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

TO THE Ingenious, and my Dear Friend, M^r J. Knight.

Writ in the Year 1685.

WHile I am here in a rich fertile soyl, Which e'en anticipates the Lab'rers toil; A Country where substantial joys abound, And every season with fresh plenty crown'd; Where the blest Natives in firm health appear Till they have weather'd out twice forty year, Yet live and dy without a thought of care; While I remain in such a Clime as this, And take full Draughts of harmless, rural Bliss, I cannot but, with indignation, frown At what is your Delight, the vitious Town: The Town, which you extolev'n to the sky, But I wou'd gladly know your Reasons why. Though you are blest with Honesty and Sense, What more can you say in the Town's defence Than Shepherds in their State of Innocence? Where free from noise, and all tumultuous strife, They make the best of an uncertain Life.

Ambition's deadly Rock they wisely shun, Where most Aspiring Spirits are undone. Unnecessary things they ne'r require, Nor beyond Natures wants stretch their desire. To hoard up heaps of wealth they little mind, 'Tis sweet Content they seek, and that they find. Their Mistresses are brown, of Sun-burnt hew, But then, to make amends, they're always true. Here when a Shepherdess does chance to wed, She comes, unsully'd, to the Nuptial Bed; But a new Comet sooner will appear Than any Virgin found that does so there. Through your lewd streets salt Drabs in Legions goe, The Strand has, every night, its Ebb and Flow. Nay, to the City the same Fate arrives, But there the Trade lies most among the Wives: The Husbands they get money by their Wares, The Wives are forc't to give to put off theirs. Like the Court Ladies modesty explode, Keep brawny Stallions (which is now the mode) And scorn to go to Hell the vulgar road. O blessed Sex! O vertuous Womankind! That ev'n in damning strive to be refin'd! I grant indeed that all strict knowing Men Detest their loose embraces, but what then? We see, 'tis obvious, there is a time Vertue may be surpriz'd into a Crime. A thousand ways they have t' enflame desire, And fan the blood into a Lustful Fire: 'Tis best, then, to be absent from the Lure, And here, 'tis only here we are secure:

With us that Sex is free from all trapan, They blush if they but look upon a Man: But blushing Maids are out of Vogue with you; The Men there blush to see what Women do. Bastards, we know, with you are daily got, And 'tis as sure they daily go to Pot: No Privy's free; where they in ordure ly, Yet sweeter than their Mother's Infamy. If such a thing does chance to happen here, It is a Theme of Horror for a year: The sad Offender does receive her due; But there they live and glory in it too. There many dwell seven years, and, to their shame, They shall not tell what's their next Neighbour's name: But, in this point, here's a vast difference found; The honest Farmer's known seven Miles around. Divide your Town, one part in three are Slaves, The next and greatest, Mercenary Knaves, The third Buffoons, Pimps, Fops and Empty Braves: The last of which, though they roar, huff and damn; Search 'em, they're tame at bottom as a Lamb. As who swears most is least believ'd of all, So big words shew the Courage to be small. Were these three num'rous herds driv'n from their Folds, We may affirm, you wou'd not meet three Souls, Three honest Ones, from Charing-Cross to Pauls.

It may be urg'd, the Country is not free From many spreading Vices, sad to see, Particularly, that of Knavery. But where, alas! where is that Plot of ground In which no wast, no Weeds are to be found? Now, here to root 'em up we daily strive, At London care is taken they shall thrive: They flourish there, grow popular and great; That soil is never without Knaves of State. That this is so we boldly may express, Our late Divisions testify no less, When Royal Power was thought a senseless thing, And he most Popular, that curst the King. Your Lawyers are Incorporate with these, For they, at all times, can be false with ease, Side on both sides, and damn themselves for Fees: And though they shou'd redress and help the poor, Peel 'em quite bare, and make 'em suffer more Than twenty hard, sharp Winters did before. Though all this be deplorable and sad, The Grievance is, in other things, as bad. How many vain Fops buz about the Court Like Butterflies, which nature made in sport? But shou'd they pay the Tradesman what they owe, You'l find the Peacock turn'd into a Crow. Yet these are they who such strange charms im∣part, They glide unfelt into a Female Heart: To get whose love, much talk and little wit Are two sharp Darts that never fail to hit.

Now Coxcombs are, we know, compos'd of these, And that's the reason they are sure to please. Such men that Sex admire, and well they may, For nothing but a Fop's so vain as they. Nor is this all that makes the Town our hate; The very drink it self's sophisticate: For your French Wines (and yet the trash does please) Are grown as dang'rous as the French Disease, Stum'd, mixt, adulterate, for nothing good, But sharpen and corrupt the wholsom blood. Not that I am a Foe to the rich juice, If it be right and free from all abuse, For it helps Fancy, makes it walk as high, (The Muses Friend) as 'twou'd, without it, fly. But as the Age goes now, good Wine's as scarce As Truth in Friendship, or as Wit in Farce. Free from all this, and what ere else we find That shocks the peace and quiet of the mind, The happy Country Swains supinely ly, In the soft Arms of kind obscurity. Nor Death nor Poverty by them are fear'd, Against the worst of ills they stand prepar'd; For a good Conscience is the safest Guard; And that they ever have, as wronging none, And living on that little of their own; And very little is a boundless store, To him who, wisely, does desire no more. More Instances might easily be shown To prove the Country Life excell'd by none; But I shall mention, at this time, but one,

One fit to crown the rest, and that shall be Good House-keeping and Hospitality. The Gentry there can dine upon a Dish, Two or three Eggs, or some small scraps of Fish; You think they're frugal, but 'tis all a cheat, And this, in short's the truth of the deceit; They spend so much on Drabs, they are not able To live up to their Birth, and keep a Table: Hence you may guess how they relieve the Poor; Two or three Bones, perhaps, not a bit more, Which Footmen and the Dogs had pick't before: Footmen, I say, for in this Courtly Age, Though they want Bread, they'l have an Equipage. But here 'tis seen, to their Immortal Fame, That Charity is not an empty Name. For to the needy they relief dispence, With a free heart and general Influence. No man can starve, if to the Bounty shown They add some little labour of their own. Consider but these Truths impartially, And I dont doubt but you will soon comply To think as lightly of the Town, as I.