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.

POEMS ON State Affairs.

A Panegyrick on O. Cromwell, and his Victories.

By E. Waller, Esq.

WHile with a strong, and yet a gentle Hand, You bridle Faction, and our Hearts command; Protect us from our selves and from the Foe; Make us unite, and make us Conquer too. Let partial Spirits still aloud complain, Think themselves injur'd that they cannot Reign; And own no liberty, but where they may, Without controul upon their Fellows prey. Above the Waves as Neptune shew'd his Face, To chide the Winds, and save the Trojan Race: So has your Highness (rais'd above the rest) Storms of ambition tossing us represt. Your drooping Country, torn with Civil hate, Restor'd by you, is made a glorious State: The Seat of Empire, where the Irish come, And the unwilling Scot to fetch their doom. The Sea's our own, and now all Nations greet With bending Sails each Vessel in our Fleet.

Your pow'r resounds as far as Wind can blow, Or swelling Sails upon the Globe may go. Heaven that has plac'd this Island to give Law, To balance Europe and her State to awe; In this Conjunction does our Britain smile, The greatest Leader to the greatest Isle. Whether this Portion of the World were rent By the wide Ocean from the Continent; Or thus created, it was sure design'd To be the sacred Refuge of Mankind. Hither the opprest shall henceforth resort, Justice to crave, and succour of your Court, And shew, your Highness▪ not for ours alone, But for the World's Protector shall be known. Fame, swifter than your winged Navy flies Through every Land that near the Ocean lies; Sounding your Name, and telling dreadfull News To all that Piracy and Rapine use: With such a Chief the meanest Nation blest, Might hope to lift her head above the rest. What may be thought impossible to do For us, embraced by the Sea and you? Lords, of the World's great wast, the Ocean, we Whole Forests send to reign upon the Sea: And every Coast may trouble and relieve, But none can visit us without your leave. Angels and we know this Prerogative, That none can at our happy State arrive; While we descend at pleasure to invade The bad with Vengeance, or the good to aid; Our little World, the Image of the great, Like that amidst the boundless Ocean set, Of her own growth has all that Nature craves, And all that's Rare, as Tribute from the Waves. As Egypt does not on the Clouds rely: But to the Nile owes more that to the Sky; So what our Heaven, or what our Earth denies, Our ever constant Friend, the Sea supplies.

The tast of hot Arabia's Spice we know, Free from the scorching Sun that makes it grow. Without the Worm in Persian Silks we shine, And without Planting, Drink of every Vine. To dig for Wealth we weary not our Limbs; Gold, though the heaviest Metal, hither swims. Ours is the Harvest where the Indians mow; We plough the Deep, and reap what others sow; Things of the noblest kind our own Soil breeds; Stout are our Men, and Warlike are our Steeds; Rome, though her Eagle through the World had flown, Could never make this Island all her own. Here the Third Edward, and the Black Prince too; France-conquering Henry flourish'd, and now You. For whom we staid, as did the Grecian State, Till Alexander came to urge their Fate. When for more worlds that Macedonian cry'd, He wist not Thetis in her lap did hide Another yet, a world reserv'd for you, To make more great than that he did subdue. He safely might old Troops to Battle lead Against th'unwarlike Persian, or the Mede, Whose hasty flight did from a bloodless Field More Spoil than Honour to the Victor yield. A Race unconquer'd by their Clime made bold, The Calydonians arm'd with want and cold, Have by a Fate indulgent to your Fame, Been from all ages kept for you to tame: Whom the old Roman VVall so ill contin'd, VVith a new Chain of Garrisons you bind. Here forein Gold no more shall make them come, Our English Iron holds them fast at home. They that henceforth must be content to know No warmer Region than their Hills of Snow, May blame the Sun, but must extol your Grace, VVhich in our Senate hath allow'd them place. Preferr'd by Conquest, happily o'erthrown; Falling they rise, to be with us made one.

So kind Dictators made, when they came home, Their vanquish'd Foes free Citizens of Rome. Like favour find the Irish, with like Fate Advanc'd to be a portion of our State; While by your Valour, and your courteous mind, Nations divided by the Sea, are joyn'd. Holland to gain your Friendship, is content To be our O••t-gard on your Continent. She from her Fellow-Provinces would go, Rather than hazard to have you her Foe. In our late Fight, when Cannons did diffuse Preventing Posts, the terrour of the News, Our Neighbour-Provinces trembl'd at their roar, But our conjunction makes them tremble more. Your never failing Sword made War to cease, And now you heal us with the arts of Peace; Our minds with bounty and with awe engage, Unite affections, and restrain our Rage. Less pleasures take brave minds in battel wone, Than in restoring such as are undone. Tygers have courage, and the rugged Bear, But Man alone can whom he conquers spare: To pardon willing, and to punish loth, You strike with one hand, but you heal with both. Lifting up all that prostrate lye, you grieve You cannot make the dead again to live. When Fate or Error had our age misled, And o're these Nations such Confusion spread, The only Cure which could from Heaven come down, Was so much Power and Clemency in one; One whose Extraction is from an ancient Line, Gives hope again that well-born men may shine: The meanest in your Nature, mild and good, The noble rest secured in your blood. Oft have we wonder'd how you hid in peace A Mind proportion'd to such things as these: How such a Ruling Spirit could restrain, And practise first o're your own self to Reign.

Your private Life did a just pattern give, How Fathers, Husbands, pious Sons should live. Born to Command, your Princely Vertues slept, Like humble David, whilst the Flock he kept; But when your troubled Country call'd you forth, Your flaming Courage, and your matchless Worth, Dazling the Eyes of all that did pretend To sow Contention —gave a prosperous end; Still as you rise, the State's exalted too, Finds no Distemper while it's chang'd by you: Chang'd like the World's great Scene, when without noise The rising Sun Night's vulgar Lights destroys. Had you some ages past this Race of Glory Run, with amazement we should read your Story. But living Vertue all atchievements past, Meets Envy still to grapple with at last. This Caesar found, and that ungratefull Age With losing him, fell back to blood and rage. Mistaken Brutus thought to break their Yoke, But cut the bond of Union at that stroke. That Sun once set, a thousand meaner Stars Gave a dim light to Violence and Wars. To such a Tempest as now threatens all, Did not your mighty Arm prevent the fall. If Rome's great Senate could not wield the Sword, Which of the conquer'd World had made them Lord, What hope had ours, while yet their power was new, To rule victorious Armies, but by you? You that had taught them to subdue their Foes, Could Order teach, and all their Hearts compose. To every Duty could their Minds engage, Provoke their Courage, and commend their Rage. So when a Lion shakes his dreadfull Main, And angry grows, if he that first took pain, To tame his Youth, approach the haughty Beast, He bends to him but frights away the rest. As the vext World, to find repose at last, It self into Augusta's Arms did cast:

So England now, does, with like toil opprest, Her weary Head upon your Bosom rest Then let the Muses with such Notes as these, Instruct us what belongs unto our Peace: Your Battles they hereafter shall indite, And draw the Image of our Mars in Fight; Tell of Towns storm'd, of Armies over-run, And mighty Kingdoms by your Conduct won: How, while you thunder'd, Clouds of Dust did choak Contending Troops, and Seas lay hid in Smoak. Illustrious Arts high Raptures do infuse, And every Conquerour creates a Muse. Here in low strains your milder deeds we sing; But there, my Lord, we'll Bays & Olives bring To crown your Head while you in triumph ride O'er vanquish'd Nations, and the Sea beside: VVhile all your Neighbour Princes unto You, Like Joseph's Sheaves, pay reverence, and bow.

Three POEMS on the Death of the late Protector, Oliver Cromwell.

Written by Mr. John Dryden, Mr. Sprat of Ox∣ford, and Mr. Edm. Waller.

Heroick Stanza's, on the late Vsurper Oliver Crom∣well: Written after his Funeral,

by Mr. Dryden.

I.

AND now 'tis time; for their officious haste, VVho would before have born him to the Sky, Like eager Romans, e're all Rites were past, Did let too soon the sacred Eagle fly.

II.

Though our best Notes are Treason to his Fame, Join'd with the loud applause of publick Voice; Since Heav'n, what praise we offer to his Name, Hath render'd too authentick by its choice.

III.

Though in his praise no Arts can liberal be, Since they whose Muses have the highest flown, Add not to his immortal Memory, But do an act of Friendship to their own.

IV.

Yet 'tis our duty, and our interest too, Such Monuments as we can build, to raise, Lest all the world prevent what we should do, And claim a Title in him by their praise.

V.

How shall I then begin, or where concude, To draw a Fame so truly Circular? For in a round, what order can be shew'd, VVhere all the parts so equal perfect are?

VI.

His Grandure he deriv'd from Heaven alone, For he was great e're Fortune made him so; And VVars like mists that rise against the Sun, Made him but greater seem, not greater grow.

VII.

No borrow'd Bays his Temples did adorn, But to our Crown he did fresh Jewels bring; Nor was his Vertue poyson'd soon as born, VVith the too early thoughts of being King.

VIII.

Fortune (that easie Mistress to the young, But to her ancient Servants coy and hard) Him, at that age, her Favourites rank'd among, VVhen she her best lov'd Pompey did discard.

IX.

He private, mark'd the Faults of others sway, And set as Sea-marks for himself to shun;

Not like rash Monarchs, who their youth betray, By Acts their Age too late would wish undone.

X.

And yet Dominion was not his design, We owe that blessing not to him, but Heaven, Which to fair Acts unsought rewards did join; Rewards that less to him, than us were given.

XI.

Our former Chief like Sticklers of the War, First sought t' inflame the parties, then to poise: The quarrel lov'd, but did the cause abhor, And did not strike to hurt, but make a noise.

XII.

War, our Consumption, was their gainfull Trade; He inward bled, whilst they prolong'd our pain; He fought to hinder fighting, and assay'd To stanch the blood by breathing of the Vein.

XIII.

Swift and resistless through the Land he past, Like that bold Greek, who did the East subdue, And made to Battles such Heroick hast, As if on wings of Victory he flew.

XIV.

He fought secure of Fortune as of Fame, Still by new Maps the Island might be shewn, Of Conquests which he strew'd where-e'er he came, Thick as the Galaxy with Stars is sown.

XV.

His Palms, though under weights they did not stand, Still thriv'd, no Winter could his Laurels fade: Heaven in his Portraict shew'd a Workman's hand, And drew it perfect, yet without a shade.

XVI.

Peace was the price of all his toil and care, Which War had banish'd, and did now restore: Bolognia's Walls thus mounted in the Air, To seat themselves more surely than before.

XVII.

Her safety rescued Ireland, to him owes, And treacherous Scotland to no int'rest true, Yet bless'd that Fate which did his Arms dispose Her Land to civilize, as to subdue.

XVIII.

Nor was he like those Stars which only shine, When to pale Mariners, they storms portend; He had his calmer influence, and his Mein Did Love and Majesty together blend.

XIX.

'Tis true his Countenance did imprint an awe; And naturally all Souls to his did bow, As Wands of Divination downward draw, And point to Beds where Sov'raign Gold doth grow.

XX.

When past all offerings to Pheretrian Iove, He Mars depos'd, and Arms to Gowns made yield; Successfull Councils did him soon approve, As fit for close Intrigues as open Field.

XXI.

To suppliant Holland he vouchsaf'd a Peace, Our once bold Rival in the British Main, Now tamely glad her unjust claim to cease, And buy our Friendship with her Idol, Gain.

XXII.

Fame of th' asserted Sea through Europe blown, Made France and Spain ambitious of his Love; Each knew that side must conquer he would own; And for him fiercely, as for Empire strove.

XXIII.

No sooner was the French-man's Cause embrac'd, Than the light Monsieur, the grave Don outweigh'd; His Fortune turn'd the Scale where it was cast, Though Indian Mines were in the other laid.

XXIV.

When absent, yet we conquer'd in his Right; For though that some mean Artists Skill were shewn

In mingling Colours, or in placing Light; Yet still the fair Designment was his own.

XXV.

For from all Tempers he could Service draw; The worth of each with its Allay he knew; And as the Confident of Nature saw How she Complections did divide and brew.

XXVI.

Or he their single Vertues did survey, By intuition in his own large Breast, Where all the rich Ideas of them lay, That were the Rule and Measure to the rest.

XXVII.

When such Heroick Vertue, Heaven set out, The Stars, like Commons, sullenly obey; Because it drains them when it comes about, And therefore is a Tax they seldom pay.

XXVIII.

From this high Spring our Foreign Conquests flow, Which yet more glorious Triumphs do portend; Since their Commencement to his Arms they owe, If Springs as high as Fountains may ascend.

XXIX.

He made us Free-Men of the Continent, Whom Nature did like Captives treat before; To Nobler Preys the English Lion sent, And taught him first in Belgian walks to roar.

XXX.

That old unquestion'd Pirate of the Land, Proud Rome, with dread the Fate of Dankirk heard; And trembling wish'd behind more Alps to stand, Although an Alexander were her Guard.

XXXI.

By his Command, we boldly cross'd the Line, And bravely fought where Southern Stars arise, We trac'd the far-fetch'd Gold unto the Mine, And that which brib'd our Fathers made our Prize.

XXXII.

Such was our Prince, yet own'd a Soul above The highest Acts it could produce to shew: Thus poor M••chanick Arts in publick move▪ Whilst the deep secrets beyond practice go.

XXXIII.

Nor dy'd he when his ebbing Fame went less, But when fresh Laurels courted him to live; He seem'd but to prevent some new Success, As if above what Triumphs Earth can give.

XXXIV.

