Poems, and translations by the author of the Satyrs upon the Jesuits.

THE EIGHTH SATYR OF Monsieur BOILEAV, Imitated. Written in October, 1682.

The POET brings himself in, as discoursing with a Doctor of the Vniversity upon the Subject ensuing.

OF all the Creatures in the world that be, Beast, Fish, or Fowl, that go, or swim, or fly Throughout the Globe from London to Iapan, The arrant'st Fool in my opinion's Man. What? (strait I'm taken up) an Ant, a Fly, A tiny Mite, which we can hardly see

Without a Perspective, a silly Ass, Or freakish Ape? Dare you affirm, that these Have greater sense than Man? Ay, questionless. Doctor, I find you're shock'd at this discourse: Man is (you cry) Lord of the Vniverse; For him was this fair frame of Nature made, And all the Creatures for his use, and aid: To him alone of all the living kind, Has bounteous Heav'n the reas'ning gift assign'd. True Sir, that Reason ever was his lot, But thence I argue Man the greater Sot. This idle talk, (you say) and rambling stuff May pass in Satyr, and take well enough With Sceptick Fools, who are dispos'd to jeer At serious things: but you must make't appear By solid proof. Believe me, Sir, I'll do't: Take you the Desk, and let's dispute it out. Then by your favour, tell me first of all, What 'tis, which you grave Doctors Wisdom call?

You answer: 'Tis an evenness of Soul, A steddy temper, which no cares controul, No passions ruffle, nor desires inflame, Still constant to its self, and still the same, That does in all its slow Resolves advance, With graver steps, than Benchers, when they dance. Most true; yet is not this, I dare maintain, Less us'd by any, than the Fool, call'd Man. The wiser Emmet, quoted just before, In Summer time ranges the Fallows o're With pains, and labour, to lay in his store: But when the blust'ring North with ruffling blasts Saddens the year, and Nature overcasts; The prudent Insect, hid in privacy, Enjoys the fruits of his past industry. No Ant of sense was e're so awkard seen, To drudg in Winter, loiter in the Spring. But sillier Man, in his mistaken way, By Reason, his false guide, is led astray:

Tost by a thousand gusts of wavering doubt, His restless mind still rolls from thought to thought: In each resolve unsteddy, and unfixt, And what he one day loaths, desires the next. Shall I, so fam'd for many a tuant jest On wiving, now go take a jilt at last? Shall I turn Husband, and my station choose, Amongst the reverend Martyrs of the Noose? No, there are fools enough besides in Town, To furnish work for Satyr, and Lampoon: Few months before cried the unthinking Sot, Who quickly after, hamper'd in the knot, Was quoted for an instance by the rest, And bore his Fate, as tamely as the best, And thought, that Heav'n from some miraculous side, For him alone had drawn a faithful Bride. This is our image just: such is that vain, That foolish, fickle, motly Creature, Man:

More changing than a Weathercock, his Head Ne'er wakes with the same thoughts, he went to bed, Irksome to all beside, and ill at ease, He neither others, nor himself can please: Each minute round his whirling humors run, Now he's a Trooper, and a Priest anon, To day in Buff, to morrow in a Gown. Yet, pleas'd with idle whimsies of his brain, And puft with pride, this haughty thing would fain Be thought himself the only stay, and prop, That holds the mighty frame of Nature up: The Skies and Stars his properties must seem, And turn-spit Angels tread the spheres for him: Of all the Creatures he's the Lord (he cries) More absolute, than the French King of his. And who is there (say you) that dares deny So own'd a truth? That may be, Sir, do I.

But to omit the controversie here, Whether, if met, the Passenger and Bear, This or the other stands in greater fear. Or, if an Act of Parliament should pass That all the Irish Wolves should quit the place, They'd strait obey the Statutes high command, And at a minutes warning rid the Land: This boasted Monarch of the world, that aws The Creatures here, and with his beck gives laws; This titular King, who thus pretends to be The Lord of all, how many Lords has he? The lust of Mony, and the lust of Power, With Love, and Hate, and twenty passions more, Hold him their slave, and chain him to the Oar. Scarce has soft sleep in silence clos'd his eyes, Vp! (strait says Avarice) 'tis time to rise. Not yet: one minute longer. Vp! (she cries) Th'Exchange, and Shops are hardly open yet. No matter: Rise! But after all, for what?

