The works of Mr. John Oldham, together with his Remains

A SATYR, In Imitation of the Third of JUVENAL.

Written, May, 1682.

The Poet brings in a Friend of his, giving him an account why he removes from London to live in the Country.

THO much concern'd to leave my dear old Friend, I must however his Design commend Of fixing in the Country: for were I As free to chuse my Residence, as he;

The Peake, the Fens, the Hundreds, or Lands-end, I would prefer to Fleetstreet, or the Strand. What place so desart, and so wild is there, Whose Inconveniencies one would not bear, Rather than the Alarms of midnight Fire, The falls of Houses, Knavery of Cits, The Plots of Factions, and the noise of Wits, And thousand other Plagues, which up and down Each day and hour infest the cursed Town?

As Fate wou'd have't, on the appointed day Of parting hence, I met him on the way, Hard by Mile-end, the place so fam'd of late, In Prose, and Verse for the great Factions Treat; Here we stood still, and after Complements Of course, and wishing his good Journey hence, I ask'd what sudden causes made him slie The once-lov'd Town, and his dear Company: When, on the hated Prospect looking back, Thus with just rage the good old Timon spake.

Since Virtue here in no repute is had, Since Worth is scorn'd, Learning and Sense un paid, And Knavery the only thriving Trade; Finding my slender Fortune every day Dwindle, and waste insensibly away, I, like a losing Gamester, thus retreat, To manage wiselier my last stake of Fate: While I have strength, and want no staff to prop My tott'ring Limbs, e're Age has made me stoop Beneath its weight, e're all my Thread be spun, And Life has yet in store some Sands to run, 'Tis my Resolve to quit the nauseous Town.

Let thriving Morecraft chuse his dwelling there, Rich with the Spoils of some young spend-thrist Heir: Let the Plot-mongers stay behind, whose Art Can Truth to Sham, and Sham to Truth convert: Who •…•…ver has an House to Build, or Set, His Wife, his Conscience, or his Oath to let:

Who ever has, or hopes for Offices, A Navy, Guard, or Custom-house's Place: Let sharping Courtiers stay, who there are great By putting the false Dice on King, and State. Where they, who once were Grooms, and Foot-Boys known, Are now to fair Estates, and Honours grown; Nor need we envy them, or wonder much At their fantastick Greatness, since they're such, Whom Fortune oft in her capricious freaks Is pleas'd to raise from Kennels, and the Jakes, To Wealth, and Dignity above the rest, When she is frolick, and dispos'd to jest.

I live in London? What should I do there? I cannot lye, nor flatter, nor forswear: I can't commend a Book, or Piece of Wit, (Tho a Lord were the Author) dully writ: I'm no Sir Sydrophel to read the Stars, And cast Nativities for longing Heirs,

When Fathers shall drop off: no Gadbury To tell the minute, when the King shall die, And you know what—come in: nor can I steer, And tack about my Conscience, whensoe're, To a new Point, I see Religion veer. Let others pimp to Courtier's Lechery, I'll draw no City-Cuckold's Curse on me: Nor would I do it, tho to be made great, And rais'd to the chief Ministry of State. Therefore I think it fit to rid the Town Of one, that is an useless member grown.

Besides, who has pretence to Favour now, But he, who hidden Villany does know, Whose Breast does with some burning Secret glow? By none thou shalt preferr'd, or valued be, That trusts thee with an honest Secresie: He only may to great mens Friendship reach, Who Great Men, when he pleases, can impeach.

Let others thus aspire to Dignity; For me, I'd not their envied Grandeur buy For all th' Exchange is worth, that Pauls will cost, Or was of late in the Scotch Voyage lost. What would it boot, if I, to gain my end, Forgo my Quiet, and my ease of mind, Still fear'd, at last betray'd by my great Friend.?

Another Cause, which I must boldly own, And not the least, for which I quit the Town, Is to behold it made the Common-shore, Where France does all her Filth, and Ordure pour: What Spark of true old English rage can bear Those, who were Slaves at home, to Lord it here? We've all our Fashions, Language, Complements, Our Musick, Dances, Curing, Cooking thence; And we shall have their Pois'ning too e're long, If still in the improvement we go on.