His latest Victories still thickest came, As near the Center, Motion doth increase; Till he press'd down by his own weighty Name, Did like the Vestal, under spoils decease.

XXXV.

But first the Ocean as a Tribute sent. That Gi••nt Prince of all her wat'ry Herd; And th'••sle, when her protecting Genius went, Upon his Obsequies loud sighs conferr'd.

XXXVI.

No civil Broils have since his Death arose, But Faction now by habit does obey; And Wars have that respect for his Repose, As Winds for Halcyons, when they breed at Sea.

XXXVII.

His Ashes in a peacefull Urn shall rest, His Name a great Example stands to show, How strangely high Endeavours may be blest, Where Piety and Valour jointly go.

To the Reverend Dr. Wilkins, Warden of Wad∣ham College in Oxford.

SIR,

SEeing you are pleased to think fit that these Papers should come into the publick, which were at first design'd to live only in a Desk, or some private Friends hands; I hum∣bly take the boldness to commit them to the security, which your Name and Protection will give them, with the most knowing part of the World. There are two things especially in which they stand in need of your Defence: One is, That they fall so infinitely below the full and lofty Genius of that excellent Poet, who made this way of writing free of our Nation: The other, That they are so little proportioned and equal to the Renown of that Prince, on whom they were written. Such great Actions and Lives, deserving rather to be the Subjects of the noblest Pens and divine Fancies, than of such small Beginners and weak Essayers in Poetry as my self. Against these dangerous Prejudices, there remains no other Shield, than the Universal Esteem and Authority which your Iudgment and Approbation carries with it. The Right you have to them, Sir, is not only on the account of the Relation you had to this great Person, nor of the gene∣ral favour which all Arts receive from you; but more particularly by reason of that Obligation and Zeal, with which I am bound to dedicate my self to your Service: For having been a long time the Object of you Care and Indul∣gence towards the advantage of my Studies and Fortune, having been moulded (as it were) by your own Hands, and formed under your Government; not to intitle you to any thing which my meanness produces, would not only be Injustice, but Sacrilege: So that if there be any thing here tolerably said, which deserves pardon, it is yours Sir, as well as he, who is

Your most Devoted, and Obliged Servant.

To the happy Memory of the late Usurper, Oliver Cromwell.

By Mr. Sprat of Oxon, Pin∣darick Odes.

I.

TIS true, great Name, thou art secure From the forgetfulness and Rage Of Death, or Envy, or devouring Age; Thou canst the force and teeth of Time endure: Thy fame, like Men, the Elder it doth grow, Will of its self turn whiter too, Without what needless Art can do; Will live beyond thy breath, beyond thy Hearse, Though it were never heard or sung in Verse. Without our help, thy Memory is safe; They only want an Epitaph, That do remain alone Alive in an Inscription, Remembred only on the Brass, or Marble-stone. 'Tis all in vain what we can do: All our Roses and Perfumes, Will but officious folly shew, And pious Nothings, to such mighty Tombs. All our Incense, Gums, and Balm, Are but unnecessary Duties here: The Poets may their Spices spare, Their costly Numbers, and their tunefull Feet: That need not be imbalm'd, which of it self is sweet.

II.

We know to praise thee is a dangerous proof Of our Obedience and our Love: For when the Sun and Fire meet, Th' one's extinguish'd quite; And yet the other never is more bright: So that they write of thee, and joyn Their feeble Names with thine,

Their weaker sparks with thy illustrious light, Will lose themselves in that ambitious thought; And yet no fame to thee from hence he brought, We know, bless'd Spirit, thy mighty Name Wants no addition of anothers Beam; It's for our Pens too high, and full of Theme: The Muses are made great by thee, not thou by them. Thy Fame's eternal Lamp will live, And in thy sacred Urn survive, Without the food of Oyl, which we can give. 'Tis true; but yet our Duty calls our Songs; Duty commands our Tongues. Though thou want not our praises, we Are not excus'd for what we owe to thee; For so Men from Religion are not freed. But from the Altars Clouds must rise, Though Heaven it self doth nothing need, And though the Gods don't want an earthly Sacrifice.

III.

Great Life of wonders, whose each year Full of new Miracles did appear! Whose every Month might be Alone a Chronicle, or a History! Others great Actions are But thinly scatter'd here and there; At best, but all one single Star; But thine the Milky-way, All one continued light, of undistinguish'd Day; They throng'd so close, that naught else could be seen, Scarce any common Sky did come between: What shall I say or where begin? Thou may'st in double shapes be shown, Or in thy Arms, or in thy Gown; Like Jove sometimes with Warlike Thunder, and Sometimes with peacefull Scepter in his Hand; Or in the Field, or on the Throne. In what thy Head, or what thy Arm hath done,

All that thou didst was so refin'd, So full of substance and so strongly join'd, So pure, so weighty Gold, That the least Grain of it If fully spread and beat, Would many Leaves and mighty Volumes hold.

IV.

Before thy Name was publish'd, and whilst yet, Though only to thy self wer't great, Whilst yet thy happy Bud Was not quite seen, or understood, It then sure signs of future Greatness shew'd: Then thy Domestick worth Did tell the World what it would be, When it should fit occasion see, When a full Spring should call it forth: As bodies in the Dark and Night, Have the same Colours, the same red and white, As in the open Day and Light, The Sun doth only shew That they are bright, not make them so: So whilst but private Walls did know What we to such a mighty Mind should owe, Then the same Vertues did appear, Though in a less and more contracted Sphere, As full, though not as large as since they were: And like great Rivers, Fountains, though at first so deep thou didst not go; Though then thine was not so inlarg'd a Flood; Yet when 'twas little, 'twas as clear as good.

V.

••Tis true thou wast not born unto a Crown, Thy Scepter's not thy Fathers, but thy own: Thy Purple was not made at once in hast, And after many other Colours past, It took the deepest Princely Dye at last. Thou didst begin with lesser Cares, And private Thoughts took up thy private Years:

Those hands, which were ordain'd by Fates, To change the World, and alter States, Practis'd at first that vast Design On meaner things with equal Mind. That Soul which should so many Scepters sway, To whom so many Kingdoms should obey, Learn'd first to rule in a domestick way, So Government it self began From Family, and single Man, Was by the small relation, first, Of Husband, and of Father Nurs'd, And from those less beginnings past, To spread it self o'er all the World at last.

VI.

But when thy Country (then almost enthrall'd) Thy Vertue, and thy Courage call'd; When England did thy Arms intreat, And 't had been Sin in thee not to be Great: When every Stream, and every Flood; Was a true Vein of Earth, and run with Blood; When unus'd Arms, and unknown War Fill'd every Place, and every Ear; When the great Storms, and dismal Night Did all the Land affright; 'Twas time for thee to bring forth all our Light. Thou left'st thy more delightfull Peace, Thy private Life, and better ease; Then down thy Steel and Armour took, Wishing that it still hung upon the Hook: When Death had got a large Commission out, Throwing her Arrows, and her Sting about; Then thou (as once the healing Serpent rose) Wast lifted up, not for thy self, but us.

VII.

Thy Country wounded was, and sick before Thy Wars and Arms did her restore: Thou knew'st where the Disease did lie, And like the Cure of Sympathy,

Thy strong and certain remedy Unto the Weapon didst apply; Thou didst not draw the Sword, and so Away the Scabbard throw, As if thy Country should Be the Inheritance of Mars and Blood: But that when the great work was spun, War in it self should be undone; That Peace might land again upon the Shore Richer and better than before: The Husbandmen no Steel should know, None but the usefull Iron of the Plow; That Bays might creep on every Spear: And though our Sky was overspread With a destructive Red; 'Twas but till thou our Sun didst in full light appear.

VIII.

When Ajax dy'd, the purple Blood That from his gaping Wound had flow'd, Turn'd into Letters every Leaf Had on it wrote his Epitaph: So from that Crimson Flood, Which thou by fate of times wert led, Unwillingly to shed, Letters, and Learning rose, and renewed: Thou fought'st not out of Envy, Hope, or Hate, But to refine the Church and State; And like the Romans whate'er thou In the Field of Mars didst mow, Was, that a holy Island hence might grow. Thy Wars, as Rivers raised by a Shower, With welcome Clouds do pour: Though they at first may seem, To carry all away with an enraged Stream; Yet did not happen that they might destroy, Or the better parts annoy: But all the filth and mud to scour, And leave behind another slime, To give a birth to a more happy power.

IX.

In Fields unconquer'd, and so well Thou didst in Battles and in Arms excell; That steelly Arms themselves, might be Worn out in War as soon as thee, Success, so close upon thy Troops did wait, As if thou first hadst conquer'd Fate; As if uncertain Victory Had been first overcome by thee; As if her Wings were clipt, and could not flee, Whilst thou didst only serve, Before thou hadst what first thou didst deserve. Others by thee did great things do, Triumphed'st thy self, and mad'st them triumph too; Though they above thee did appear, As yet in a more large and higher Sphere: Thou, the great Sun gav'st Light to every Star. Thy self an Army wert alone, And mighty Troops contain'd'st in one: Thy only Sword did guard the Land, Like that which flaming in the Angel's Hand, From Men God's Garden did defend: But yet thy Sword did more than his, Not only guarded, but did make this Land a Paradice.

X.

Thou fought'st not to be high or great, Nor for a Scepter or a Crown, Or Ermin, Purple, or the Throne; But as the Vestal Heat, Thy Fire was kindled from above alone; Religion putting on thy Shield, Brought thee victorious to the Field. Thy Arms like those, which ancient Heroes wore, Were given by the God thou did'st adore; And all the words thy Armies had, Were on an heavenly Anvil made; Not Int'rest, or any weak desire Of Rule or Empire, did thy Mind inspire;

Thy Valour like the holy Fire, Which did before the Persian Armies go, Liv'd in the Camp, and yet was sacred too: Thy mighty Sword anticipates, What was reserv'd for Heaven and those blest Seats, And makes the Church triumphant here below.

XI.

Though Fortune did hang on thy Sword, And did obey thy mighty word; Though Fortune for thy side and thee, Forgot her lov'd Unconstancy; Amidst thy Arms and Trophies thou Wert valiant and gentle too, Wounded'st thy self, when thou did'st kill thy Foe; Like Steel, when it much work has past, That which was rough does shine at last: Thy Arms by being oftner us'd did smoother grow; Nor did thy Battles make thee proud or high, Thy Conquest rais'd the state, not thee: Thou overcam'st thy self in every Victory: As when the Sun in a directer Line, Upon a polish'd golden Shield doth shine, The Shield reflects unto the Sun again his Light: So when the Heavens smil'd on thee in fight▪ When thy propitious God had lent Success, and Victory to thy Tent; To Heav'n again the Victory was sent.

XII.

England till thou did'st come, Confin'd her Valour home; Then our own Rocks did stand Bounds to our fame as well as Land, And were to us as well, As to our Enemies unpassable: We were asham'd at what we read, And blush'd at what our Fathers did, Because we came so far behind the Dead.

The British Lion hung his main, and droop'd, To Slavery and Burthen stoop'd, With a degenerate sleep and fear Lay in his Den, and languish'd there; At whose least Voice before, A trembling eccho ran through every Shore, And shook the world at every roar: Thou his subdu'd Courage didst restore, Sharpen his Claws, and his Eyes Mad'st the same dreadfull Lightning rise; Mad'st him again affright the neighbouring Floods, His mighty Thunder sounds through all the Woods: Thou hast our military Fame redeem'd, Which was lost or clouded seem'd: Nay more, Heaven did by thee bestow On us, at once an Iron Age, and happy too.

XIII.

Till thou command'st, that Azure Chain of Waves, Which Nature round about us sent, Made us to every Pirate Slaves, Was rather burthen than an Ornament; Those Fields of Sea that wash'd our Shores, We plow'd, and reap'd by other hands than ours: To us, the liquid Mass, Which doth about us run, As 'tis to the Sun, Only a bed to sleep on was: And not as now a powerfull Throne, To shake and sway the world thereon. Our Princes in their hand a Globe did shew, But not a perfect one, Compos'd of Earth and Water too. But thy Commands the Floods obey'd, Thou all the wilderness of water sway'd; Thou did'st not only wed the Sea, Not make her equal, but a Slave to thee. Neptune himself did bear thy Yoke, Stoop'd, and trembled at thy stroke:

He that rul'd all the Main, Acknowledg'd thee his Sovereign: And now the conquer'd Sea doth pay More Tribute to thy Thames than that unto the Sea.

XIV.

Till now our Valour did our selves more hurt; Our wounds to other Nations were a sport; And as the Earth, our Land produc'd Iron and Steel, which should to tear our selves be us'd, Our strength within it self did break Like thundring Cannons creak, And kill'd those that were near, While the Enemies secur'd and untouch'd were. But now our Trumpets thou hast made to sound Against our Enemies Walls in foreign ground; And yet no Eccho back to us returning found. England is now the happy peacefull Isle, And all the World the while, Is exercising Arms and Wars VVith foreign or intestine Jars. The Torch extinguish'd here, we lend to others Oil, VVe give to all, yet know our selves no fear; VVe reach the flame of ruin and of death, VVhere e'er we please, our Swords to unsheath, VVhilst we in calm and temperate Regions breath: Like to the Sun, whose heat is hurl'd Through every Corner of the world; Whose flame through all the Air doth go, And yet the Sun himself, the while no Fire doth know.

XV.