D'ye ask? go, cut the Line, double the Cape, Traverse from end to end the spacious deep: Search both the Indies, Bantam, and Japan: Fetch Sugars from Barbadoes, Wines from Spain. What need all this? I've wealth enough in store, I thank the Fates, nor care for adding more. You cannot have too much, this point to gain, You must no Crime, no Perjury refrain, Hunger you must endure, Hardship, and Want, Amidst full Barns keep an eternal Lent, And, tho you've more than B—m has spent, Or C—n got, like stingy B—el save, And grudg your self the charges of a Grave, And the small Ransom of a single Groat, From Sword, or Halter to redeem your Throat. And pray, why all this sparing? Don't you know? Only t'enrich a spendthrift Heir, or so: Who shall, when you are timely dead, and gone, With his gilt Coach, and Six amuse the Town,

Keep his gay brace of Punks, and vainly give More for a night, than you to fine for Shrieve. But you lose time! the Wind, and Vessel waits, Quick, let's aboard! Hey for the Downs, and Streights. Or, if all-powerful Mony fail of charms To tempt the wretch, and push him on to harms: With a strong hand does fierce Ambition seize, And drag him forth from soft repose and ease: Amidst ten thousand dangers spurs him on, With loss of Blood and Limbs to hunt renown. Who for reward of many a wound and maim, Is paid with nought but wooden Legs, and Fame; And the poor comfort of a grinning Fate, To stand recorded in the next Gazette. But hold (cries one) your paltry gibing wit, Or learn henceforth to aim it more aright: If this be any; 'tis a glorious fault, Which through all ages has been ever thought The Hero's virtue, and chief excellence:

Pray, what was Alexander in your sence? A Fool belike. Yes, faith, Sir, much the same: A crack-brain'd Huff, that set the world on flame: A Lunatick broke loose, who in his fit Fell foul on all, invaded all, he met: Who, Lord of the whole Globe, yet not content, Lack'd elbow-room, and seem'd too closely pent. What madness was't, that, born to a fair Throne, Where he might rule with Justice, and Renown, Like a wild Robber, he should choose to roam, A pitied wretch, with neither house, nor home, And hurling War, and Slaughter up and down, Through the wide world make his vast folly known? Happy for ten good reasons had it been, If Macedon had had a Bedlam then: That there with Keepers under close restraint He might have been from frantick mischief pent. But that we mayn't in long digressions now Discourse all Rainolds, and the Passions through,

And ranging them in method stiff, and grave, Rhime on by Chapter, and by Paragraph; Let's quit the present Topick of dispute, For More and Cudworth to enlarge about; And take a view of man in his best light, Wherein he seems to most advantage set. 'Tis he alone (you'l say) 'tis happy he. That's fram'd by Nature for Society: He only dwells in Towns, is only seen With Manners and Civility to shine; Does only Magistrates, and Rulers choose, And live secur'd by Government, and Laws. 'Tis granted, Sir; but yet without all these, Without your boasted Laws, and Policies, Or fear of Judges, or of Justices; Who ever saw the Wolves, that he can say, Like more inhuman Us, so bent on prey, To rob their fellow Wolves upon the way? Who ever saw Church and Fanatick Bear, Like savage Mankind one another tear?

What Tyger e're. aspiring to be great, In Plots and Factions did embroil the State? Or when was't heard upon the Libyan Plains, Where the stern Monarch of the Desert reigns, That Whig and Tory Lions in wild jars Madly engag'd for choice of Shrieves and May'rs? The fiercest Creatures, we in Nature find, Respect their figure still in the same kind; To others rough, to these they gentle be, And live from Noise, from Feuds, from Actions free. No Eagle does upon his Peerage sue, And strive some meaner Eagle to undo: No Fox was e're suborn'd by spite, or hire, Against his brother Fox his life to swear: Nor any Hind, for Impotence at Rut, Did e're the Stag into the Arches put; Where a grave Dean the weighty Case might state, What makes in Law a carnal Job complete: They fear no dreadful Quo Warranto Writ, To shake their ancient privilege and right:

No Courts of Sessions, or Assize are there, No Common-Pleas, Kings-Bench, or Chancery-Bar: But happier they, by Natures Charter free, Secure, and safe in mutual peace agree, And know no other Law, but Equity. 'Tis Man, 'tis Man alone, that worst of Brutes, Who first brought up the trade of cutting Throats, Did Honor first, that barbarous term, devise, Unknown to all the gentler Savages; And, as 'twere not enough t'have fetch'd from Hell, Powder, and Guns, with all the arts to kill, Farther to plague the world, he must ingross Huge Codes, and bulky Pandects of the Laws, With Doctors Glosses to perplex the Cause, Where darken'd Equity is kept from light, Under vast Reams of non-sense buried quite. Gently, good Sir! (cry you) why all this rant? Man has his freaks, and passions; that we grant: He has his frailties, and blind sides; who doubts? But his least Virtues balance all his Faults.