What would'st thou say, great Harry, should'st thou view Thy gawdy flutt'ring Race of English now,

Their tawdry Cloaths, Pulvilio's, Essences, Their Chedreux Perruques, and those Vanities, Which thou, and they of old did so despise? What Would'st thou say to see th'infected Town With the fowl Spawn of Foreiners o're-run? Hither from Paris, and all Parts they come, The Spue, and Vomit of their Goals at home; To Court they flock, and to St. James his Square, And wriggle into Great Mens Service there: Foot-boys at first, till they, from wiping Shooes, Grow by degrees the Masters of the House: Ready of Wit, harden'd of Impudence, Able with ea•…•…e to put down either H— Both the King's Player, and King's Evidence: Flippant of Talk, and voluble of Tongue, With words at will, no Lawyer better hung; Softer than flattering Court-Parasite, Or City-Trader, when he means to cheat: No Calling, or Profession comes amiss, A needy Monsieur can be what he please,

Groom, Page, Valet, Quack, Operator, Fencer, Perfumer, Pimp; Jack-pudding, Juggler, Dancer: Give but the word; the Cur will fetch and bring, Come over to the Emperour, or King: Or, if you please, fly o're the Pyramid, Which J—n and the rest in vain have tried,

Can I have patience, and endure to see The paltry Forein Wretch take place of me, Whom the same Wind, and Vessel brought ashore, That brought prohibited Goods, and Dildoes o're? Then, pray, what mighty Priviledge is there For me, that at my Birth drew English Air? And where's the Benefit to have my Veins Run British Bloud, if there's no difference 'Twixt me, and him, the Statute Freedom gave, And made a Subject of a true-born Slave?

But nothing shocks, and is more loath'd by me, Than the vile Rascal's fulsom Flattery: By help of this false Magnifying Glass, A Louse, or Flea shall for a Camel pass:

Produce an hideous Wight, more ugly far Than those ill Shapes, which in old Hangings are, He'l make him strait a Beau Garzon appear: Commend his Voice, and Singing, tho he bray Worse than Sir Martin Marr-all in the Play: And if he Rhime; shall praise for Standard Wit, More scurvy sense than Pryn, and Vickars Writ.

And here's the mischief, tho we say the same, He is believ'd, and we are thought to sham: Do you but smile, immediately the Beast Laughs out aloud, tho he ne'r heard the Jest; Pretend, you're sad, he's presently in Tears, Yet grieves no more than Marble, when it wears Sorrow in Metaphor: but speak of Heat; O God! how sultry 'tis? he'l cry, and sweat In depth of Winter: strait, if you complain Of Cold; the Weather glass is sunk again: Then he'l call for his Frize-Campaign, and swear 'Tis beyond Eighty, he's in Greenland here.

Thus he shifts Scenes, and oft'ner in a day Can change his Face, than Actors at a Play: There's nought so mean, can scape the flatt'ring Sot, Not his Lord's Snuff-box, nor his Powder-Spot: If he but Spit, or pick his Teeth; he'l cry, How every thing becomes you? let me die, Your Lordship does it most judiciously: And swear, 'tis fashionable, if he Sneeze, Extremely taking, and it needs must please.

Besides, there's nothing sacred, nothing free From the hot Satyr's rampant Lechery: Nor Wife, nor Virgin-Daughter can escape, Scarce thou thyself, or Son avoid a Rape: All must go pad-lock'd: if nought else there be, Suspect thy very Stables Chastity. By this the Vermin into Secrets creep, Thus Families in awe they strive to keep.

What living for an English man is there, Where such as these get head, and domineer, Whose use and custom 'tis, never to share. A Friend, but love to reign without dispute, Without a Rival, full, and absolute? Soon as the Insect gets his Honour's ear, And fly-blows some of's poys'nous malice there, Strait I'm turn'd off, kick'd out of doors, discarded, And all my former Service disregarded.

