such, but when she dy'd.
For, whilst she liv'd, they slept in Peace, by Night;
Secure of Bread, as of returning Light;
And, with such firm dependance on the Day,
That need grew pamper'd; and forgot to pray:
So sure the Dole, so ready at their Call,
They stood prepar'd to see the Manna fall.
Such Multitudes she fed, she cloath'd, she nurst,
That she, her self, might fear her wanting first.
Of her five Talents, other five she made;
Heaven, that had largely giv'n, was largely paid:
And, in few Lives, in wondrous few, we find
A Fortune better fitted to the Mind.
Nor did her Alms from Ostentation fall,
Or proud desire of Praise; the Soul gave all:
Unbrib'd it gave; or, if a Bribe appear,
No less than Heaven; to heap huge Treasures, there▪
Want pass'd for Merit, at her open Door,
Heaven saw, he safely might increase his Poor.
And trust their Sustenance with her so well,
As not to be at Charge of Miracle.
None cou'd be needy, whom she saw, or knew;
All, in the Compass of her Sphear, she drew:
He who cou'd touch her Garment, was as sure,
As the first Christians of th' Apostle's Cure.
The distant heard, by Fame, her pious Deeds▪
And laid her up, for their extremest needs;
A future Cordial, for a fainting Mind;
For, what was ne'er refus'd, all hop'd to find;
Each in his turn: The Rich might freely come,
As to a Friend; but to the Poor, 'twas Home.
As to some Holy House th' Afflicted came;
The Hunger-starv'd, the Naked, and the Lam
:
Want and Diseases fled before her Name.
For Zeal like hers, her Servants were too slow;
She was the first where need requir'd, to go;
Her self the Foundress, and Attendant too.
Sure she had Guests sometimes to entertain,
Guests in Disguise, of her Great Master's Train:
Her Lord himself might come, for ought we know;
Since in a Servant's Form he liv'd below▪
Beneath her Roof, he might be pleas'd to stay:
Or some benighted Angel, in his way
Might ease his Wings; and seeing Heav'n appear
In its best Work of Mercy, think it there,
Where all the Deeds of Charity and Love
Were in as constant Method, as above:
All carry'd on; all of a piece with theirs,
As free her Alms, as diligent her Cares;
As loud her Praises, and as warm her Pray'rs.
Of her prudent Management.
Yet was she not profuse; but fear'd to wast,
And wisely manag'd, that the stock might last;
That all might be supply'd; and she not grieve
When Crouds appear'd, she had not to relieve.
Which to prevent, she still increas'd her store;
Laid up, and spar'd, that she might give the more:
So
Pharaoh,
or some Greater King than he,
Provided for the seventh Necessity:
Taught from above, his Magazines to frame;
That Famine was prevented e're it came.
Thus Heaven, though All-sufficient, shows a thrift
In his Oeconomy, and bounds his Gift:
Creating for our Day, one single Light;
And his Reflection too supplies the Night:
Perhaps a thousand other Worlds, that lye
Remote from us, and latent in the Sky,
Are lighten'd by his Beams, and kindly nurst;
Of which our Earthly Dunghil is the worst,
Now, as all Virtues keep the middle Line,
Yet somewhat more to one Extreme incline,
Such was her Soul; abhorring Avarice,
Bounteous, but, almost bounteous to a Vice
Had she giv'n more, it had Profusion been,
And turn'd th' Excess of Goodness, into Sin.
Of her Humility.
These Vertues rais'd her Fabrick to the Sky▪
For that which is next Heav'n, is Charity.
But, as high Turrets, for their Airy steep
Require Foundations, in proportion deep:
And lofty Cedars, as far upward shoot,
As to the neather Heavens they drive the Root▪
So low did her secure Foundation lye,
She was not Humble, but Humility.
Scarcely she knew that she was great, or fair,
Or wise, beyond what other Women are,
Or, which is better, knew; but never durst compare.
For to be conscious of what all admire,
And not be vain, advances Vertue high'r:
But still she found, or rather thought she found,
Her own worth wanting, others to abound:
Ascrib'd above their due to ev'ry one,
Unjust and scanty to her self alone.
Of her Piety.
Such her Devotion was, as might give Rules
Of Speculation, to disputing Schools;
And teach us equally the Scales to hold
Betwixt the two Extreams of hot and cold;
That pious heat may mod'rately prevail,
And we be warn'd, but not be scorch'd with Zeal.
Business might shorten, not disturb her Pray'r;
Heaven had the best, if not the greater share.
An active Life, long Oraison
forbids;
Yet still she pray'd, for still she pray'd by Deeds▪
Her ev'ry day was Sabbath: Only free
From hours of Pray'r, for hours of Charity.
Such as the Jews from servile Toil releast;
Where Works of Mercy were a part of Rest:
uch as blest Angels exercise above,
ary'd with Sacred Hymns, and Acts of Love;
uch Sabbaths as that one she now enjoys,
v'n that perpetual one, which she employs,
For such Vicissitudes in Heav'n there are)
Praise alternate, and alternate Pray'r.
ll this she practis'd here; that when she sprung
midst the Quires, at the first sight she sung.
ung, and was sung her self, in Angels Lays;
or praising her, they did her Maker praise.
All Offices of Heav'n so well she knew,
Before she came, that nothing there was new.
And she was so familiarly receiv'd,
As one returning, not as one arriv'd.
Of her various Vertues.
Muse, down again precipitate thy Flight;
For how can Mortal Eyes sustain Immortal Light▪
But as the Sun in Water we can bear,
Yet not the Sun, but his Reflection there,
So let us view her here, in what she was;
And take her Image, in this watry Glass:
Yet look not ev'ry Lineament to see;
Some will be cast in Shades; and some will be
So lamely drawn, you scarcely know, 'tis she.
For where such various Vertues we recite,
'Tis like the Milky-Way, all over bright,
But sown so thick with Stars, 'tis undistinguish'd Light.
Her Vertue, not her Vertues let us call,
For one Heroick comprehends 'em all:
One, as a Constellation is but one;
Though 'tis a Train of Stars, that, rolling on,
Rise in their turn, and int he Zodiack run.
Evern in Motion; now 'tis Faith ascends,
Now Hope, now Charity, that upward tends,
And downwards with diffusive Good, descends.
As in Perfumes compos'd with Art and Cost,
'Tis hard to say what Scent is uppermost;
Nor this part Musk or Civet can we call,
Or Amber, but a rich Result of all;
So, she was all a sweet; whose ev'ry part,
In due proportion mix'd, proclaim'd the Maker's Art.
No single Vertue we cou'd most commend;
Whether the Wife, the Mother, or the Friend;
For she was all, in that supreme degree,
That, as no one prevail'd, so all was she.
The sev'ral parts lay hidden in the Piece;
Th' Occasion but exerted that, or this.
Of her Conjugal Vertues▪
A Wife as tender, and as true withal,
s the first Woman was, before her Fall:
ade for the Man, of whom she was a part;
ade, to attract his Eyes, and keep his Heart.
second
Eve,
but by no Crime accurst;
s beauteous, not as brittle as the first.
ad she been first, still Paradise had bin,
nd Death had found no entrance by her sin.
she not only had preserv'd from ill
r Sex and ours, but liv'd their Pattern still.
Love and Obedience to her Lord she bore,
e much obey'd him, but she lov'd him more.
ot aw'd to Duty by superior sway;
t taught by his Indulgence to obey.
hus we love God as Author of our good;
Subjects love just Kings, or so they shou'd.
or was it with Ingratitude return'd;
equal Fires the blissful Couple burn'd:
ne joy possess'd 'em both, and in one Grief they mourn'd.
is Passion still improv'd: he lov'd so fast
s if he fear'd each Day would be her last.
oo true a Prophet to foresee the Fate
hat shou'd so soon divide their happy State:
hen he to Heav'n entirely must restore
hat Love, that Heart, where he went halves before.
et as the Soul is all in ev'ry part,
God and He, might each have all her Heart.
Of her Love to her Children.
So had her Children too; for Charity
as not more fruitful, or more kind than she:
ch under other by degrees they grew;
goodly Perspective of distant view:
nchises
look'd not with so pleas'd a Face,
numb'
ing o'er his future
Roman
Race,
nd Marshalling the Heroes of his Name
, in their Order, next to light they came;
or
Cybele
with half so kind an Eye,
rvey'd her Sons and Daughters of the Skie.
Proud, shall I say, of her immortal Fruit.
As far as Pride with Heavn'nly Minds may suit.
Her Care of their Education.
Her pious Love excell'd to all the bore;
New Objects only multiply'd it more.
And as the Chosen found the pearly Grain
As much as ev'ry Vessel cou'd contain;
As in the Blissful Vision each shall share,
AS much of Glory, as his Soul can bear;
So did she love, and so dispense her Care.
Her eldest thus, by consequence, was best;
As longer cultivated than the rest:
The Babe had all that Infant Care beguiles,
And early knew his Mother in her Smiles:
But when dilated Organs let in Day
To the young Soul, and gave it room to play,
At his first aptness, the Maternal Love
Those Rudiments of Reason did improve:
The tender Age was pliant to command;
Like Wax it yielded to the forming hand:
True to th' Artificer, the labour'd Mind
With ease was pious, generous, just and kind;
Soft for Impression, from the first, prepar'd,
Till Vertue, with long Exercise, grew hard;
With ev'ry Act confirm'd; and made, at last
So durable, as not to be effac'd,
It turn'd to Habit; and, from Vices free,
Goodness resolv'd into Necessity.
Thus fix'd she Vertue's Image, that's her own,
Till the whole Mother in the Children shone;
For that was their Perfection: she was such,
They never cou'd express her Mind too much.
So unexhausted her Perfections were,
That, for more Children, she had more to spare▪
For Souls unborn, whom her untimely Death
Depriv'd of Bodies, and of mortal Breath;
And (cou'd they take th' Impressions of her Mind)
Enough still left to sanctifie her Kind.
Of her Friendship.
Then wonder not to see this Soul extend
he Bounds, and seek some other self, a Friend:
swelling Seas to gentle Rivers glide,
o seek repose, and empty out the Tide;
this full Soul, in narrow Limi
s pent,
nable to contain her, sought a vent,
so issue out, and in some friendly Breast
charge her Treasures, and securely rest.
unbosom all the secrets of her Heart,
ake good Advice, but better to impart.
or 'tis the Bliss of Friendship's Holy State
o mix their Minds, and to communicate;
hough Bodies cannot, Souls can penetrate.
x
to her Choice; inviolably true;
nd wisely chusing, for she chose but few.
me she must have; but in no one cou'd find
Tally fitted for so large a Mind.
he Souls of Friends, like Kings in progress are;
ll in their own, though from the Palace far:
hus her Friend's Heart her Country Dwelling was,
sweet Retirement to a coarser place:
here Pomp and Ceremonies enter'd not;
here Greatness was shut out, and Bus'ness well forgot.
This is th' imperfect Draught; but short as far
the true height and bigness of a Star
ceeds the Measures of th' Astronomer.
e shines above we know, but in what place,
w near the Throne, and Heav'ns Imperial Face,
our weak Opticks is but vainly ghest;
tance and Altitude conceal the rest.
Reflections on the Shortness of her Life.
Tho' all these rare Endowments of the Mind
e
e in a narrow space of Life confin'd,
e Figure was with full Perfection crown'd;
ough not so large an O
b, as truly round.
As when in Glory, through the publick place,
e Spoils of conquer'd Nations were to pass,
And but one day for Triumph was allow'd,
The Consul was constrain'd his Pomp to croud;
And so the swift Procession hurry'd on,
That all, though not distinctly, might be shown▪
So, in the straiten'd Bounds of Life confin'd,
She gave but Glimpses of her glorious Mind:
And Multitudes of Vertues pass'd along;
Each pressing foremost in the mighty Throng;
Ambitious to be seen, and then make room,
For greater Multitudes that were to come.
Yet unemploy'd no Minute slipt away;
Moment were precious in so short a stay.
The haste of Heav'n to have her was so great,
That some were single Acts, though each compleat;
But ev'ry Act stood ready to repeat.
Her Fellow Saints with busie Care, will look
For her blest Name, in Fate's Eternal Book;
And, pleas'd to be out-done, with Joy will see
Numberless Vertues, endless Charity;
But more will wonder at so short an Age;
To find a Blank beyond the thirti'th Page;
And with a pious Fear begin to doubt
The Piece imperfect, and the rest torn out.
She died in her Thirty third Year.
But 'twas her Saviour's time; and, cou'd there be
A Copy near th' Original, 'twas she.
As precious Gums are not for lasting Fire,
They but perfume the Temple, and expire.
So soon was she exhal'd, and vanish'd hence▪
A short sweet Odour, of a vast Expence
She vanish'd, we can scarcely say she dy'd;
For but a Now, did Heaven and Earth divide:
She pass'd serenely with a single B
eath,
This Moment perfect Health, the next was Death▪
The manner of her D
One Sigh, did her Eternal Bliss assure;
So little Penance needs, when Souls are almost pure.
As gentle Dreams our waking Thoughts pursue;
Or, one Dream pass'd, we slide into a new;
(So close they follow, such wild Order keep,
We think our selves awake, and are asleep:)
So softly Death, succeeded Life, in her;
She did but dream of Heav'n, and was there.
No Pains she suffer'd, nor expir'd with Noise;
Her Soul was whisper'd out, with God's still Voice.
As an old Friend is beckon'd to a Feast,
And treated like a long familiar Guest;
He took her as he found; but found her so,
Her Preparedness to dye.
As one in hourly Readiness to go.
Ev'n on that Day, in all her Trim prepar'd;
As early notice she from Heav'n had heard,
And some descending Courtier, from above
Hav giv'n her timely warning to remove:
Or counsel'd her to dress the Nuptial Room;
For on that Night the Bridegroom was to come.
She dy
d on
Whitsunday
Night.
He kept his Hour, and found her where she lay
Cloath'd all in white, the Liv'ry of the Day▪
Scarce had she sinn'd, in Thought, or Word, or act;
Unless Omissions were to pass for Fact:
That hardly Death a Consequence cou'd draw,
To make her liable to Nature's Law.
And that she dy'd, we only have to show,
The mortal part of her she left below:
The rest (so smooth, so sudenly she went)
Look'd like Translation, through the Firmament;
O
like the fiery Carr, on the third Errand sent.
Apostrophe her Soul.
O happy Soul! if thou canst view from high▪
Where thou art all Intelligence, all Eye,
If looking up to God, or down to us,
Thou find'st, that any way be pervious,
Survey the Ruines of thy House, and see
Thy widow'd, and thy Orphan Family;
Look on thy tender Pledges left behind:
And, if thou canst a vacant Minute find
From Heavenly Joys, that Interval afford
To thy sad Children, and thy mourning Lord.
See how thy grieve, mistaken in their Love,
And shed a Beam of Comfort from above;
Give 'em as much as mortal Eyes can bear,
A transieth View of thy full Glories there;
That they with mod'rate Sorrow may sustain
And mollifie their Losses, in thy Gain.
Or else divide the Grief, for such thou wert,
That shou'd not all Relations bear a part,
It were enough to break a single Heart.
Epiphonema▪ Or Close of the Poem.
Let this suffice: Nor thou, great Saint, refuse
This humble Tribute of no vulgar Muse:
Who, not by Cares, or Wants, or Age deprest,
Stems a wild Deluge with a dauntless Breast:
And dares to sing thy Praises, in a Clime.
Where Vice Triumphs, and Vertue is a Crime:
Where ev'n to draw the Picture of thy Mind,
Is Satyr on the most of Humane Kind:
Take it, while yet 'tis Praise; before my Rage
Unsafely just, break loose on this bad Age;
So bad, that thou thy self had'st no Defence,
From Vice, but barely by departing hence.
Be what, and where thou art: To wish thy place,
Were in the best, Presumption, more than Grace.
Thy Reliques (such thy Works of Mercy are)
Have, in this Poem, been my holy Care.
As Earth thy Body keeps, thy Soul the Sky,
So shall this Verse preserve thy Memory;
For thou shalt make it live, because it sings of thee.
FINIS.
The Rambling Fuddle-Caps: OR, A Tavern-Struggle FOR A KISS. By the Author of HUDIBRASS REDIVIVUS.
LONDON: Printed and Sold by
H. Hills,
in
Black-fryars
near the Water-side. 1709.
The Rambling Fuddle-Caps: OR, A Tavern-Struggle FOR A KISS.
THo' Fuddl'd o'er Night, the next Morning we found,
That Sleep had recover'd what Claret had drown'd;
And all our numb'd Members, so feeble and weak,
That we scarcely were able to walk, or to speak,
Were now by kind
Morpheus
with Strength reimpower'd,
And all to their primitive Vigour restor'd.
Our Thoughts were so sprightly, our Humours so gay,
That we both were as brisk as a Milk-maid in
May.
And as for the Rudders that steer our Affections,
As Fancy, that Pilot, shall give 'em Directions;
Which were made over Night so incapably tender,
Were now grown as stiff as a Bullock's Defender:
That wanting Discretion I'd like to 've miscarry'd,
And thoughtless of Cuckldom wish my self marry'd:
Well knowing desire of unchaste Copulation,
Had been an Affront to our new Reformation;
And therefore resolv'd to forbear the sweet Evil,
Tho' hugely inclin'd to the Flesh and the Devil.
But yet notwithstanding our over-Night's Fuddle,
That made us so brisk in the Tail and the Noddle,
We both were as dry, I may justly maintain,
As a Rat that is poyson'd by eating his Bane.
In order to quench our immod'rate Droughts,
That burnt in our Stomachs, and scorch'd up our Mouths▪
We leap'd out of Bed with a strong
Appetitus,
To swallow a Hair of the Dog that had bit us.
We shifted our Linen, and whip'd on our Cloaths,
And powder'd our Wigs like a couple of
Beaus,
Then quitted our Lodging till Night, with design,
To quench with that Engine, a Flask full of Wine,
The Fire which God
Bacchus,
as well as Fair
Venus,
By th' help of brisk Claret, had kindl'd within us.
So frensical Wretches their Senses restore,
By clawing the Hag who bewitch'd 'em before.
And skilful Physicians their Patients recover,
Of one Dose of Poyson, by th' pow'r of another.
With this Resolution we cross'd to
S—Lane,
'Twixt which and
B—Y
—hangs a Bush and a Sign,
Which some call the
Tuns,
by whose size one wou'd guess,
They were three Brandy Runlets of Gallons a piece,
Well, well, says my Friend, you may descant upon 'em,
And for their diminutive sizes untun 'em:
But when within Doors you may think 'em much wider,
And Judge by the Wine they are Hogsheads of Cider.
However, said I, let us once venture in,
If it be for no cause, but to see and be seen:
For tho' it proves Cider 'twill quench us and clean us,
And wash down those sooty remains that are in us,
Condens'd from the Poyson of
Necotianus.
With that we went into a pretty long Entry,
At th' end of which Passage a Female stood Centry,
As stiff in her Box, and as starch'd in her Dress,
As an old Abby-Figure of Wax in a Press,
Where any for Three-pence may behold,
What stiff body'd Queens liv'd in Ages of old.
To say that she Paints it might justly provoke her,
I'm sure that she does not, except 'tis with Oker:
Nor did she look warm'd with Canary or Brandy,
But just of the Colour of brown Sugar-candy.
From whence we may say, without any Reflection,
She's blest with a sweet and a melting Complexion.
Her Bubb
es, which just peep'd above to invite ye,
By th' help of her S
ays look'd so round and so pretty,
That had but her Skin been a little more fair,
Like a Stone Horse enrag'd I'd leap'd over the Bar;
But the Ginger-bread Colour she wore in her Cheeks,
Was to me as offensive as Garlick or Leeks:
For Yellow I hate, and I'll tell you for what,
'Tis the Mutton Complexion that dies of the Rot.
And who'd be so fond of a Kiss or a Touch,
With a Lady that looks not as sound as a Roach?
Her Hips, I confess, were so charmingly plump,
And between them a Hillock adorning her Rump,
That when she turn'd round, by a glimpse I could find
All the best of her Beauty was seated behind.
Tho' perhaps upon search it wou'd have prov'd but a Cushion,
That rais'd up her A—se to the height of the Fashion.
After Ogling, and Talking, and taking a view,
As she stood in the Bar, like a Jilt in a Pew.
The Drawer, according to our desire,
Shew'd us into the Kitchin, for sake of the Fire:
For cold was the Wind, and impleasant the Weather,
Which made us both willing to follow him thither.
No sooner we'd enter'd the Cook's Territories,
Where commonly either a Slut or a Whore is)
ut a swinging
Bellona
we saw at the Dresser,
nd a drunken young Rake-hell just going to Kiss her.
The masculine Jade had the Fork in her Hand,
And bid him stand off at the Word of Command:
And being a Lass both of Virtue and Value,
She cry'd▪
Keep your Gound, or, by Heavens, I'll maul ye.
The Spark in his Cups, full of Courage and Vigour,
In spight of her Threats, rally'd on like a Tyger,
With his Arm, like a Fencer, he parry'd her Poker,
And running within her did further provoke her,
By falling most roughly and rudely upon her,
And bobbing his Hand at the Seat of her Honour;
But still with such Art she defended her Lips,
And now and then gave him such Pinches and Nips,
That I would not have born, to have purchas'd a Kiss,
From the Lips of Queen
Dido,
or
Helen
of
Greece.
He swore that he would, but she vow'd that he should not:
He strove, but she rustled so hard that he could not.
But as they contended thus, who should be Master,
I'th' the Scuffle there happen'd a scurvy Disaster:
A Pudding, with Plumbs, standing by on a Stool,
Ready mix'd for the Bag, temper'd up in a Bowl,
Unhappily met with a Fall in the Jostle,
And between 'em was thrown on the Ground in the bustle;
The Cook at this sorrowful sight grew inflam'd,
And wish'd her Antagonist rotted and damn'd.
The Spark in return to the Quean of the Kitchin,
In wonderful Rage went to Cursing and Bitching:
But still in a Passion pursuing his Matter,
They scuffled about Ankle deep in the Batter:
As Soldiers hard set in a Battle do use,
To fight 'till the Blood washes over their Shooes.
The sturdy Defendant her Pudding beholding,
Fell now in good earnest to scratching and scolding.
And fought like a Cat when her Passion was stir'd,
To see the good Food trod about like a T—d,
Her Greasiness now all Venom and Gall,
Who swore she'd admit of no
Kissing at all
;
And with that she exerted her Masculine Force,
Who was almost as strong a Mare or a Horse,
And push'd down the Spark, who most decently lay,
In the midst of the Pudding that fell in the Fray.
