Poems, chiefly consisting of satyrs and satyrical epistles by Robert Gould.

THE LAUREAT. A SATYR.

The ARGUMENT.

Jack Squob's History in little drawn, Down to his Ev'ning from his early dawn.

APpear, thou mighty Bard, to open view, Which yet, we must confess, you need not do; The labour to expose thee we may save; Thou stand'st upon thy own Records a Knave; Condemn'd to live, in thy Apostate Rhimes, The Curse of Ours, and scoff of future times. Still tacking round with every turn of State; Reverse to Shaftsbury! thy cursed Fate, Is always at a change to come too late.

To keep his Plots from Coxcombs was his care; His Villany was mask't, and thine is bare. Wise men alone cou'd guess at his design, And cou'd but guess, the thread was spun so fine; But every purblind Fool may see through thine, Had Dick still kept the Regal Diadem, Thou had'st been Poet Laureat to him; And long e'r now, in lofty Verse, Proclaim'd His high Extraction, among Princes fam'd: "Diffus'd his glorious Deeds from Pole to Pole, "Where Winds can carry, and where Waves can roul. Nay, had our Charles, by Heav'ns severe Decree, Been found and murder'd in the Royal Tree, Ev'n thou had'st prais'd the Fact; his Father slain, Thou call'st but gently breathing of a Vein. Impious and Villanous, to bless the blow That laid at once three lofty Nations low, And gave the Royal-Cause a total overthrow! What after this cou'd we expect from thee? What cou'd we hope for but just what we see? Scandal to all Religions new and old, A scandal ev'n to thine, where Pardon's bought and sold, And mortgag'd Happiness redeem'd for transito∣ry Gold. Tell me, for 'tis a truth you must allow, Who ever chang'd more in one Moon than Thou? Ev'n thy own Zimri was more stedfast known; He had but one Religion, or had none. What Sect of Christian is't thou hast not known, And, at one time or other, made thy own? A Bristl'd Baptist bred, and then thy strain, Immaculate, was free from sinful stain:

No Songs in those blest times thou did'st produce To brand and shame good manners out of use. The Ladies then had not one bawdy Bob, Nor thou the Courtly Name of Poet Squab. Next thy dull Muse, an Independant Iade, On sacred Tyranny fine Stanzas made, Prais'd Noll, who ev'n to both Extreams did run, To kill the Father, and Dethrone the Son. When Charles came in, thou did'st a Convert grow; More by thy Interest than thy Nature so: Under his kindly Beams thy Laurel spread, He first did place that Wreath about thy Head, Kindly reliev'd thy wants, and gave thee bread. Here 'twas thou mad'st the Bells of Fancy chime, And choak't the Town with suffocating rhime. Till Heroes, form'd by thy creating Pen, Were grown as cheap and dull as other men. Flush't with success, full Gallery, Box, and Pit, Thou branded'st all Mankind with want of Wit, And in short time wer't grown so vain a Ninny, As scarce t' allow that Ben himself had any: But when the men of sense these errors saw, They check't thy Muse, and kept the Termagant in awe. To Satyr then thy Talent was addrest, Fell foul on all, thy Friends among the rest; Those that the oft'nest did thy wants supply, Abus'd, traduc'd, without a Reason why. Nay ev'n thy Royal Patron was not spar'd, But an Obscene, a Sauntring Wretch declar'd. Thy Loyal Libel we can still produce, Beyond Example, and beyond Excuse!

O strange return to a forgiving King! But the warm'd Viper wears the sharpest Sting. Thy Pension lost, and justly, without doubt, When Servants snarl, we ought to kick 'em out; They that disdain their Benefactors Bread, No longer ought, by Bounty to be fed; That lost, you chang'd the Vizor, turn'd about, And streight a true-blue-Protestant crept out. The Fryer now was writ, and some will say They smell a Male-Content through all the Play. The Papist too was thought unfit for trust, Call'd shameless, treach'rous, profligate, unjust, And Kingly Power meer Arbitrary Lust. This lasted till thou did'st thy Pension gain, And that chang'd both thy Morals and thy Strain. If to write Contradiction Nonsense be, Who has more nonsense in their works than Thee? We'l mention but thy Layman's Faith, and Hind; Who'd think both these, such clashing do we find, Cou'd be the Product of one single mind? Here thou wou'd'st Charitable fain appear, Find'st fault that Athanasius was severe; Thy pity streight to cruelty is rais'd, And ev'n the Pious Inquisition prais'd, And recommended to the Present Reign: — "O Happy Countries, Italy and Spain! Have we not cause in thy own words to say, "Let none believe what varies every day, "That never was, nor will be at a stay? Once, Heathens might be sav'd, you did allow, But not, it seems, we greater Heathens now:

The Loyal Church that buoys the Kingly Line, Damn'd with a Breath, but 'tis such Breath as thine. What Credit to thy Party can it be To 've gain'd so vile a Proselyte as Thee? Stray'd from the Fold, makes us but laugh, not weep, One of the Shabby, and the Scabby Sheep; We have but lost what 'twas disgrace to keep. By them mistrusted, and to us a scorn, For 'tis but weakness, at the best, to turn. True, had'st thou left us in the former Reign, 'T had prov'd it was not wholly done for gain; Now the Meridian Sun is not more plain. Gold is thy God, for a substantial summ, Thou to the Turk wou'd'st run away from Rome, And sing his holy Expedition against Christ∣endom. But to conclude, blush with a lasting red, (If thou'rt not mov'd with what's already said) To see thy Boars, Bears, Buzzards, Wolves and Owls, And all thy other Beasts, and other Fowls Routed by two poor Mice; unequal fight! But easy 'tis to conquer in the Right. See there a Youth, a shame to thy gray hairs, Make a meer Dunce of all thy threescore years. What in that tedious Poem hast thou done, But cramm'd all Aesop's Fables into one? But why shou'd I the precious minutes spend On him that wou'd much rather hang, than mend?

No, Wretch, continue still just as thou art, Thou'rt now in the last Scene that crowns thy part: To purchase favour, veer with every gale, And against Interest never cease to rail, Though thou'rt the only proof how Interest can prevail.

The End of the Satyr upon the Laureat.