But leaving these Messieurs, for fear that I Be thought of the Silk-Weavers Mutiny, From the loath'd subject let us hasten on, To mention other Grievances in Town: And further, what Respect at all is had Of poor men here? and how's their Service paid, Tho they be ne'r so diligent to wait, To sneak, and dance attendance on the Great? No mark of Favour is to be obtain'd By one, that sues, and brings an empty hand:

And all his merit is but made a Sport, Unless he glut some Cormorant at Court.

'Tis now a common thing, and usual here, To see the Son of some rich Usurer Take place of Nobles, keep his first-rate Whore, And for a Vaulting bout, or two give more Than a Guard-Captains Pay: mean while the Breed Of Peers, reduc'd to Poverty, and there Are fain to trudg to the Bank-side, and there Take up with Porters leavings, Suburb-Ware, There spend that Bloud, which their great Ancestor So nobly shed at Cressy heretofore, At Brothel-Fights in some foul Common-shore.

Produce an Evidence, tho just he be, As righteous Job, or Abraham, or He, Whom Heaven, when whole Nature shipwrack'd was, Thought worth the saving, of all humane Race,

Or t'other, who the flaming Deluge scap'd, When Sodom's Lechers Angels would have rap'd; How rich he is, must the first question be, Next for his Manners, and Integrity: They'l ask, what Equipage he keeps, and what He's reckon'd worth in Money, and Estate, For Shrieve how oft he has been known to fine, And with how many Dishes he does dine: For look what Cash a person has in store, Just so much Credit has he, and no more: Should I upon a thousand Bibles Swear, And call each Saint throughout the Calendar: To vouch my Oath; it won't be taken here; The Poor flight Heav'n, and Thunderbolts (they think) And Heav'n it self does at such Trifles wink.

Besides, what store of gibing scoffs are thrown On one, that's poor, and meanly clad in Town; If his Apparel seem but overworn, His Stockings out at heel, or Breeches torn?

One takes occasion his ript Shooe to flout, And swears 'thas been at Prison-Grates hung out: Another shrewdly jeers his coarse Crevat, Because himself wears Point: a third his Hat, And most unmercifully shews his Wit, If it be old, or does not cock aright: Nothing in Poverty so ill is born, As its exposing men to grinning scorn, To be by tawdry Coxcombs piss'd upon, And made the jesting-stock of each Buffoo•…•…. Turn out there, Friend! (cries one at Church) the Pew Is not for such mean scoundrel Curs, as you: 'Tis for your Betters kept: Belike, some Sot, That knew no Father, was on Bulks begot: But now is rais'd to an Estate, and Pride, By having the kind Proverb on his side: Let Gripe and Cheatwel take their Places there, And Dash the S•…•…riv'ners gawdy sparkish Heir, That wears three ruin'd Orphans on his back: Mean while you in the Alley stand, and sneak:

And you therewith must rest contented, since Almighty Wealth does put such difference. What Citizen a Son-in-law will take, Bred ne'r so well, that can't a Joynter make? What man of sense, that's poor, e're summon'd is Amongst the Common-Council to advise? At Vestry-Consults when does he appear, For choosing of some Parish-Officer, Or making Leather-Buckets for the Choir?

'Tis hard for any man to rise, that feels His Virtue clog'd with Poverty at heels: But harder 'tis by much in London, where A sorry Lodging, coarse, and slender Fare, Fire, Water, Breathing, every thing is dear: Yet such as these an earthen Dish disdain, With which their Ancestors, in Edgar's Reign, Were serv'd, and thought it no disgrace to dine, Tho they were rich, had store of Leather-Coin. Low as their Fortune is, yet they despise A man that walks the streets in homely Frize:

To speak the truth, great part of England now In their own Cloth will scarce vouchsafe to go: Only, the Statutes Penalty to save, Some few perhaps wear Woollen in the Grave. Here all go gaily drest, altho it be Above their Means, their Rank, and Quality: The most in borrow'd Gallantry are clad; For which the Tradesmen's Books are still unpaid: This Fault is common in the meaner sort, That they must needs affect to bear the Port Of Gentlemen, though they want Income for't.