Besides the Glories of thy Peace, Are not in number, nor in value less. Thy hand did cure, and close the Scars Of our bloody civil Wars; Not only lanc'd but heal'd the wound, Made us again as healthy and as sound, VVhen now the Ship was well nigh lost, After the Storm upon the Coast,

By its Mariners endanger'd most: When they their Ropes and Helms had left, When the Planks asunder clest, And Floods came roaring in with mighty sound, Thou a safe Land, and harbour for us found, And sav'dst those that would themselves have drown'd: A work which none but Heaven and Thee could do, Thou mad'st us happy wh'th'r we would or no; Thy Judgment, Mercy, Temperance so great, As if those Vertues only in thy mind had seat: Thy Piety not only in the Field, but Peace, When Heaven seem'd to be wanted least; Thy Temples not like Janus only were, Open in time of VVar, VVhen thou hadst greater cause of fear, Religion and the awe of Heaven possest All places and all times alike thy Breast.

XVI.

Nor didst thou only for thy Age provide, But for the Years to come beside; Our after-times, and late Posterity, Shall pay unto thy Fame as much as we; They two are made by thee. VVhen fate did call thee to a higher Throne, And when thy mortal work was done; VVhen Heaven did say it, and thou must be gone, Thou him to bear thy Burthen chose, VVho might (if any could) make us forget thy loss; Nor hadst thou him design'd, Had he not been Not only to thy Blood, but Vertue kin; Not only Heir unto thy Throne, but Mind, 'Tis he shall perfect all thy Cures, And with as fine a Thread weave out thy Loom: So one did bring the chosen People from Their slavery and fears, Led them through their pathless Road, Guided himself by God.

He hath brought them to the Borders; but a second hand Did settle, and secure them in the promis'd Land.

Vpon the late Storm, and Death of the late Vsur∣per Oliver Cromwell ensuing the same.

By Mr. Waller.

WE must resign; Heav'n his great Soul does claim In Storms as loud as his immortal Fame; His dying Groans, his last Breath shakes our Isle, And Trees uncut fall for his Funeral Pile. About his Palace their broad roots are tost Into the Air: So Romulus was lost. New Rome in such a Tempest mist their King, And from obeying fell to worshipping. On Oeta's top thus Hercules lay dead, With ruin'd Oaks and Pines about him spread; The Poplar too, whose Bough he wont to wear On his victorious Head, lay prostrate there: Those his last Fury from the Mountain rent; Our dying Hero, from the Continent, Ravish'd whole Towns, and Forts from Spaniards rest, As his last Legacy to Britain left; The Ocean which so long our hopes confin'd, Could give no limits to his vaster Mind; Our bounds inlargement, was his latest Toil, Nor hath he left us Prisoners to our Isle: Under the Tropick is our Language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our Yoke. From civil broils, he did us disingage, Found nobler Objects for our Martial Rage; And with wise Conduct to his Country shew'd, Their ancient way of conquering abroad: Ungratefull then, if we no tears allow To him that gave us Peace and Empire too: Princes that fear'd him, griev'd, concern'd to see No pitch of Glory from the Grave is free;

Nature her self took notice of his Death, And sighing swell'd the Sea with such a breath, That to remotest shores her Billows rowl'd, Th' approaching Fate of her great Ruler told.

Directions to a Painter concerning the Dutch War:

By Sir John Denham, 1667.

NAY Painter, if thou dar'st design that Fight, Which Waller only Courage had to write; If thy bold hands can without shaking draw, What ev'n th' Actors trembled at when they saw, Enough to make thy Colours change like theirs, And all thy Pencils bristle like their Hairs. First in fit distance of the prospect Main, Paint Allen tilting at the Coast of Spain; Heroick act! and never heard till now! Stemming of Herc'les pillars with the Prow! And how he lest his ship the hills to wast, And with new Sea-marks Cales and Dover graft. Next let the flaming London come in view, Like Nero's Rome, burnt to re-build it new; What lesser Sacrifice than this was meet To offer for the safety of the Fleet? Blow one ship up, another thence will grow: See what free Cities and wise Courts can do! So some old Merchant to insure his name, Marries afresh, and Courties share the Dame: So whatsoe'er is broke, the Servants pay't, And Glasses are more durable than Plate. No May'r till now, so rich a Pageant feign'd, Nor one Barge all the Companies contain'd. Then Painter draw Cerulean Coventry, Keeper, or rather Chancellor o'th' Sea; And more exactly to express his hue, Use nothing but Ultra-Marinish Blue.

To pay his Fees, the Silver Trumpet spends, And Boat-swains whistle, for his place depends; Pilots in vain repeat their Compass o're, Until of him they learn that one point more. The constant Magnet to the Pole doth hold, Steel to the Magnet, Coventry to Gold. Muscovy sells us Pitch, and Hemp and Tar; Iron and Copper, Sweden; Munster, War; Ashly, Prize; Warwick, Customs; Cart'ret, Pay; But Coventry doth sell the Fleet away. Now let our Navy stretch its Canvas Wings, Swoln like his Purse, with tackling like his strings, By slow degrees of the increasing gale, First under Sail, and after under Sale: Then in kind visit unto Opdam's Gout, Hedge the Dutch in, only to let them out. So Huntsmen fair unto the Hares give Law, First find them, and then civilly withdraw. That the blind Archer when they take the Seas, The Hambrough Convoy may betray with ease. So that the Fish may more securely bite, The Angler baits the River over night. But Painter, now prepare t' inrich thy piece, Pencil of Ermins, Oyl of Ambergreece, See where the Dutchess with triumphant trail Of numerous Coaches, Harwich doth assail! So the Land-Crabs, at Natures kindly call, Down to ingender to the Sea do crawl. See then the Admiral with the Navy whole, To Harwich through the Ocean carry Coal: So Swallows buried in the Sea at Spring, Return to Land with Summer in their Wing. One thrifty Ferry-boat of Mother-pearl, Suffic'd of old the Citharean Girl; Yet Navies are but Fopperies when here, A small Sea-mask, and built to court your Dear: Three Goddesses in one, Pallas for Art, Venus for Sport, but Juno in your Heart.

O Dutchess! if thy Nuptial pomp was mean, 'Tis paid with interest in thy Naval scene. Never did Roman Mark within the Nile, So feast the fair Aegyptian Crocodile; Nor the Venetian Duke with such a state The Adriatick marry, at that rate. Now Painter, spare thy weaker art; forbear To draw her parting Passions and each Tear: For Love, alas! hath but a short delight; The Sea, the Dutch, the King, all call'd to fight. She therefore the Duke's person recommends To Brunker, Pen, and Coventry, her Friends, To Pen much, Brunker more, most Coventry; For they she knew were all more fraid than he: Of flying Fishes one had sav'd the Fin. And hop'd by this he thro' the Air might spin; The other thought he might avoid the Knell, By the invention of the Diving Bell; The third had try'd it, and affirm'd a Cable Coyld round about him was impenetrable. But these the Duke rejected, only chose To keep far off; let others interpose. Rupert that knew no fear, but Health did want, Kept State suspended in a Chair volant; All save his Head shut in that wooden case, He shew'd but like a broken Weatherglass; But arm'd with the whole Lyon Cap-a-Chin, Did represent the Hercules within. Dear shall the Dutch his twinging anguish know, And see what Valour whet with pain can do. Curst in the mean time be that treach'rous Jael, That thro' his Princely Temples drove the Nail. Rupert resolv'd to fight it like a Lyon; And Sandwich hop'd to fight it like Arion; He to prolong his Life in the dispute, And charm'd the Holland Pirates, tun'd his Lute, Till some judicious Dolphin might approach, And land him safe and sound as any Roach.

Now Painter, reassume thy Pencils care, Thou hast but skirmisht yet, now fight prepare; And draw the Battle terrible to shew, As the last Judgment was of Angelo. First let our Navy scowr thro' Silver Froth, The Oceans burthen, and the Kingdoms both; Whose very bulk may represent its birth; From Hide and Paston, burthens of the Earth; Hide whose transcendent Panch so swells of late, That he the Rupture seems of Law and State; Paston, whose Belly bears more millions, Than Indian Carracks, and contains more Tuns. Let shoals of Porpoises on every side Wonder in swimming by our Oaks out-vy'd; And the Sea-fowl all gaze, t' behold a thing So vast, more swift & strong than they of Wing. But yet presaging George they keep in sight, And follow for the Reliques of a Fight. Then let the Dutch with well dissembled fear, Or bold despair, more than we wish, draw near: At which our Gallants, to the Sea but tender, And more to fight their easy Stomachs render; With Breasts so panting, that at every stroke You might have felt their Hearts beat thro' the Oak: While one concerned in the interval Of straining Choler, thus did vent his Gall. Noah be damn'd! and all his Race accurst, Who in Sea-brine did pickle Timber first! What though he planted Vines, he Pines cut down, He taught us how to Drink and how to Drown: He first built Ships, and in his Wooden Wall, Saving but Eight, e're since endanger'd all. And thou Dutch Necromantick Fryar, be damn'd, And in thine own first Mortar-piece be ram'd! Who first invented Cannon in thy Cell, Nitre from Earth, and Brimstone fetcht from Hell. But damn'd and treble damn'd be Clarendine, Our Seventh Edward, with all his House and Line!

Who to divert the danger of the War, With Bristol, bounds us on the Hollander: Fool coated Gown man! sells, to fight with Hans, Dunkirk; dismantling Scotland, quarrels France; And hopes he now hath bus'ness shap'd, and Power T' out-last our Lives or his, and scape the Tower; And that he yet may see, e're he go down, His dear Clarinda circled in a Crown. By this time both the Fleets in reach dispute, And each the other mortally salute: Draw pensive Neptune biting of his Thumbs, To think himself a Slave whoe're o'recomes. The frighted Nymphs retreating to their Rocks, Beating their blue Breasts, tearing their green Locks. Paint Eccho slain, only th'alternate sound From the repeating Cannon doth rebound. Opdam sails placed on his Naval Throne, Assuming Courage greater than his own; Makes to the Duke and threatens him from far, To nail him to his Boards like a Petar; But in the vain attempt, took fire too soon, And flies up in his Ship to catch the Moon. Monsieurs like Rockets mount aloft, and crack In thousand sparks, then dancingly fall back. Yet e're this happen'd, destiny allow'd Him his Revenge, to make his death more proud; A fatal Bullet from his side did range, And batter'd Lawson: Oh too dear Exchange! He led our Fleet that day too short a space, But lost his Knee; since dy'd in glories Race: Lawson! whose Valour beyond fate did go, And still fights Opdam in the Lake below. The Duke himself, though Pen did not forget, Yet was not out of dangers Random set. Falmouth was there, I know not what to act; Some say 'twas to grow Duke too by contract: An untaught Bullet in its wanton scope, Dashes him all to pieces, and his Hope.

Such was his rise, such was his fall, unprais'd; A Chance-shot sooner took him than Chance rais'd: His shatter'd Head the fearless Duke disdains, And gave the last first proof that he had Brains. Bartlet had heard it soon, and thought not good To venture more of Royal Harding's Blood: To be Immortal he was not of Age, And did e'en now the Indian Prize presage; And judg'd it safe and decent, cost what cost, To lose the Day, since his dear Brother's lost. With his whole Squadron straight away he bore, And like good Boy, promis'd to fight no more. The Dutch Auranea careless at us sail'd; And promised to doe what Opdam fail'd: Smith to the Duke doth intercept her way, And cleaves t' her closer than a Remora: The Captain wonder'd, and withall disdain'd, So strongly by a thing so small, detain'd; And in a raging bravery to him runs, They stab their Ships with one anothers Guns: They fight so near it seems to be on Ground, And ev'n the Bullets meeting, Bullets wound. The noise, the smoak, the fire, the sweat, the blood, Is not to be exprest, nor understood. Each Captain from his Quarter-deck commands, They wave their bright Swords glittering in their hands. All luxury of VVar, all Man can do In a Sea-fight, did pass between them too. But one must conquer whosoever fight; Smith takes the Gyant and is made a Knight. Marlborough that knew, and durst do more than all, Falls undistinguisht by an Iron ball: Dear Lord! but born under a Star ingrate! No soul more clear, nor no more gloomy fate! VVho would set up VVars Trade that means to thrive? Death picks the Valiant out, Cowards survive: VVhat the Brave merit, th' Impudent do vaunt; And none's rewarded but the Sycophant.