With that he arose full of Malice and Spight,
To see his black Cloaths painted over with white:
And look'd in this pickle, without any Lying,
Like a piece of fat Tripe dry'd in Batter for Frying.
The Curls of his Wig were so pasted and ma
ted,
All over so daub'd, so beplumb'd and befatted;
So Eggy withal, that a Man would have sworn,
He had just in the Pill'ry been taking a Tu
n:
And being
Lent
-time, that some ill-natur'd Creatures,
Had pelted the Rogue with their Pancakes and Fritters.
Pray Sir, says my Friend, to th' unfortunate Lover,
D
d ever you read the Fam'd History over,
Of a dapper, diminutive, comical Fellow,
Much less than a
Barthol'mew-Fair
Punchanello.
Methinks (tho' I speak not by way of Derision)
As now you appear in that dripping Condition;
You look like that little
Tom Thumb,
by my Soul,
ust waded from out of the great Pudding-Bowl;
nd have brought away Batter enough on your Back,
Which if savingly scrap'd from your Cloaths that are black,
nd improb'd into Dumplins, would make such a Feast,
That would tempt you with Patience to swallow the Jest.
Pray Sir, cries the Spark, in his Puddingy Robes,
eep your Flirts to your self, and your merry dry Bobs;
or I value not you or your Jests of a Clout,
m good Flesh within, tho' I'm Pudding without;
nd if you, like the Bitchington, think you can beat me,
s drunk as I am, when you've done you shall eat me.
ut if you won't Fight, let my Follies alone,
r I'll Pudding your Jacket as bad as my own.
Dear Sir, says my Friend, in a bantering manner,
ope, like the Cook, you'll not turn Painter-stainer;
If you do, notwithstanding your huffing and prating,
The Proof of the Pudding shall be in the eating.
But, Sir, says our Pye-colour'd Sot of a Beau,
Why so much upon Pudding, I desire to know.
What tho' I'm bitterly daub'd with the Batter,
Must every Fool take a lick at the Matter.
Ca
't a Man tumble down in a Pudding, Ads fish,
But another must fling it so oft in his Dish.
The Cook in a Corner stood fleering and laughing▪
The Spark she had tam'd stagger'd fretting and chaffing,
So near to the Fire, in a mighty disgust,
Till the Pudding was bak'd on his B
ck to a Crust.
Beholding the Rattle-brains, marry thought I,
I have heard of a Puppy put into a Pye,
But never yet met with a Story alluding,
To such a great Whelp that was bak'd in a Pudding.
By this time the Mistress, that sat in the Bar,
Being told the Misfortune by
Fennick
the Draw'r,
Step'd in to enquire out the truth of the Matter,
And view, with sad Eyes, the poor down-fallen Batter,
Says Madam to
Nell,
in a wonderful Passion,
You impudent Baggage, pray what's the occasion,
The Pudding design'd for your Master's own Table,
Is thus trod about like a T—d in a Stable?
O Heavens! pray what has this Termagant Blowze
Been a doing to th' Gentleman's Wig and Cloaths?
Zounds, Madam, crys
Nell,
I have done him no Hurt,
It was all his own Fault, he may thank himself for't.
For tho' I'm a poor Kitchin-Wench, let me tell ye,
I will not be tumbled and touz'd by the Belly;
Nor sl
bber'd or Kiss'd, as a Slut that was ready
To pleasure each Sot, like a Night-walking Lady.
I'd have you to know, I am Honest, tho' Poor,
And disd
in to be us'd like a
Water-Lane
Whore.
With that Madam
Coming-Sir,
cocking her Head,
Cry'd, Marry-come-up, you're a Beautiful Jade,
You had need brag so much of your Hypocrites Vertue,
A Gentleman's Kiss would have mightily hurt you!
You sh
ll be so proud, you're so handsome a Piece,
So perfum'd with your Sweat, and adorn'd with your Grease,
That a Gentleman for your Charms must approve you,
And if he once smel
s you, must certainly love you.
Go, go, you're a Slu
, I would have you to know;
Nay, a S
u
pet, to serve any Gentl
man so:
As for one silly Kiss to beget so much Strife,
And to spoil the best Pudding you've mix'd in your Life.
Says
Nell
to her Mistres
, I scorn to be tumbl'd,
Let those play
he Fool that delight to be Fumbl'd:
But you that are marry'd may do as you list,
For a Cut of a Cut Loaf can never be mist.
Tho' you say I'm a Strumpet, remember, good
Madam,
As bad as I am, I was never at
Had'em
:
Nor ever did I from my Modesty vary,
So far as to jumble a Pipe of
Canary
;
Or ever commit so notorious a Fault,
As be catch'd with a Drawer below in the Vault,
In marking that Pipe which was best for your turns
On the Head, with the scandalous Sign of Horns.
Horns! Hussy, says
Madam,
you impudent Quean,
Who is't you reflect on, what is it you mean?
Did ever you hear, thro' the course of you
Life,
That I ever prov'd worse than a good Wise?
Tis amazing to me! I'm astonish'd to think
What your Impudence aims at, why sure you're in Drink;
Or else to your Mistress you never would prate,
so base a provoking and saucy a rate.
Z
nes,
Madam,
says
Nell,
in a damnable Fury,
Won't be th
s s
ub'd and abus'd, I assure ye,
Altho' I'm a Scrub that is doom'd to a Kitchin,
I never was yet catch'd a Whoring or Bitching;
Nor am I got drunk, as your Ladyship says,
Tho' I know she that was, to her ugly Disgrace,
And was found with a Spark hovering over her Chair,
With a Hand on her Breasts, and the other elsewhere.
With that, says the Mistress, You ill-natur'd Devil,
For shame hold your Tongue, that implacable Evil.
Come, mop up the Batter you've trampl'd and stood in,
And let me, I say, have no more of the Pudding.
Whose Fault is't, crys
Nell,
get you into the Bar,
Pray, what bus'ness have you to come prying in here?
For the longer you stay, or the more that you talk,
You shall fare but the worse, so it's better to walk.
Well, Hussy, says
Madam,
for once you shall win me,
To use the Good-nature and Patience that's in me.
Now I see you're enrag'd, I will shew a Concession,
But rattle you off when you're out of your Passion.
Thus
Madam
return'd to her Station the Bar,
With a Nettle t'her Breech, and a Flea in her Ear;
Being glad to withdraw from the Rubs and the Railings
Of
Nell,
that was privy to some of her Failings.
Said I, honest
Nell,
you've an excellent Tongue,
That, according to Phrase, is most notably hung,
For it sounds like a Bell, and goes off with a Twang.
But I hope you'll excuse me, invincible
Nelly,
If I, like a Friend, take the Freedom to tell ye,
You banter too hard on the Brows of your Master,
And open those Sores that have need of a Plaister.
With that the huge termagant Devil turn'd back;
I believe (says the Jade) you come in for a snack:
They are Sparks like your self, and not I (crys the Blowze)
That with Antlers and Buds injure honest Mens Brows;
And when they are absent, by kissing their Spouses,
Make Bridges of many poor Cuckoldly Noses.
Thought I, it's more Prudence my Tongue to with-hold,
Or much better to talk to a Post than a Scold;
Cause they both to all Reason are deaf as a Drum,
Which the S
old will out-rattle, when the Post will be dumb.
Mr.
Prim,
who with shame to Elegant Beaus,
Had, for sake of a Kiss, so bespatter'd his Cloaths,
And made the whole House so confounded uneasy,
By slabb'ring a Slut, but so ugly and greasy;
O'erpower'd with Wine, and Nocturnal Upsitting,
Fell asleep in a Nook, for a Sot very fitting,
With a Coat so besmear'd in his amorous Fight,
That he look'd like a Magpy, half black and half white;
And might justly be stil'd, for the Badges he wore,
The compleatest Jack-pudding that we e'er saw before.
As thus the young Drunkard was sleeping and snoring,
And dreamnig, no doubt on't, of Drinking or Whoring,
chanc'd that his Father, with Carbuncle Face,
Those glorious effects of the Bottle and Glass,
Came in with a Friend for a whet of good Red,
Lest his Rubies and Rosy Pimginets should fade:
For Flowers we know soon their Colours would lose,
f they were not refresh'd with the Rains and the Dews▪
So the Nose of a Sot, which with pleasure we stare at,
Would fade, if not daily replenish'd with Claret.
The hearty Old Dad had no sooner came in,
And gave order to
Fennick
to draw him his Wine,
Turn'd his Nose to the Door, and his Arse to the Fire,
A Habit true
Englishmen
always acquire;
But the sharp fighted Fox round the Kitchin did look,
And saw Daddy's n'own Son drunk a sleep in a Nook.
With that he advances up close to the place,
Turns his Wig a one side, stares his Son in the Face;
Catches hold of his Nose in a damnable Passion,
And pulling on't, breaks into this Exclamation:
A Beau to the Life! a fine Spark, by my Soul,
You drunken young Rake-hell, come out of your hole:
Let us see in the Light what a Figure you make;
A most exquisite Sot, a true Orthodox Rake,
A hopeful young Student, a rare Inns of Courtier:
Nouns, what has the Dog been a treading of Mortar?
Adsheart, now I look on his Wig and his Back,
He's all cover'd with Plumbs like an
Islington
Cake.
I'll be hang'd if the Whelp had not Pudding for Supper,
And eat till he spew'd from his Head to his Crupper.
The Son very drunk, also equally drowsy,
First shrug'd up his Shoulders as if he were Lousy;
Then stagg'ring about, betwixt sleeping and waking,
B'ing ready to spew, I suppose, by his kecking;
Not knowing his Father, he damn'd him and swore,
He that took him by th' Nose was a Son of a Whore.
Then Cursing and Raving, like one in Distraction,
He vow'd for th' Affront he would have Satisfaction.
You Dog,
says his Daddy at every word,
D' you offer to lay your vile Hand on your Sword!
Thou villainous Rebel, you undutiful Sot you,
D' you lift up your Arm against him that begot you?
Sure never poor Mortal e'er father'd before,
Such a Rakebelly Rogue of a Son of a Whore.
With that the young Prodigal (hearing the Name
Of a Father) began to be little more tame:
And looking about him, at last had the Grace,
To know 'twas his Dad by his Carbuncle Face:
Then after a Keck, and a Hick-cough or two,
Like a Sot over-charg'd that was going to spew,
He crys to his Father, (provoking our Smiles)
You're the old Turky
c
ck, by your fiery Gills:
ut what need you Cobble so loud at a Body,
Tavern sometimes is as good as a Study:
ve heard you oft say, That Conversing and Drinking,
Must quicken our Brains more than Reading and Thinking,
And that Lawyers
Littleton, Bracton,
and
Cook,
Did agree it was good for a Student to look
n the brisk merry Bottle, as well as the Book.
'Tis true, the said the Father, I always allow'd ye,
To chear up your Heart with a Glass after Study;
But not stretch your Guts like a Porter or Carman,
And turn a worse Sot than those guzling Vermin.
Pray Gentlemen see but his Coat and his Wig here,
Did ever a Beau make so beastly a Figure!
He looks, by my Soul, from the Head to the Rump,
ke a Pick-pocket just run away from the Pump.
You Rogue had I thought you'd have prov'd such an Idle
Young Dog, I'd have choak'd you with Pap in the Cradle.
And never have been at the chargeable keeping
Of such a rude Rascal that daily is heaping
Such Cares and Vexations upon my Gray Hairs,
That in sight of you all makes me burst into Tears.
For shame, says his Friend, do not shew your self such
n old Tony to cry, you unman your self much:
Tis time to be shedding of Tears when you find him
Ty'd fast in a Cart with the Horses behind him.
Have I, says the Father, sate early and late,
ike a Drudge at my Desk, to acquire an Estate,
And all for the sake of a profligate So
,
That will spend it much faster then ever 'twas got:
But, Nouns, if the Rake-hell continues thus loose,
Revenge, I'll not leave the young Rebel a Sous:
y my Generous Living I'll give him the Go-by,
nd spend what I meant for the Prodigal Booby.
Here Drawer, says Rake, bring my Father a Quart,
I'll be hang'd if 'twill do the old Toast any hurt.
Be nimble, you Dog, draw it brisk, neat and fine,
For a Glass of true Claret, or any good Wine,
He loves in a Morning, I've oft heard him say;
Nay, at Night, or indeed any time of the Day;
My Grandsire I've heard, always drank like a Fish,
And his Children all lov'd to about with the Dish;
So what's bred in the Bone, will ne'er out of the Flesh:
Therefore why shou'd not I love a Cup of the Creature,
As well as my Father, by Instinct of Nature.
Pray judge, crys the Dad, do ye think I'm not blest,
With a hopeful young Bird, but just flown from the Nest,
Who is ready to see, e'er he's well knit together,
To pick out the Eyes of his tender old Father.
However, you Drawer, here bring us a Quart,
Since my dutiful Son's so importunate for't,
I'm resolv'd for this once will I humour the Brat,
'Cause I'll see what the Reprobate Rogue would be at.
With that the Old Gentleman sat himself down,
And requested the like of his Friend and his Son.
The Quart was brought in, and the Glass fill'd around,
As the Wine went about Daddy's Passion was drown'd,
'Till his Fatherly Love prevail'd above Anger,
It made him unable to vex any longer,
His Rubies now look'd of so noble a Red,
Like the Bunches of Grapes round a
Bacchus
's Head,
That by squeezing his Nose one wou'd easily have thought
The good Juice must have flown again into the Pot.
Ah
Dick, says the Dad to his Prodigal Son,
If it was not for me, what a Race wou'dst thou run;
Yet for all my Reproof, my Advice, and my Care,
You're a wicked young Rascal, you know that you are▪
However, in time thou wilt surely recant,
will once more forgive thee whatever comes on't.
So
Dick
here's a Bumper of Pacification,
Most heartily wish
ng thy new Reformation;
For Drinking, thou know'st, is a very sad Evil,
And Whoring and Gaming, the Flesh and the Devil.
Abandon, my Boy, all such things that have hurt in,
Or else for these Sins thou'lt be damn'd of a certain.
Says
Dick
to his Father how cou'd you suppose,
When you got your poor Son with that Clarety Nose,
But that he must love, by the dint of each Ruby,
The Bottle, when wean'd from its Likeness the Bubby.
My Father and Mother have always lov'd Claret,
And hew do you think that the Son shou'd forbear it,
Whose Blood I might venture to swear, without sinning,
Was but Claret refin'd at the very beginning?
Says Daddy, did ever Man hear such a Dog,
uch a witty young Cub, such a bantering Rogue,
uch a pleasant and merry Companion, who rather
Than stifle a Jest, will make one of his Father?
Ah,
Dick,
if thy Wit was but balanc'd with Grace,
Thou for certain wou'dst ne'er let it fly in my Face.
But howe'er, since the Bottle has got the ascendant,
or once I'll forgive thee, and so there's an end on't,
n hopes, when you're sober, you Manners will mend on't.
O Father, says
Dick,
could you taste the delights
That my self and Companions enjoy a Nights,
Were you once but to hear the Cunnundrums and Quibbles,
The Retorts and the Puns, the Lampoons and the Libels,
The Rhimes, Repetitions, the Songs and the Catches;
The Whims and the Flirts, and the smart witty Touches,
That over the Flask we most lovingly vent,
ou wou'd think a whole Night most gloriously spent;
nd wou'd guess by our Wit, and the course that we follow,
We cou'd all be no less than the Sons of
Apollo.
Ah,
Dick,
says the Father, take care, I entreat ye,
Thou'dst better be hang'd, of the two than be witty;
For if thou'rt once thought, by the Studies and Labours,
To've acquir'd more Wit than the rest of thy Neighbours,
Thou'lt be piss'd on by Fools, and be fear'd by thy Betters,
And hunted about by Whores, Bayliffs and Setters.
Thy Lodging must be in some Nine-penny Garret,
Thy Drink Porters Guzzle much oftner than Claret:
Thy Coat must through all the four Seasons be worn,
Till it's robb'd of its Nap like a Sheep newly shorn:
You must always seem pleasant, that is, if you can,
Keep your Wits ready prim'd for a flash in the Pan:
When your Pockets are empty, your Brains must project
Puns, Quibbles, and Tales to supply the Defect;
That whenever you meet with a generous Chub,
You may sneak out a Jest in the room of your Club:
For a Wit is no more than a merry
Tom
Fool,
A satyrical Scourger or flattering Tool;
The Son of Nine Whores, that's compell'd by his Mothers,
To starve, or to please (like the rest of his Brothers)
The Pride of some Men, or the Malice of others.
FINIS.
THE Libertine's Choice: OR, The Mistaken Happiness OF THE FOOL in FASHION.
LONDON:
inted and Sold by
H. Hills,
in
Black-fryars
near the Water-side. 1709.
THE Libertine's Choice: OR, The Mistaken Happiness OF THE FOOL in FASHION.
LET Holy Guides prevail on Tim'rous Fools,
T' abridge their Pleasure, and conform to Rulees,
pos'd on Youth, by hoary Heads long since,
hen dwind
d into Age and Impotence;
ating their Vig'rous Progeny should taste
hose Lushious Joys their own weak Loins were past,
ho in their Strength did Nature's Will obey,
nd ne'er grew Temp'rate till their Hairs grew Grey;
hen with a Pious Rage, and Anxious Mind,
ewing their Youthful Pleasures far behind:
iev'd and Perplex'd would all those Joys despise,
o which their Gouty Dotage could not rise;
when the Hare does her loud Foes defeat,
he Huntsman damns the Bitch for sorry Meat;
ngry to see his Hopes and Pleasures crost,
temns the Game he valu'd till 'twas lost.
Grave, Toothless Grandsires, tell me but the Caus
Why you prescribe to Youth such Rigig Laws?
Why you thus fright us with Infernal Pains,
To chill Love's gentle Fire that warms our Veins?
When you, like us, once found the pleasing Heat,
As Nat
ral as your Appetites to eat;
Pur
u'd those Blessings which you held so dear,
And could not shun what you'd have us forbear.
Look back, when you were Juvenile and Strong;
Remember what you were, when Brisk and Young.
How did you then regard the Sage Advice,
Giv'n by the Old, who call themselves the Wise?
Could your Fond Parents fright you from the Arms
Of the Fair Sex, and their alluring Charms?
Could all the sober Counsels they could give,
Make you without your Friend and Bottle live?
Could the grave Guide, with his Authentick Tale
Of Flames and Furies on your Youth prevail?
Could all his mild Reproofs, or Holy Threats,
Repel the warm Desires that Love begets?
No, the Rebellious Fever prov'd too hot
To be subdu'd; but that's, alas! forgot.
Old Men are subtile, and their Judgments strong,
They won't remember what they were when Young
But as in us their Youthful Lives are seen,
So by our selves we know what you have been.
Why then so Envious, to debar our Taste
From Pleasures, which your wrinkled Brows are past,
Such as your wiser selves could not forbear,
When Gay and Vig'rous as your Sons now are?
What tho' the Gout your crazy Limbs torment,
Or if the Stone perplex you, be content;
Why should our Joys encrease your Punishment?
'Tis Devil-like, to with an Envious Eye,
Behold past Blessings which you can't enjoy;
nd give us, by false Tales, an ill Conceit
Of Pleasures which your selves once found so sweet.
uch Usage seem'd as if you aim'd to gain
That Pow'r o'er Youth, as
Satan
did o'er Man:
nd by the subtile Force of your Advice,
love us to lose our present Paradise,
Thro' hopes of future Joys beyond the Skies.
Th' Infernal Tempter cunningly began
With Stratagems like these to ruin Man.
To this effect the Treach'rous Serpent said,
ke, Eat this Fruit; do but as I perswade,
nd from that happy Moment you shall prove,
ise and Immortal as the Gods above:
t when the cunning Fiend had made them cat,
They found the Lushious Promise but a Cheat.
Thus did the Devil their Happiness molest,
ecause himself was curs'd, and Man was Blest.
Who knows but Age, when doom'd to Pain and Care,
o Joyful Youth may the like Envy bear:
ating, beneath their own Decay, to see
he Young so blest, from a
l Afflictions free,
nd their own frozen Limbs by Age declin'd,
Crutches, Beds, and Elbow-Chairs confin'd;
st so the Barren Woman does with Hate,
hold the Fruitful in a Pregnant State.
With what Assurance can we then obey
he Rules your Aged Heads before us lay;
ho strive t' incline us by your Sage Advice,
quit known Pleasures for uncertain Bliss?
we those Blessings you report, pursue;
loose the present Joys within our View,
en those you promise mayn't perhaps accrue.
Humane Soul can no clear Prospect have
Torments, or of Joys beyond the Grave.
pose we had, and future Worlds could see,
r Doom to us would still uncertain be.
Tho' Hell be fill'd with Discord, Heav'n with
Peace,
The Gods reward poor Mortals as they please:
For Man, th
' ever so devoutly given,
Can plead no Merit to the Gifts of Heaven;
But must as Bounty, und
serv'd, receive
Those Blessings, which the Gods think fit to give.
Some Guides of Old instruct us to despise,
And look with Scorn upon Terrestrial Joys,
Extol the Chrystal Stream above the Vine,
Prefer dull Element to Noble Wine.
Tell us soft Beauty's but a Charming Evil,
That all Delights are Off springs of the Devil.
Ill Manners sure to such Aspersions cast
On Blessings which we find oblige our Taste:
And highly Impious to condemn as vain,
What the kind Gods for Humane Use ordain.
If 'tis Ill-breeding, proudly to withstand
The meanest Gift, from a superiour Hand:
Surely, without Offence, we cannot slight
What Bounteous Heav'n has giv'n for our Delight.
Shall I, if I've an Appetite to eat,
For Roo
s and Herbs forsake much better Meat▪
Or if my Heart to
Hymen
does incline,
Must I drink Water, when I lust for Wine?
No, let d
ll Bigots with the Stream agree,
Bacchus
shall be the Jolly God for me.
What if
Celinda
's Graces I admire,
And her soft Charms should set my Breast on Fire;
Why should not we, if the kind Dame agrees,
Our loving selves, instead of others, please?
In doing which, we mutually approve
The Works of Heav'n in the Delights of Love:
Love! which sublimes the Blessings we pursue,
And makes the Gods well pleas'd with what we do.
Let the Old Cinick (from the World retir'd)
Rail in his Age, at what his Youth admir'd:
To's Hut confin'd, drink Water and repent,
Feed on raw Roots, and boast of his Content;
Hug his own Follies, and those Joys despise,
Which not his Vertues, but his Age denies;
Snarl at our Pleasures, and our Pomp abuse,
Which he wants Wealth t'uphold, or Strength to use.
Thus like Town Bullies his Ill-Nature shew,
Who damn those Beauties which they can't subdue.