Pray, was it not his bold, this thinking Man, That measur'd Heav'n, and taught the Stars to scan, Whose boundless wit, with soaring wings durst fly, Beyond the flaming borders of the sky; Turn'd Nature o're, and with a piercing view Each cranny search'd, and lookt her through and through: Which of the Brutes have Vniversities? When was it heard, that they e're took Degrees, Or were Professors of the Faculties? By Law, or Physick were they ever known To merit Velvet, or a Scarlet Gown? No questionless; nor did we ever read, Of Quacks with them, that were Licentiates made, By Patent to profess the pois'ning Trade: No Doctors in the Desk there hold dispute About Black-pudding, while the wond'ring Rout Listen to hear the knotty Truth made out: Nor Virtuoso's teach deep mysteries Of Arts for pumping Air, and smothering Flies.

But not to urge the matter farther now, Nor search it to the depth, what 'tis to know, And whether we know any thing or no. Answer me only this, What man is there In this vile thankless Age, wherein we are, Who does by Sense and Learning value bear? Would'st thou get Honor, and a fair Estate, And have the looks and favours of the Great? Cries an old Father to his blooming Son, Take the right course, be rul'd by me, 'tis done. Leave mouldy Authors to the reading Fools, The poring crowds in Colleges and Schools: How much is threescore Nobles? Twenty pound. Well said, my Son, the Answer's most profound: Go, thou know'st all that's requisite to know; What Wealth on thee, what Honors haste to flow! In these high Sciences thy self employ, Instead of Plato, take thy Hodder, Boy. Learn there the art to audit an Account, To what the Kings Revenue does amount:

How much the Customs, and Excise bring in, And what the Managers each year purloin. Get a Case-harden'd Conscience, Irish proof, Which nought of pity, sense, or shame can move: Turn Algerine, Barbarian, Turk, or Jew, Vnjust, inhuman, treacherous, base, untrue; Ne'r stick at wrong; hang Widows sighs and tears, The cant of Priests to frighten Vsurers: Boggle at nothing to encrease thy Store, Not Orphans spoils, nor plunder of the Poor: And scorning paltry rules of Honesty, By surer methods raise thy Fortune high. When shoals of Poets, Pedants, Orators, Doctors, Divines, Astrologers, and Lawyers, Authors of every sort, and every size, To thee their Works, and Labors shall address, With pompous Lines their Dedications fill, And learnedly in Greek and Latin tell Lies to thy face, that thou hast deep insight, And art a mighty judg of what they write.

He, that is rich, is every thing, that is, Without one grain of Wisdom he is wise, And knowing nought, knows all the Sciences: He's witty, gallant, virtuous, generous, stout, Well-born, well-bred, well-shap'd, well-drest, what not? Lov'd by the Great, and courted by the Fair, For none that e're had Riches, found despair: Gold to the loathsom'st object gives a grace, And sets it off, and makes ev'n Bovey please: But tatter'd Poverty they all despise, Love stands aloof, and from the Scare-crow flies. Thus a stanch Miser to his hopeful Brat Chalks out the way that leads to an Estate; Whose knowledg oft with utmost stretch of Brain No high'r than this vast secret can attain, Five and four's nine, take two, and seven remain. Go, Doctor, after this, and rack your Brains, Unravel Scripture with industrious pains: On musty Fathers wast your fruitless hours, Correct the Criticks, and Expositors:

Out-vie great Stilling fleet in some vast Tome, And there confound both Bellarmin and Rome; Or glean the Rabbies of their learned store, To find what Father Simon has past o're: Then at the last some bulky piece compile, There lay out all your time, and pains, and skill; And when 'tis done and finish'd for the Press, To some Great name the mighty Work address: Who for a full reward of all your toil, Shall pay you with a gracious nod or smile: Just recompence of life too vainly spent! An empty Thank you Sir, and Complement. But, if to higher Honors you pretend, Take the advice and counsel of a Friend; Here quit the Desk, and throw your Scarlet by, And to some gainful course your self apply. Go, practise with some Banker how to cheat, There's choice in Town, enquire in Lombard-street.