Hence all his Life he against Fortune fenc'd, Or not well known, or not well recompenc'd: But envy not this praise t' his memory, None more prepar'd was, or less fit to dye: Rupert did others and himself excell: Holms, Tydiman, Minns; bravely Sanson fell. What others did, let none omitted, blame, I shall record, whoe're brings in his Name: But unless after-stories disagree, Nine only came to fight, the rest to see. Now all conspire unto the Dutchmens loss; The wind, the fire, we, they themselves do cross. When a sweet sleep began the Duke to drown, And with soft Diadems his Temples crown: And first he orders all the rest to watch, And They the Foe, whilst He a Nap doth catch: But lo, Brunkar by a secret instinct, Slept on, nor needed; he all day had winkt. The Duke in bed, he then first draws his steel, Whose vertue makes the misled Compass wheel. So e're He wak'd, both Fleets were innocent: And Brunkar Member is of Parliament. And now, dear Painter, after pains, like those, 'Twere time that I and thou too do repose. But all our Navy scap'd so sound of Limb, That a short space serv'd to refresh and trim; And a tame Fleet of theirs doth Convoy want, Laden with both the Indies, and Levant: Paint but this one Scene more the world's our own, And Halcyon Sandwich doth command alone: To Bergen we with confidence made haste, And th' secret spoils by hope already taste; Though Clifford in the Character appear Of Supra-Cargo to our Fleet, and their Wearing a Signet ready to clap on, And seize all for his Master Arlington, Ruyter whose little Squadron skim'd the Seas, And wasted our remotest Colonies,

With Ships all foul, return'd upon our way; Sand—ch would not disperse, nor yet delay; And therefore like Commander grave and wise, To scape his sight and fight, shut both his Eyes; And for more state and sureness, Cutten true The left Eye closeth, the right Mountague; And even Clifford proffer'd in his zeal, To make all safe, t' apply to both his Seal. Vlysses so, till Syrens he had past, VVould by his Mates be pinion'd to the Mast. Now can our Navy view the wished Port, But there (to see the Fortune!) was a Fort: Sand—ch would not be beaten, nor yet beat; Fools only fight, the Prudent use to treat. His Cousin Mountague by Court-disaster, Dwindled into the wooden Horse's Master: To speak of Peace seem'd amongst all most proper, Had Talbot then treated of nought but Copper: Or what are Forts, when void of Ammunition? VVith friends or foes what would we more condition? Yet we three days, till the Dutch furnish'd all, Men, Powder, Money, Cannon,—treat with VVall! Then Tydiman, finding the Danes would not, Sent in six Captains bravely to be shot. And Mountague, though drest like any Bride, And aboard him too, yet was reach'd and dy'd: Sad was the chance, and yet a deeper care Wrinkled his Membranes under Forehead fair. The Dutch Armado yet had th' impudence To put to Sea, to waft their Merchants thence; For as if all their Ships of Wall-nut were, The more we beat them, still the more they bear: But a good Pilot and a favouring wind, Brings Sand—ch back, and once again did blind. Now gentle Painter, e're we leap on shore, With thy last strokes ruffle a Tempest o're; As if in our reproach, the Wind and Seas Would undertake the Dutch, while we take ease:

The Seas the spoils within our Hatches throw, The Winds both Fleets into our mouths do blow: Strew all their ships along the Shore by ours, As eas'ly to be gather'd up as Flow'rs: But Sand—ch fears for Merchants to mistake A man of War, and among Flow'rs a Snake. Two Indian ships pregnant with Eastern Pearl, And Diamonds, sate th' Officers and Earl: Then warning of our Fleet, he it divides Into the Ports, and so to Oxford rides. Mean while the Dutch uniting to our shames, Ride all insulting o'er the Downs and Thames! Now treating San—ch seems the fittest choice For Spain, there to condole, and to rejoyce: He meets the French; but to avoid all harms, Ships to the Groyn: Embassies bear no Arms: There let him languish a long Quarantain, And ne'er to England come till he be clean. Thus having fought, we know not why as yet; We've done we know not what, nor what we get: If to espouse the Ocean, all this pains Princes unite, and do forbid the Bains: If to discharge Phanaticks, this makes more; For all Phanaticks are, when they are poor: Or if the House of Commons to repay, Their Prize-Commissions are transferr'd away: But for triumphant check-stones if, and shell For Dutchess Closet, 't hath succeeded well. If to make Parliaments as odious pass, Or to reserve a standing force, alass! Or if, as just, ORANGE to re-instate, Instead of that, he is regenerate: And with four Millions vainly giv'n as spent, And with five Millions more of detriment, Our Summ amounts yet only to have won A Bastard Orange for Pimp Arl—ton Now may Historians argue con and pro: Denham says thus; though always Waller so:

And he, good Man, in his long sheet and staff, This Pennance did for Cromwel's Epitaph. And his next Theam must be o'th' Duke's Mistress, Advice to draw Madam l' Edificatress. Henceforth, O Gemini! two Dukes command, Castor and Pollux, Aumarle and Cumberland. Since in one Ship, it had been fit they'd went In Petty's Double-Keel'd Experiment.

To the KING.

By Sir John Denham.

Imperial Prince! King of the Seas and Isles! Dear Object of our Ioy, and Heaven's smiles! What boots it that thy Light doth gild our Days, And we lie basking in thy milder Rays, While swarms of Insects, from thy warmth begun, Our Land devour, and intercept our Sun? Thou, like Jove's Minos, rul'st a greater Creet; And for its hundred Cities, count'st thy Fleet. Why wilt thou that State-Daedalus allow, Who builds the Butt, a Lab'rinth and a Cow? If thou art Minos, be a Iudge severe, And in's own Maze confound the Engineer. O may our Sun, since he too nigh presumes, Melt the soft wax wherewith he imps his Plumes! And may he falling leave his hated Name Unto those Seas his War hath set on Flame! From that Enchanter having clear'd thine Eyes, Thy native sight will pierce within the Skies, And view those Kingdoms calm with Ioy and Light, Where's Universal Triumph, but no Fight. Since both from Heaven thy Race and Power descend, Rule by its Pattern there to re-ascend: Let Iustice only awe, and Battel cease: Kings are but Cards in War; they're Gods in Peace.

Directions to a Painter.

By Sir John Denham.

SAnd—ch in Spain now, and the Duke in love, Let's with new Generals a new Painter prove: Lilly's a Dutchman, danger's in his art, His Pencils may Intelligence impart. Thou Gibson, that among thy Navy small Of Muscle-shells, commandest Admiral; Thy self so slender, that thou shew'st no more Than Barnacle new hatch'd of them before: Come mix thy Water-colours, and express Drawing in little what we yet do less. First paint me George and Rupert ratling far Both in one Box like the two Dice of War; And let the terrour of their linked Name, Fly thro' the air, like Chain-shot, tearing fame: Jove in one Cloud did scarcely ever wrap Lightning so fierce, but never such a clap. United Generals sure are th' onely spell, Wherewith United Provinces to quell: Alas, even they, though shell'd in treble Oak, Will prove an addle Egg with double Yolk. And therefore next uncouple either Hound, And loo them at two Hares e're one be found. Rupert and Beaufort, halloo; ah, there Rupert Like the phantastick hunting of St. Hubert; When he with airy Hounds, and Horn of air, Pursues by Fontain-bleau the witchy Hare. Deep providence of State! that could so soon Fight Beaufort here e're he had quit Thouloon. So have I seen, e're Human Quarrels rise, Foreboding Meteors combat in the Skies. But let the Prince to fight with Rumour go, The Generals meet a more substantial Foe: Ruyter he spies, and full of Youthfull heat, Though half their number, thinks the odds too great.

The Fowler watching, so his watry spot, And more the Fowl, hopes for the better shot. Though such a Limb was from his Navy torn, He found no weakness yet, like Sampson shorn; But swoln with sense of former Glory wone, Thought Monk must be by Albemarle out-done: Little he knew with the same Arm and Sword, How far the Gentleman out-cuts the Lord. Ruyter, inferiour unto none for Art. Superiour now in number and in Heart; Ask'd if he thought, as once our Rebel-Nation, To conquer theirs too, with a Declaration? And threatens, though he now so proudly sail, He shall tread back his Iter Boreale: This said, he the short period, e're it ends, With Iron-words from Brazen-mouths extends: Monk yet prevents him e're the Navies meet, And charges in himself alone a Fleet; And with so quick and frequent motion wound His murthering sides about, the Ship seem'd round; And the Exchanges of his Circling Tire, Like whirling Hoops, shew'd of triumphant Fire. Single he doth at their whole Navy aim, And shoots them through a Porcupine of flame. In noise so regular his Cannons met, You'd think that Thunder was to Musick set: Ah! had the rest but kept a time as true, What age could such a Martial Consort shew! The listning air unto the distant shore, Through secret Pipes conveys the tuned Roar; Till as the Eccho's vanishing, abate, Men feel a dead sound like the pulse of State. If Fate expire let Monk her place supply, His Guns determine who shall live or dye. But Victory doth always hate a Rant; Valour's her Brave, but Skill is her Gallant. Ruyter no less with vertuous Envy burns, And Prodigies for Miracles returns:

Yet he observ'd how still his Iron Balls, Recoyl'd in vain against our Oaken Walls. How the hard Pellets sell away as dead, By our inchanted Timber fillipped. Leave then, said he, th' invulnerable Keel, Wee'll find their feeble, like Achilles Heel. He quickly taught, pours in continual Clouds Of chain'd Dilemma's through our sinew'd Shrowds. Forrests of Masts fall with their rude embrace, Our stiff Sails masht, and netted into Lace; Till our whole Navy lay their wanton mark, Nor any Ship could sail but as the Ark, Shot in the Wing, so at the Powder's call, The disappointed Bird doth fluttering fall. Yet Monk disabl'd still such courage shews, That none into his mortal gripe dare close: So an old Bustard, maim'd yet loth to yield, Duels the Fowler in New-Market Field. But since he found it was in vain to fight, He imps his Plumes the best he can for flight: This, Painter, were a noble task to tell, What indignation his great Breast did swell.

Not vertuous Man unworthily abus'd, Not constant Lover without cause refus'd, Not honest Merchant broke, nor skilfull Player Hist off the Stage, nor Sinners in despair; Not Parents mockt, nor Favourites disgrac'd, Not Rump by Monk, or Oliver displac'd; Not Kings depos'd, nor Prelates e're they dye, Feel half the rage of Gen'rals when they fly.

Ah rather than transmit th' story to Fame, Draw Curtains, gentle Artist, o're the shame: Cashier the Memory of Dutell, rais'd up To taste, instead of Death, his Highness Cup; And if the thing were true, yet paint it not, How Bartlet, as he long deserv'd, was shot;

Though others that survey'd the Corps so clear, Said he was only petrify'd for fear: If so, th' hard Statute mummy'd without Gum, Might the Dutch Balm have spar'd, and English Tomb. Yet if thou wilt paint MINNS turn'd all to soul, And the great HARMAN cak'd almost to Coal; And JORDAN old worthy thy Pencil's pain, Who all the while held up the Ducal Train: But in a dark Cloud cover Askew, when He quit the Prince to embark in Lovestein; And wounded Ships, which wo immortal boast, Now first led Captive to an hostile Coast. But most with story of his Hand and Thumb, Conceal (as honour would) his Grace's Bum, When the large Bullet a large Collop tore Out of that Buttock never turn'd before: Fortune (it seems) would give him by that lash, Gentle correction for his fight so rash. But should the Rump perceive't, they'd say that Mars Had now reveng'd them upon Aumarle's Arse. The long disaster better o'er to vail, Paint only Jonas three days in the Whale: For no less time did conqu'ring Ruyter chaw Our flying Gen'ral in his Spungy Jaw. Then draw the youthfull Perseus all in hast, From a Sea-Beast to free the Virgin chast; But neither riding Pegasus for speed, Nor with the Gorgon shielded at his need: So Rupert the Sea-Dragon did invade, But to save George, himself, and not the Maid; And though arriving late, he quickly mist Ev'n Sails to fly, unable to resist. Not Greenland Seamen that survive the fright Of the cold Chaos, and half eternal Night, So gladly the returning Sun adore, Or run to spy the next Year's Fleet from shore, Hoping yet once within the Oily side Of the fat Whale, again their Spears to hide,

As our glad Fleet with universal shout Salute the Prince, and wish the second bout. Nor Wind's long Prisoners in Earth's hollow Vault, The fallow Seas so eagerly assault, As fiery Rupert with revengefull Joy, Doth on the Dutch his hungry Courage cloy; But soon unrigg'd, lay like an useless Board; (As wounded in the Wrist men drop their Sword) When a propitious Cloud between us stept, And in our aid did Ruyter intercept. Old Homer yet did never introduce, To save his Heroes, Mists of better use. Worship the Sun, who dwell where he doth rise; This Mist doth more deserve our Sacrifice. Now joyfull Fires and the exalted Bell, And Court-Gazettes our empty Triumphs tell. Alas, the time draws near, when overturn'd, Thy lying Bells shall through the Tongues be burnt; Paper shall want to print that Lye of State, And our false Fires true Fires shall expiate. Stay Painter here awhile, and I will stay; Nor vex the future Times with my survey: Seest not the Monky Dutchess all undrest? Paint thou but her, and she will paint the rest. This sad Tale found her in her outward Room, Nailing up Hangings not of Persian Loom: Like chaste Penelope that ne'er did rome, But made all fine against her GEORGE came home. Upon a Ladder, in her Coats much shorter, She stood with Groom and Coachman for Supporter; And careless what they saw, or what they thought, With Honi Pense full honestly she wrought. One Tenter drove, to lose no time or place, At once the Ladder they remove, and Grace. Whilst thus they her translate from North to East, In posture just of a four footed Beast, She heard the News: but alter'd yet no more, Than that which was behind she turn'd before;

Nor would come down, but with an Handkercher, Which Pocket foul did to her Neck prefer: She shed no tears, for she was too Viraginous, But only snuffling her Trunk Cartilaginous, From Scaling Ladder she began a story, Worthy to be had in Memento Mori; Arraigning past, and present, and futuri, With a prophetick, if not friendly Fury. Her Hair began to creep, her Belly sound, Her Eyes to sparkle, and her Udder-bound; Half Witch, half Prophet; thus the Albemarle, Like Presbyterian Sybil, 'gan to snarl: Traytors both to my Lord, and to the King! Nay now it is beyond all suffering! One Valiant Man by Land, and he must be Commanded out to stop their leaks at Sea: Yet send him Rupert, as an helper meet; First the Commands dividing, then the Fleet: One may if they be beat, or both be hit; Or if they overcome, yet Honours split. But reck'ning GEORGE already knockt i'th' head, They cut him out like Beef e're he be dead: Each for a Quarter hopes; the first doth skip, But shall fall short though at the Gen'ral-ship. Next they for Master of the Horse agree; A third the Cock-pit begs, not any Me. But they shall know, ay marry shall they do▪ That who the Cock-pit hath, shall have Me too. I told George first, as Calamy told me, If the King brought these o're, how it would be: Men that there pick his Pocket to his Face, And sell Intelligence to buy a Place▪ That their Religion's pawn'd for Cloaths, nor care, 'Tis run so long now, to redeem't, nor dare. O what egregious Loyalty to cheat! O what Fidelity it was to Eat! Whilst Langdales, Hoptons, Glenhams starv'd abroad, And here true Roy'lists sink beneath their load.