Our wiser Guides may tell us if they please,
True Happiness consists in Whims like these;
And that the Old Morose
Athenian
Grub,
Who snarling liv'd in's Penitential Tub;
Possess'd more Comforts, and enjoy'd more Ease,
Than Princes in their Gaudy Palaces.
Such Frantick Doctrine may sometimes perswade,
Beggars and Slaves, when melancholy mad,
That Wealth is Dirt, and Honour but a Toy,
And none except the Poor true Peace enjoy;
Who else can fancy true Felicity,
Consists in stinking Rags and Poverty;
And that a scanty Meal is better far,
Than all the costly Dainties we prepare;
That nothing truly can afford Content,
But cold Retirement, and a self Restraint.
If Peace and her Companion Vertue dwells
n Caves, and Tubs, and Subterranean Cells;
And starving Cinicks in their Lonely Huts,
Who pride themselves in punishing their Guts;
Can happy be who Happiness despise,
Then to be mad, is surely to be wise.
O Great
Lucretius,
thou shalt be my Guide,
Like thee I'll live, and by thy Rules abide:
Measure my Pleasures by my Appetites,
And unconfin'd, pursue the World's Delights.
For Liberty makes every Action sweet,
And relishes our Joys, as Salt our Meat:
Without, we no true Happiness could boast,
The Taste of every Blessing would be lost;
The sweetest Bliss, would but a Slav'ry prove,
And we should then but hate what now we love.
My Native Freedom, therefore I'l
employ,
Chuse what I like, and what I like, enjoy.
Suppose bright Beauty should invade my Breast,
And with her pleasing Darts, disturb my Rest;
So that I sigh all Day, and wish all Night
For her, my only Object of Delight:
What must I marry? No, I'll not be cloy'd,
The B
it I'll nibble, but the Hook avoid;
For cold Restraint makes every thing seem worse,
And often turns our Blessings to a Curse.
I love my Bed, when I my Rest would take;
Must it be therefore corded to my Back?
If I delight my Gelding to bestride,
Must I be always to the Saddle ty'd?
What th
I chiefly love one sort of Meat,
'Tis Punishment to've nothing else to eat:
The Charming Sex I'cknowledge, I adore,
And value Beauty much, but Freedom more;
If the kind Nymph will yield to my Desires
And w
th her Fa
ours quench Loves pleasing Fires;
I'll not with Oaths and Vows her Faith deceive,
But prove as kind as Nature givers me leave;
Be constant too, as long as e'er I can,
But will not promise to be more than Man:
And when I'm tir'd, that she the Truth may know,
I'll frankly, without Flatt'ry, tell her so.
Thus would I deal with Love's Rebellious Flame,
When cloy'd with one, I'd still pursue fresh Game;
And not enslave my self, or yet deceive the Dame.
When one Delight by Use Insipid grew,
I'd change the stale Enjoyment for a New;
From Am'rous Sports to th' Bottle I'd repair,
To fill those Veins I'd empty'd with the Fair;
Drink till my W
ts were ripe, and Brains were full,
For to be sober, is but to be dull,
Songsters and Wits I'd for Companions chuse,
One for their Musick, th' other for their Muse,
That some kind Voice might readily supply
Our Thoughtful Intervals with Harmony;
Thus would we chase Old Father
Time
all Night,
Shorten our Days to lengthen our Delight:
Drink Healths, sing Catches, talk of past Intrigues,
And strengthen Bottle Friendship with new Leagues;
Swallow down Bumpers to each Left hand Friend,
And Vow a Thousand things we ne'er intend.
When thus well fraighted with the chearful Juice,
We'd sally forth and give our selves a loose,
Break Broth
l Windows, scour the crazy Watch,
And with fresh Mischiefs crown the Night's Debauch;
But soon as bright
Aurora
should draw nigh,
And with her Blushes gild the Eastern Sky,
Drowsie and drunk we'd stagger to our Beds,
And in Sot's Hev'n compose our aching Heads;
There drown in Sleep the Mem'ry of our Sins,
And rise refresh'd, as
Drury-Lane
begins:
For new Diversions to the Play-House fly,
Seek out new Faces, and their Humours try,
Flatter the Coy, and ridicule the Free,
Tattle with Punks, and ogle Quality;
Who in their upper Region awful sit,
And cull their brawny Stallions from the Pit:
Sometimes I'd be attentive to the Stage,
The Poet's Princess shou'd my Eyes engage;
If she perform'd her Part with Excellence,
And trod the Stage with Graceful Impudence,
I'd clap the Dowdy till my Arms were sore,
As she perhaps had many a Spark before;
With Pleasure hear the O'er-grown Poppet whine,
And prostrate mourn o'er some dead Lover's Shrine;
Laugh in my Sleeve to know the cunning Jade
Kneels down a W—re, yet rises for a Maid.
Next Scene perhaps some Hero might appear,
That liv'd long since, the Lord knows when or where;
Who in a Raving Fit of Jealous Love,
Would curse his angry Stars, and threaten
Jove
;
That the Fair Sex might with Concern behold,
How Hen-peck'd Monarchs rav'd, and lov'd of old;
And learn from thence to over Kings prevail,
And make the Head subservient to the Tail.
Thus on each Scene would I my Judgment spend,
Clap when they pleas'd, and hiss should they offend;
Applaud the Poet, when his Lines were full,
Commend his Wit, but damn his Muse when dull;
Keck when I heard the
Barnet
Mimick raise,
His croaking Voice in Fam'd
Ben Johnson
's Plays.
Blush that full Boxes, and a crowded Pit,
Should delight more in Apish Whims than Wit.
For what dull Miscreant, could with Patience see
A Noble Play quite spoil'd with Foolery?
And
French
Jack-Puddings, in a thankless Age
Affront Immortal
Shakespear
on the Stage;
So Nice Fop Epicures disdain to eat,
Without some Foreign Sauce, true
English
Meat;
And think thro' a Mistake the wholesome Food,
Cannot without such pault'ry Stuff be good;
When all their ill-mix'd Rareties at last
Spoil the Regale, and but confound the Taste.
When for three Hours I'd thus with Pleasure view'd
The strutting Mimicks, and their list'ning Crowd,
Till a dull Epilogue, perhaps new writ,
B
some young Upstart Rhimer in the Pit;
Should gain a Clap to dignifie his Verse,
Fit only to adorn a
Smithfield
Farce.
Then to some Brothel would I steer my Course,
Where Beauty needs no Flattery or Force:
But where a Golden Bribe will purchase Bliss,
And open all the Gates of Paradice.
Gold, whose prevailing Touch we daily see,
Will charm the Soul of the most Charming she,
Who when the pow'rful
Indian
God's in view,
Wil
sacrifice their All to Gold and you:
Thus would I conquer who I most admir'd;
Triumph o'er Beauty till my Loins were tir'd;
Wal
ow in Love, and by exerting much,
Work out the Dregs of the last Night's Debauch.
Re
resh my Limbs by a kind pleasing Sweat,
Better than with a Bagnio's painful Heat.
Thus should my
Chloe
double Kindness shew,
And be both Doxy and my Doctress too.
Supple my Joints at once, and cool my Flame,
And when I'd gratify'd the obliging Dame,
I'd leave her to the next Lewd Rake that came.
Then I'd repair to Queen
Fortuna
's Court,
Where Hawk-ey'd Bullies, and Rich Fools resort,
Where Wolves with Lambs, and Kites with Chickens play,
And Eagles do on Gaudy Peacocks prey.
Where many seek, but very few can find,
The fickle Dame they co
rt continue Kind;
Who, like a subtle Jilt, seems often vex'd;
And if she smile
one Minute, fro
s the next,
There with the fatal Instruments of Chance,
Hazard my Store in hopes to more advance.
Draw in Rich Bubbles, Cog, Lie, Flatter, Cheat,
And push at all to be Profusely Great.
With eager Hopes Blind Fortune thus pursue;
And win from Nobles what's their Tradesmen's Due.
But should the fickle Dame her Smiles refuse,
I'd damn the sullen Jilt that made me lose;
Confound the Tongue that taught me first to Game;
And curse th' uncertain Dice that crost my Aim.
For each at play this Privilege may take;
Winners may smile, and Losing Gamesters speak.
No sneaking Sum should my Ambition bound,
I'd be a
B—ch'r,
or my All con
ound;
Insinuate with my wealthy Lady's Son,
Cringe to the Fop, and cheat him when I'd done:
Drink with young Heirs, then draw them in to play,
Praise them for Wits, and on their Weakness prey;
For unexperienc'd Fools we dialy see,
Tho' ne'er so stubborn, bend to Flattery.
Should Hood-wink'd Chance, to gratifie my Pride,
Thus kindly place me on the winning side,
And guide the Dice with her prevailing Hand,
Till my extensive Wishes I had obtain'd;
Fortune would I adore, and only she,
For her past Favours should my Goddess be;
A Coach and Six I'd to her Glory raise,
And o'er the Stones would rattle forth her Praise;
Proud of my ill-got Wealth, with Scorn look ou
,
And laugh at Honest Fools that walk on Foot.
Contented to be poor for Conscience sake,
Whilst Libertines by Fraud their Fortunes make.
To thee, kind Chance that does allot the Prize,
Thou partial Goddess of the Cards and Dice;
I'd sacrifice from out the Numerous Swarm,
Some poor Levantine Bully every Term,
Till none should dare thy Altars to abuse,
And push at all who nothing have to lose;
But creep behind and with a Courtly Mein,
Turn humble Supplicants to those that win.
Then to advance my own immortal Fame,
And make distressed Punks adore my Name;
I'd build an Alms-House for each cast-off Whore,
And as I'd gull'd the Rich, I'd feed the Poor:
Bribe
Irish
Stallions with my
English
Gold,
To please the Lame, Blind, Ugly and the Old;
That those course Objects we despise, might share,
What's now engross'd by th' Youthful and the Fair;
Thus every Hump and Squinny should enjoy,
As much of Love as they could well employ,
With new found Acts of Charity, like these,
Ne'er yet perform'd, the Sinful World I'd please,
Till ev'ry ill-shap'd Dowdy shou'd confess,
To me alone she own'd her Happiness;
And say there goes the Man, G—d speed him well,
That sav'd our Souls from leading Apes in Hell;
Nay, Toothless Beldams wrinkl'd and defac'd,
Should mumble out their Blessings as I pass'd:
And cry all Honour be my Master's due,
Who feeds those Mouths that have no Teeth to chew,
This would I do, tho' by the Saints revil'd,
Where I as Rich as
D—b
or as
C—d.
Like Quality the
Sunday
would I spend,
And duly
Covent-Garden
Church attend;
Religion would I modishly profess,
By Seven rise, and take three Hours to dress;
Then in my Chariot rattle thro' the Street,
To Church, where Hypocrites in Clusters meet.
Amongst the list'ning Crowd I'd squeeze for Room,
And with my Snush the Sweaty Air perfume;
Till the Pew-Keeper, more for Gain than Grace,
Should wedge me into some Commodious Place;
Where I the Gaudy Christian Herd might view;
And to the Fair my own Deportment shew:
I'd pierce the Ladies with an amorous Eye,
But all their pious Looks and Cheats defie.
Take notice who was Fairest, or most Fine,
Who had the Blackest Hair, or Whitest Skin;
What Charming Phubsy had the Loveli'st Breast,
Who was the most Devout, and pray'd the best,
Who had the bri
kest Eye, and fullest Brow,
Denoting a good Furbulo below,
Who had an Awful Look, and Modest Grace,
And who a Lustful Air, and Tempting Face:
Thus as an Observator would I sit;
Inspect the Galleries first, and then the Pit:
And from the diff'rent Saints in sundry Pews;
At once learn how to Judge, and how to Chuse.
Perhaps behold some Lewd Notorious Punk,
That never prays but when she's Maudlin Drunk;
Pluck down her Hoods, kneel low amongst the rest,
And seem as quaint a Christian as the best;
Hold up her sinful Hands, respond as loud
As th' upright'st Saint in all the Holy Croud.
And when she's done, resume her matted place,
With Sin and Sorrow blushing in her Face,
Yet all pure Art, without one spark of Grace.
When Pray'r was o'er, with Patience would I sit,
And hear Old
Sternhold
Rhime to
David
's Wit.
But smile to see the Clark his Looks compose,
And saddle, with his Spectacles, his Nose;
Then coughing spit, and when his Lungs were calm,
Turn to his Book, and snuffle out a Psalm;
Wherein each Zealot fond of singing Praise,
Might squeak their Ekes, and grumble out their Ayes:
Over the doleful Song I'd yawn and gape,
What Christian could resolve against a Nap,
Or who forbear to dose at every Line,
That did not in the drowsie
Chorus
joyn?
My Head, I'm sure, their grave slow Time would keep,
For whilst they chanted, I should nod and sleep;
Like Gammer
Friskit
in her Wicker Chair,
Lull'd by,
Now ponder well you Parents dear.
Thus during Pray'rs the painful Hour I'd spend,
And small Attention to the Sermon lend;
But e'er 'twas well begun, still wish it at an End.
With Patience I would hear the Preacher throw
His Darts upon the sinful Croud below;
Observe his Knack, when prettily he talk'd,
How well he hem'd, how gracefully he haulk'd;
How mannerly he did his Nostrils blow,
And how he lugg'd the Cushion to and fro;
How earnestly sometimes his Words came out,
And how he thrash'd the Pope and Dev'l about.
When the last Sand of the long Hour had run,
And told old
Spintext
when 'twas time to've done,
I'd rise among the rest, and gaze around,
Till I some fam'd Intriguing Lady found.
Invited by her Eyes and some kind Smile,
As she walk'd out, I'd meet her in the Isle;
With Am'rous Whispers I'd her Ears approach,
Squeeze her soft Hand, conduct her to her Coach,
And lay the Ground-work of a new Debauch.
Then to some Rakish Friends my course I'd steer,
Strangers to Faith, and Enemies to Fear;
There Ridicule with them the Canting Priest,
And make Religion but our common Jest;
Raise up dead
Hobs
to justifie our Cause,
And overthrow Divine, by Nature's Laws;
Burlesque the Scriptures, and asperse the Creed,
Aw'd by no musty Rules; Love, Drink and Feed:
This is the happy Life we Modish Rakes would lead.
FINIS.
A Catalogue of Poems,
&c.
Printed and Sold by
H. Hills,
in
Black-Fryars,
near the
Water-side;
where several more may be had that are not here Inserted.
A Congratulatory Poem on Prince
George
of
Denmark,
&c. on the Success at Sea.
Marlborough
Still Conquers.
The Flight of the Pretender.
Honesty in Distress, a Tragedy.
The Kit-Cats a Poem,
&c.
Wine, a Poem,
&c.
Cyder, with the Splendid Shilling.
The Pleasures of a Single Life,
&c.
Faction Display'd.
Moderation Display'd.
The Duel of the Stags.
&c.
Coopers-Hill, by Sir
J. Denham.
An Essay on Poetry, by the Earl of
Murlgrave.
Absalom
and
Achitophel.
The Plague of
Athens.
A Satyr against Man and Woman.
The Forgiving Husband.
Instructions to
Vanderbank.
The Temple of Death.
An Essay on Translated Verse, by the Earl of
Roscomon.
Horace
: Or the Art of Poetry.
The History of Insipids.
The Swan-Trip-Club.
Lucretius
on Death,
&c.
The Medal against Sedition.
Bellizarius
a great Commander.
Daphnis,
or a Pastoral Elegy,
&c.
A Poem on the Countess of
Abingdan.
Nundinae Sturbrigiences.
Tunbrigialia.
An Ode on the Incarnation,
&c.
Hoglandiae Descriptio.
Milton
's Sublimity on Cyder.
Bosworth-feild,
by Sir
John Beaumount,
Bar.
Canary Birds Naturaliz'd.
Art of Poetry, by
Boilean.
Poems on the Death of the late Queen
Mary.
Baucis
and
Philemon,
&c.
Circus,
a Satyr: Or the Ring in
Hide Park.
St.
James
's
Park,
a Satyr.
The Spleen, a Pindarique Ode,
&c.
Philips
's Pastorals.
A Letter from
Italy,
to my Lord
Halifax,
with other Poems.
Blenheim,
a Poem, by
Phillips.
Mac Flecknoe,
by
J. Dryden; &c.
The Female Reign, an Ode,
A Poem on the Taking St.
Mary's.
Windsor Castle,
a Poem.
The Servitor, a Poem.
The Campaign, by Mr.
Addison.
The Counter-Scuffle, a Poem.
Don
Francisco Sutorioso.
Consolation to
Mira
mourning,
A Panegyrick on
Oliver Cromwel,
with three Poems on his Death.
A Poem in Defence of the Church of
England.
The Apparition, a Poem.
The
Hind
and
Panther
Transvers'd to the Story of the Country Mouse and City Mouse.
Dr.
Gath
's Dispensary.
Memoirs on
John Hall,
the Famous Robber,
&c.
Mr
Shaftoe
's Narrative giving an Account of the Birth of the Pretended Prince of
Wales,
&c.
The True-Born
Englishman.
The Husband, a Poem.
The Commoner, a Poem.
A Hymn to the Pillory.
The Rambling Fudle-Caps.
DFoe,
on the Storm.
The Wife, a Poem.
The Long Vacation.
COOPERS-HILL. A POEM, Written by the Honourable Sir
JOHN DENHAM,
Knight of the
Bath.
LONDON:
rinted and Sold by
H. Hills,
in
Black-Fryers,
near the Water-side, 1709.
TO THE KING.
SIR,
AFter the delivery of Your Royal Father's Person into the hands of the Army, I undertaking to the Queen Mother, that I would find some means to get access to him she was pleased to send me, and by the help of
Hugh Peters
I got my admittance, and coming well instructed from the Queen (his Majesty having been long kept in the dark) he was pleased to discourse very freely with me of the whole state of his Affairs: But, Sir, I will not launch into a History, instead of an Epistle. One morning waiting on him at
Causham,
smiling upon me, he said he could tell me some News of my self, which was, that he had seen some Verses of mine the Evening before (being those to Sir
Richard Fanshaw
) and asking me when I made them, I told him two or three years since; he was pleased to say, that having never seen them before, He was afraid I had written them since my return into
England,
and though he liked them well, He would advise me to write no more, alledging, that when men are young, and have little else to do, they might vent the overflowings of their Fancy that way; but when they were thought fit for more serious Employments, if they still persisted in that course, it would look as if they minded not the way to any better.
Whereupon I stood corrected as long as I had the honour to wait upon him, and at his departure from
Hampton Court,
he was pleased to command me to stay privately at
London,
to send to him and receive from him all his Letters from and to all his Correspondents at home and abroad, and I was furnish'd with nine several Cyphers in order to it: Which trust I performed with great safety, to the persons with whom we corresponded; but about nine months after being discovered by their knowledge of Mr.
Cowley's
Hand I happily escaped both for my self, and those that held correspondence with me; that time war too hot and busie for such idle speculations, but after I had the good fortune to wait upon Your Majesty in
Holland
and
France,
You were pleased sometimes to give me Arguments to divert and put off the evil hours of our Banishment, which now and then fell not short of Your Majesty's expectation.
After, when Your Majesty departing from St.
Germans
to
Jersy,
was pleased freely (without my asking) to confer upon me that place wherein I have now the honour to serve You, I then gave over Poetical Line, and made it my business to draw such others as might be more serviceable to Your Majesty, and I hope more la
ing Since that time I never disobeyed my old
aster's Commands till this
ummer at the We
s my Retirement the
te
pting me to divert those melancholy Thoughts, which the new Apperit
n
of Foreign Invasion, and Domestick Di
content gave us: But the
e Clouds being now happily blown over, and our Sun clearly shining out again, I have recovered the Relapse, i
being suspected that it would have proved th
Epidemical Disease of Age, which is apt to fall back into the Fo
es in You
h; yet
Socrates, Aristotle
and
Ca
o
did the same, and
Scaliger
saith that
ragment of
Aristotle
was bey
nd any thing that
Pindar
or
Homer
ever wrote I will not call this a Dedication, for those Epistles are commonly greater Absurdities than any that come after▪ For what Author c
n reasonably believe, th
t fixing the great Name of some eminent Patron in the Forehead of his Book can charm away Censure, and that the first Leaf should be a Curtain to draw over and hide all the deformities that stand behind it? Neither have I any need
f such sh
f
s, for most of the Parts of thi Body have already had your Majesty's View▪ and having past the Test of
cle
sharp sighted a Judgment, which has as good a Title to give Law in Matters of this Nature as in any other, they wh
shal
presume to dissent from Your Majesty, will do more wrong to their own Judgment, than their Judgment can do to me. And for those latter Parts which have not yet received your Majesty's favourable Aspect, if they who ha
e se
n them do not fl
tter me, (for I dare not trust my own Judgment) they will make it appear, that it is not with me as with most of Mankind, who never forsake their Darling Vices, till their Vices forsake them; and that this Divorce was not
Frigiditatis causâ,
but an Act of Choice, and not of Necessity. Ther
fore, Sir, I shall only call it an humbl
Petition, That Your Majesty will p
ease to pardon this new Amour to my old Mistress and my Disobedience to his Commands▪ to whose Memory I look upon with great Reverence and Devotion, and making a seriouus Reflection upon that wise Advice, it carries much greater weight with it now than wh
n it was given; f
r when Age and Experience has so ripened Man's Discre
ion as to make it fit for use, either in private or publick
Affairs, nothing blasts and cor
upts the Fruit of it so much as the empty, airy Reputation of being
nimis Poeta;
and therefore I shall take my leave of the Muses, as two of my Predecessors did, saying,
Splendidis longum vale dico nugis,
Hic versus & caesera ludiera pono.
Your Majesty's most faithful and loyal Subject, and most dutiful and devoted Servant, JO. DENHAM.
COOPERS-HILL.
SURE there are Poets which did never dream
Upon
Parnassus,
nor did taste the Stream
Of
Helicon
; we therefore may suppose
Those made not Poets, but the Poet those.
And as Courts make not Kings, but Kings the Court,
So where the Muses and their Train resort,
Parnassus
stands; if I can be to thee
A Poet, thou
Parnassus
art to me.
Nor wonder, if (advantag'd in my Flight,
By taking Wing from thy Auspicious Height)
Through untrac'd Ways, and airy Paths I fly,
More boundless in my Fancy than my Eye:
My Eye, which swift as Thought contracts the Space
That lies between, and first salutes the Place
Crown'd with that sacred Pile, so vast, so high,
That whether 'ts part of Earth, or Sky,
Uncertain seems, and may be thought a proud
Aspiring Mountain, or descending Cloud:
Paul
's the late Theme of such a Muse whose Flight
M. W.
His bravely reach'd and soar'd above thy Height;
Now shalt thou stand, though Sword, or Time, or Fire,
Or Zeal more fierce than they, thy Fall conspire,
Secure, whilst thee the best of Poets sings,
Preserv'd from Ruin by the best of Kings.
