Clievelandi Vindiciæ, or, Clieveland's genuine poems, orations, epistles, &c. purged from the many false and spurious ones which had usurped his name, and from innumerable errours and corruptions in the true copies : to which are added many never printed before, with an account of the author's life.

Smectymnuus, or the Club-Divines.

SMectymnuus! The Goblin makes me start; Ith' name of Rabbi Abraham, what art? Syriak? or Arabick? or Welsh? what skilt? Ape all the Bricklayers that Babel built. Some Conjurer translate, and let me know it; Till then 'tis fit for a West Saxon Poet.

But do the Brotherhood then play their Prizes, Like Mummers in Religion, with Disguises? Out-brave us with a Name in Rank and File? A name, which if 'twere train'd would spread a mile. The Saints Monopoly, the Zealous Cluster, Which like a Porcupine presents a Muster, And shoots his Quills at Bishops and their Sees, A devout Litter of young Machabees. Thus Iack of all Trades hath distinctly shown The twelve Apostles in a Cherry-stone. Thus Faction's A-la-mode in Treason's fashion, Now we have Heresie by Complication. Like to Don Quixot's Rosary of Slaves Strung on a Chain, a Murnival of Knaves Pack'd in a Trick; like Gipsies when they ride, Or like the College which sit all of a side: So the vain Satyrists stand all a row, As hollow Teeth upon a Lute-string show. Th' Italian Monster pregnant with his Brother, Nature's Diaeresis, half one another; He with his little Sidesmam Lazarus Must both give way unto Smectymnuus. Next Sturbridge Fair is Smec's; for lo his side Into a fivefold Lazar multiplied. Under each Arm there's tuck'd a double Gizzard, Five Faces lurk under one single Vizard.

The Whore of Babylon left these Brats behind, Heirs of Confusion by Gavelkind. I think Pythagoras's Soul is rambled hither With all her change of Rayment on together. Smec is her general Wardrope; she'l not dare To think of him as of a thorough-fare. He stops the Gossiping Dame; alone he is The Purlew of a Metempsychosis: Like a Scotch Mark; where the more modest sence Checks the loud Phrase & shrinks to thirteen pence; Like to an Ignis fatuus, whose flame, Though sometimes tripartite, joyns in the same. Like to nine Taylors, who (if rightly spell'd) Into one Man are Monosyllabl'd. Shorthanded Zeal in one hath cramped many, Like to the Decalogue in a single penny. See, see how close the Curs hunt under a sheet, As if they spent in Quire, and scan'd their feet. One Cure, and five Incumbents leap a Truss, The Title sure must be Litigious. The Sadduces would raise a Question, Who shall be Smec at th' Resurrection. Who coop'd them up together were to blame, Had they but wire drawn and spun out the name, 'Twould make another Prentices Petition Against the Bishops and their Superstition.

Robson and French (that count from five to five, As far as Nature fingers did contrive. She saw they would be Sessers, that's the cause She cleft their Hoof into so many Claws) May tire their Carret-Bunch; yet ne'r agree To rate Smectymnuus for Polemoney. Caligula (whose Pride was Mankind's Bail, As who disdain'd to murder by Retail, Wishing the World had but one general Neck) His glutton Blade might have found Game in Smec. No Eccho can improve the Author more, Whose Lungs pay use and use to half a score. No Felon is more letter'd, though the Brand Both superscribes his Shoulder and his Hand. Some Walshman was his Godfather; for he Wears in his Name his Genealogy. The Banns are ask'd, would but the times give way, Betwixt Smectymnuus and Et caetera: The Guests, invited by a friendly Summons, Should be the Convocation and the Commons; The Priest to tie the Foxes tails together Mosely, or Sancta Cl••ra, choose you whether. See what an Off-spring every one expects; What strange Plurality of Men and Sects? One says he'l get a Vestry, but another Is for a Synod; Bets upon the Mother.

Faith cry St. George! Let them go to't and stickle Whether a Conclave, or a Conventicle. Thus might Religions Catterwaul and spight Which uses to Devorce, might once unite: But their cross Fortunes interdict their Trade, The Groom is Rampant, but the Bride is Spade. My Task is done, all my he Goats are milk'd; So many Cards ith' Stock, and yet be bilk'd? I could by Letters now untwist the Rabble, Whip Smec from Constable to Constable. But there I leave you to another's dressing; Only kneel down and take your Father's Blessing; May the Queen Mother justifie your fears, And stretch her Patent to your Leather ears.