Men that did there affront, defame, betray The King, and so do here; now who but they! What! say I Men! nay, rather Monsters; Men Only in bed, nor to my Knowledge then. See how they home return'd in revel rout, With the small manners that they first went out: Not better grown, nor wiser all the while, Renew the causes of their first Exile: As if, to shew the Fool what 'tis I mean, I chose a foul Smock, when I might have clean. First, they for fear disband the Army tame, And leave good George a Gen'rals empty name: Then Bishops must revive, and all unfix With Discontents, to content Twenty six: The Lords House drains the Houses of the Lord, For Bishops Voices silencing the word. O Barthol'mew! Saint of their Kalander! What's worse, th' Ejection or the Massacre? Then Culpepper, Glouster, and the Princess dy'd; Nothing can live that interrupts an Hyde. O more than human GLOSTER! Fate did shew Thee but to Earth, and back again withdrew. Then the fat Scrivener doth begin to think 'Twas time to mix the Royal Blood with Ink. Berkley that swore as oft as he had Toes, Doth kneeling now her Chastity depose; Just as the first French Card'nal could restore Maidenhead to his Widow, Neece and Whore. For Portion, if she could prove light, when weigh'd, Four Millions shall within three years be paid; To raise it, we must have a Naval War, As if 'twere nothing but Tara-Tan-Tar! Abroad all Princes disobliging first, At home all Parties but the very worst. To tell of Ireland, Scotland, Dunkirk's sad; Or the King's Marriage: But he thinks I'm mad: And sweeter Creature never saw the Sun, If we the King wish Monk, or Queen a Nun.

But a Dutch War shall all these Rumors still, Bleed out these Humours, and our Purses fill; Yet after four days Fight, they clearly saw 'Twas too much danger for a Son-in-Law: Hire him to leave, for Six score thousand Pound: So with the King's Drums men for sleep compound. But modest Sand—ch thought it might agree With the State-prudence, to do less than he; And to excuse their timorousness and sloth, They found how George might now be less than both. First Smith must for Leghorn, with force enough To venture back again, but not go through: Beaufort is there, and to their dazling Eyes The distance more the Object magnifies; Yet this they gain, that Smith his time should lose, And for my Duke too, cannot interpose. But fearing that our Navy, George to break, Might yet not be sufficiently weak; The Secretary, that had never yet Intelligence, but from his own Gazette, Discovers a great Secret, fit to sell, And pays himself for't, e'er he would it tell; Beaufort is in the Channel; Hixy here! Doxy Thoulon! Beaufort is ev'ry-where. Herewith assembling the supreme Divan, Where enters none but Devil, NED and NAN; And upon this pretence they straight design'd, The Fleet to sep'rate, and the World to blind: Monk to the Dutch, and Rupert (here the Wench Could not but smile) is destin'd to the French. To write the order, Bristol Clerk is chose; One slit in's Pen, the other in his Nose; For he first brought the News, it is his place; He'll see the Fleet divided like his Face; And through the cranny in his grisly part, To the Dutch Chink Intelligence impart. The Plot succeeds: The Dutch in hast prepar'd, And poor Peel Garlick George's Arse they shar'd;

And then presuming of his certain Wrack, To help him late they send for Rupert back. Officious Will seem'd fittest, as afraid Lest George should look too far into his Trade. At the first Draught they pause with Statesmens care, They write in full, then copy it as fair; And then compare them, when at last its sign'd, Will soon his Purse-strings, but no Seal could find. At Night he sends it by the common Post, To save the King of an Express the cost. Lord, what ado to pack one Letter hence! Some Patents pass with less circumference. Well George, in spite of them thou safe dost ride, Lessen'd I hope in nought but thy backside; For as to Reputation, this Retreat Of thine, exceeds the Victories so great: Nor shalt thou stir from hence, by my consent, Till thou hast made the Dutch and Them repent. 'Tis true, I want so long the Nuptial Gift, But as I oft have done, I'll make a shift; Nor will I with vain pomp accost the shore, To try thy Valour at the Bouy o'th' Nore, Fall to thy Work there George, as I do here; Cherish the valiant up, Cowards cashier: See that the Men have Pay, and Beef, and Beer, Find out the cheats of the four Millioneer. Out of the very Beer, they sell the Malt; Powder of Powder, from powder'd Beef the Salt. Put thy hand to the Tub, instead of Oxe, They victual with French Pork that hath the Pox. Never such Cotqueans by small arts do wring, Ne'er such ill Huswives in the managing! Pursers at Sea know fewer cheats than they, Marriners on Shore less madly spend their Pay. See that thou hast new Sails thy self, and spoil All their Sea-market, and their Cable coyl. Look that good Chaplains on each Ship do wait, Nor the Sea-Diocese be impropriate:

Look to the sick and wounded Pris'ners; all Is prize; they rob even the Hospital, Recover back the Prizes too; in vain We fight, if all be taken that is ta'en. Now by our Coast the Dutchmen, like a Flight Of feeding Ducks, ev'ning and morning light; How our Land-Hectors tremble, void of sense, As if they came straight to transport them hence: Some Sheep are stol'n; the Kingdom's all array'd, And ev'd Presbyters now call out for aid. They wish ev'n George divided to command, One half of him at Sea, th' other on Land. What's that I see! ah, 'tis my George agen! It seems they in sev'n Weeks have rigg'd him then. The curious Heav'ns with Lightning him surrounds, To view him, and his Name in Thunder sounds. But with the same swift goes, their Navy's near: So e'er we hunt the Keeper shoots the Deer. Stay Heaven awhile, and thou shalt see him ••ail, And George too, he can thunder, lighten, hail. Happy the time that I e'er wedded George, The Sword of England, and the Holland Scourge. Avaunt Rotterdam-Dog, Ruyter avaunt, Thou Water-Rat, thou Shark, thou Cormorant. I'll teach thee to shoot Scissors: I'll repair Each Rope thou losest George, out of this Hair. 'Tis strong and course enough; I'll hem this shift, E'er thou shalt lack a Sail, and lie a-drift: Bring home the old ones; I again will sew, And darn them up, to be as good as new. What, twice disabled! Never such a thing! Now Sovereign help him that brought in the King, Guard thy Posteriors, George, e'er all be gone, Tho' Jury-Masts, thou'st Jury-Buttocks none. Courage! How bravely (whet with this disgrace) He turns, and Bullets spits in Ruyter's Face. They fly, they fly, their Fleet doth now divide, But they discard their Trump: our Trump is Hyde.

Where are you now,de Ruyter, with your Bears? See where your Merchants burn about your Ears. Fire out the Wasps, George from the hollow Trees, Cramm'd with the Honey of our English Bees. Ah now they are paid for Guinea: e'er they steer To the Gold Coast, they find it hotter here. Turn all your Ships to stoves e'er you set forth, To warm your Traffick in the frozen North. Ah Sandwich! had thy conduct been the same, Bergen had seen a less but richer Flame; Nor Ruyter liv'd new battle to repeat, And oftner beaten be, than we can beat. Scarce had George leisure after all his pain, To tie his Breaches; Ruyter's out again: Thrice in one Year! Why sure this Man is wood: Beat him like Stock-fish, or he'll ne'er be good. I see them both again prepare to try; The first shot through each other with the Eye. Then—but the ruling Providence that must With humane Projects play, as Wind with Dust, Raises a storm. So Constables a fray Knock down; and send them both well cuff'd away. Plant now New England Firs in English Oak, Build your Ships Ribs proof to the Cannon stroke: To get the Fleet to Sea, exhaust the Land; Let longing Princes pine for the command: Strong March-panes! Wafers lights! so thin a puff Of angry air can ruin all that huff: So Champions having shar'd the Lists and Sun, The Judge throws down's Award, and they have done. For shame come home George, 'tis for thee too much To fight at once with Heaven and the Dutch. Woe's me! what see I next, alas! the fate I see of England, and its utmost date. Those Flames of theirs at which we fondly smile, Kindle like Torches our Sepulchral Pile.

War, Fire, and Plague against us all conspire; We the War, God the Plague, who rais'd the Fire? See how Men all like Ghosts, while London burns, Wander, and each over his Ashes mourns! Curs'd be the Man that first begat this War, In an ill hour, under a blazing Star. For Others sport two Nations fight a Prize; Between them both, Religion wounded dies. So of first Troy, the angry Gods unpaid, Raz'd the Foundations which themselves had laid.

Welcome, though late, dear George: here hadst thou bin, We'd scap'd: (let Rupert bring the Navy in.) Thou still must help them out, when in the mire; Gen'ral at Land, at Plague, at Sea, at Fire. Now thou art gone, see Beaufort dares approach, And our Fleets angling, as to catch a Roach. Gibson farewell, till next we put to Sea: Truth is, thou'st drawn her in Effigie.

To the KING:

By Sir John Denham.

GReat Prince: and so much Greater as more Wise; Sweet as our Life, and dearer than our Eyes, What Servants will conceal, and Councels spare To tell, the Painter and the Poet dare. And the assistance of an Heavenly Muse And Pencil represent the Crimes abstruse. Here needs no Fleet, no Sword, no foreign Foe; Only let Vice be damn'd, and Iustice flow. Shake but, like Jove, thy Locks divine and frown, Thy Scepter will suffice to guard thy Crown. Hark to Cassandra's Song, e'er fate destroy By thy lowd Navy's wooden Horse, thy Troy. As our Apollo, from the Tumults wave, And gentle Calms, though but in Oars will save.

So Philomel her sad embroidery strung, And vocal Silks tun'd with her Needles Tongue. The Pictures dumb in Colours loud reveal'd The Tragedies at Court so long conceal'd; But when restor'd to voice inclos'd with wings, To Woods and Groves what once the Painter sings.

Directions to a Painter.

By Sir John Denham.

DRaw England ruin'd by what was given before, Then draw the Commons slow in giving more: Too late grown wiser, they their treasure see Consum'd by fraud, or lost by treachery; And vainly now would some account receive Of those vast Summs which they so idly gave, And trusted to the management of such As Dunkirk sold, to make War with the Dutch; Dunkirk, design'd once to a nobler Use, Than to erect a petty Lawyer's House. But what account could they from those expect, Who to grow rich themselves the State neglect; Men who in England have no other Lot, Than what they by betraying it have got; Who can pretend to nothing but Disgrace, Where either Birth or Merit find a place. Plague, Fire and War, have been the Nation's Curse, But to have these our Rulers, is a worse: Yet draw these Causers of the Kingdoms Woe, Still urging dangers from our growing Foe, Asking new Aid for War with the same face, As if, when giv'n, they meant not to make Peace. Mean while they cheat the publick with such hast, They will have nothing that may ease it, past. They Law 'gainst Irish Cattle they condemn, As shewing distrust o'th' King; that is, of them.

Yet they must now swallow this bitter Pill, Or Money want, which was the greater ill. And then the King to Westminster is brought, Imperfectly to speak the Chanc'llors thought; In which, as if no Age could parallel A Prince and Council that had rul'd so well, He tells the Parliament he cannot brook Whate'er in them like Jealousie doth look: Adds, that no grievances the Nation load, While we're undone at home despis'd abroad. Thus past the Irish with the Money-Bill, The first not half so good, as th' other ill. With these new Millions might we not expect Our Foes to vanquish, or our selves protect; If not to beat them off usurped Seas, At least to force an honourable Peace: But though the angry fate, or folly rather, Of our perverted State, allow us neither; Could we hope less to defend our Shores, Than guard our Harbours, Forts, our ships and stores? We hop'd in vain: Of these remaining are, Not what we sav'd, but what the Dutch did spare. Such was our Rulers generous stratagem; A policy worthy of none but them. After two Millions more laid on the Nation, The Parliament grows ripe for Prorogation: They rise, and now a Treaty is confest, Gainst which before these State-cheats did protest: A Treaty which too well makes it appear, Theirs, not the Kingdom's Int'rest, is their care: Statesmen of old, thought Arms the way to Peace; Ours scorn such thread-bare policies as these: All that was given for the State's defence, They think too little for their own expence: Or if from that they any thing can spare, ••t is to buy Peace, not maintain a War: For which great work Embassadors must go With bare submissions to our arming foe:

Thus leaving a defenceless State behind, Vast Fleets preparing by the Belgians find; Against whose fury what can us defend? Whilst our great Polititians here depend Upon the Dutch good Nature: For when Peace (Say they) is making, Acts of War must cease. Thus were we by the name of Truce betray'd. Tho' by the Dutch nothing like it was made. Here, Painter, let thine Art describe a Story Shaming our warlike Island's ancient Glory: A Scene which never on our Seas appear'd, Since our first ships were on the Ocean steer'd; Make the Dutch Fleet while we supinely sleep, Without Opposers, Masters of the Deep: Make them securely the Thames-mouth invade, At once depriving us of that and Trade: Draw Thunder from their floating Castles, sent Against our Forts, weak as our Government: Draw Woollidge, Deptford, London, and the Tower, Meanly abandon'd to a foreign power. Yet turn their first attempt another way, And let their Cannons upon Sheerness play; Which soon destroy'd, their lofty Vessels ride Big with the hope of the approaching Tide: Make them more help from our Remisness find, Than from the Tide, or from the eastern Wind. Their Canvas swelling with a prosp'rous gale, Swift as our fears make them to Chatham sail: Through our weak Chain their Fireships break their way, And our great Ships (unmann'd) become their prey: Then draw the fruit of our ill-manag'd Cost, At once our Honour and our Safety lost: Bury those Bulwarks of our Isle in Smoak, While their thick Flames the neighb'ring Country choak, The Charles escapes the raging Element, To be with triumph into Holland sent; Where the glad People to the Shore resort, To see their Terror, now become their sport.