Under his proud survey the City lies,
And like a mist beneath a Hill doth rise;
Whose state and wealth the business and the Crowd,
Seems at this distance but a darker Cloud:
And is to him who rightly things esteems,
No other in effect than what it seems;
Where, with like haste, tho' several ways, they run,
Some to undo, and some to be undone;
While Luxury and Wealth, like War and Peace,
Are each the others ruine, and increase;
As Rivers Lost in Seas some secret Vein
Thence re-conveys there to be lost again.
O happiness of sweet retir'd content!
To be at once secure, and innocent.
Windsor
the next (where
Mars
with
Venus
dwells,
Windsor
Beauty with strength) above the Vally swells.
Into my eye, and doth it self present
With such an easie and unforc't ascent,
That no stupendious precipice denies
Access, no horror turns away our eyes:
But such a Rise as doth at once invite
A pleasure and a reverence from the sight.
Thy mighty Master's Emblem, in whose Face
State Meekness, heightned with Majestick Grace;
Such seems the gentle Height, made only proud
To he the Basis of that pompous load,
Than which, a nobler weight no Mountain bears,
But
Atlas
only that supports the Sphears.
When Nature's hand this ground did thus advance,
'Twas guided by a wiser power than Chance;
Mark'd out for such a use. as if 'twere meant
T' invite the Builder, and his choice prevent.
Nor can we call it choice, when what we chuse,
Folly, or Blindness only could refuse.
A Crown of such Majestick Tow'rs doth grace
The God's great Mother, when her heavenly race
Do homage to her, yet she cannot boast
Amongst that numerous, and Celestial Host;
More
Hero's
than can
Windsor,
nor doth Fame's
Immortal Book record more noble Names.
Not to look back so far, to whom this Isle
Owes the first Glory of so brave a Pile,
Whether to
Caesar, Albanact,
or
Brute,
The British
Arthur,
or the Danish
Knute,
(Though this of old no less contest did move,
Than when for
Homer
's Birth seven Cities strove)
Like him in Birth, thou shoul'dst be like in Fame,
(As thine his Fate, if mine had been his Flame)
But whosoe'er it was, Nature design'd
First a brave place, and then as brave a mind.
Not to recount those several Kings, to whom
It gave a Cradle, or to whom a Tomb,
But the (great
Edward
Third, and the
Black Prince.
Edward
) and thy greater Son,
(The Lillies which his Father wore, he won)
And thy
Queen
Philipa.
Bellona,
who the Consert came
Not only to thy Bed, but to thy Fame,
The Kings of
France
and
Scotland.
She to the Triumph led one Captive King,
And brought that Son, which did the second bring
Then didst thou found that Order (whether Love
Or Victory thy Royal Thoughts did move)
Each was a Noble Cause, and nothing less
Than the Design, has been the great Success:
Which Foreign Kings and Emperors esteem
The second Honour to their Diadem.
Had thy great Destiny but giv'n the Skill,
To know, as well as Power to act her Will,
That from those Kings, who then thy Captives were,
In After-time should spring a Royal Pair,
Who should possess all that thy mighty Power,
Or thy Desires more mighty, did devour;
To whom their better Fate reserves whate'er
The Victor hopes for▪ or the Vanquish'd fear;
That Blood, which thou and thy Great Gransire shed,
And all that since these Sister Nations bled,
Had been unspilt, had happy Edward known
That all the Blood he spilt, had been his own.
When he that Patron chose, in whom are injoy'd
Souldier and Martyr, and his Arm's confin'd
Within the Azure Circle, he did seem
But to foretel and prophesie of him,
Who to his Realms that Azure Roun hath joyn'd,
Which Nature for their Bound at first design'd.
That Boun
, which to the World's extreamest ends,
End
it self,
s Liquid Arms extends;
Nor doth he need those Emblems which we Paint,
But is himself the Souldier and the Saint.
Here should my Wonder dwell, and here my Praise,
But my fixt Thoughts my wandring Eye betrays;
Viewing a Neighbouring Hill, whose Top of late
A Chappel crown'd, till in the common Fate,
The adjoyding Abbey fell: (May no such Storm
Fall on our Times, where Ruin must reform.)
Tell me (my Muse) what monstrous dire Offence,
What Crime could any Christian King incense
To such a Rage? Was't Luxury, or Lust?
Was he so Temperate, so Chaste, so Just?
Were these their Crimes? They were his own much more:
But Wealth is Crime enough to him that's poor;
Who having spent the Treasures of his Crown,
Condemns their Luxury to feed his own.
And yet this Act, to varnish o'er the Shame
Of Sacriledge, must bear Devotion's Name.
No Crime so bold, but would be understood
A real, or at least a seeming good;
Who fears not to do ill, yet fears the Name,
And free from Conscience is a Slave to Fame.
Thus he the Church at once protects, and spoils:
But Princes Swords are sharper than their stiles.
And thus to th'Ages past he makes amends,
Their Charity destroys, their Faith defends.
Then did Religion in a lazy Cell,
In empty, airy Contemplations dwell;
And like the Block, unmoved lay: but ours,
As much to active, like the Stork devours.
Is there no temperate Region can be known,
Betwixt their Frigid, and our Torrid Zone?
Could we not wake from that Lethargick Dream,
But to be restless in a worse Extream?
And for that Lethargy was there no Cure,
But to be cast into a Calenture?
Can knowledge have no bound, but must advance
So far, to make us wish for ignorance?
And rather in the dark to grope our way,
Than led by a false Guide to erre by day?
Who sees these dismal Heaps, but would demand
What barbarous Invader sack'd the Land?
But when he hears, no Goth, no Turk did bring.
This desolation, but a Christian King;
When nothing, but the Name of Zeal, appears
'Twixt our best actions, and the worst of theirs,
What does he think our Sacrilege would spare,
When such th' effects of our Devotion are?
Parting from thence 'twixt anger shame and fear,
Those for what's past, and this for what's too near:
My eye descending from the Hill, surveys
Where
Thames
amongst the wanton Vallies strays.
Thames,
the most lov'd of all the Ocean Sons,
Thames.
By his old Sire to his embraces runs,
Hasting to pay his tribute to the Sea,
Like mortal life to meet Eternity.
Though with those streams he no resemblance hold,
Whose foam is Amber, and their Gravel Gold;
His genuine, and less guilty wealth t' explore,
Search not his bottom, but survey his shore;
O're which he kindly spreads his spacious wing:
And hatches plenty for th' ensuing Spring.
Nor then destroys it with too fond a stay,
Like Mothers which their Infants overlay:
Nor with a sudden and impetuous wave,
Like profuse Kings, resums the wealth he gave
No unexpected inundations spoil
The Mowers hopes, nor mock the Plowmans toyl:
But Godlike his unwearied Bounty flows;
First loves to do, than loves the Good he does:
Nor are his Blessings to his banks confin'd,
But free, and common, as the Sea or Wind;
When he to boast or to disperse his stores
Full of the tributes of his grateful shores,
Visits the World, and in his flying towers
Brings home to us, and makes both
Indies
ours;
Finds wealth where 'tis, bestows it where it wants,
Cities in desarts, Woods in Cities plants.
So that to us no thing, no place is strange,
While his fair bosom is the World's exchange.
O could I flow like thee, and make thy stream
My great example, as it is my theme!
Though deep, yet clear, though gentle, yet not dull,
Strong without rage, without o're-flowing full.
Heaven her
Eridanus
no more shall boast,
Whose Fame in thine, like lesser Currents lost;
Thy nobler Streams shall visit
Jove
's Aboads,
To shine among the Stars, and bathe the Gods:
Here Nature,
The Forrest
whether more intent to please
Us, or her self with strange Varieties;
(For Things of Wonder give no less Delight
To the wise Makers, than Beholder's Sight.
Though these Delights from several Causes wove,
For so our Children, thus our Friends we love)
Wisely she knew the Harmony of Things,
As well as that of Sounds, from Discords springs.
Such was the Discord, which did first disperse
Form, Order, Beauty, through the Universe;
While Driness, Moisture, Coldness, Heat resists,
All that we have, and that we have subsists.
While the steep horrid Roughness of the Wood
Strive with the gentle Calmness of the Flood.
Such huge Extreams when Nature doth unite,
Wonder from thence results, from thence Delight;
The Stream is so transparent, pure and clear,
Narcissus.
That had the self-enamour'd Youth gaz'd here,
So fatally deceiv'd he had not been,
While he the Bottom, not his Face had seen.
But his proud Head the airy Mountain hides
Among the Clouds; his Shoulders, and his Sides
A shady Mantle clothes; his curled Brows
Frown on the gentle Stream, which calmly flows,
While Winds and Storms his lofty Forehead beat
The common Fate of all that's High or Great.
Low at his Foot a spacious Plain is plac'd,
Between the Mountain and the Stream embrac'd:
Which Shade and Shelter from the Hill derives,
While the kind River, Wealth and Beauty gives;
And in the mixture of all these appears
Variety, which all the rest indears.
This Scene, had some bold
Greek,
or
British
Bard
eheld of old, what Stories had we heard
Of Fairies, Satyrs, and the Nymphs, their Dames,
Their Feasts, their Revels, and their Amorous Flames?
Tis still the same, altho' their airy Shape,
All but a quick Poetick Sight escape.
There
Faunus
and
Silvanus
keep their Courts,
nd thither all the horned Hoast resorts,
To graze the ranker Mead, that noble Heard
On whose sublime and shady Fronts is rear'd
Nature's great Master-Piece; to shew how soon
Great things are made, but sooner are undone.
Here have I seen the King, when great Affairs
ave leave to slacken, and unbend his Cares,
ttended to the Chase by all the Flower
Of Youth, whose Hopes a nobler Prey devour:
leasure with Praise, and Danger, they would buy,
nd wish a Foe that would not only fly.
The Stag now conscious of his fatal Growth,
t once indulgent to his Fear and Sloth,
To some dark Covert his Retreat had made,
Where no Man's Eye, nor Heaven's should invade
's soft Repose; when th' unexpected Sound
f Dogs and Men, his wakeful Ear doth wound:
ouz'd with the Noise, he scarce believes his Ear;
illing to think th' Illusions of his Fear
given this false Alarm, but strait his View
onfirms, that more than all he fears is true:
Betray'd in all his Strengths, the Wood beset,
All Instruments, all Arts of Ruine met
He calls to mind his Strength, and then his Speed,
His winged Heels, and then his Armed Head;
With these t' avoid, with that his Fate to meet:
But fear prevails, and bids him trust his Feet.
So fast he flies, that his reviewing eye
Has lost the Chasers, and his ear the Cry:
Exulting, till he finds, their Nobler Sense
Their disproportion'd Speed does recompense.
Then curses his conspiring Feet, who scent
Betrays that safety, which their swiftness lent.
Then tries his Friends, among the baser heard,
Where he so lately was obey'd, and fear'd,
His safety seeks: the Herd, unkindly wise,
Or Chases him from thence, or from him flies.
Like a declining Statesman, left forlorn
To his Friends pity, and Pursuers scorn;
With shame remembers, while himself was one
Of the same Herd, himself the same had done.
Thence to the Coverts, and the conscious Groves,
The Scenes of his past Triumphs, and his Loves;
Sadly surveying where he rang'd alone
Prince of the Soil, and all the Herd his own;
And like a bold Knight Errant did proclaim
Combat to all, and bore away the Dame;
And taught the Woods to Echo to the Stream
His dreadful Challenge, and his clashing Beam:
Yet fairly now declines the fatal strife;
So much his Love was dearer than his Life.
Now every Leaf, and every moving Breath
Presents a Foe, and every Foe a Death.
Wearied, forsaken, and pursu'd, at last
All safety in despair of safety plac'd,
Courage he thence resumes, resolv'd to bear
All their Assaults, since 'tis in vain to fear.
And now too late he wishes for the fight,
That strength he wasted in ignoble flight:
But when he sees the eager Chase renew'd
Himself by Dogs, the Dogs by Men pursu'd:
He strait revokes his bold resolve, and more
Repents his courage, than his fear before;
Finds that uncertain ways unsafest are,
And Doubt a greater mischief than Despair.
Then to the Stream, when neither Friends, nor Force,
Nor speed, nor Art avail, he shaps his course;
Thinks not their rage so desperate t' assay
An Element more merciless than they.
But fearless they pursue, nor can the Flood
Quench their dire Thirst; alas, they thirst for Blood.
So toward a Ship the oarefin'd Gallies ply,
Which wanting Sea to ride, or Wind to fly,
Stands but to fall reveng'd on those that dare
Tempt the last fury of extream Despair.
So fares the Stag among the enrag'd Hounds,
Repels their force, and wounds returns for wounds
And as a Hero, whom his baser Foes
In Troops surrounds, now these assails, now those,
Though Prodigal of Life, disdains to dye
By common hands; but if he can descry
Some nobler Foes approach, to him he calls,
And begs his Fate, and then contented falls.
So when the King a mortal Shaft lets flye
From his unerring hand, then glad to dye,
Proud of the wound, to it resigns his Blood,
And stains the Crystal with a purple Flood.
This a more innocent and happy Chase,
Than when of old, but in the self-same place,
Runny Mead, where that Great Charter was first sealed.
Fair Liberty pursu'd, and meant a Prey
To lawless power, here turn'd, and stood at Bay.
When in that Remedy all hope was plac'd,
Which was, or should have been at least, the last.
Here was that Charter seal'd, wherein the
Magna Charta.
Crown
All marks of Arbitrary Power lays down:
Tyrant and Slave, those Names of hate and fear,
The happier Style of King and Subject bear:
Happy when both to the same Center move,
When Kings give Liberty, and Subjects Love.
Therefore not long in Force this Charter stood;
Wanting that Seal, it must be seal'd in Blood.
The Subjects arm'd, the more their Princes gave,
Th' advantage only took the more to crave.
Till King's by giving, gave themselves away,
And even that Power that should deny, betray.
"Who gives constrain'd, but his own Fear reviles,
"Not thank'd, but scorn'd; nor are thy Gifts, but Spoils.
Thus Kings, by grasping more than they could hold,
First made their Subjects by Oppression bold:
And popular Sway, by forcing Kings to give
More than was fit for Subjects to receive,
Ran to the same Extreams; and one Excess
Made both, by striving to be greater, less.
When a calm River rais'd with sudden Rains,
Or Snows dissolv'd▪ o'erflows the adjoyning Plains,
The Husbandmen with high-rais'd Banks secure
Their greedy Hopes, and this he can endure;
But if with Bays and Dams, they strive to force
His Chanel to a new or narrow Course;
No longer then within his Banks he dwells,
First to a Torrent, then a Deluge swells:
Stronger and Fiercer! by Restraint he roars,
And knows no Bound, but makes his Powers his Shores.
FINIS.
THE DUEL OF THE STAGS, A POEM, Written by the Honourable Sir
ROBERT HOWARD.
Together with An EPISTLE TO THE AUTHOR, By Mr.
John Dryden.
LONDON: Printed and Sold by
H. Hills,
in
Blackfryars,
near the Water-side. 1709.
THE DUEL of the STAGS.
IN
Windsor
Forest, before War destroy'd
The harmless Pleasures which soft Peace enjoy'd;
mighty Stag grew Monarch of the Herd,
y all his Savage Slaves obey'd, and fear'd:
nd while the Troops about their Sovereign fed,
hey watch'd the awful nodding of his Head.
till as he passeth by, they all remove,
roud in Dominion, Prouder in his Love:
And while with Pride and Appetite he swells;)
e courts no chosen Object, but compels:
o Subject his lov'd Mistress dares deny,
ut yields his hopes up to his Tyranny.
Long had this Prince imperiously thus sway'd,
y no set Laws, but by his Will obey'd,
is fearful Slaves, to full Obedience grown,
dmire his strength, and dare not use their own.
One Subject most did his suspicion move,
hat show'd least Fear and counterfeited Love:
the best Pastures by his side he fed,
rm'd with two large Militia's on his head:
As if he practis'd Majesty he walk'd,
And at his Nod, he made not hast, but stalk'd.
By his large shade, he saw how great he was,
And his vast Layers on the bended Grass.
His thought as large as his proportion grew,
And judg'd himself as fit for Empire too.
Thus to Rebellious hopes he swell'd at length,
Love and Ambition growing with his strength.
This hid Ambition his bold Passion shows,
And from a Subject to a Rival grows.
Sollicites all his Princes fearful Dames,
And in his fight Courts with rebellious flames.
The Prince sees this with an inflamed Eye,
But looks are only signs of Majesty:
When once a Prince's Will meets a restraint,
His Power is then esteem'd but his Complaint.
His Head then shakes, at which the affrighted Herd
Start to each side; his Rival not afear'd,
Stands by his Mistress side, and stirs not thence,
But bids her own his Love, and his Defence,
The Quarrel now to a vast height is grown,
Both urg'd to fight by Passion and a Throne;
But Love has most excuse; for all, we find,
Have Passions, tho' not Thrones alike assign'd.
The Sovereign Stag shaking his loaded head,
On which his
Scepters
with his
Arms
were spread,
Wisely by Nature, there together fix'd,
Where with the Tittle, the Defence was mixt.
The pace which he advanc'd with to engage,
Became at once his Majesty, and Rage:
'Tother stands still with as much confidence,
To make his part seem only his defence.
Their heads now meet, and at one blow each strikes
As many strokes, as if a Rank of Pikes
Grew on his brows, as thick their Antlets stand,
Which every Year kind Nature does disband.
Wild Beasts sometimes in peace and quiet are,
But Man no season frees from Love or War.
VVith equal strength they met, as if two Oaks
Had fell, and mingled with a thousand strokes.
One by ambition urg'd, t'other disdain,
One to preserve, the other fought to Gain:
The Subjects and the Mistresses stood by,
VVith Love and Duty to crown Victory:
For all Affections wait on prosperous Fame,
Not he that climbs, but he that falls, meet shame.
VVhile thus with equal Courages they meet,
The wounded Earth yields to their strugling Feet;
And while one slides, t'other pursues the Fight,
And thinks that forc't Retreat looks like a Flight:
But then asham'd of his Retreat, at length
Drives his Foe back, his Rage renews his strength.
As even weights into a motion thrown,
By equal turns, drive themselves up and down;
So sometimes one, then 'tother Stag prevails,
And Victory yet doubtful, holds the Scales.
The Prince asham'd to be oppos'd so long,
VVith all his strength united rushes on;
The Rebel weaker, than at first appears,
And from his Courage sinks unto his Fears.
Not able longer to withstand his might,
From a Retreat, at last steals to a Flight.
The mighty Stag pursues his flying Foe,
Till his own Pride of Conquest made him slow;
Thought it enough to scorn a thing that flies,
And only now pursu'd him with his Eyes.
The vanquish'd as he fled turn'd back his fight,
Asham'd to flie, and yet afraid to fight:
Sometimes his wounds, as his excuse survey'd,
Then fled again, and then look'd back and stay'd:
Blush't that his wounds so slight should not deny
Strength for a fight, that left him strength to flie.
Calls thoughts of Love and Empire to his Aid,
But fears more powerful than all those persuade,
And yet in spight of them retains his shame,
His cool'd ambition, and his half-quench'd flame,
There's none from their own sense of shame can flie,
And dregs of Passions dwell with misery.
Now to the shades he bends his feeble course,
Despis'd by those that once admir'd his force:
The VVretch that to a scorn'd Condition's thrown,
VVith the VVorld's Favour, loses too his own.
VVhile fawning Troops their Conquering Prince enclos'd,
Now render'd absolute by being oppo
'd;
Princes by Disobedience get Command,
And by new quench'd Rebellions firmer stand
Till by the boundless offers of success,
They meet their Fate in ill-us'd happiness.
The vanquish'd Stag to thickest shades repairs,
VVhere he finds safety punish't with his Cares;
Thorough the VVoods he rushes not, but glides,
And from all searches but his own he hides;
Asham'd to live, unwilling yet to lose
That wretched life he knew not how to use.
In this Retirement thus he liv'd conceal'd,
Till with his wounds his fears were almost heal'd;
His ancient Passions now began to move,
He thought again of Empire and of Love:
Then rouz'd himself and stretch'd at his full length,
Took the large measure of his mighty strength;
Then shook his loaded Head; the shadow too,
Shook like a tree, where leaveless Branches grew:
Stooping to drink, he sees it in the Streams,
And in the Woods hears clashing of his Beams;
No Accident but does alike proclaim
His growing strength, and his encreasing shame.
Now once again, resolves to try his Fate,
for Envy always is importunate;)
And in the mind perpetually does move,
A fit Companion for unquiet Love.
He thinks upon his mighty Enemy,
Circl'd about with Pow'r and Luxury.
And hop'd his strength might sink in his desires,
Remembring he had wasted in such Fires.
Yet while he hop'd by them to overcome,
He wish'd the others fatal joys his own.
Thus the unquiet Beast in fasety lay,
VVhere nothing was to fear, nor to obey;
Where he alone commanded, and was Lord
Of every Bounty Nature did afford,
Chose Feasts for every Arbitrary Sense,
An Empire in the state of Innocence.
But all the Feasts Nature before him plac't,
Had but faint relishes to his lost taste,
Sick Minds, like Bodies in a Fever spent,
Turn Food to the Disease, not nourishment.
Sometimes he stole abroad, and shrinking stood,
Under the shelter of the friendly Wood;
Casting his envious Eyes towards those Plains
Where with crown'd joys, his mighty Rival Reigns.
He saw th' obeying Herd marching along,
And weigh'd his Rival's Greatness by the Throng.
Want takes false Measures, both of Power and Joys,
And envy'd Greatness is but Crowd, and Noise.
Not able to endure this hated sight,
Back to the Shades he flies to seek out Nigt.
Like exiles from their native Soils, though sent
To better Countries, think it Banishment.
Here he enjoy'd what t'other could have there,
The woods are shady, and the streams as clear,
The Pastures more untainted where he fed,
And every Night chose out an unprest Bed.
But then his lab'ring Soul with Dreams was prest,
And found the greatest weariness in rest;
His dreadful Rival in his sleep appears,
And in his Dreams again, he fights and fears:
Shrinks at the strokes of t'others mighty Head,
Feels every wound, and dreams how fast he fled.
At this he wakes, and with his fearful Eyes,
Salutes the light that fleet the
Eastern
Skies,
Still half amaz'd, looks round, and held by fear,
Scarce can believe no Enemy was near.