Sir, to be short, in this expensive Town There's nothing without Money to be done: What will you give to be admitted there, And brought to speech of some Court-Minister? What will you give to have the quarter face, The squint and nodding go-by of his Grace? His Porter, Groom, and Steward must have Fees; And you may see the Tombs, and Tow'r for less:

Hard Fate of Suitors! who must pay, and pray To Livery-slaves, yet oft go scorn'd away.

Who e'reat Barnet, or S. Albans fears To have his Lodging drop about his ears, Unless a sudden Hurricane besal, Or such a Wind as blew old Noll to Hell? Here we build slight, what scarce out-lasts the Lease, Without the helps of Props, and Buttresses: And Houses now adays as much require To be ensur'd from Falling, as from Fire. There Buildings are substantial, tho less neat, And kept with care both Wind, and Water-tight: There you in safe security are blest, And nought, but Conscience to disturb your Rest,

I am for living where no Fires affright, No Bells rung backward break my sleep at night: I scarce lie down, and draw my Curtains here, But strait I'm rous'd by the next House on Fire: Pale, and half dead with Fear, my self I raise, And find my Room all over in a blaze:

By this 'thas seiz'd on the third Stairs, and I Can now discern no other Remedy, But leaping out at Window to get free: For if the Mischief from the Cellar came, Be sure the Garret is the last, takes flame.

The moveables of P ge were a Bed For him, and's Wise, a Piss-pot by its side, A Looking-glass upon the Cupboards Head, A Comb-case, Candlestick, and Pewter-spoon, For want of Plate, with Desk to write upon: A Box without a Lid serv'd to contain Few Authors, which made up his Vatican: And there his own immortal Works were laid, On which the barbarous Mice for hunger prey'd: P—had nothing, all the world does know; And yet should he have lost this Nothing too, No one the wretched Bard would have suppli'd With Lodging, House-room, or a Crust of Bread.

But if the Fire burn down some Great Man's House, All strait are interessed in the loss: The Court is strait in Mourning sure enough, The Act, Commencement, and the Term put off: Then we Mischances of the Town lament, And Fasts are kept, like Judgments to prevent. Out comes a Brief immediately, with speed To gather Charity as far as Tweed. Nay, while 'tis burning, some will send him in Timber, and Stone to build his House agen: Others choice Furniture: here some rare piece Of Rubens, or Vandike presented is: There a rich Suit of Moreclack-Tapestry, A Bed of Damask, or Embroidery: One gives a fine Scritore, or Cabinet, Another a huge massie Dish of Plate, Or Bag of Gold; thus he at length gets more By kind misfortune than he had before:

And all suspect it for a laid Design, As if he did himself the Fire begin. Could you but be advis'd to leave the Town, And from dear Plays, and drinking Friends be drawn, An handsom Dwelling might be had in Kent, Surrey, or Essex, at a cheaper Rent Than what you're forc'd to give for one half year To lie, like Lumber, in a Garret here: A Garden there, and Well, that needs no Rope, Engine, or Pains to Crane its Waters up: Water is there through Natures Pipes convey'd, For which no Custom, or Excise is paid: Had I the smallest Spot of Ground, which scarce Would Summer half a dozen Grashoppers, Not larger than my Grave, tho hence remote, Far as St. Michaels Mount, I would go to't, Dwell there content, and thank the Fates to boot.

Here want of Rest a nights more People kills Than all the College, and the weekly Bills:

Where none have privilege to sleep, but those, Whose Purses can compound for their Repose: In vain I go to bed, or close my eyes, Methinks the place the middle Region is, Where I lie down in Storms, in Thunder rise: The restless Bells such Din in Steeples keep, That scarce the Dead can in their Church-yards sleep: Huzza's of Drunkards, Bell-mens midnight-Rhimes, The noise of Shops, with Hawkers early Screams, Besides the Brawls of Coach-men, when they meet, And stop in turnings of a narrow Street, Such a loud Medly of confusion make, As drowsie A—r on the Bench would wake.