But Painter, fill not up thy Peice before Thou paint'st Confusion on our troubled shore: Instruct then thy bold Pencil to relate The saddest Marks of an ill govern'd State. Draw th'injur'd Seamen deaf to all Command, While some with horror and amazement stand: Others will know no other Enemy but they Who have unjustly robb'd them of their Pay: Boldly refusing to oppose a Fire. To kindle which, our Errors did conspire: Some (though but few) perswaded to obey, Useless for want of Ammunition stay: The Forts design'd to guard our Ships of War, Void both of Powder and of Bullets are: And what past Reigns in peace did ne'er omit, The present (whilst invaded) doth forget. Surpassing Chatham, make Whitehall appear, If not in danger, yet at least in fear. Make our dejection (if thou canst) seem more Than our Pride, Sloth and Ign'rance did before: The King, of danger now shews far more fear, Then he did ever to prevent it, care; Yet to the City doth himself convey, Bravely to shew he was not run away: Whilst the Black Prince, and our Fifth Harry's Wars, Are only acted on our Theatres. Our Statesmen finding no expedient, (If fear of danger) but a Parliament, Twice would avoid, by clapping up a Peace; The Cure's to them as bad as the Disease: But Painter, end not, till it does appear Which most, the Dutch or Parliament they fear.

As Nero once, with Harp in hand, survey'd His flaming Rome; and as that burnt, he plaid: So our great Prince, when the Dutch Fleet arriv'd, Saw his Ships burn; and as they burnt, he—

Directions to a Painter:

By Sir John Denham.

PAinter, where was't thy former Work did cease? Oh, 'twas at Parliament, and the brave Peace. Now for a Cornucopia: Peace, all know Brings Plenty with it; wish it be not Woe. Draw Coats of Pageantry, and Proclamations Of Peace, concluded with one, two, three Nations. Canst thou not on the change make Merchants grin Like outward smiles, whiles vexing thoughts within? Thou art no Artist, if thou canst not feign, And counterfeit the counterfeit disdain. Draw a brave Standard, ruffling at a rate Much other than it did for Chatham's fate. The Tow'r Guns too, thundring their Joys, that they Have scap'd the danger of b'ing ta'en away: These, as now Mann'd, for triumph are, not fight; As painted fire for show, not heat or light. Amongst the roar of these, and the mad shout Of a poor nothing understanding Rout, That think the On and Off-Peace now is true, Thou might'st draw Mourners for Black Barthol'mew: Mourners in Sion! Oh 'tis not to be Discover'd! draw a Curtain curteously To hide them. Now proceed to draw at night A Bonfire here and there; but none too bright, Nor lasting: for 'twas Brushwood, as they say, Which they that hop'd for Coals now flung away. But stay, I had forgot my Mother: draw The Church of England 'mongst the Opera, To play their part too; or the Dutch will say, In War and Peace they've born the B••lls away. At this end then, two or three Steeples ringing, At th' other end, draw Quires, Te Deum singing; Between them leave a space for Tears: Remember That 'tis not long to th' Second of September.

Now if thou skill'st prospective Landskip, draw At distance, what perhaps thine Eyes ne'er saw; Polyroon, Spicy Islands, Kits, or Guinea: Syrenam, Nova Scotia, or Virginia: No, no; I mean not these, pray hold your laughter; These things are far off, not worth looking after: Give not a hint of these: Draw Highland, Lowland, Mountains and Flatts: Draw Scotland first, then Holland. See, canst thou ken the Scots frowns? Then draw those That something had to get, but nought to lose. Canst thou through Fogs discern the Dutchmen drink? Buss-Skippers, lately Capers, stamp to think Their catching craft is over: some have ta'en, To eke their War, a Warrant from the Dane. But passing these, their Statesmen view a while, In ev'ry graver Countenance a Smile: Copy the piece there done, wherein you'll see One laughing out, I told you how 'twould be! Draw next a pompous interchange of Seals; But curs'd be he that Articles reveals Before he knows them: Now for this take light From him that did describe Sir Edward's fight: You may perhaps the truth on't doubt; what tho'? You'll have it then Cum Privilegio. Then draw our Lords Commissioners advance, Not homewards, but for Flanders, or for France; There to parlier a while, until they see How things in Parliament resented be. So much for Peace. Now for a Parliament: A petty Sessions draw: with what content, Guess by their Countenance, who came up post, And quickly saw they had their Labour lost: Like the small Merchants when they Bargains sell; Come hither Jack: What say? Come kiss: Farewel: But 'twas abortive, born before its Day; No wonder then it dy'd so soon away. Yet breath'd it once, and that with such a force, It blasted Thirty Thousand Foot and Horse.

As once Prometheus Man did sneeze so hard, As routed all that new rais'd standing Guard Of Teeth, to keep the Tongue in order: So Down fall our new Gallants without a Foe. But if this little one could do so much, What will the next? Give a Prophetick touch. If thou know how; if not, leave a great space, For great things to be pourtray'd in their place, Now draw the shadow of a Parliament, As if to scare the upper World 'twere sent: Cross your selves, Gentlemen, for shades will fright, Especially if't be an English Sprite: Vermillion this man's guilt, cerule his fears; Sink th' others Eyes deep in his Head with cares: Another thoughtsome on accounts to see How his Disbursements with Receipts agree. Peep into Coaches, see Perriwigs neglected, Cross'd Arms and Legs of such as are suspected, Or do suspect what's coming, and foresee Themselves must share in this Polutrophy. Painter, hast travell'd? Didst thou e'er see Rome? That fam'd piece there, Angelo's day of Doom? Horror and Anguish of Descenders there, May teach thee how to paint Descenders here. Canst thou describe the empty shifts are made, Like that which Dealers call, Forcing of Trade. Some shift their Crimes, some Places; and among The rest, some will their Countries too, e'er long. Draw in a corner, Gamesters, shuffling, cutting, Their little Crafts, no wit, together putting: How to pack Knaves, 'mongst Kings and Queens, to make A saving Game, whilst Heads are at the stake. But cross their Cards, untill it be confest, Of all the Play, fair dealing is the best. Draw a Veil of Displeasure, one to Hide, And some prepared to strike a blow on's side. Let him that built high, now creep low to shelter, When Potentates must tumble Helter Skelter.

The Purse, Seal, Mace, are gone, as it was fit, Such Marks as these could not chuse but be hit. The Purse, Seal, Mace, are gone; Bartholomew-day, Of all the days i'th' Year, they're ta'en away. The Purse, Seal, Mace, are gone: but to another Mitre, I wish not so, tho' to my Brother: I care not for translation to a See, Unless they would translate to Italy. Now draw a Sail playing before the Wind, From the North-West; that which it leaves behind, Curses or Out-cries, mind them not, tell when They do appear Realities, and then Spare not to paint them in their Colours, though Crimes of a Viceroy: Deputies have so Been serv'd e'er now: But if the Man prove true, Let him with Pharoah's Butler have his due. Make the same wind blow strong against the Shore Of France, to hinder some from coming o'er. And rather draw the golden Vessel burning, Even there, than hither with her Fraight returning. 'Tis true, the noble Treasurer is gone: Wise, Faithfull, Loyal, some say th 'only one! Yet I will hope we've Pilots left behind Can steer our Vessel without Southern wind. Women have grosly snar'd the wisest Prince That ever was before, or hath been since: And Granham Athaliah in that Nation, Was a great hinderer of Reformation. Paint in a new Peice painted Jezebel; Giv't to adorn the dining Room of Hell. Hang by her others of the Gang; for more Deserve a place with Rosamond, Iane Shore, &c. Stay Painter, now look, here's below a space I'th' bottom of this, what shall we place? Shall it be Pope, or Turk, or Prince, or Nun? Let the resolve be Nescio. So have done. Expose thy Peice now to the World to see, Perhaps they'll say of It, of Thee, of Me,

Poems and Paints can speak sometimes bold Truths, Poets and Painters are licentious Youths.

Quae sequuntur, in limine T'halami Regii, à nescio quo nebulone scripta, reperibantur.

Bella fugis, bellas sequeris, belloque repugnas Et bellatori▪ sunt tibi bella Thori Imbelles imbellis amas, audaxque videris Mars ad opus Veneris, Martis ad arma Venus.

The last Instructions to a Painter, about the Dutch Wars, 1667.

By A. Marvell, Esq.

AFter two sittings now our Lady-State To end her Picture does the third time wait; But e'er thou fall'st to work, first Painter see, If't be'nt too slight grown, or too hard for thee. Canst thou paint without Colours, then 'tis right? For so we too without a Fleet can fight. Or canst thou daub a sign-post, and that ill? 'Twill suit our great Debauch and little Skill. Or hast thou mark'd how antique Masters Limn, The Aly-roof with Snuff of Candle dim, Sketching in shady Smoak, prodigious Tools? 'Twill serve this race of Drunkards, Pimps and Fools. But if to match our crimes thy skill presumes, As th' Indian draw out Luxury in Plumes. Or if to score out our compendious Fame, With Hook then through your Microscope take aim; Where like the new Comptroller all men laugh, To see a tall Louse brandish a white Staff. Else shalt thou off thy guiltless Pencil curse. Stamp on thy Palate, nor perhaps the worse. The Painter so long having vext his Cloth, Of his Hounds mouth to feign the raging Froth,

His desparate Pencil at the work did dart; His anger reacht that rage which past his Art. Chance finisht that, which Art could but begin, And he sate smiling how his Dog did grin. So may'st th••u perfect by a lucky blow, What all thy softest touches cannot do. Paint then St. Albans full of Soop and Gold, The new Courts pattern, Stallion of the old. Him neither Wit nor Courage did exalt, But Fortune chose him for her pleasure's Salt. Paint him with Dray-mans Shoulders, Butchers Mein, Member'd like Mule, with Elephantine Chin. Well he the Title of St. Albans bore; For never Bacon studied Nature more: But age allaying now that youthfull heat, Fits him in France to play at Cards and cheat. Draw no Commission, lest the Court should lye, And disavowing Treaty, ask supply; He needs no Seal but to St. James's lease, Whose Breeches were the instruments of Peace. Who if the French dispute his power, from thence Can strait produce them a Plenipotence Nor fears he the Most Christian should trapan Two Saints at once, St. German, and St. Alban; But thought the Golden age was now restor'd, When Men and Women took each others word. Paint then again her Highness to the Life, Philosopher beyond Newcastle's Wife: She naked can Archimedes self put down For an experiment upon the Crown. She perfected that Engine oft essay'd, How after Child-birth to renew a Maid; And found how Royal Heirs might be matur'd In fewer Months than Mothers once endur'd. Hence Crowder made the rare Inventress free Ol's Highnesses Royal Society. Happiest of Women if she were but able To make her glassen Duke once maleable.)

Paint her with Oyster lip, and Breath of fame, Wide Mouth, that Sparagus may well proclaim; With Chancellors Belly, and so large a Rump, There (not behind the Coach) her Pages jump: Express her studying now, if China-Clay Can, without breaking, venom'd Juice convey. Or how a mortal Poison she may draw Out of the Cordial Meal of the Cacoa. Witness the Stars of Night, and thou the pale Moon, that o'ercome with the sick Steam didst fail. Ye neighbouring Elms that your green Leaves did shed, And Fauns that from the Womb abortive fled. Not unprovok'd she tries forbidden Arts, But in her soft Breast Loves hid Cancer smarts, While she revolves at once Sydney's disgrace, And her self scorn'd for emulous Denham's Face, And nightly hears the hated Guards away Galloping with the Duke to other Prey. Paint Castlemain in colours that will hold Her, not her Picture, for she now grows old. She thro' her Lackey's Drawers as he ran, Discern'd Loves cause, and a new flame began. Her wonted joys thenceforth, and Court she shuns, And still within her mind the Footman runs. His brazen Calves, his brawny Thighs (the Face She slights) his Feet shap'd for a smoother race. Poring within her Glass, she re-adjusts Her locks, and oft-try'd Beauty now distrusts; Fears lest he scorn'd a Woman once assay'd, And now first wish't she e'er had been a Maid. Great Love! how dost thou triumph, and how reign, That to a Groom could'st humble her disdain! Stript to her Skin, see how she stooping stands, Nor scorns to rub him down with those fair Hands, And washing (lest the scent her crime disclose) His sweaty Hoofs, tickles him betwixt the Toes. But envious Fame too soon began to note More Gold in's Fob, more Lace upon his Coat;