But when he saw his heedless fears were brought
Not by a Substance, but a drowsie Thought.
His ample sides he shakes, from whence the dew
In scatter'd Showers like driven Tempests flew,
At which, through all his breast new boldness spread,
And with his Courage rais'd his mighty head.
Then by his Love inspir'd, resolves to try
The Combat now, and overcome, or die.
Every weak Passion sometimes is above
The fear of death, much more the noblest love.
By hope 'tis scorn'd, and by despair 'tis sought,
Pursu'd by Honour, and by Sorrow brought.
Resolv'd the paths of danger now to tread,
From his scorn'd shelter, and his fears he fled.
VVith a brave hast now seeks a second Fight,
Redeems the base one by a Noble Flight.
In the mean time, the Conqueror enjoy'd
That Power by which he was to be destroy'd.
How hard 'tis for the Prosperous to see,
That fate which waits on Power, and Victory.
Thus he secuerly Reign'd, when in a Rout
He saw th' affrighted Herd flying about;
As if some Huntsmen did their Chase pursue,
About themselves in scatter'd Rings they flew,
He like a careful Monarch rais'd his Head,
To see what cause that strange disturbance bread.
But when the searcht-out Cause appear'd no more,
Than from a Slave, he had o'ercome before,
A bold disdain did in his looks appear,
And shook his aweful Head to chide their Fear.
The Herd afraid of Friend and Enemy,
Shrink from the one, and from the other fly;
They scarce know which they should Obey, or Trust,
Since Fortune only makes it Safe and Just.
Yet in despight of all his Pride, he staid,
And this unlook't for Chance with trouble weigh'd,
His Rage, and his Contempt alike, swell'd high,
And only fear'd his Enemy should fly;
He thought of former Conquest, and from thence
Cozen'd himself into a Confidence.
T'other that saw his Conquerer so near,
Stood still and list'ned to a whisp'ring fear;
From whence she heard his Conquest and his Shame.
But new-born Hopes his ancient Fears o'recame.
The mighty Enemies now meet at length,
VVith equal Fury, though not equal Strength
For now, too late the Conquerer did find,
That all was wasted in him but his Mind.
His Courage in his VVeakness yet prevails.
As a bold Pilot steers with tatter'd Sails,
And Cordage crackt, directs no steddy Course,
Carry'd by Resolution, more than Force.
Before his once scorn'd Enemy he reels,
His wounds encreasing with his shame, he feels
The others strength more from his weakness grows,
And with one furious push, his Rival throws.
So a tall Oak, the Pride of all the VVood,
That long th'assault of several storms hath stood,
Till by a mighty blast more pow'rfully push't,
His Roots torn up, and to the Earth he rusht.
Yet then he rais'd his Head, on which there grew,
Once, all his Power and all his Title too;
Unable now to rise, and less to fight,
He rais'd those Scepters to demand his Right.
But such weak Arguments prevail with none,
To plead their Titles, when their Power is gone.
His Head now sinks, and with it all defence,
Not only robb'd of Power but Pretence.
Wounds upon wounds, the Conqueror still gives.
And thinks himself unsafe, while t'other lives:
Unhappy State of such as wear a Crown,
Fortune does seldom lay'em gently down.
Now to the most scorn'd Remedy he flies,
And for some Pity seems to move his Eyes,
Pity, by which the best of Vertu's try'd,
To wretched Princes ever is deny'd,
There is a Debt to Fortune, which they pay
For all their Greatness, by no common way.
The flatt'ring Troops unto the Victor fly,
And own his Title to his Victory;
The Faith of most, with Fortune does decline,
Duty's but Fear, and Conscience but Design.
The Victor now, proud in his great success,
Hastes to enjoy his fatal happiness;
Forgot his mighty Rival was destroy'd
But that, which he so fondly now enjoy'd.
In Passions, thus Nature her self enjoys,
Sometimes preserves, and then again destroys;
Yet all Destruction which Revenge can move,
Time or Ambition, is supply'd by Love.
To my Honoured Friend Sir
ROBERT HOWARD,
On his Excellent Poem.
By Mr.
John Dryden.
AS there is Musick uniform'd by Art
In those wild Notes, which with a Merry heart
The Birds in unfrequented Shades express,
VVho better taught at home, yet please us less:
So in your Verse, a Native sweetness dwells,
VVhich shames Composure, and its Art excels.
Singing no more can your soft numbers grace,
Than Paint adds Charms unto a beauteous face.
Yet as when mighty Rivers gently creep,
Their even Calmness does suppose them deep;
Such is your Muse: No Metaphor swell'd high
VVith dangerous boldness lifts her to the Sky;
Those mounting Fancies, when they fall again,
Shew Sand and Dirt at bottom do remain.
So firm a Strength, and yet withal so sweet,
Did never but in
Sampson's
Riddle meet.
'Tis strange each Line so great a weight should bear,
And yet no sign of Toil, no Sweat appear.
Either your Art hides Art, as
Stoicks
feign
Then least to feel, when most they suffer pain;
And we, dull Souls admire, but cannot see
What hidden Springs within the Engine be:
Or, 'tis some happiness that still pursues
Each Act and Motion of your graceful Muse.
Or is it Fortune's Work, that in your Head
The Curious
Rete mirabile.
Net that is for Fancies spread,
Lets through its Meshes every meaner thought,
While rich
Idea
's there are only caught.
Sure that's not all; this is a piece too fair,
To be the Child of Chance, and not of Care.
No Atums casually together hurl'd
Could e'r produce so beautiful a VVorld.
Nor dare I such a Doctrine here admit,
As would destroy the Providence of wit,
Tis your strong
Genius
then which does not feel
Those weights would make a weaker Spirit reel.
To carry weight, and run so lightly too,
Is what alone you
Pegasus
can do.
Great
Hercules
himself could ne'er do more,
Than not to feel those Heav'ns and Gods he bore.
Your easier Odes, which for delight were penn'd,
Yet our Instruction make their second End:
VVere both enrich'd and pleas'd like them that wooe,
At once a Beauty, and a Fortune too.
Of Moral Knowledge Poesy was Queen,
And still she might, had wanton wits not been;
VVo like ill Guardians liv'd themselves at large,
And not content with that, debauch'd their Charge:
Like some brave Captain, your successful Pen
Restores the Exil'd to her Crown again;
And gives us hope that having seen the Days
VVhen nothing flourish'd but Phanatick Bays,
All will at length in this Opinion rest,
A Sober Prince's Government is best.
This is not all, your Art the way has found
To make Improvement of the richest Ground,
That Soil which those Immortal Laurels bore,
That once the sacred
Maro
's Temples wore.
Elisa
's Griefs are so exprest by you,
They are too Eloquent to have been true.
Had she so spoke,
Aeneas
had obey'd
VVhat
Dido,
rather than what
Jove
had said.
If Funeral Rites can give a Ghost repose,
Your Muse so justly has discharged those,
Elisa
's Shade, may now its wandring cease,
And claim a Title to the Fields of Peace.
But if
Aeneas
be oblig'd no less
Youd Kindness great
Achilles
doth confess;
VVho dress'd by
Statius
in so bold a look,
Did ill become those Virgin Robes he took.
To understand how much we owe to you,
VVe must your Numbers with your Author's view;
Then we shall see his work was lamely rough,
Each Figure stiff, as if design'd in Buff;
His Colours laid so thick on every place,
As only shew'd the Paint, but hid the Face.
But as in Perspective we beauties see,
VVhich in the Glass, not in the Picture be;
So here our Sight obligingly mistakes
That wealth which his your bounty only makes.
Thus vulgar Dishes are by Cooks disguis'd,
More for their dressing than their substance priz'd.
Your curious
Annotations on
Statius.
Notes to search into that Age,
VVhen all was Fable but the sacred Page,
That since in that dark Night we needs must stray,
VVe are at least Misled in pleasant way.
But what we must admire your Verse no less
The Prophet than the Poet doth confess.
E're our weak Eyes discern'd the doubtful streak
Of Light, you saw Great
Charles
his Morning break
So skilful Seamen ken the Land from far,
VVhich shews like Mists to the dull Passenger.
To
Charles
your Muse first pays her Dutious Love,
As still the Antients did begin from
Jove.
VVith
Monck
you end whose Name preserv'd shall be
As
Rome
Recorded
Hic situs est
Rufus,
qui pulso vindice quendam
Imperium asseruit non sibi sed Patriae.
Rufus
Memory.
VVho thought it greater Honour to obey
His Countrys Interest, than the world to sway.
But to write worthy things of worthy Men,
Is the peculiar talent of your Pen:
Yet let me take your Mantle up, and I
VVill venture in your Right to Prophesie.
"This work by Merit first of Fame secure,
"Is likewise happy in its Geniture:
"For since 'tis born, when
Charles
ascends the Throne,
"It shares at once, his Fortune and his own.
FROM THE Greek of
MEN AGE.
WHen thro' the Streets the
Paphian
Goddess run,
And
cry'd
the Fugitive her darling Son;
A
Kiss
was the Reward to be bestow'd,
More sweet than
Nector,
or
Ambrosial
Food.
Your Son, the Fugitive you seek is here,
Within my Breast is hid the Wanderer:
Give me kind
Goddess,
give the
charming kiss,
Or bid fair
Celia,
and improve the Bliss.
FINIS.
CYDER. A POEM. In TWO BOOKS.
—Honos erit huic quo
que
Pomo?
Virg.
WITH THE SPLENDID SHILLING; PARADISE LOST, And Two SONGS,
&c.
LONDON:
inted and Sold by
H. Hills,
in
Black-Fryars,
near the Water-side. 1709.
CYDER.
BOOK
I.
WHAT Soil the Apple loves, what Care is due
To Orchats, timeliest when to press the Fruit
Thy Gift,
Pomona,
in
Miltonian
Verse
Adventrous I presume to sing; of Verse
Nor skill'd, nor studious: But my Native Soil
Invites me, and the Theme as yet unsung.
Ye
Ariconian
Knights, and fairest Dames,
To whom propitious Heav'n these Blessings grants,
Attend my Layes; nor hence disdain to learn,
How Nature's Gifts may be improv'd by Art.
And thou, O
Mostyn,
whose Benevolence,
And Candor oft experienc'd, Me vouchsaf'd
To knit in Friendship, growing still with Years,
Accept this Pledge of Gratitude and Love.
May it a lasting Monument remain
Of dear Respect; that, when this Body frail
Is moulder'd into Dust, and I become
As I had never been, late Times may know
I once was blest in such a matchless Friend.
Who-e'er expects his lab'ring Trees shou'd bend
With Fruitage, and a kindly Harvest yield,
Be this his first Concern; to find a Tract
Impervious to the Winds, begirt with Hills,
That intercept the
Hyperborean
Blasts
Tempestuous, and cold
Eurus
nipping-Force,
Noxious to feeble Buds: But to the West
Lest him free Entrance grant, let
Zephyrs
bland
Administer their tepid genial Airs;
Naught fear he from the West, whose gentle Warmth
Discloses well the Earth's all-teeming Womb,
Invigorating tender Seeds; whose Breath
Nurtures the
Orange,
and the
Citron
Groves,
Hesperian
Fruits, and wafts their Odours sweet
Wide thro' the Air, and distant Shores perfumes.
Nor only do the Hills exclude the Winds:
But, when the blackning Clouds in sprinkling Show'rs
Distill, from the high Summits down the Rain
Runs trickling; with the fertile Moisture chear'd,
The Orchats smile; joyous the Farmers see
Their thriving Plants, and bless the heav'nly Dew.
Next, let the Planter, with Discretion meet,
The Force and Genius of each Soil explore;
To what adapted, what it shuns averse:
Without this necessary Care, in vain
He hopes an Apple-Vintage, and Invokes
Pomona
's Aid in vain. The miry Fields,
Rejoycing in rich Mold, most ample Fruit
Of beauteous Form produce; pleasing to Sight,
But to the Tongue inelegant and flat.
So Nature has decreed; so, oft we see
Men passing fair, in outward Lineaments
Elaborate; less, inwardly, exact.
Nor from the sable Ground expect Success,
Nor from cretaceous, stubborn and jejune:
The Must, of pallid Hue, declares the Soil
Devoid of Spirit; wretched He, that quaffs
Such wheyish Liquors; oft with Colic Pangs,
With pungent Colic Pangs distress'd, he'll roar,
And toss, and turn, and curse th' unwholsome Draught▪
But, Farmer, look, where full-ear'd Sheaves of Rye
Grow wavy on the Tilth, that Soil select
For Apples; thence thy Industry shall gain
Ten-fold Reward; thy Garners, thence with Store
Surcharg'd, shall burst; thy Press with purest Juice
Shall flow, which, in revolving Years, may try
Thy feeble Feet, and bind thy fault'ring Tongue.
Such is the
Kent-church,
such
Dantzeyan
Ground,
Such Thine, O learned
Brome,
and
Capel
such,
Willisian Burlton,
much-lov'd
Geers
his
Marsh,
And
Sutton
Acres, drench'd with Regal Blood
Of
Ethelbert,
when to th'unhallow'd Feast
Of
Mercian Offa
he invited came,
To treat of Spousals: Long connubial Joys
He promis'd to himself, allur'd by Fair
Elfrida
's Beauty, but deluded dy'd
In height of Hopes—Oh! hardest Fate, to fall
By Shew of Friendship, and pretended Love!
I nor advise, nor reprehend the Choice
Of
Marcley
-Hill; the Apple no where finds
A kinder Mold: Yet 'tis unsafe to trust
Deceitful Ground: Who knows but that, once more,
This Mount may journey, and his present Site
Forsaking, to thy Neighbours Bounds transfer
The goodly Plants affording Matter strange
For Law-Debates? If therefore, thou incline
To deck this Rise with Fruits of various Tastes,
Fail not by frequent Vows t'implore Success;
Thus piteous Heav'n may fix the wandring Glebe.
But if (for Nature doth not share alike
Her Gifts) an happy Soil should be with-held;
If a penurious Clay shou'd be thy Lot,
Or rough unweildy Earth, nor to the Plough,
Nor to the Cattle kind, with sandy Stones
And Gravel o'er-abounding, think it not
Beneath thy Toil; the sturdy Pear-tree here
Will rise luxuriant, and with toughest Root
Fierce the obstructing Grit, and restive Marle.
Thus naught is useless made; nor is there Land,
But what, or of it self, or else compell'd,
Affords Advantage. On the barren Heath
The Shepherd tends his Flock, that daily crop
Their verdant Dinner from the mossie Turf,
Sufficient; after them the Cackling Goose,
Close-grazer,
inds wherewith to ease her Want.
What shou'd I more? Ev'n on the cliffy Height
Of
Penmenmaur,
and that Cloud-piercing Hill,
Plinlimmon,
from afar the Traveller kens
Astonish'd, how the Goats their shrubby Brouze
Gnaw pendent; nor untrembling canst thou see,
How from a scraggy Rock, whose Prominence
Half overshades the Ocean, hardy Men,
Fearless of rending Winds, and dashing Waves,
Cut Sampire, to excite the squeamish Gust
Of pamper'd Luxury. Then, let thy Ground
Not lye unlabour'd; if the richest Stem
Refuse to thrive, yet who wou'd doubt to plant
Somewhat, that may to Human Use redound,
And Penury, the worst of Ills, remove?
There are, who, fond studious of Increase,
Rich Foreign Mold on their ill-natur'd Land
Induce laborious, and with fatning Muck
Besmear the Roots; in vain! the nursling Grove
Seems fair a while, cherish'd with foster Earth:
But, when the alien Compost is exhaust,
It's native Poverty again prevails.
Tho' this Art fails, despond not; little Pains,
In a due Hour employ'd, great Profit yield.
Th' industrious, when the Sun in
Leo
rides,
And darts his sultriest Beams, portending Drought,
Forgets not at the Foot of ev'ry Plant
To sink a circling Trench, and daily pour
A just Supply of alimental Streams,
Exhausted Sap recruiting; else, false Hopes
He cherishes, nor will his Fruit expect
Th'autumnal Season, but, in Summer's Pride,
When other Orchats smile, abortive fail.
Thus the great Light of Heav'n, that in his Course
Surveys and quickens all things, often proves
Noxious to planted Fields, and often Men
Perceive his Influence dire; sweltring they run
To Grots, and Caves, and the cool Umbrage seek
Of woven Arborets, and oft the Rills.
Still streaming fresh revisit, to allay
Thirst inextinguishable: But if the Spring
Preceding shou'd be destitute of Rain,
Or Blast Septentrional with brushing Wings
Sweep up the smoaky Mists, and Vapours damp,
Then wo to Mortals!
Titan
then exerts
His Heat intense, and on our Vitals preys;
Then Mala dies of various Kinds, and Names
Unknown, malignant Fevers, and that Foe
To blooming Beauty, which imprints the Face
Of fairest Nymph, and checks our growing Love,
Reign far and near; grim Death, in different Shapes,
Depopulates the Nations, thousands fall
His Victims, Youths, and Virgins, in their Flower,
Reluctant die, and sighing leave their Loves
Unfinish'd, by infectious Heav'n destroy'd.
Such Heats prevail'd, when fair
Eliza,
last
Of
Winchcomb
's Name (next Thee in Blood and Worth.
O fairest St.
John
!) left this toilsome World
In Beauty's Prime, and sadden'd all the Year:
Nor cou'd her Virtues, nor repeated Vows
Of thousand Lovers, the relentless Hand
Of Death arrest; She with the Vulgar fell,
Only distinguish'd by this humble Verse.
But if it please the Sun's intemp'rate Force
To know, attend; whilst I of ancient Fame
The Annals trace, and Image to thy Mind,
How our Fore-fathers, (luckless Men!) ingulf,
By the wide yawning Earth, to
Stygian
Shades
Went quick, in one sad Sepulchre enclos'd.
In elder Days, e'er yet the
Roman
Bands
Victorious, this our other World subdu'd,
A spacious City stood, with firmest Walls
Sure mounded, and with numerous Turrets crown'd,
Aerial Spires, and Citadels, the Seat
Of Kings and Heroes resolute in War,
Fam'd
Ariconium
; uncontroul'd, and free,
'Till all subduing
Latian
Arms prevail'd.
Then also, tho' to foreign Yoke submits,
She undemolish'd stood, and even 'till now
Perhaps had stood, of ancient
British
Art
A pleasing Monument, not less admir'd
Than what from
Attic,
or
Etruscan
Hands
Arose; had not the Heav'nly Pow'rs averse
Decreed her final Doom: For now the Fields
Labour'd with Thirst,
Aquarius
had not shed
His wonted Show'rs, and
Sirius
parch'd with Heat
Solstitial the green Herb: Hence 'gan relax
The Ground's Contexture, hence
Tartarean
Dregs,
Sulphur, and nitrous Spume, enkindling fierce,
Bellow'd within their darksom Caves, by far
More dismal then the loud disploded Roar
Of Brazen Enginry, that ceaseless storm
The Bastion of a well-built City, deem'd
Impregnable: Th' infernal Winds, 'till now
Closely imprison'd, by
Titanian
Warmth,
Dilating, and with unctuous Vapours fed,
Disdain'd their narrow Cells; and their full Strength
Collecting, from beneath the solid Mass
Upheav'd, and all her Castles rooted deep
Shook from their lowest Seat; old
Vaga
's Stream,
Forc'd by the sudden Shock, her wonted Track
Forsook, and drew her humid Train aslope,
Crankling her Banks: And now the low'ring Sky,
And baleful Lightning, and the Thunder, Voice
Of angry Gods, that rattled solemn, dismaid
The sinking Hearts of Men. Where shou'd they turn
Distress'd? Whence seek for Aid? when from below
Hell threatens, and ev'n Fate supream gives Signs
Of Wrath and Desolation? Vain were Vows,
And Plaints, and suppliant Hands, to Heav'n erect!
Yet some to Fanes repair'd, and humble Rites
Perform'd to
Thor,
and
Woden,
fabled Gods,
Who with their Vot'ries in one Ruin shar'd,
Crush'd, and o'erwhelm'd. Others, in frantick Mood
Run howling thro' the Streets, their hideous Yells
Rend the dark Welkin; Horrour stalks around,
Wild-staring, and, his sad Concomitant,
Despair, of their abject Look: At ev'ry Gate
The thronging Populace with hasty Strides
Press furious, and too eager of Escape,
Obstruct the easie Way; the rocking Town
Supplants their Footsteps; to and fro, they reel
Astonish'd, as o'er charg'd with Wine; when lo!
The Ground adust her riven Mouth disparts,
Horrible Casm, profound! with swift Descent
Old
Ariconium
sinks, and all her Tribes,
Heroes, and Senators, down to the Realms
Of endless Night. Mean while, the loosen'd Winds
Infuriate, molten Rocks and flaming Globes
Hurl'd high above the Clouds; 'till, all their Force
Consum'd, her rav'nous Jaws th' Earth satiate clos'd.
Thus this fair City fell, of which the Name
Survives alone; nor is there found a Mark,
Whereby the curious Passenger may learn
Her ample Site, save Coins, and mould'ring Urns,
And huge unwieldy Bones, lasting Remains
Of that Gigantic Race, which as he breaks
The clotted Glebe, the Plowman haply finds,
Appall'd. Upon that treacherous Tract of Land,
She whilomestood; now
Ceres,
in her Prime,
Smiles fertile, and, with ruddiest Freight bedeckt,
The Apple-Tree, by our Fore-Fathers Blood
Improv'd, that now recalls the devious Muse,
Urging her destin'd Labours to pursue.
The Prudent will observe, what Passions reign
In various Plants (for not to Man alone,
But all the wide Creation, Nature gave
Love, and aversion:) Everlasting Hate
The
Vine
to
Ivy
bears, nor less abhors
The
Coleworts
Rankness; but with amorous Twine,
Clasps the tall
Elm
: The
Paes
an Rose
unfolds
Her Bud, more lovely, near the fetid
Leek,
(Crest of stout
Britons,
) an inhances thence
The Price of her celestial Scent: The
Gourd,
And thirsty
Cucumer,
when they perceive
Th' approaching
Olive,
with Resentment fly
Her fatty Fibres, and with Tendrils creep
Diverse, detesting Contract; whilst the
Fig
Contemns not
Rue,
nor
Sage
's humble Leaf,
Close Neighbouring; the
Herefordian
Plant
Caresses freely the contiguous
Peach,
Hazel,
and weight-resisting
Palm,
and likes
T' approach the
Quince,
and th'
Elder
's pithy Stem;
Uneasie, seated by funeral
Yeugh,
Or
Walnut,
(whose malignant Touch impairs
All generous Fruits,) or near the bitter Dews
Of
Cherries.