Let Scot and Ockam wrangle as they please, And thus in short with me conclude the case, A Doctor is no better than an Ass. A Doctor, Six? your self: Pray have a care, This is to push your Raillery too far. But not to lose the time in trifling thus, Beside the point, come now more home and close: That Man has Reason is beyond debate, Nor will your self, I think, deny me that: And was not this fair Pilot giv'n to steer, His tott'ring Bark through Life's rough Ocean here? All this I grant: But if in spite of it The wretch on every Rock he sees will split, To what great purpose does his Reason serve, But to mis-guide his course, and make him swerve? What boots it H. when it says, Give o're Thy scribling itch, and play the fool no more. If her vain counsels, purpos'd to reclaim, Only avail to harden him in shame?

Lampoon'd, and hiss'd, and damn'd the thousandth time, Still he writes on, is obstinate in Rhime: His Verse, which he does every where recite, Put all his Neighbors, and his Friends to flight: Scar'd by the rhiming Fiend, they hast away, Nor will his very Groom be hir'd to stay. The Ass, whom Nature Reason has deny'd, Content with Instinct for his surer guide, Still follows that, and wiselier does proceed: He ne'er aspires with his harsh braying Note, The Songsters of the Wood to challenge out: Nor, like this awkard smatterer in Arts, Sets up himself for a vain Ass of parts; Of Reason void, he sees, and gains his end, While Man, who does to that false light pretend, Wildly gropes on, and in broad day is blind. By whimsie led he does all things by chance, And acts in each against all common sense.

With every thing pleas'd, and displeas'd at once, He knows not what he seeks, nor what he shuns: Unable to distinguish good, or bad, For nothing he is gay, for nothing sad: At random loves, and loaths, avoids, pursues, Enacts, repeals, makes, alters, does, undoes. Did we, like him, e're see the Dog, or Bear, Chimera's of their own devising fear? Frame needless doubts, and for those doubts forego The Joys which prompting Nature calls them to? And with their Pleasures awkardly at strife, With scaring Fantoms pall the sweets of Life? Tell me, grave Sir, did ever Man see Beast So much below himself, and sense debas'd, To worship Man with superstitious Fear, And fondly to his Idol Temples rear? Was he e're seen with Pray'rs, and Sacrifice Approach to him, as Ruler of the Skies, To beg for Rain, or Sun-shine on his knees?

No never: but a thousand times has Beast Seen Man, beneath the meanest Brute debas'd, Fall low to Wood; and Metal heretofore, And madly his own Workmanship adore: In Egypt oft has seen the Sot bow down, And reverence some deified Baboon: Has often seen him on the Banks of Nile Say Pray'rs to the Almighty Crocodile: And now each day in every street abroad Sees prostrate Fools adore a breaden God. But why (say you) these spiteful Instances Of Egypt, and its gross Idolatries? Of Rome, and hers as much ridiculous? What are these lewd Buffooneries to us? How gather you from such wild proofs as these, That Man, a Doctor is beneath an Ass? An Ass! that heavy, stupid, lumpish Beast, The Sport, and mocking-stock of all the rest? Whom they all spurn, and whom they all despise, Whose very name all Satyr does comprize?

An Ass, Sir? Yes: Pray what should make us laugh? Now he unjustly is our jeer, and scoff. But, if one day he should occasion find Upon our Follies to express his mind; If Heav'n, as once of old, to check proud Man, By miracle should give him Speech again; What would he say, d'ye think, could he speak out, Nay, Sir, betwixt us two, what would he not? What would he say, were he condemn'd to stand For one long hour in Fleetstreet, or the Strand, To cast his eyes upon the motly throng, The two-leg'd Herd, that daily pass along; To see their old Disguises, Furs, and Gowns, Their Cassocks, Cloaks, Lawn-sleeves, and Panta∣loons? What would he say to see a Velvet Quack Walk with the price of forty kill'd on's Back;

Or mounted on a Stage, and gaping loud, Commend his Drugs, and Ratsbane to the Crowd? What would he think, on a Lord Mayor's day, Should he the Pomp and Pageantry survey? Or view the Judges, and their solemn Train, March with grave decency to kill a Man? What would he think of us, should he appear In Term amongst the crowds at Westminster, And there the hellish din, and Jargon hear, Where 〈◊〉〈◊〉 and his pack with deep-mouth'd Notes Drown Billinsgate, and all its Oyster-Boats? There see the Judges, Sergeants, Barristers, Attorneys, Counsellors, Solicitors, Criers, and Clerks, and all the Savage Crew Which wretched man at his own charge undo? If after prospect of all this, the Ass Should find the voice he had in Esop's days;

Then, Doctor, then, casting his eyes around On human Fools, which every where abound. Content with Thistles, from all envy free, And shaking his grave head, no doubt he'd cry Good faith, Man is a Beast as much as we.