And he unwary, and of Tongue too fleet, No longer could conceal his Fortune sweet. Justly the Rogue was whipt in Porters Den, And Jermin streight has leave to come again. Ah Painter! now could Alexander live, And this Campaspe thee Apelles give. Draw next a pair of Tables opening, then The House of Commons clattering like the men. Describe the Court and Country both set right On opposite points, the black against the white. Those having lost the Nation at Tick-Tack, These now adventuring how to win it back. The Dice hetwixt them must the fate divide, (As chance does still in multitudes decide) But here the Court doth its advantage know, For the cheat Turner for them both must throw; As some from Boxes, he so from the Chair Can strike the Dye, and still with them go share. Here Painter rest a little and survey With what small Arts the publick Game they play: For so too, Rubens with affairs of State His labouring Pencil oft would recreate. The close Cabal mark'd how the Navy eats, And thought all lost that goes not to the Cheats. So therefore secretly for Peace decrees, Yet as for War the Parliament would squeeze; And fix to the Revenue such a Summ Should Goodrick silence, and strike Paston dumb: Should pay Land Armies, should dissolve the vain Commons, and ever such a Court maintain, Hyde's avarice, Bennet's luxury should suffice, And what can these defray but the Excise? Excise a Monster, worse than e'er before, Frighted the Midwife, and the Mother tore. A thousand Hands she has, and thousand Eyes, Breaks into Shops, and into Cellars pries. With hundred rows of Teeth the Shark exceeds, And on all Trades, like Casawar she feeds;

Chops of the piece wheres'e're she close the Jaw, Else swallows all down her indented Maw. She stalks all day in Streets conceal'd from sight, And flies like Batts with leathern Wings by night: She wasts the Country, and on Cities preys: Her of a Female Harpy in Dog-days. Black Birch, of all the Earth-born Race most hot, And most rapacious like himself begot; And of his Brat enamour'd, as't increast, Bugger'd in Incest with the mongrel Beast. Say Muse, for nothing can escape thy sight, (And, Painter wanting other, draw this fight) Who in an English Senate fierce debate Could raise so long for this new Whore of State. Of early Wittalls first the Troop march'd in; For diligence renown'd, and Discipline. In loyal hast they lest young Wives in bed, And Denham these with one consent did head. Of the old Courtiers next a Squadron came, That sold their Master, led by Ashburnham. To them succeeds a despicable Rout, But knew the word, and well could face about; Expectants pale with hopes of Spoil allur'd, Though yet but Pioneers, and led by Steward. Then damning Cowards rang'd the vocal Plain: Wood these command, Knight of the Horn, and Cane▪ Still his hook-shoulder seems the blow to dread, And under's Arm-pit he defends his Head. The posture strange men laugh at, of his pole, Hid with his Elbow like the Spice he stole: Headless St. Dennis so his Head does bear, And both of them alike French Martyrs were. Court Officers, as us'd, the next place took, And follow'd F—x, but with disdainfull look. His birth, his youth, his brokage all dispraise In vain; for always he commands that pays. Then the procurers under Progers fill'd, Gentlest of men, and his Lieutenant mild;

Bronkard Love's Squire, through all the Field array'd, No Troop was better clad, nor so well paid. Then marcht the Troop of Clarendon all full, Haters of Fowl, to Teal preferring Bull: Gross Bodies, grosser Minds, and grosser Cheats, And bloated Wren conducts them to their Seats. Charleton advances next (whose Wife does awe The Mitred Troop) and with his Looks gives Law. He marches with Beaver cockt of Bishops brim, And hid much fraud under an aspect grim. Next the Lawyers mercenary Band appear, Finch in the Front, and Thurland in the Rear. The Troop of Priviledge, a Rabble bare Of Debtors deep, fell to Trelawney's care; Their Fortunes error they supply'd in Rage, Nor any further would than these ingage. Then marcht the Troop whose valiant acts before (Their publick acts) oblig'd them to do more. For Chimnies sake they all Sir Pool obey'd, Or in his absence him that first it laid Then come the thrifty Troop of Privateers, Whose Horses each with other interferes: Before them Higgins rides with brow compact, Mourning his Countess anxious for his Act. Sir Frederick and Sir Solomon draw lots For the Command of Politicks and Scots: Thence fell towards—but quarrels to adjourn, Their Friends agreed they should command by turn. Carteret the rich did the Accountants guide, And in ill English all the world defy'd. The Papists (but of those the House had none Else) Talbot offer'd to have led them on. Bold Duncomb next of the Projectors chief, And old Fitz-Harding of the Eaters Beef. Late and disorder'd out the Drunkards drew, Scarce them their Leaders, they their Leaders knew. Before them enter'd equal in command Apsley and Brotherick marching hand in hand.

Last then but one Powel that could not ride Left the French Standard weltring in his stride; He, to excuse his slowness, truth confest. That 'twas so long before he could be drest. The Lords Sons last all these did reinforce, Cornbury before them manag'd Hobby-Horse. Never before, nor since an Host so steel'd Troop'd on to muster in the Tuttle-field. Not the first Cock-horse that with Cork was shod To rescue Albemarle from the Sea-Cod: Nor the late Feather-men whom Tomkins fierce Shall with one breath like Thistle Down disperse. All the two Coventries their Generals chose, For one had much, the other nought to lose. Nor better choice all accidents could hit, While Hector Harry steers by Will the Wit. They both accept the charge with merry glee, To fight a Battle from all Gun-shot free. Pleas'd with their Numbers, yet in Valour wise, They feign a Parley, better to surprize; They that e'er long shall the rude Dutch upbraid, Who in a time of Treaty durst invade Thick was the Morning, and the House was thin, The Speaker early, when they all fell in. Propitious Heavens! had not you them crost, Excise had got the day, and all been lost: For t'other side all in close Quarters lay Without Intelligence, Command or Pay. A scatterr'd body which the Foe ne'er try'd, But often did among themselves divide. And some ran o'er each Night, while others sleep, And undescry'd return 'fore Morning peep. But Strangeways that all Night still walk the round, For Vigilance and Courage both renown'd; First spy'd the Enemy, and gave th' Allarm, Fighting it single till the rest might arm: Such Roman Cocles stood before the Foe, The falling Bridge behind, the Streams below.

Each ran as Chance him guides to several post, And all to pattern his Example, boast; Their former Trophies they recall to mind, And to new edge their angry courage grind. First enter'd forward Temple, Conqueror Of Irish Cattle, and Solicitor; Then daring S—r, that with Spear and Shield Had stretcht the Monster Patent on the Field. Keen Whorwood next in aid of Damsel frail, That pierc'd the Gyant Mordant thro' his Mail: And surly Williams the Accountants bane, And Lovelace young of Chimny-men the Cane. Old Waller, Trumpet-Ceneral, swore he'd write This Combat truer than the Naval fight. Of birth, state, wit, strength, courage, How'rd presumes, And in his breast wears many Montezumes. These with some more with single valour stay The adverse Troops, and hold them all at bay. Each thinks his person represents the whole, And with that thought does multiply his soul; Believes himself an Army; theirs, one Man; As easily conquer'd, and believing, can With heart of Bees so full, and head of Mites, That each, though Duelling, a Battle fights. Such once Orlando famous in Romance, Broacht whole Brigades like Larks upon his Lance. But strength at last still under number bows, And the faint sweat trickl'd down Temples brows; Even Iron Strangeways chasing yet gave back, Spent with fatigue, to breathe a while Toback— When marching in, a seasonable recruit Of Citizens, and Merchants, held dispute, And charging all their Pikes, a sullen band Of Presbyterian Switzers made a stand. Nor could all these the Field have long maintain'd, But for th' unknown reserve that still remain'd; A gross of English Gentry nobly born, Of clear Estates, and to no Fact on sworn,

Dear Lovers of their King, and Death to meet For Country's cause, that glorious thing and sweet, To speak not forward, but in action brave, In giving generous, but in Council grave; Candidly credulous for once; nay twice: But sure the Devil can't cheat them thrice. The Van and Battle, tho' retiring, falls Without disorder in their Intervals; Then closing all in equal front, fall on, Led by great Garrway, and great Littleton. Lee equal to obey, or to command Adjutant-General was still at hand. The Marshal Standard Sands displaying shows St.Dunstan in it tweaking Satan's Nose. See sudden chance of War to paint, or write, Is longer work, and harder than to fight: At the first charge the Enemy give out, And the Excise receives a total rout. Broken in courage, yet the men the same, Resolve henceforth upon their other game; Where force had fail'd, with Stratagem to play, And what haste lost, recover by delay. St.Albans strait is sent to, to forbear, Lest the sure Peace (forsooth) too soon appear. The Seamens clamours to three ends they use, To cheat their pay, feign want, and th' House accuse▪ Each day they bring the tale, and that too true, How strong the Dutch their Equipage renew. Mean time thro' all the Yards their Orders run, To lay the Ships up, cease the Keels begun. The Timber rots, the useless Axe does rust; Th' unpractic'd Saw lies buried in its dust; The busie Hammer sleeps, the Ropes untwine, The Stores and Wages all are mine and thine. Along the Coasts and Harbours they take care That Money lacks, nor Forts be in repair. Long thus they cou'd against the House conspire, Load them with envy, and with sitting tire:

And the lov'd King, and never yet deny'd, Is brought to beg in publick, and to chide: But when this fail'd, and Months enough were spent, They with the first days proffer seem content; And to Land-Tax from the Excise turn round, Bought off with Eighteen hundred thousand pound. Thus like fair Thieves, the Commons Purse they share, But all the Members Lives consulting spare. Blither than Hare that hath escap'd the Hounds, The House prorogu'd, the Chanchellour rebounds. Not so decripet Aeson hasht and stew'd With Magick Herbs rose from the Pot renew'd; And with fresh Age felt his glad Limbs unite, His Gout (yet still he curst) had left him quite. What Frosts to Fruits, what Arsnick to the Rat, What to fair Denham mortal Chocolat: What an account to Carteret, that and more, A Parliament is to the Chancellour. So the sad Tree shrinks from the Morning's Eye, But blooms all Night and shoots its Branches high. So at the Suns recess, again returns, The Comet dread, and Earth and Heaven burns. Now Mordant may within his Castle Tower Imprison Parents, and the Child deflower. The Irish Herd is now let loose, and comes By Millions over, not by Hecatombs: And now▪ now the Canary Patent may Be broach'd again for the great Holy-day. See how he reigns in his new Palace culminant, And sits in state Divine like Jove the Fulminant. First Buckingham that durst' gainst him rebel, Blasted with Lightning, struck with Thunder fell. Next the twelve Commons are condemn'd to groan, And roll in vain at Sisyphus's Stone. But still he car'd, whilst in revenge he brav'd That Peace secur'd, and Money might be sav'd: Gain and Revenge, Revenge and Gain are sweet, United most, when most by turns they meet.

France had St. Albans promis'd (so they sing) St. Albans promis'd him, and he the King. The Count forthwith is order'd all to close, To play for Flanders, and the Stake to lose. While chain'd together, two Embassadors Like slaves shall beg for Peace at Holland's doors. This done, among his Cyclops he retires To forge new Thunder, and inspect their Fires. The Court as once of War, now fond of Peace, All to new sports their wanton fears release. From Greenwich (where Intelligence they hold) Comes news of Pastime martial and old. A punishment invented first to awe Masculine Wives transgressing Natures Law; Where when the brawny Female disobeys, And beats the Husband, till for Peace he prays, No concern'd Jury damage for him finds; Nor partial Justice her behaviour binds; But the just Street does the next House invade, Mounting the Neighbour couple on lean Jade; The Distaff knocks, the Grains from Kettle fly, And Boys and Girls in Troops run hooting by. Prudent Antiquity! that knew by shame, Better than Law, domestick broils to tame; And taught Youth by spectacle innocent, So thou and I dear Painter represent In quick Effigie, others faults; and feign, By making them ridic'lous, to restrain: With homely sight they chose thus to relax The Joys of State for the new Peace and Tax. So Holland with us had the Mastery try'd, And our next Neighbours, France and Flanders ride. But a fresh News the great designment nips Off, at the Isle of Candy, Dutch and Ships. Bab May, and Arlington did wisely scoff, And thought all safe, if they were so far off; Modern Geographers! 'I was there they thought Where Venice twenty years the Turks had sought.