Therefore, weigh the Habits well
Of Plants, how they associate best, nor let
Ill Neighbourhood corrupt thy hopeful Graffs.
Wouldst thou, thy Vats with generous Juice should froth?
Respect thy Orchats; think not, that the Trees
Spontaneous will produce an wholesom Draught.
Let art correct thy Breed: from Parent Bough
A Coyn meetly sever; after, force
A way into the Crabstock's close-wrought Grain
By Wedges, and within the living Wound
Enclose the Foster Twig; nor over-nice
Refuse with thy own Hands around to spread
The binding Clay e're-long their differing Veins
Unite, and kindly Nourishment convey
To the new Pupil; now shoots his Arms
With quickest Growth; now shake the teeming Trunk,
Down rain th' impurpl'd Balls, ambrosial Fruit.
Whether the
Wildings
Fibres are contriv'd
To draw th' Earth's purest Spirit, and resist
It's Feculence, which in more porous Stocks
Of
Cydar
Plants finds Passage free, or else
The native Verjuice of the
Crab,
deriv'd
Thro' th' infix'd Graff, a grateful Mixture forms
Of tart and sweet; whatever be the Cause,
This doubtful Progeny by nicest Tastes
Expected best Acceptance finds, and pays
Largest Revenues to the Orchat-Lord,
Some think, the
Quince
and
Apple
wou'd combine
In happy Union; Others fitter deem
The
Sloe
-Stem bearing
Sylvan
Plums austere.
Who knows but Both may thrive? Howe'er, what loss
To try the Pow'rs of Both, and search how far
Two different Natures may concur to mix
In close Embraces, and strange Off-spring bear?
Thoul't find that Plants will frequent Changes try,
Undamag'd, and their marriageable Arms
Conjoin with others. So
Silurean
Plants
Admit the
Peache
's odoriferous Globe,
And
Pears
of sundry Forms; at diff'rent times
Adopted
Plums
will aliene Branches grace;
And Men have gather'd from the
Hawthorn
's Branch
Large
Medlars,
imitating regal Crowns.
Nor is it hard to beautifie each Month
With Files of parti-colour'd Fruits, that please
The Tongue, and View, at once. So
Maro
's Muse,
Thrice sacred Muse! commodious Precepts gives
Instructive to the Swains, not wholly bent
On what is gainful: Sometimes she diverts
From solid Counsels, shews the Force of Love
In savage Beasts; how Virgin Face divine
Attracts the hapless Youth thro' Storms, and Waves,
Alone, in deep of Night: Then she describes
The
Scythian
Winter, nor disdains to sing,
How under Ground the rude
Riphaean
Race
Mimic brisk
Cyder
with the Brakes Product wild;
Sloes pounded, Hips, and
Servis
harshest Juice.
Let sage Experience teach thee all the Arts
Of Grafting, and In-Eyeing; when to lop
The flowing Branches; what Trees answer best
From Root, or Kernel: She will best the Hours
Of Harvest, and Seed time declare; by Her
The diff'rent Qualities of things were found,
And secret Motions; how with heavy Bulk
Volatile
Hermes,
fluid and unmoist,
Mounts on the Wings of Air; to her we owe
The
Indian
Weed, unknown to ancient Times
Nature's choice Gift, whose acrimonious Fume
Extracts superfluous Juices, and refines
The Blood distemper'd from its noxious Salts;
Friend to the Spirits, which with Vapours bland
It gently mitigates, Companion fit
Of Pleasantry, and Wine; nor to the Bards
Unfriendly, when they to the vocal Shell
Warble melodious their well-labour'd Songs.
She found the polish'd Glass, whose small Convex
Enlarges to Ten Millions of Degrees
The Mite, invisible else, of Nature's Hand
Least Animal; and shews, what Laws of Life
The Cheese-Inhabitants observe, and how
Fabrick their Mansions in the harden'd Milk,
Wonderful Artists! But the hidden Ways
Of Nature wouldst thou know? how first she frames
All things in Miniature? thy Specular Orb
Apply to well-dissected Kernels; lo!
Strange Forms arise, in each a little Plant
Unfolds its Boughs: observe the slender Threads
Of first-beginning Trees, their Roots, their Leaves,
In narrow Seeds describ'd; Thou'lt wond'ring say,
An inmate Orchat ev'ry Apple boasts.
Thus All things by Experience are display'd,
And most improv'd. Then sedulously think
To meliorate thy Stock; no Way, or Rule
Be unassay'd; prevent the Morning Star
Assiduous, nor with the Western Sun
Surcease to work; lo! thoughtful of Thy Gain,
Not of my Own, I all the live-long Day
Consume in Meditation deep, recluse
From human Converse, nor, at shut of Eve,
Enjoy Repose; but oft at Midnight Lamp
Ply my brain racking Studies, if by chance
Thee I may counsel right; and oft this Care
Disturbs me slumbring. Wilt thou then repine
To labour for thy Self? and rather chuse
To lye supinely, hoping, Heav'n will bless
Thy slighted Fruits, and give thee Bread unearn'd?
'Twill profit, when the Stork, sworn-Foe of Snakes,
Returns, to shew Compassion to thy Plants,
Fatigu'd with Breeding. Let the arched Knife
Well sharpen'd now assail the spreading Shades
Of Vegetables, and their thirsty Limbs
Dissever: for the genial Moisture, due
To Apples, otherwise mispends it self
In barren Twigs, and for th' expected Crop,
Naught but vain Shoots, and empty Leaves abound.
When swelling Buds their od'rous Foliage shed,
And gently harden into Fruit the Wise
Spare not the little Off-springs, if they grow
Redundant: but the thronging Clusters thin
By kind Avulsion: else, the starv'ling Brood,
Void of sufficient Sustenance, wil] yield
A slender Autum; which the niggard Soul
Too late shall weep, and curse his thrifty Hand,
That would not timely ease the pond'rous Boughs.
It much conduces, all the Cares to know
Of Gard'ning, how to scare nocturnal Thieves,
And how the little Race of Birds, that hop
From Spray to Spray, scooping the costliest Fruit
Insatiate, undisturb'd.
Priapus
's Form
Avails but little; rather guard each Row
With the false Terrours of a breathless Kite.
This done, the timorous Flock with swiftest Wing
Scud thro' the Air; their Fancy represents
His mortal Talons, and his rav'nous Beak
Destructive; glad to shun his hostile Gripe,
They quit their Thefts and unfrequent the Fields.
Besides, the filthy Swine will oft invade
Thy firm inclosure, and with delving Snout
The rooted Forest undermine forthwith
Alloo thy furious Mastiff, bid him vex
The noxious Herd, and print upon their Ears
A sad Memorial of their past Offence.
The flagrant
Procyon
will not fail to bring
Large Shoals of slow House-bearing Snails, that creep
O'er the ripe Fruitage, paring sliming Tracts
In the sleek Rinds, and unprest
Cyder
drink.
No Art averts this Pest; on Thee it lyes,
With Morning and with Evening Hand to rid
The preying Reptiles; nor, if wise, wilt thou
Decline this Labour, which it self rewards
With pleasing Gain, whilst the warm Limbec draws
Salubrious Waters from the nocent Brood.
Myriads of Wasps now also clustring hang,
And drain a spurious Honey from thy Groves,
Their Winter Food; tho' oft repulst, again
They rally, undismay'd: but Fraud with ease
Ensnares the noisom Swarms; let every Bough
Bear frequent Vials, pregnant with the Dregs
Of
Moyle,
or
Mum,
or
Treacle
's viscous Juice;
They, by th' alluring Odor drawn, in haste
Fly to the dulcet Cates, and crouding sip
Their palatable Bane; joyful thou'lt see
The clammy Surface all o'er-strown with Tribes
Of greedy Insects that with fruitless Toil
Flap filmy Pennons oft, to extricate
Their Feet in liquid Shackles bound, 'till Death
Bereave them of their worthless Souls: Such doom
Waits Luxury, and lawless Love of Gain!
Howe'er thou mayst forbid external Force,
ntestine Evils will prevail; damp Airs,
And rainy Winters, to the Centre pierce
Of firmest Fruits, and by unseen Decay
The proper Relish vitiate: then the Grub
Oft unobserv'd invades the vital Core,
ernicious Tenant, and her secret Cave
nlarges hourly, preying on the Pulp
easeless; mean while the Apple's outward Form
electable the witless Swain beguiles,
'Till, with a writhen Mouth, and spattering Noise,
He tastes the bitter Morsel, and rejects
Disrelisht; not with less Surprize, then when
Embattled Troops with flowing Banners pass
Thro' flow'ry Mead delighted, nor distrust
The smiling Surface; whilst the cavern'd Ground,
With Grain incentive stor'd, by suddain Blaze
Bursts fatal, and involves the Hopes of War
In firy Whirles; full of victorious Thoughts,
Torn and dismembred, they aloft expire.
Now turn thine Eye to view
Alcinous
' Groves,
The Pride of the
Phaeacian
Isle, from whence,
Sailing the Spaces of the boundless Deep,
To
Ariconium
pretious Fruits arriv'd:
The
Pippin
burnisht o'er with Gold, the
Moile
Of sweetest hony'd Taste, the fair
Permain,
Temper'd, like comliest Nymph, with red and white.
Salopian
Acres flourish with a Growth
Peculiar, styl'd the
Ottley
: Be thou first
This Apple to transplant; If to the Name
It's Merit answers, no where shalt thou find
A Wine more priz'd, or laudable of Taste.
Nor does ths
Eliot
least deserve thy Care,
Nor
John-Apple,
whose wither'd Rind, entrencht
With many a Furrow, aptly represents
Decrepid Age; nor that from
Harvey
nam'd
Quick-relishing: Why should we sing the
Thrift,
Codling,
or
Pomroy,
or of pimpled Coat
The
Russet,
or the
Cats-Head
's weighty Orb,
Enormous in its Growth; for various Use
Tho' these are meet, tho' after full repast
Are oft requir'd, and crown the rich Desert?
What, tho' the
Pear
-Tree rival not the Worth,
Of
Ariconian
Products? yet her Freight
Is not contemn'd, yet her wide-branching Arms
Best screen thy Mansion from the fervent Dog
Adverse to Life; the wintry Hurricanes
In vain imploy their Roar, her Trunc unmov'd
Breaks the strong Onset, and controls their Rage,
Chiefly the
Bosbury,
whose large Increase,
Annual, in sumptuous Banquets claims Applause.
Thrice acceptable Bev'rage! could but Art
Subdue the floating Lee,
Pomona
's self
Would dread thy Praise, and shun the dubious Strife.
Be it thy Choice, when Summer-Heats annoy,
To sit Beneath her leafy Canopy,
Quaffing rich Liquids: Oh! how sweet t' enjoy,
At once her Fruits and hospitable Shade!
But how with equal Number shall we match
The
Musk
's surpassing Worth? that earliest gives
Sure hopes of racy Wine, and in its Youth,
Its tender Nonage, loads the spreading Boughs
With large and juicy Offsspring, that defies
The Vernal Nippings, and cold Syderal Blasts!
Yet let her to the
Red-streak
yield, that once
Was of the
Sylvan
Kind, unciviliz'd,
Of no Regard, 'till
Scudamore
's skilful Hand
Improv'd her, and by courtly Discipline
Taught her the savage Nature to forget:
Hence styl'd the
Scudamorean
Plant; whose Wine
Who-ever tastes, let him with grateful Heart
Respect that ancient loyal House, and wish
The Noble Peer, that now transcends our Hopes
In early Worth, his Country's justest Pride,
Uninterrupted Joy, and Health entire.
Let every Tree in every Garden own
The
Red-streak
as supream; whose pulpous Fruit
With Gold irradiate, and Vermilian shines
Tempting, not fatal, as the Birth of that
Primaeval interdicted Plant, that won
Fond
Eve
in hapless Hour to taste, and die▪
This, of more bounteous Influence, inspires
Poetic Raptures, and the lowly Muse
Kindles to loftier Strains; even I perceive
Her sacred Virtue. See! the Numbers flow
Easie, whilst, chear'd with her nectareous Juice,
Hers, and my Country's Praises I exalt.
Hail
Herefordian
Plant, that dost disdain
All other Fields! Heav'ns sweetest Blessing, hail!
Be thou the copious Matter of my Song,
And Thy choice
Nectar
; on which always waits
Laughter, and Sport, and Care beguiling Wit,
And Friendship, chief Delight of Human Life.
What shou'd we wish for more? or why, in quest
Of Foreign Vintage, insincere, and mixt,
Traverse th' extreamest World? Why tempt the Rage
Of the rough Ocean? when our native Glebe
Imparts, from bounteous Womb, annual Recruits
Of Wine delectable, that far surmounts
Gallic,
or
Latin
Grapes, or those that see
The setting Sun near
Calpe
's tow'ring Height.
Nor let the
Rhodian,
nor the
Lesbion
Vines
Vaunt their rich Must, nor let
Tokay
contend
For Sov'ranty;
Phanaeus
self must bow
To th'
Ariconian
Vales: And shall we doubt
T' improve our vegetable Wealth, or let
The Soil lye idle, which, with fit Manure,
Will largest Usury repay, alone
Impow'red to supply what Nature asks
Frugal, or what nice Appetite requires?
The Meadows here, with bat'ning Ooze enrich'd,
Give Spirit to the Grass; three Cubits high
The jointed Herbage shoots; th' unfallow'd Glebe
Yearly o'ercomes the Granaries with Store
Of Golden
Wheat,
the Strength of Human Life.
Lo, on auxiliary Poles, the
Hops
Ascending spiral, rang'd in meet Array!
Lo, how the Arable with
Barley
-Grain
Stands thick, o'er-shadow'd, to the thirsty Hind
Transporting Prospect! These, as modern Use
Ordains, infus'd, an Auburn Drink compose,
Wholesome, of deathless Fame. Here, to the Sight,
Apples of Price, and Plenteous Sheaves of Corn,
Oft interlac'd occurr, and both imbibe
Fitting congenial Juice; so rich the Soil,
So much does fructuous Moisture o'er-abound!
Nor are the Hills unamiable, whose Tops
To Heav'n aspire, affording Prospect sweet
To Human Ken; nor at their Feet the Vales
Descending gently, where the lowing Herd
Chews verdious Pasture; nor the yellow Fields
Gaily enterchang'd, with rich Variety
Pleasing as when an
Emerald
green, enchas'd
In Flamy Gold, from the bright Mass acquires
A nobler Hue, more delicate to Slight.
Next add the
Sylvan
Shades, and silent Groves,
(Haunt of the
Druids
) whence the Hearth is fed
With copious Fuel; whence the sturdy Oak,
A Prince's Refuge once, th' Eternal Guard
Of
England
's Throne, by sweating Peasants fell'd.
Stems the vast Main, and bears tremendous War
To distant Nations, or with Sov'ran Sway
Aws the divided World to Peace and Love.
Why shou'd the
Chalybes,
or
Bilboa
boast
Their harden'd Iron; when our Mines produce
As perfect Martial Ore? Can
Tmolus'
Head
ie with our Safron Odours? Or the Fleece
Baetic,
or finest
Tarentine,
compare
With
Lemster
's silken Wool? Where shall we find
Men more addaunted, for their Country's Weal
More prodigal of Life? In antient Days,
The
Roman
Legions, and great
Caesar
found
Our Fathers no mean Foes: And
Cressy
Plains,
And
Agincourt,
deep ting'd with Blood, confess
What the
Silures
Vigour unwithstood
ou'd do in rigid Fight; and chiefly what
Brydges'
wide wasting Hand, first Garter'd Knight,
uissunt Author of great
Chandois
' Stemm,
High
Chandois
that transmits Paternal Worth,
rudence, and ancient Prowess, and Renown,
his Noble Off-spring. O thrice happy Peer!
hat, blest with hoary Vigour, view'st Thy self
Fresh blooming in thy Generous Son; whose Lips,
Flowing with nervous Eloquence exact,
Charm the wise Senate, and Attention win
In deepest Councils:
Ariconium
pleas'd,
Him, as her chosen Worthy, first salutes.
Him on th'
Iberean,
on the
Gallick
Shore,
Him hardy
Britons
bless; His faithful Hand
Conveys new Courage from afar, nor more
The General's Conduct, than His Care avails.
Thee also, Glorious Branch of
Cecil
's Line,
This Country claims; with Pride and Joy to Thee
Thy
Alterennis
calls: yet she endures
Patient Thy Absence, since Thy Prudent Choice
Has fix'd Thee in the Muse's fairest Seat,
Where
Aldrich
reigns, and from his endless Store
Of universal Knowledge still supplies
His noble Care; He generous Thoughts instills
Of true Nobility, their, Countrys Love,
(Chief End of Life) and forms their ductile Minds
To Human Virtues: By his Genius led,
Thou soon in every Art preeminent
Shalt grace this Isle, and rise to
Burleigh
's Fame.
Hail High-born Peer! And Thou, great Nurse of Ar
And Men, from whence conspicuous Patriots spring,
Hanmer,
and
Bromley
; Thou, to whom with due
Respect
Wintonia
bows, and joyful owns
Thy mitred Off-spring; be for ever blest
With like Examples, and to future Times
Proficuous, such a Race of Men produce,
As, in the Cause of Virtue firm, may fix
Her Throne inviolate. Hear, ye Gods, this Vow
From One, the meanest in her numerous Train;
Tho' meanest, not least studious of her Praise.
Muse, raise thy Voice to
Beaufort
's spotless Fame,
To
Beaufort,
in a long Descent deriv'd
From Royal Ancestry, of Kingly Rights
Faithful Asserters: In Him centring meet
Their glorious Virtues, high Desert from Pride
Disjoin'd, unshaken Honour, and Contempt
Of strong Allurements. O Illustrious Prince!
O Thou of ancient Faith! Exulting, Thee
n her fair List this happy Land inrolls.
Who can refuse a Tributary Verse
To
Weymouth,
firmest Friend of slighted Worth
n evil Days? whose hospitable Gate,
Unbarr'd to All, invites a numerous Train
Of daily Guests; whose Boar'd, with Plenty crown'd,
Revives the Feast-rites old: Mean while His Care
Forgets not the Afflicted, but content
n Acts of secret Goodness, shuns the Praise,
That sure attends. Permit me, bounteous Lord,
To blazon what tho' hid will beauteous shine;
And with Thy Name to dignifie my Song.
But who is He, that on the winding Stream
Of
Vaga
first drew vital Breath, and now
Approv'd in
Anna
's secret Council sits,
Weighing the Sum of things, with wise Forecast
ollicitous of Publick Good? How large
His Mind, that comprehends what e'er was known
To Old, or Present Time; yet not elate,
Not conscious of its Skill? What Praise deserves
His liberal Hand, that gathers but to give,
reventing Suit? O not unthankful Muse,
Him lowly reverence, that first design'd to hear
Thy Pipe, and skreen'd thee from opprobrious Tongues
Acknowledge thy Own
Harley,
and his Name
scribe on ev'ry Bark; the wounded Plants
Will fast Increase, faster thy just Respect.
Such are our Heroes, by their Vertues known,
Or▪ Skill in Peace, and War: Of softer Mold
The Female Sex, with sweet attractive Airs
ubdue obdurate Hearts. The Travellers oft,
That view their matchless Forms with transient Glance,
atch suddain Love, and sigh for Nymphs unknown,
mit with the Magic of their Eyes: nor hath
he Daedal Hand of Nature only pour'd
Her Gifts of outward Grace; their Innocence
Unfeign'd, and Virtue most engaging, free
From Pride, or Artifice, long Joys afford
To th' honest Nuptial Bed, and in the Wane
Of Life, rebate the Miseries of Age.
And is there found a Wretch, so base of Mind,
That Woman's pow'rful Beauty dares condemn,
Exactest Work of Heav'n? He ill deserves
Or Love, or Pity; Friendless let him see
Uneasie, tedious Days, despis'd, forlorn,
As Stain of Human Race: But may the Man,
That chearfully recounts the Females Praise
Find equal Love, and Love's untainted Sweets
Enjoy with Honour. O, ye Gods! might I
Elect my Fate, my happiest Choice should be
A fair and modest Virgin, that invites
With Aspect chast, forbidding Loose Desire,
Tenderly smiling; in whose Heav'nly Eye.
Sits purest Love enthron'd: But if the Stars
Malignant, these my better Hopes oppose,
May I, at least, the sacred Pleasures know
Of strictest Amity; nor ever want
A Friend, with whom I mutually may share
Gladness, and Anguish, by kind Intercourse
Of Speech, and Offices. May in my Mind,
Indelible a grateful Sense remain
Of Favours undeserv'd!—O Thou! from whom
Gladly both Rich, and Low seek Aid; most Wise
Interpreter of Right, whose gracious Voice
Breaths Equity, and curbs too rigid Law
With mild, impartial Reason; what Returns
Of Thanks are due to Thy Beneficence
Freely vouchsafe, when to the Gates of Death
I tended prone? If Thy indulgent Care
Had not preven'd, among unbody'd Shades
I now had wander'd; and these empty Thoughts
Of Apples perish'd: But, uprais'd by Thee,
I
une my Pipe afresh, each Night, and Day
Thy unexampled Goodness to extoll
Desirous; but nor Night, nor Day suffice
For that great Task; the highly Honour'd Name
Of
Trevor
must employ my willing Thoughts
ncessant, dwell for ever on my Tongue.
Let me be grateful, but let far from me
Be fawning Cringe, and false dissembling Look,
And servile Flattery, that harbours oft
n Courts, and gilded Roofs. Some loose the Bands
Of ancient Friendship, cancel Nature's Laws
or Pageantry, and tawdry Gugaws. Some
enounce their Sires, oppose paternal Right
or Rule, and Power; and other's Realms invade,
With specious Shews of Love. This traiterous Wretch
etrays his Sov'ran. Others, destitute
Of real Zeal, to ev'ry Altar bend,
y Lucre sway'd, and act the basest Things
To be styl'd Honourable: Th' Honest Man,
imple of Heart, prefers inglorious Want
o ill-got VVealth; rather from Door to Door
jocund Pilgrim, tho' distress'd, he'll rove,
han break his plighted Faith; nor Fear, nor Hope,
Will shock his stedfast Soul; rather debar'd
ach common Privilege, cut off from Hopes
f meanest Gain, of present Goods despoil'd,
e'll bear the Marks of Infamy, contemn'd,
npity'd; yet his Mind, of Evil pure,
pports him, and Intention free from Fraud.
no Retinue with observant Eyes
ttend him, if he can't with purple stain
f cumbrous Vestments, labour'd o'er with Gold,
zle the Croud, and set them all agape;
clad in homely VVeeds, from Envy's Darts
emote he lives, nor knows the nightly Pangs
Conscience, nor with Spectre's grisly Forms,
emors,
and injur'd Souls, at Close of Day
noy'd, sad interrupted Slumbers finds.
t as a Child, whose inexperienc'd Age
Nor evil Purpose fears nor knows,) enjoys
Night's sweet Refreshment, humid Sleep, sincere,
VVhen Chaunticleer, with Clarion shrill, recalls
The tardy Day he to his Labours hies
Gladsome, intent on somewhat that may ease
Unhealthy Mortals, and with curious Search
Examines all the Properties of Herbs,
Fossils, and Minerals, that embowell'd Earth
Displays, if by his Industry he can
Benefit Human Race: Or else his Thoughts
Are exercis'd with Speculations deep
Of Good, and Just, and Meet, and the wholsome Rule
Of Temperance, and aught that may improve
The moral Life; not sedulous to rail,
Nor with envenom'd Tongue to blast the Fame
Of harmless Men, or secret Whispers spread,
'Mong faithful Friends to breed Distrust, and Hate
Studious of Virtue, he no Life observes
Except his own, his own employs his Cares,
Large Subject! that he labour to refine
Daily, nor of his little Stock denies
Fit Alms to
Lazars,
merciful, and meek.
