Poems on affairs of state from the time of Oliver Cromwell, to the abdication of K. James the Second. Written by the greatest wits of the age. Viz. Duke of Buckingham, Earl of Rochester, Lord Bu-------st, Sir John Denham, Andrew Marvell, Esq; Mr. Milton, Mr. Dryden, Mr. Sprat, Mr. Waller. Mr. Ayloffe, &c. With some miscellany poems by the same: most whereof never before printed. Now carefully examined with the originals, and published without any castration.

Advice to a Painter.

By A. Marvell, Esq

SPread a lage Canvass, Painter, to contain The great Assembly, and the num'rous Train; Where all about him shall in Triumph sit Abhorring Wisdom, and despising Wit; Hating all Justice, and resolv'd to Fight, To rob their native Country of their Right. First draw his Highness prostrate to the South, Adoring Rome, this Label in his Mouth. Most holy Father, being joyn'd in League With Father Patrick, D—, and with Teague; Thrown at your Sacred Feet I humbly bow, I, and the wise Associates of my Vow: A Vow, nor Fire nor Sword shall ever end, Till all this Nation to your Foot-stool bend: Thus arm'd with Zeal and Blessings from your Hands, I'll raise my Papists, and my Irish Bands; And by a noble well-contrived Plot, Manag'd by wise Fitz-Gerald, and by Scot,

Prove to the World, I'll make old England know, That common Sence is my eternal Foe. I ne'er can fight in a more glorious Cause, Than to destroy their Liberty and Laws; Their House of Commons and their House of Lords; Their Parchment Presidents, and dull Records, Shall these e'er dare to contradict my Will, And think a Prince o' th' Blood can e'er do ill? It is our Birth-right to have Power to kill. Shall they e'er dare to think they shall decide The way to Heaven? And who shall be my Guide? Shall they pretend to say, That Bread is Bread, If we affirm it is a God indeed? Or that there's no Purgatory for the Dead? That Extreme Unction its but common Oyl, And not infallible the Roman Soil. I'll have those Villains in our Notions rest; And I do say it, therefore it's the best. Next, Painter, draw his Mordant by his Side, Conveying his Religion, and his Bride: He who long since abjur'd the Royal Line, Does now in Popery with his Master joyn. Then draw the Princess with her golden Locks, Hastning to be envenom'd with the P— And in her youthful Veins receive a Wound, VVhich sent N.H. before her under Ground; The Wound of which the tainted C—t fades, Laid up in store for a new Set of Maids. Poor Princess, born under a sullen Star, To find such VVelcome when you came so far! Better some jealous Neighbour of your own Had call'd you to a sound though petty Throne: VVhere 'twixt a wholsom Husband and a Page, You might have linger'd out out a lazy Age, Than on dull Hopes of being here a Q— E'er Twenty dye, and rot before Fifteen. Now, Painter, shew us in the blackest Dye, The Counsellors of all this Villany.

Clifford, who first appear'd in humble Guise, VVas always thought too gentle, meek, and wise: But when he came to act upon the Stage, He prov'd the mad Cathegus of our Age. He, and his Duke, had both too great a Mind, To be by Justice or by Law confin'd: Their boiling Heads can bear no other Sounds, Than Fleets and Armies, Battles, Blood and VVounds; And to destroy our Liberty, they hope By Irish Fools, and an old doting Pope. Next, Talbot, must by his great Master stand, Laden with Folly, Flesh, and ill got Land: He's of a size indeed to fill a Porch, But ne'er can make a Pillar of the Church; His Sword is all his Argument, not his Book, Although no Scholar, he can act the Cook; And will cut Throats again, if he be paid; In th' Irish Shambles he first learn'd the Trade. Then Painter shew thy Skill, and in fit place Let's see the Nuncio Arundel's sweet Face; Let the Beholders by thy Art espy His Sense and Soul, as squinting as his Eye. Let Bellasis autumnal Face be seen, Rich with the Spoils of a poor Algerine; VVho trusting in him, was by him betray'd, And so shall we when his Advice's obey'd: The Heroe once got Honour by the Sword, He got his VVealth by breaking of his VVord; And now his Daughter he hath got with Child, And Pimps to have his Family defil'd, Next Painter draw the Rabble of the Plot. German, Fitz-Gerald, Loftus, Porter, Scot: These are fit Heads indeed, to turn a State, And change the Order of a Nation's Fate; Ten thousand such as these shall ne'er controul The smallest Atome of an Enlish Soul. Old England on its strong Foundation stands, Defying all their Heads and all their Hands▪

Its steady Basis never could be shook, When wiser Men her Ruin undertook: And can her Guardian-Angel let her stoop At last, to Mad-men, Fools and to the Pope? No Painter, no; close up this Piece, and see This Crowd of Traytors hang'd in Effigie.