If you walk out in Bus'ness ne'r so great, Ten thousand stops you must expect to meet: Thick Crouds in every Place you must charge through, And storm your Passage, wheresoe'r you go: While Tides of Followers behind you throng, And, pressing on your heels, shove you along:

One with a Board, or Rafter hits your Head, Another with his Elbow bores your side; Some tread upon your Corns, perhaps in sport; Mean while your Legs are cas'd all o're with Dirt. Here you the March of a slow Funeral wait, Advancing to the Church with solemn State: There a Sedan, and Lacquies stop your way, That bears some Punk of Honour to the Play: Now you some mighty piece of Timber meet, Which tott'ring threatens ruine to the Street: Next a huge Portland Stone, for building Pauls, If self almost a Rock, on Carriage rowls: Which, if it fall, would cause a Massacre, And serve at once to murder, and interr.

If what I've said can't from the Town affright, Consider other dangers of the Night: When Brickbats are from upper Stories thrown, And emptied Chamber pots come pouring down From Garret Windows: you have cause to bless The gentle Stars, if you come off with Piss:

So many Fates attend, a man had need, Ne'r walk without a Surgeon by his side: And he can hardly now discreet be thought, That does not make his Will, ere he go out.

If this you scape, twenty to one, you meet Some of the drunken Scowrers of the Street, Flush'd with success of warlike Deeds perform'd, Of Constables subdu'd, and Brothels storm'd: These, if a Quarrel, or a Fray be mist, Are ill at ease a nights, and want their Rest. For mischief is a Lechery to some, And serves to make them sleep like Laudanum. Yet heated, as they are, with Youth, and Wine, If they diseern a Train of Flamboes shine, If a Great Man with his gilt Coach appear, And a strong Guard of Foot-boys in the rear, The Rascals sneak, and shrink their Heads for fear. Poor me, who use no Light to walk about, Save what the Parish, or the Skies hang out,

They value not: 'tis worth your while to hear The scuffle, if that be a scuffle, where Another gives the Blows, I only bear: He bids me stand: of force I must give way, For 'twere a sensless thing to disobey, And struggle here, where I'd as good oppose My self to P—and his Mastiffs loose. Who's there? he cries, and takes you by the Throat, Dog! are you dumb? Speak quickly, else my Foot Shall march about your Buttocks: whence d'ye come, From what Bulk-ridden Strumpet reeking home? Saving your reverend Pimpship, where d'ye ply? How may onè have a Job of Lechery? If you say any thing, or hold your peace, And silently go off; 'tis all a case: Still he lays on: nay well, if you scape so: Perhaps he'l clap an Action on you too Of Battery: nor need he fear to meet A Jury to his turn, shall do him right,

And bring him in large Damage for a Shooe Worn out, besides the pains, in kicking you. A Poor Man must expect nought of redress, But Patience: his best way in such a case Is to be thankful for the Drubs, and beg That they would mercifully spare one leg, Or Arm unbroke, and let him go away With Teeth enough to eat his Meat next day.

Nor is this all, which you have cause to fear, Oft we encounter midnight Padders here: When the Exchanges, and the Shops are close, And the rich Tradesman in his Counting-house To view the Profits of the day withdraws. Hither in flocks from Shooters-Hill they come, To seek their Price, and Booty nearer home: Your Purse! they cry; 'tis madness to resist, Or strive with a cock'd Pistol at your Breast: And these each day so strong and numerous grow, The Town can scarce afford them Jail-room now.

Happy the times of the old Heptarchy, Ere London knew so much of Villany: Then fatal Carts through Holborn seldom went, And Tyburn with few Pilgrims was content: A less, and single Prison then would do, And serv'd the City, and the County too.

These are the Reasons, Sir, which drive me hence, To which I might add more; would Time dispense, To hold you longer; but the Sun draws low, The Coach is hard at hand, and I must go: Therefore, dear Sir, farewel; and when the Town From better Company can spare you down, To make the Country with your Presence blest, Then visit your old Friend amongst the rest; There I'll find leisure to unlade my mind Of what Remarques I now must leave behind: The Fruits of dear Experience, which with these Improv'd will serve for hints, and notices;

And when you write again, may be ofuse To furnish Satyr for your daring Muse.