Thus sacred
Virgil
liv'd, from courtly Vice,
And Baits of pompous
Rome
secure; at Court
Still thoughtful of the rural honest Life,
And how t'improve his Grounds, and how himself:
Best Poet! fit Exempler for the Tribe
Of
Phaebus,
nor less fit
Maeonides.
Poor eyless Pilgrim! and if after these,
If after these another I may name,
Thus tender
Spencer
liv'd with mean Repast
Content, depress'd by Penury, and Pine
In Foreign Realm: Yet not debas'd his Verse
By Fortunes Frown. And had that Other Bard,
Oh, had but He that first enobled Song
With holy Raptures, like his
Abdiel
been,
'Mong many faithless strictly faithful found;
Unpity'd, he should nor have wail'd his Orbs,
That roll'd in vain to find the piercing Ray,
And found no Dawn, by dim Suffusion veild!
But He—However, let the Muse abstain,
Nor blast his Fame, from whom she learnt to sing
In much inferior Strains, grov'ling beneath
Th'
Olympian
Hill, on Plains, and Vales intent,
Mean Follower. There let her rest a while,
Pleas'd with the fragrant Walks, and cool Retreat.
CYDER. Book II.
O
Hartcourt,
Whom th' ingenious Love of Arts
Has carry'd from thy native Soil, beyond
Th' eternal
Alpine
Snows, and now detains
In
Italy
's waste Realms, how long must we
Lament Thy Absence? Whilst in sweet Sojourn
Thou view'st the Reliques of old
Rome
; or what,
Unrival'd Authors by their Presence; made
For ever venerable, rural Seats,
Tibur,
and
Tusculum,
or
Virgil
's Urn
Green with immortal Bays, which haply Thou,
Respecting his great Name, dost now approach
With bended Knee, and strow with purple Flow'rs;
Unmindful of Thy Friends, that ill can brook
This long Delay. At length, Dear Youth, return,
Of Wit, and Judgment ripe in blooming Years,
And
Britain
's Isle with
Latian
Knowledge grace.
Return, and let Thy Father's VVorth excite
Thirst of Preeminence; see! how the Cause
Of Widows, and of Orphans He asserts
With winning Rhetoric, and well argu'd Law!
Mark well His Footsteps, and, like Him, deserve
Thy Prince's Favour, and thy Country's Love.
Mean while (altho' the
Massie
Grape delights
Pregnant of racy Juice, and
Formian
Hills
Temper Thy Cups, yet) wilt not Thou reject
Thy native Liquors: Lo! for Thee my Mill
How grinds choice Apples, and the
British
Vats
O'erflow with generous Cyder; far remote
Accept this Labour, nor despise the Muse,
That, passing Lands, and Seas, on Thee attends.
Thus far of Trees: The pleasing Task remains,
To sing of VVines, and Autumn's blest Increase.
Th' Effects of Art are shewn, yet what avails
'Gainst Heav'n? Oft, notwithstanding all thy Care
To help thy Plants, when the small Fruit'ry seems
Exempt from Ills, an oriential Blast
Disastrous flies, soon as the Hind, fatigu'd,
Unyokes his Team; the tender Freight, unskill'd
To bear the hot Disease, distemper'd pines
In the Year's Prime, the deadly Plague annoys
The wide Inclosure; think not vainly now
To treat thy Neighbours with mellifluous Cups,
Thus disappointed: If the former Years
Exhibit no Supplies, alas! thou must,
With tastless VVater wash thy Droughty Throat.
A thousand Accidents the Farmer's Hopes
Subvert, or checque; uncertain all his Toil,
'Till lusty Autumn's luke-warm Days, allay'd
VVith gentle Colds, insensibly confirm
His ripening Labours: Autumn to the Fruits
Earth's various Lap produces, Vigour gives
Equal, intenerating milky Grain,
Berries, and Sky-dy'd Plums, and what in Coat
Rough, or soft Rind, or bearded Husk, or Shell;
Fat
Olives,
and
Pistacio
's fragrant Nut,
And the
Pine
's tastful Apple: Autumn paints
Ausonian
Hills with Grapes, whilst
English
Plains
Blush with pomaceous Harvests, breathing Sweets.
O let me now, when the kind early Dew
Unlocks th' embosom'd Odors, walk among
The well rang'd Files of Trees, whose full-ag'd Sto
Diffuse
Ambrosial
Streams, than
Myrrh,
or
Nard
More grateful, or perfuming flow'ry
Beane
:
Soft whisp'ring Airs, and the Larks mattin Song
Then woo to musing, and becalm the Mind
Perplex'd with irksome Thoughts. Thrice happy time,
Best Portion of the various Year, in which
Nature rejoyceth, smiling on her VVorks
Lovely, to full Perfection wrought! but ah,
Short are our Joys, and neighb'ring Grief disturb
Our pleasant Hours. Inclement VVinter dwells
Contiguous; forthwith frosty Blasts deface
The blithsome Year: Trees of their shrivel'd Fruits
Are widow'd, dreery Storms o'er all prevail.
Now, now's the time; e'er hasty Suns forbid
To work, disburthen thou thy sapless
Wood
Of its rich Progeny; the turgid Fruit
Abounds with mellow Liquor; now exhort
Thy Hinds to exercise the pointed Steel
On the hard Rock, and give a wheely Form
To the expected Grinder: Now prepare
Materials for thy Mill, a sturdy Post
Cylindric,
to support the Grinder's Weight
Excessive, and a flexile Sallow entrench'd,
Rounding, capacious of the juicy Hord.
Nor must thou not be mindful of thy Press
Long e'er the Vintage; but with timely Care
Shave the Goats shaggy Beard, least thou too late,
In vain shoud'st seek a Strainer, to dispart
The husky, terrene Dregs, from purer Must.
Be cautious next a proper Steed to find,
VVhose Prime is past; the vigorous Horse disdains
Such servile Labours, or if forc'd, forgets
His past Atchievements, and victorious Palms.
Blind
Bayard
rather, worn with VVork, and Years,
Shall roll th' unwieldy Stone; with sober Pace
He'll tread the cirkcling Path 'till dewy Eve,
From early Day-spring, pleas'd to find his Ag
Declining, unuseful to his Lord.
Some, when the Press, by utmost Vigour
w'd
Has drain'd the pulpous Mass, regale their Swine
VVith the dry Refuse; thou more wise shalt steep
Thy Husks in VVater, and again employ
The pondrous Engine. VVater will imbibe
The small Remains of Spirit, and acquire
A vinous Flavour; this the Peasants blish
VVill quaff, and whistle, as thy tinkling Team
They drive and sing of
Fuscae
's radiant Eyes,
Pleas'd with the medly Draught. Nor shalt thou now
Reject the
Apple-Cheese,
tho' quite exhaust;
Ev'n now 'twill cherish, and improve the Roots
Of sickly Plants; new Vigour hence convey'd
VVill yield an Harvest of unusual Growth.
Such Profit spring from Musk discreetly us'd!
The tender Apples, from their Parents rent
By stormy Shocks, must not neglected lye,
The Prey of VVorms: A frugal Man I knew
Rich in one barren Acre, which, subdu'd
By endless Culture, with sufficient Must
His Casks replenisht yearly: He no more
Desir'd, nor wanted, diligent to learn
The various Seasons, and by Skill repell
Invading Pests, successful in his Cares,
'Till the damp
Lybion
VVind, with Tempests arm'd
Outrageous, bluster'd horrible amidst
His Cyder-Grove: O'er-turn'd by furious blasts,
The sightly Ranks fall prostrate, and around
Their Fruitage scatter'd, from the genial Boughs
Stript immature: Yet did he not repine,
Nor curse his Stars; but prudent, his fall'n Heaps
Collecting, cherish'd with the tepid Wreaths
Of teddid Grafts, and the Sun's mellowing Beams
Rival'd with artful Heats, and thence procur'd
A costly Liquor, by improving Time
Equal'd with what, the happiest Vintage
ears
But this I warn Thee, and shall alway warn
No heterogeneous Mixtures use, as some
With watry Turneps have debas'd their Wines,
Too frugal; nor let the crude Humors dance
In heated Brass, steaming with Fire intense;
Altho'
Devonia
much commends the Use
Of strengthening
Vulcan
; with their native Strength
Thy Wines sufficient, other Aid refuse;
And, when th' allotted Orb of Time's compleat,
Are more commended than the labour'd Drinks.
Nor let thy Avarice tempt thee to withdraw
The Priest's appointed Share; with cheerful Heart
The tenth of thy Increase bestow and own
Hea'v'ns bounteous Goodness, that will sure repay
Thy grateful Duty: This neglected fear
Signal Avengeance, such as over-took
A Miser, that unjustly once with-held
The Clergy's Due; relying on himself,
His Fields he tended with successless Care,
Early, and late, when, or unwish't for Rain
Descended or unseasonable Frosts
Curb'd his increasing Hopes, or when around
The Clouds dropt Fatness, in the middle Sky
The Dew suspended staid, and left unmoist
His execrable Glebe; recording this,
Be Just, and Wise, and tremble to transgress.
Learn now, the Promise of the coming Year
To know, that by no flattering Signs abus'd,
Thou wisely may'st provide: The various Moon
Prophetick, and attendant Stars explain
Each rising Dawn; e'er Icy Crusts surmount
The current Stream, the heav'nly Orbs serene
Twinkle with trembling Rays, and
Cynthia
glows
With Light unsully'd: Now the Fowler, warn'd
By these good Omens, with swift early Steps
Treads the crimp Earth, ranging thro' Fields and Glades
Offensive to the Birds, sulphureous Death
Checques their mid Flight and heedless while they strain
Their tuneful Throats, the tow'ring, heavy Lead
O'er-takes their Speed; they leave their little Lives
Above the Clouds, praecipitant to Earth.
The VVoodcocks early Visit, and Abode
Of long Continuance in our temperate Clime,
Foretell a liberal Harvest: He of Times
Intelligent, th' harsh
Hyperborean
Ice
Shuns for our equal Winters; when our Suns
Cleave the chill'd Soil, he backward wings his Way
To
Scandinavian
frozen Summers, meet
For his num'd Blood. But nothing profits more
Than frequent Snows: O, may'st Thou often see
Thy Furrows whiten'd by the woolly Rain,
Nutricious / Secret Nitre lurks within
The porous Wet, quick'ning the languid Glebe.
Sometimes thou shalt with fervent Vows implore
A moderate Wind; the Orchat loves to wave
With Winter-Winds, before the Gems exert
Their feeble Heads; the loosen'd Roots then drink
Large Increment, Earnest of happy Years.
Nor will it nothing profit to observe
The monthly Stars, their pow'rful Influence
O'er planted Fields, what Vegetables reign
Under each Sign. On our Account has
Jove
Indulgent, to all Moons some succulent Plant
Allotted, that poor, helpless Man might slack
His present Thirst, and Matter find for Toil:
Now will the
Corinths,
now the
Rasps
supply
Delicious Draughts; the
Quinces
now, or
Plums,
Or
Cherries,
or the fair
Thisbein
Fruit
Are prest to Wines; the
Britons
squeeze the Works
Of sedulous Bees, and mixing od'rous Herbs
Prepare balsamic Cups, to wheezing Lungs
Medicinal, and short breath'd, ancient Sires.
But, if Thou'rt indefatigably bent
To toil, and omnifarious Drinks wou'dst brew;
Besides the Orchat, ev'ry Hedge, and Bush
Affords Assistance; ev'n afflictive
Bi
ch,
Curs'd by unletter'd, idle Youth, distills
A limpid Current from her wounded Bark,
Profuse of nursing Sap. When Solar Beams
Parch thirsty human Veins, the damask't Meads,
Unforc'd display ten thousand painted Flow'rs
Useful in Potables. Thy little Sons
Permit to range the Pastures; gladly they
Will mow the
Cowslip
-Posies, faintly sweet,
From whence thou artificial Wines shalt drain
Of icy Taste, that, in mid Fervors, best
Slack craving Thirst, and mitigate the Day.
Happy
Irene,
whose most wholesome Air
Poisons envenom'd Spiders, and forbids
The baleful Toad and Viper from her Shore!
More happy in her Balmy Draughts, (enrich'd
With Miscellaneous Spices, and the Root
For Thirst-abating Sweetness prais'd,) which wide
Extend her Fame, and to each drooping Heart
Present Redress, and lively Health convey.
See how the
Belgae,
Sedulous, and Stout,
With Bowls of fat'ning
Mum,
or blissful Cups
Of Kernell-relish'd Fluids, the fair Star
Of early
Phosphorus
salute, at Noon
Jocund with frequent-rising Fumes! by Use
Instructed, thus to quell their Native Flegm
Prevailing, and engender wayward Mirth.
What need to treat of distant Climes, remov'd
Far from the slopeing Journey of the Year,
Beyond
Petsora,
and
Islandic
Coasts?
Where ever-during Snows perpetual Shades
Of Darkness, would congeal their livid Blood,
Did not the
Arctic
Tract, spontaneous yield
A cheering purple Berry, big with Wine,
Intensely fervent, which each Hour they crave,
Spread round a flaming Pile of Pines, and oft
They interlard their native Drinks with choice
Of strongest
Brandy,
yet scarce with these Aids
Enabl'd to prevent the suddain Rot
Of freezing Nose, and quick-decaying Feet.
Nor less the Sable Borderers of
Nile,
Nor who
Taprobane
manure, nor They,
Whom sunny
Borneo
bears, are stor'd with Streams
Egregious,
Rum,
and
Rice
's, Spirit extract.
For here, expos'd to perpendicular Rays,
In vain they covet Shades, and
Thrascia
's Gales,
Pining with
Aequinoctial
Heat unless
The Cordial Glass perpetual Motion keep,
Quick circuiting; nor dare they close their Eyes,
Void of a bulky Charger near their Lips,
With which, in often interrupted Sleep,
Their frying Blood compells to irrigate
Their dry-furr'd Tongues, else minutely to Death
Obnoxious, dismal Death, th' Effect of Drought!
More happy they, born in
Columbus
' World,
Carybbes,
and they, whom the
Cotton
Plant
With downy-sprouting Vests arrays! Their Woods
Bow with prodigious Nuts, that give at once
Celestial Food, and Nectar; than, at hand,
The
Lemmon,
uncorrupt with Voyage long
To vinous Spirits added (heav'nly Drink!)
They with Peneumatic Engine, ceaseless draw,
Intent on Laughter; a continual Tide
Flows from th' exhilerating Fount. As, when
Against a secret Cliff, with suddain Shock
A Ship is dash'd, and leaking drinks the Sea,
Th' astonish'd Mariners all ply the Pump,
No Stay, nor Rest, 'till the wide Breach is clos'd,
So they (but chearful) unfatigu'd, still move
The draining Sucker, then alone concern'd,
When the dry Bowl forbids their pleasing Work.
But if to hording Thou art bent, thy Hopes
Are frustrate, shou'dst Thou think thy Pipes will flow
VVith early-limpid VVine. The horded Store,
And the harsh Draught, must twice endure the Sun's
Kind strengthning Heat, twice Winter's purging Cold.
There are, that a compounded Fluid drain
From different Mixtures,
Woodcock, Pippin, Moyle,
Rough
Eliot,
sweet
Permain,
the blended Streams
(Each mutually correcting each) create
A pleasurable Medly, of what Taste
Hardly distinguish'd; as the showry Arch,
With listed Colours gay,
Or, Azure, Gules,
Delights, and puzles the Beholder's Eye,
That views the watry Brede, with thousand Shews
Of Painture vary'd, yet's unskill'd to tell
Or where one Colour rises, or one faints.
Some Cyders have by Art, or Age unlearn'd
Their genuine Relish, and of sundry Vines
Assum'd the Flavour; one sort counterfeits
The
Spanish
Product, this, to
Gauls
has seem'd
The sparkling
Nectar
of
Champaigne
; with that,
A
German
oft has swill'd his Throat, and sworn,
Deluded, that Imperial
Rhine
bestow'd
The Generous Rummer, whilst the Owner pleas'd,
Laughs inly at his Guests, thus entertain'd
With Foreign Vintage from his Cyder-Cask.
Soon as thy Liquor from the narroct Cells
Of close-prest Husks is freed, thou must refrain
Thy thirsty Soul; let none persuade to broach
Thy thick unwholsome, undigested Cades:
The hoary Frosts, and Northern Blasts take care
Thy muddy Beu'rage to serene, and drive
Praecipitant the baser, ropy Lees.
And now thy Wine's transpicuous, purg'd from all
It's earthy Gross, yet led it feed a while
On the sat Refuse, least too soon disjoin'd
From spritely, it, to sharp, or vappid change.
When to convenient Vigour it attains,
Suffice it to provide a brazen Tube
Inflext; self-taught, and voluntary flies
The desecated Liquor, thro' the Vent
Ascending, then by downward Tract convey'd,
Spouts into subject Vessels, lovely clear.
As when a Noon-tide Sun, with Summer Beams,
Darts thro' a Cloud, her watry Skirts are edg'd
With lucid Amber, or undrosly Gold:
So, and so richly, the purg'd Liquid shines.
Now also, when the Colds abate, nor yet
Full Summer shines, a dubious Season, close
In Glass thy purer Streams, and let them gain,
From due Confinement, Spirit, and Flavour new
For this Intent, the subtle Chymist feeds
Perpetual Flames, whose unresisted Force
O'er Sand, and Ashes, and the stubborn Flint
Prevailing, turns into a fusil Sea,
That in his Furnace bubbles sunny-red:
From hence a glowing Drop with hollow'd Steel
He takes, and by one efficadious Breath
Dilates to a surprizing Cube, or Sphaere,
Or Oval, and fit Receptacles forms
For every liquid, with his plastick Lungs,
To human Life subservient; by his Means
Cyders in Metal frail improve; the
Moyle,
And tastful
Pippin,
in a Moon's short Year,
Acquire compleat Perfection: Now they smoke
Transparent, sparkling in each Drop Delight
Of curious Palate, by fair Virgins crav'd.
But harsher Fluids different lengths of time
Expect: Thy Flask will slowly mitigate
The
Eliot
's Roughness.
Stirom,
firmest Fruit,
Embottled (long as
Priameian Troy
Withstood the
Greeks
) endures, e'er justly mild.
Soften'd by Age, it youthful Vigor gains,
Fallacious Drink! Ye honest Men beware,
Nor trust its Smoothless; The third circling Glass
Suffices Virtue: But may Hypocrites,
(That slyly speak one thing, another think,
Hateful as Hell) pleas'd with the Relish weak,
Drink on unwarn'd, 'till by inchanting Cups
Infatuate, they their wily Thoughts disclose,
And thro' Intemperance grow a while sincere.
The Farmer's Toil is done; his Cades mature,
Now call for Vent, his Lands exhaust permit
T'indulge a while. Now solemn Rites he pays
To
Bacchus,
Author of Heart-cheering Mirth.
His honest Friends, at thirsty hour of Dusk,
Come uninvited; he with bounteous Hand
Imparts his smoaking Vintage, sweet Reward
Of his own Industry; the well-fraught Bowl
Circles incessant, whilst the humble Cell
With quavering Laugh, and rural Jests resounds,
Ease, and Content, and undissembled Love
Shine in each Face; the Thoughts of Labour past
Encrease their Joy. As, from retentive Cage
When sullen
Philomel
escapes; her Notes
She varies, and oft past Imprisonment
Sweetly complains; her Liberty retriev'd
Cheers her sad Soul, improves her pleasing Song.
Gladsome they quaff, yet not exceeding the Bounds
Of healthy Temp'rance, nor incroach on Night,
Season of Rest, but well bedew'd repair
Each to his Home, with unsupplanted Feet.
E'er Heav'n's emblazon'd by the rosie Dawn
Domestic Cares awake them; brisk they rise,
Refresh'd, and lively with the Joys that flow
From amicable Talk, and moderate Cups
Sweetly interchang'd. The pining Lover finds
Present Redress, and long Oblivion drinks
Of Coy
Lucinda.
Give the Debtor Wine;
His Joys are short, and few; yet when he drinks
His Dread retires, the flowing Glasses add
Courage, and Mirth; Magnificent in Thought,
Imaginary Riches he enjoys,
And in the Goal expatiates unconfin'd.
Nor can the Poet
Bacchus'
Praise indite,
Debarr'd his Grape: The Muses still require
Humid Regalement, nor will ought avail
Imploring
Phoebus,
with unmoisten'd Lips.
Thus to the generous Bottle all incline,
By parching Thirst allur'd: With vehement Suns
When dusty Summer bakes the crumbling Clods,
How pleasant is't, beneath the twisted Arch
Of a retreating Bow'r, in Mid-day's Reign
To ply the sweet Carouse, remote from Noise,
Secur'd of fev'rish Heats! When th' aged Year
Inclines, and
Borea
's Spirit blusters frore,
Beware th' inclement Heav'ns; now let thy Hearth
Crackle with juiceless Boughs; thy lingring Blood
Now instigate with th' Apples powerful Streams
Perpetual Showers, and stormy Gusts confine
The willing Ploughman, and
December
warns
To Annual Jollities; now sportive Youth
Carol incondite Rhythms, with suiting Notes,
And quaver unharmonious; sturdy Swains
In clear Array, for rustic Dance prepare,
Mixt with the Buxom Damsels; hand in hand
They frisk, and bound, and various Mazes weave,
Shaking their brawny Limbs, with uncouth Mein,
Transported, and sometimes, an oblique Leer
Dart on their Loves, sometimes, an hasty Kiss
Steal from unwary Lasses; they with Scorn,
And Neck reclind, resent the ravish'd Bliss.
Mean while, blind
British
Bards with volant Touch
Traverse loquacious Strings, whose solemn Notes
Provoke to harmless Revels; these among,
A subtle Artist stands, in wondrous Bag
That bears imprison'd Winds, (of gentler sort
Than those, which erst
Laertes
Son enclos'd.)
Peaceful they sleep, but let the tuneful Squeeze
Of labouring Elbow rouse them, out they fly
Melodious, and with spritely Accents charm.
'Midst these Disports, forget they not to drench
Themselves with bellying Goblets, nor when Spring
Returns, can they refuse to usher in
The fresh-born Year with loud Acclaim, and store
Of jovial Draughts, now, when the sappy Boughs
Attire themselves with Blooms, sweet Rudiments
Of future Harvest: When the
Gnossian
Crown
Leads on expected Autumn, and the Trees
Discharge their mellow Burthens, let them thank
Boon Nature, that thus annually supplies
Their Vaults, and with her former Liquid Gifts
Exhilerate their lanquid Minds, within
The Golden
Mean
confin'd: Beyond, there's naught
Of Health, or Pleasure. Therefore, when thy Heart
Dilates with fervent Joys, and eager Soul
Prompts to pursue the sparkling Glass, be sure
'Tis time to shun it; if thou wilt prolong
Dire Compotation, forthwith Reason quits
Her Empire to Confusion, and Misrule,
And vain Debates; then twenty Tongues at once
Conspire in senseless Jargon, naught is heard
But Din, and various Clamour, and mad Rant:
Distrust, and Jealousie to these succeed,
And anger-kindling Taunt, the certain Bane
Of well-knit Fellowship. Now horrid Frays
Commence, the brimming Glasses now are hurl'd
With dire Intent; Bottles with Bottles clash
In rude Encounter, round their Temples fly
The sharp-edg'd Fragments, down their batter'd Cheeks
Mixt Gore, and Cyder flow: What shall we say
Of rash
Elpenor,
who in evil Hour
Dry'd an immeasurable Bowl, and thought
T'exhale his Surfeit by irriguous Sleep,
Imprudent? Him, Death's Iron-Sleep opprest,
Descending careless from his Couch; the Fall
Luxt his Neck-joint, and spinal Marrow bruis'd.
Nor need we tell what anxious Cares attend
The turbulent Mirth of Wine; nor all the kinds
Of Maladies, that lead to Death's grim Cave,
Wrought by Intemperance, joint racking Gout,
Intestine Stone, and pining Atrophy,
Chill, even when the Sun with
July
-Heats
Frys the scorch'd Soil, and Dropsy all a-float,
Yet craving Liquid: Nor the
Centaurs
Tale
Be here repeated; how with Lust, and Wine
Inflam'd, they fought, and spilt their drunken Souls
At feasting Hour. Ye Heav'nly Pow'rs, that guard
The
British
Isles, such dire Events remove
Far from fair
Albion,
nor let Civil Broils
Ferment from Social Cups: May we, remote
From the hoarce, brazen Sound of War, enjoy
Our humid Products, and with seemly Draughts
Enkindle Mirth, and Hospitable Love.
Too oft alas! has mutual Hatred drench'd
Our Swords in Native Blood, too oft has Pride,
And hellish Discord, and insatiate Thirst
Of other's Rights, our Quiet discompos'd.
Have we forgot, how fell Destruction rag'd
Wide-spreading, when by
Eris'
Torch incens'd
Our Fathers warr'd? What Hero's, signaliz'd
For Loyalty, and Prowess, met their Fate
Untimely, undeserv'd! How
Bertie
fell,
Compton,
and
Gravill,
dauntless Sons of
Mars,
Fit Themes of endless Grief, but that we view
Their Virtues yet surviving in their Race!
Can we forget, how the mad, headstrong Rout
Defy'd their Prince to Arms, nor made account
Of Faith, or Duty, or Allegiance sworn?
Apostate, Atheist Rebels! bent to Ill,
With seeming Sanctity, and cover'd Fraud,
Instill'd by him, who first presum'd t' oppose
Omnipotence; alike their Crime, th' Event
Was not alike; these triumph'd, and in height
Of barbarous Malice, and insulting Pride,
Abstain'd not from Imperial Blood. O Fact
Unparallel'd! O
Charles
! O best of Kings!
What Stars their black, disastrous Influence shed
On Thy Nativity, that Thou shoud'st fall
Thus, by inglorious Hands, in this Thy Realm,
Supreme, and Innocent, adjudg'd to Death
By those, Thy Mercy only wou'd haye sav'd!
Yet was the Cyder-Land unstain'd with Guilt;
The Cyder-Land, obsequious still to Thrones,
Abhor'd such base, disloyal Deeds, and all
Her Pruning-hooks extended into Swords,
Undaunted, to assert the trampled Rights
Of Monarchy; but, ah! successless She
However faithful! then was no regard
Of Right, or Wrong. And this, once happy Land,
By home-bred Fury rent, long groan'd beneath
Tyrannic Sway, 'till fair revolving Years
Our exil'd Kings, and Liberty restor'd.
Now we exult, by mighty
ANNA
's Care
Secure at home, while She to foreign Realms
Sends forth her dreadful Legions, and restrains
The Rage of Kings: Here, nobly She supports
Justice oppress'd; here Her victorious Arms
Quell the Ambitions: From Her Hand alone
All
Europe
fears Revenge, or hopes Redress.
Rejoice, O
Albion!
sever'd from the World
By Nature's wise indulgence, indigent
Of nothing from without; in One Supreme
Intirely blest; and from beginning time
Design'd thus happy; but the fond Desire
Of Rule, and Grandeur, multiply'd a Race
Of Kings, and numerous Sceptres introduc'd,
Destructive of the public Weal: For now
Each Potentate, as wary Fear, or Strength,
Or Emulation urg'd, his Neighbour's Bounds
Invades, and ampler Territory seeks
With ruinous Assault; on every Plain
Host cop'd with Host, dire was the Din of War,
And ceaseless, or short Truce haply procur'd
By Havoc, and Dismay, 'till Jealousy
Rais'd new Combustion: Thus was Peace in vain
Sought for by Martial Deeds, and Conflict stern:
'Till
Edgar
grateful (as to those who pine
A dismal half-Year Night, the orient Beam
Of
Phaebus
Lamp) arose, and into one
Cemented all the long-contending Pow'rs,
Pacific Monarch; then Her lovely Head
Concord rear'd high, and all around distas'd
The Spirit of Love; at Ease, the Bards new strung
Their silent Harps, and taught the Woods, and Vales,
In uncouth Rhythms, to eccho
Edgar
's Name.
Then Gladness smil'd in every Eye; the Years
Ran smoothly on, productive of a Line
Of wise, Heroic Kings, that by just Laws
Establish'd Happiness at home, or crush'd
Insulting Enemies in farthest Climes.
See Lyon-Hearted
Richard,
with his Force
Drawn from the North, to
Jury
's hallow'd Plains!
Piously valiant, (like a Torrent swell'd
With wintry Tempests, that disdains all Mounds,
Breaking a Way impetuous, and involves
Within its Sweep, Trees, Houses, Men) he press'd
Amidst the thickest Battel; and o'er-threw
Whate'er withstood his zealous Rage; no Pause,
No Stay of Slaughter, found his vigorous Arm,
But th' unbelieving Squadrons turn'd to Flight
Smote in the Rear, and with dishonest Wounds
Mangl'd behind: The
Soldan,
as he fled,
Oft call'd on
Alla,
gnashing with Despite,
And Shame, and murmur'd many an Empty Curse.
Behold Third
Edward
's Streamers blazing high
On
Gallia
's hostile Ground! his Right with-held,
Awakens Vengeance; O imprudent
Gauls,
Relying on false Hopes, thus to incense
The warlike
English!
one important Day
Shall teach you meaner Thoughts: Eager of Fight,
Fierce
Brutus
Off-spring to the adverse Front
Advance resistless, and their deep Array
With furious Inroad pierce; the mighty Force
Of
Edward,
twice o'erturn'd their desperate King,
Twice he arose, and join'd the horrid Shock:
The third time, with his wide extended Wings,
He fugitive declin'd superior Strength,
Discomfited; pursu'd, in the sad Chace
Ten Thousands ignominious fall; with Blood
The Vallies float: Great
Edward
thus aveng'd,
With golden
Iris
his broad Sheild emboss'd.
Thrice glorious Prince! whom, Fame with all her Tongues
For ever shall resound. Yet from his Loins
New Authors of Dissention spring; from him
Two Branches, that in hosting long contend
For Sov'rain Sway; (and can such Anger dwell
In noblest Minds?) but little now avail'd
The Ties of Friendship; every Man, as lead
By Inclination, or vain Hope, repair'd
To either Camp, and breath'd immortal Hate,
And dire Revenge: Now horrid Slaughter reigns;
Sons against Father tilt the fatal Lance,
Careless of Duty, and their native Grounds
Distain with Kindred Blood, the twanging Bows
Send Showers of Shafts, that on their barbed Points
Alternate Ruin bear. Here might you see
Barons, and Peasants on th' embottled Field
Slain, or half dead, in one huge, ghastly Heap
Promiscuously amast: with dismal Groans,
And Ejulation, in the Pangs of Death
Some call for Aid, neglected; some o'erturn'd
In the fierce Shock, lye gasping, and expire,
Trampled by fiery Coursers; Horror thus,
And wild Uproar, and Desolation reign'd
Unrespited: Ah! who at length will end
This long, pernicious Fray? What Man has Fate
Reserv'd for this great Work?—Hail, happy Prince
Of
Tuder
's Race, whom in the Womb of Time
Cadwallador
foresaw! Thou, Thou art He,
Great
Richmond Henry,
that by nuptial Rites
Must close the Gates of
Janus,
and remove
Destructive Discord: Now no more the Drum
Provokes to Arms, or Trumpet's Clangor shrill
Affrights the Wives, or chills the Virgin's Blood;
But Joy, and Pleasure open to the View
Uninterrupted! With presaging Skill
Thou to Thy own unitest
Fergus'
Line
By wise Alliance; from thee
James
descends,
Heav'ns chosen Fav'rite, first
Britannic
King.
To him alone, Hereditary Right
Gave Power supreme; yet still some Seeds remain'd
Of Discontent; Two Nations under One,
In Laws and Int'rest diverse, still pursu'd
Peculiar Ends, on each Side resolute
To fly Conjunction; neither Fear, nor Hope,
Nor the sweet Prospect of a mutual Gain,
Cou'd ought avail, 'till prudent
ANNA
said
Let there be Ʋ NION
; strait with Reverence due
To Her Command, they willingly unite,
One in Affection, Laws, and Government,
Indissolubly firm; from
Dubris
South,
To Northern
Orcades,
Her long Domain.
And now thus leagu'd by an eternal Bond,
What shall retard the
Britons'
bold Designs,
Or who sustain their Force; in Union knit,
Sufficient to withstand the Pow'rs combin'd
Of all this Globe? At this important Act
The
Mauritanian
and
Cathaian
Kings
Already tremble, and th' unbaptiz'd
Turk
Dreads War from utmost
Thule
; uncontrol'd
The
British
Navy thro' the Ocean vast
Shall wave her double Cross, t' extreamest Climes
Terrifie, and return with odorous Spoils
Of
Araby
well fraught, or
Indus'
Wealth,
Pearl, and Barbaric Gold; mean while the Swains
Shall unmolested reap, what Plenty strows
From well stor'd Horn, rich Grain, and timely Fruits
The elder Year,
Pomona,
pleas'd, shall deck
With ruby-tinctur'd Births, whose liquid Store
Abundant, flowing in well blended Streams,
The Natives shall applaud; while glad the talk
Of baleful Ills, caus'd by
Bellona
's Wrath
In other Realms; where e'er the
British
spread
Triumphant Banners, or their Fame has reach'd
Diffusive to the utmost Bounds of this
Wise Universe,
Silurian
Cyder borne
Shall please all Tasts, and triumph o'er the Vine.
THE END.
THE SPLENDID SHILLING: IN Imitation of
MILTON.
—Sing Heav'nly Muse,
Things unattempted yet in Prose or Rhyme,
A Shilling, Breeches, and Chimera
's
dire.
HAppy the Man, who void of Cares and Strife,
In Silken or in Leathern Purse retains
A Splendid Shilling: he not hears with pain
New Oysters cry'd, nor sighs for cheerful Ale;
But with his Friends, when nightly Mists arise,
To
Juniper
's, or
Magpye,
or
Town-Hall
repairs,
Where mindful of the Nymph, whose wanton Eye,
Transfix'd his Soul, and kindled Amorous Flames.
Chloe
or
Phillis
; he each Circling Glass
Wisheth her Health, and Joy, and equal Love.
Mean while he Smoaks, and Laughs at merry Tale,
Or
Pun
ambiguous, or
Conundrum
quaint.
But I whom griping Penury surrounds,
And Hunger, sure Attendant upon Want,
With scanty Offals, and small acid Tiff
(Wretched Repast) my meagre Corps sustain;
Then Solitary walk, or doze at home
In Garret vile, and with a warming puff
Regale chill'd Fingers, or from Tube as blac
As Winter's Chimney, or well-polish'd Jett,
Exhale
Mundungus,
ill-perfuming Smoak.
Not blacker Tube, nor of a shorter Size
Smoaks
Cambro-Britain
(vers'd in Pedigree,
Sprung from
Cadwalader
and
Arthur,
ancient Kings,
Full famous in Romantick tale) when he
O'r
many a craggy Hill, and fruitless Cliff.
Upon a Cargo of fam'd
Cestrian
Cheese,
High over-shadowing rides, with a design
Te vend his Wares, or at the
Arvonian
Mart,
Or
Maridunum,
or the ancient Town
Hight
Morgannumia,
or where
Vaga
's Stream
Encircles
Ariconium,
fruitful Soil,
Whence flow Nectareous Wines, that well may vye
With
Massic, Setian,
or Renown'd
Falern.
Thus while my joyless Hours I lingring spend,
With Looks demure, and silent pace a
Dund,
Horrible Monster! hated by Gods and Men,
To my aerial Citadel ascends;
With Vocal Heel thrice Thund'ring at my Gates,
With hideous Accent thrice he calls; I know
The Voice ill boding, and the solemn Sound;
What shou'd I do, or whether turn? amaz'd,
Confounded, to the dark Recess I fly
Of Woodhole; streight my bristling Hairs erect,
My Tongue forgets her Faculty of Speech,
So horrible he seems; his faded Brow
Entrench'd with many a Frown, and
conic
Beard,
And spreading Band admir'd by Modern Saint
Disastrous Acts forbode; in his Right hand
Long Scrolls of Paper solemnly he waves,
With Characters and Figures dire inscribed
Grievous to mortal Eye, (ye Gods avert
Such Plagues from Righteous Men) behind him stalks
Another Monster, not unlike himself,
Of Aspect sullen, by the Vulgar called
A
Catchpole,
whose polluted hands the Gods
With Force incredible, and Magic Charms
Erst have indu'd, if he his ample Palm
Should haply on ill-fated Shoulder lay
Of Debtor, streight his Body to the touch
Obsequious (as Whilom Knights were wont)
To some enchanted Castle is convey'd,
Where Gates impregnable, and coercive Charm
In durance vile detain him, till in form
Of Money,
Pallas
set the Captive free.
Beware, ye Debtors, when ye walk, beware,
Be circumspect; oft which insiduous Ken,
This Caitiff eyes your steps alooff, and oft
Lies perdue in a Creek or gloomy Cave,
Prompt to enchant some inadvertent wretch
With his unhallow'd Touch. So (Poets sing)
Grimalkin
to Domestick Vermin sworn
An everlasting Foe, with watchful eye,
Lyes nightly brooding ore a chinky gap,
Protending her fell claws, to thoughtless Mice
Sure ruin. So her disembowell'd Web
The
Spider
in a Hall or Kitchin spreads,
Obvious to vagrant Flies: she secret stands
Within her woven Cell; the Humming Prey
Regardless of their Fate, rush on the toils
Inextricable, nor will ought avail
Their Arts nor Arms, nor shapes of lovely Hue,
The Wasp insidious, and the buzzing Drone,
And Butterfly proud of expanded Wings
Distinct with Gold, entangled in her Snares,
Useless resistance make: with eager strides
She tow'ring flies to her expected Spoils;
Then with envenom'd Jaws the vatal Blood
Drinks of reluctant Foes, and to her Cave
Their bulky Carcasses triumphant drags.
So pass my days. But when Nocturnal Shades
This World invelop, and th' inclement Air
Perswades Men to repel benumming Frosts,
With pleasant Wines, and crackling blaze of Wood;
Me lonely sitting, nor the glimmering Light
Of make-weight Candle, nor the joyous talk
Of lovely friends delights; distress'd, forlorn,
Amidst the Horrors of the tedious Night,
Darkling I sigh, and feed with dismal Thoughts
My anxious Mind; or sometimes mournful Verse
Indite, and sing of Groves and Myrtle Shades,
Or desperate Lady near a purling stream,
Or Lover pendant on a Willow-tree:
Mean while I labour with eternal drought,
And restless wish, in vain, my parched Throat
Finds no relief, nor heavy Eyes repose:
But if a Slumber haply do's invade
My weary Limbs, my Fancy still awake,
Longing for Drink, and eager in my Dream,
Tipples Imaginary Pots of Ale.
Awake, I find the setled Thirst—
Still gnawing, and the pleasant Phantom curse.
Thus do I live from Pleasure quite debarr'd,
Nor tast the Fruits that the Sun's genial Rays
Mature, John-apple, nor the Downy Peach,
Nor Walnut in rough-furrow'd Coat secure,
Nor Medlar Fruit delicious in decay;
Afflictions great, yet greater still remain,
My
Galligaskins
that have long withstood
The Winter's Fury, and encroaching Frosts,
By Time subdu'd, (what will not Time subdue!
A horrid Chasm disclose, with Orifice
Wide discontinuous; at which the Winds
Eurus,
and
Auster,
and the dreadful force
Of
Boreas,
that congeals the
Cronian
Waves,
Tumultuous enter with dire chilling Blasts,
Portending Agues. Thus a well-fraught Ship
Long sail'd secure, or through the
Egean
Deep,
Or the
Ionian,
'till Cruising near
The
Lilybean
Shoar; with hideous Crush
On
Scylla
or
Charybdis
dangerous Rocks
She strikes rebounding, whence the shatter'd Oak,
So fierce a Shock unable to withstand,
Admits the Sea, in at the gaping Side,
The crouding Waves gush with impetuous Rage,
Resistless overwhelming; Horrors seize
The Marriners Death in their Eyes appears,
They stare, they lave, they plump, they swear, they pray:
Vain Efforts, still the battering Waves rush in
Implacable, 'till delug'd by the foam,
The Ship sinks found'ring in the vast Abyss.
TO A LADY: WITH
Milton
's Paradise Lost.
SEE here how bright the First-born Virgin shone!
And how the first Fond Lover was undone:
Such powerful Words our Charming Mother spoke,
As
Milton
's are, and such as
Yours
her Look.
Your
's the best Copy of the Original Face,
Whose Beauty was to furnish all her Race.
Your Charms no Author can escape but he;
There's no way to be safe, but not to see.
A SONG.
I.
WHat! put off with One Denial?
And not make a Second Tryal?
You might see my Eyes consenting,
All about me was relenting:
Women oblig'd to dwell in Forms,
Forgive the Youth who boldly storms.
II.
Lovers, when you Sigh and Languish;
When you tell us of your Anguish;
To the Nymph you'll be more pleasing,
When those Sorrows you are reasing:
We love to try how far Men dare,
And never wish the Foe should spare.
A SONG.
By Mr.
Cheek.
BRight
Cythia
's Power, divinely Great;
What Heart is not Obeying?
A Thousand
Cupids
on her wait,
And in her Eyes are playing.
She seems the Quee
of Love to reign,
For she alone dispences
Such Sweets as best can entertain
The Gust of all the Sences.
Her Face a Charming Prospect brings;
Her Breath gives balmy Blisses:
I hear an Angel when she Sings,
And taste of Heaven in Kisses.
Four Sences thus she Feasts with Joy,
From Nature's chiefest Treasure:
Let me the other Sence employ,
And I shall dye with Pleasure.
A Catalogue of
Poems,
Printed and Sold by
H. Hills
in
Black-Fryars,
near the Water side.
A Congratulatory POEM to his
Royal Highness
Prince
George
of
Denmark,
Lord High Admiral of
Great Britain,
upon the Glorious Successes at Sea. By
N. Tate
Esq
Poet-Laureat to Her Majesty. To which is added a Happy Memorable
Song,
on the Fight near
Audenarde,
between the Duke of
Marlborough
and
Vendome,
&c.
Windsor Castle
: A POEM. Inscrib'd to the Immortal Honour of our most Gracious Sovereign,
Anne,
Queen of
Great Britain, France,
and
Ireland.
To which is added,
Britain
's Jubilee; a new Congratulatory
SONG,
&c.
Marlborough
Still Conquers: Or, UNION hath got the Day. A POEM, upon the late Victory obtained by the Prince and Duke of
Marlborough
; And UNION of the Two Kingdoms. By
J. Gaynam,
The Battel of
Audenarde.
A POEM, occasion'd by the Glorious Victory obtain'd over the
French
near that Place, the 11th of
July,
1708. N. S. by the Confederate Army under the Command of his Grace the Duke of
Marlborough,
Monsieur
D' Auverguerque,
and Prince
Eugene
of
Savoy.
With the
Characters
of the General Officers, who were present in the Engagement. Also a New Copy of Verses of
Jack French-man
's
Lamentation.
The Flight of the Pretender, with
Advice to the POETS.
A POEM, in the Arthurical,— Jobical.—Elizabethical Style and Phrase of the sublime POET
MAƲ RƲ S.
Honesty in Distress; But reliev'd by no Party. A Tragedy, As it is Acted on the Stage,
&c.
St. Jame
's Park: A SATYR.
The Kit-Cats. A
POEM.
To which is added the PICTURE, in Imitation of
Annacreon
's
Bathillus.
As also the
Coquet Beauty,
by the Right Honourable the Marquis of
Normanby.
WINE, A
POEM.
To which is added
Old
England's
New Triumph
▪ Or, the Battel of
Audenard. A SONG.
A
POEM,
occasion'd by the much lamented Death of Mrs
Hester Buckworth,
only Daughter of Sir
John Buckworth,
Kt. and Bar.
The
LONG VACATION.
A SATYR Address'd to all Disconsolate TRADERS.
FINIS