(While the first year our Navy is but shewn, The next divided, and the third we've none▪) They by the Name mistook it for that Isle Where Pilgrim Palmer travell'd in Exile, With the Bull's horn to measure his own head, And on Pasiphae's Tomb to drop a bead. But Morrice learn'd demonstrates by the Post, This Isle of Candy was on Essex Coast. Fresh Messengers still the sad news assure, More timorous now we are than first secure▪ False terrors our believing fears devise, And the French Army one from Calais spies. Bennet and May, and those of shorter reach, Change all for Guineas and a Crown for each; But wiser Men, and Men foreseen in chance In Holland theirs had lodg'd before, and France. White-hall's unsafe, the Court all meditates To fly to Windsor and mure up the Gates. Each doth the other blame, and all distrust, (But Mordant new oblig'd would sure be just.) Not such a fatal stupefaction reign'd At London's Flames, nor to the Court complain'd. The Bloodworth Chanc'lor gives, (then does recall) Orders, amaz'd, at last gives none at all. St. Albans writ too, that he may bewail To Monsieur Lewis and tell Coward tale, How that the Hollanders do make a noise, Threaten to beat us, and are naughty Boys. Now Doleman's disobedient, and they still Uncivil, his unkindness would us kill. Tell him our Ships unrigg'd, our Forts unmann'd, Our Money's spent, else 'twere at his command; Summon him therefore of his word, and prove To move him out of pity, if not love; Pray him to make D'Wit and Ruyter cease, And whip the Dutch, unless they'll hold their peace. But Lewis was of memory but dull, And to St. Albans too undutifull:

Nor Word, nor near Relation did revere, But ask'd him bluntly for his Character. The gravell'd Count did with this answer faint, (His character was that which thou didst paint) And so enforc'd like Enemy or Spie, Trusses his Baggage, and the Camp does fly: Yet Lewis writes, and lest our heart should break, Condoles us morally out of Seneque. Two Letters next unto Breda are sent, In Cypher one to Harry excellent: The first entrusts (our Verse that Name abhors) Plenipotentiary Embassadors; To prove by Scripture, Treaty does imply Cessation, as the Look Adultery; And that by Law of Arms, in Martial strife, Who yields his Sword, has title to his Life. Presbyter Hollis the first point should clear, The second Coventry the Cavalier: But would they not be argu'd back from Sea, Then to return home strait infectâ re. But Harry's order'd, if they won't recall Their Fleet, to threaten — we will give them all. The Dutch are then in Proclamation shent, For sin against the eleventh Commandment. Hyde's flippant style there pleasantly curvets, Still his sharp wit on States and Princes whets: So Spain could not escape his laughter's spleen, None but himself must chuse the King a Queen. But when he came the odious Clause to pen, That summons up the Parliament agen, His Writing-master many times he bann'd, And wisht himself the Gout to seize his hand; Never old Lecher more repugnance felt, Consenting for his Rupture to be gelt. But still in hope he solac'd e're they come To work the Peace, and so to send them home; Or in their hasty Call to find a flaw, Their Acts to vitiate, and them over-aw:

But more rely'd upon this Dutch pretence, To raise a two-edg'd Army for's defence. First then he march'd our whole Militia's force, (As if alas we Ships, or Dutch had Horse,) Then from the usual common place he blames These, and in standing Armies praise declaims: And the wise Court, that alway lov'd it dear, Now thinks all but too little for their fear. Hide stamps, and strait upon the ground the swarms Of currant Myrmidons appear in Arms; And for their Pay he writes as from the King, With that curs'd Quill pluckt from a Vultures wing, Of the whole Nation now to ask a Loan; (The Eighteen hundred thousand pounds are gone.) This done, he pens a Proclamation stout In rescue of the Bankers Banquerout. His Minion-Imps that in his secret part Lie nuzzling at the Sacramental Wart; Horse-leeches sucking at the Haem'royd Vein, He sucks the King, they him, he them again. The Kingdoms Farm he letts to them bids least; (Greater the Bribe) and cheats at Interest. Here Men induc'd by safety, gain, and ease, Their Money lodge, confiscate when he please: These can at need, at instant with a Scrip ••This lik'd him best) his Cash beyond Sea whip; When Dutch invade, and Parliament prepare; How can he Engines so convenient spare? Let no man touch them, or demand his own, Pain of displeasure of great Clarendon. The State affairs thus marshall'd, for the rest, Monk in his Shirt against the Dutch is prest. Often (dear Painter) have I sate and mus'd Why he should still b' on all Adventures us'd: Do they for nothing ill, like Ashen-wood, Or think him like Herb-John for nothing good? Whether his Valour they so much admire, Or that for Cowardise they all retire.

As, Heaven in Storms they call, in gusts of State On Monk and Parliament, yet both do hate. All Causes sure concurr, but must they think Under Herculian labours he may sink▪ Soon then the Independent Troops would close, And Hyde's last project of his place dispose. Ruyter the while that had our Ocean curb'd, Sail'd now amongst our Rivers undisturb'd; Survey'd their Chrystal Streams and Banks so green, And beauties e'er this never naked seen: Through the vain Sedge the bashfull Nymphs he ey'd, Bosoms, and all which from themselves they hide. The Sun much brighter, and the Sky more clear He finds, the Air and all things sweeter here: The sudden change, and such a tempting sight Swells his old veins with fresh blood, fresh delight. Like am'rous Victors he begins to shave, And his new face looks in the English Wave. His sporting Navy all about him swim, And witness their complacence in their trim. Their streaming Silks play through the weather fair, And with inveigling Colours court the Air▪ While the Red Flags breath on their Top-masts high Terror and War, but want an Enemy. Among the Shrouds the Seamen sit and sing, And wanton Boys on every Rope do cling: Old Neptune springs the Tydes, and Waters lent, (The Gods themselves do help the provident) And where the deep Keel on the shallow cleaves With Trident's Leaver and great Shoulder heaves. Aeolus their Sails inspires with Eastern Wind, Puffs them along, and breaths upon them kind. With pearly Shell, the Tritons all the while Sound the Sea-march, and guide to Sheppy Isle. So have I seen in April's bud arise, A Fleet of Clouds sailing along the Skies. The liquid Region with their Squadrons fill'd, Their airy 〈…〉〈…〉 Sun behind does guild,

And gentle Gales them steer, and Heaven drives, When all on sudden their calm bosom rives With Thunder and Lightning from each armed Cloud, Shepherds themselves in vain in Bushes shroud. So up the Stream the Belgick Navy glides, And at Sheerness unloads its stormy Sides. Sprag there, though practis'd in the Sea command, With panting heart, lay like a fish on land, And quickly judg'd the Fort was not tenable; Which if a House, yet were not tenantable. No man can sit there safe, the Cannon pours Through the Walls untight, and Bullets showers. The neighbourhood ill, and an unwholsome seat, So at the first salute resolves retreat; And swore that he would never more dwell there, Untill the City put it in repair. So he in Front, his Garrison in rear, March'd streight to Chatham to increase the fear: There our sick Ships unrigg'd in Summer lay, Like moulting Fowl, a weak and easie Prey: For whose strong bulk Earth scarce could Timber find, The Ocean water, or the Heaven's wind. Those Oaken Gyants of the ancient Race, That rul'd all Seas, and did our Channel grace. The conscious Stag, tho' once the Forest's dread, Flies to the Wood, and hides his armless Head: Ruyter forthwith a Squadron does untack, They sail securely through the River's track. An English Pilot too (Oh shame! Oh sin!) Cheated of's Pay, was he that shew'd them in. Our wretched Ships within their Fate attend, And all our hopes now on frail Chain depend: (Engine so slight to guard us from the Sea, It fitter seem'd to captivate a Flea,) A Skipper rude shocks it without respect, Filling his Sails more force to recollect. Th' English from shore the Iron deaf invoke For its last aid, Hold Chain, or we are broke!

But with her sailing weight the Holland Keel, Snapping the brittle Links, does thorough reel, And to the rest the opened passage shew: Monk from the Bank that dismal sight does view. Our feather'd Gallants which came down that day To be Spectators safe of the New Play, Leave him alone when first they hear the Gun, (Cornb'ry the fleetest) and to London run. Our Seamen, whom no dangers shape could fright, Unpaid, refuse to mount our Ships for spight: Or to their Fellows swim on board the Dutch, Who shew the tempting Metal in their clutch. Oft had he sent, of Duncomb and of Legg Cannon and Powder, but in vain, to beg; And Vpnor Castle's ill deserted Wall, Now needfull does for Ammunition call. He finds, wheres'ere he succour might expect, Confusion, Folly, Treachery, Fear, Neglect. But when the Royal Charles (what rage! what grief!) He saw seiz'd, and could give her no relief; That Sacred Keel that had, as he, restor'd It's exil'd Sov'raign on its happy board, And thence the British Admiral became, Crown'd for that merit with his Master's Name: That pleasure-boat of War, in whose dear side Secure, so oft he had this Foe defy'd, Now a cheap Spoil, and the mean Victors slave, Taught the Dutch Colours from its top to wave; Of former glories the reproachfull thought With present shame compar'd, his mind distraught. Such from Euphrates bank a Tigress fell After her Robbers for her Whelps does yell; But sees enrag'd the River flow between, Frustrate Revenge, and Love by loss more keen; At her own Breast her useless Claws does arm, She ••ears her self▪ 'cause him she cannot harm. The Guards plac'd for the Chain's and Fleet's defenc•• Long since were fled on many a feign'd pretence.

Daniel had there adventur'd, man of might, Sweet Painter, draw his Picture while I write. Paint him of Person tall, and big of Bone, Large Limbs like Ox, not to be kill'd but shewn; Scarce can burnt Iv'ry feign a hair so black, Or Face so red, thine Oker and thy Lack, Mix a vain terror in his Martial look, And all those lines by which men are mistook; But when by shame constrain'd to go on Board, He heard how the wild Cannon nearer roar'd, And saw himself confin'd like Sheep in Pen, Daniel then thought he was in Lions Den: But when the frightfull Fire-Ships he saw, Pregnant with Sulphur nearer to him draw, Captain, Lieutenant, Ensign, all make hast, E'er in the fiery Furnace they be cast; Three Children tall unsing'd, away they row, Like Shadrack, Mesheck and Abednego. Each dolefull day still with fresh loss returns, The Loyal London now a third time burns. And the true Royal Oak and Royal Iames, Ally'd in Fate, encrease with theirs her flames. Of all our Navy none should now survive, But that the Ships themselves were taught to dive; And the kind River in its Creek them hides, Fraughting their pierced Keels with Ouzy sides; Up to the Bridge contagious Terror struck, The Tow'r it self with the near danger shook, And were not Ruyter's Maw with ravage cloy'd, Ev'n London's ashes had been then destroy'd. Officious fear, however to prevent Our loss, does so much more our loss augment▪ The Dutch had robb'd those Jewels of the Crown, Our Merchant-men, lest they should burn, we drown: So when the Fire did not enough devour, The Houses were demolish'd near the Tow'r. Those Ships that yearly from their teeming hole Unloaded here the Birth of either Pole,

Fir from the North, and Silver from the West, From the South Perfumes, Spices from the East; From Gambo Gold, and from the Ganges Jems, Take a short Voyage underneath the Thames: Once a deep River, now with Timber floor'd, And shrunk, less navigable, to a Ford. Now nothing more at Chatham's left to burn, The Holland Squadron leisurely return, And spight of Ruperts and of Albermarles, To Ruyter's Triumph led the Captive Charles. The pleasing sight he often does prolong, Her Mast erect, tough Cordage, Timber strong, Her moving shape, all these he doth survey, And all admires, but most his easie Prey▪ The Seamen search her all within, without, Viewing her strength, they yet their Conquest doubt; Then with rude shouts secure, the Air they vex, With gamesom joy insulting on her Decks; Such the fear'd Hebrew Captive, blinded, shorn, Was led about in sport, the publick scorn. Black day accurst! on thee let no man hale Out of the Port, or dare to hoyse a Sail, Or row a Boat in thy unlucky hour, Thee, the Years Monster, let thy Dam devour; And constant time to keep his course yet right, Fill up thy space with a redoubled Night. When aged Thames was bound with Fetters base, And Medway chaste ravisht before his face, And their dear Offspring murder'd in their sight, Thou and thy fellows held'st the odious light. Sad chance since first that happy Pair was wed, When all the Rivers grac'd their Nuptial bed, And Father Neptune promis'd to resign His Empire old to their Immortal line; Now with vain grief their vainer hopes they rue, Themselves dishonour'd, and the Gods untrue; And to each other helpless couple mourn, As the sad Tortoise for the Sea does groan:

But most they for their darling Charles complain, And were it burnt, yet less would be their pain. To see that fatal pledge of Sea command, Now in the Ravisher de Ruyter's hand, The Thames roar'd, swooning Medway turn'd her tyde, And were they mortal, both for grief had dy'd. The Court in Farthing yet it self does please, (And female Steward there rules the four Seas,) But fate does still accumulate our woes, And Richmond her commands as Ruyter those. After this loss, to relish discontent, Some one must be accus'd by punishment; All our miscarriages on Pett must fall, His Name alone seems fit to answer all. Whose counsel first did this mad War beget? Who all Commands sold through the Navy? Pett. Who would not follow when the Dutch were beat? Who treated out the Time at Bergen? Pett. Who the Dutch Fleet with Storms disabled met? And rifling Prizes them neglected? Pett. Who with false News prevented the Gazette, The Fleet divided, writ for Rupert? Pett. Who all our Seamen cheated of their debt, And all our Prizes who did swallow? Pett. Who did advise no Navy out to set? And who the Forts left unprepared? Pett. Who to supply with Powder did forget Languard, Sheerness, Gravesend and Upnor? Pett. Who all our Ships expos'd in Chattham Nett? Who should it be but the Fanatick Pett? Pett, the Sea-architect in making Ships, Was the first cause of all these Naval slips. Had he not built, none of these faults had been; If no Creation, there had been no sin▪ But his great Crime, one Boat away he sent, That lost our Fleet, and did our flight prevent. Then that reward might in its turn take place, And march with punishment in equal pace:

Southampton dead, much of the Treasure's care And place in Council fell to Duncomb's share. All men admir'd, he to that pitch could fly, Powder ne'er blew man up so soon, so high; But sure his late good husbandry in Peeter, Shew'd him to manage the Exchequer meeter; And who the Forts would not vouchsafe a Corn, To lavish the King's Monoy more would scorn. Who hath no Chimneys, to give all, is best, And a blest Speaker, who of Law hath least. Who less Estate for Treasurer most fit, And for a Chanc'lour he that has least wit. But the true Cause was that in's Brother May, Th' Exchequer might the Privy Purse obey. And now draws near the Parliaments return, Hide and the Court again begin to mourn; Frequent in Council, earnest in debate, All Arts they try how to prolong its date. Grave Primate Shelden (much in preaching there) Blames the last Session, and this more does fear; With Boynton or with Middleton 'twere sweet, But with a Parliament abhorrs to meet; And thinks 'twill ne'er be well within this Nation, Till it be govern'd by a Convocation. But in the Thames-mouth still de Ruyter lay'd, The Peace not sure, new Army must be paid; Hide saith he hourly waits for a Dispatch, Harry came Post just as he shew'd his Watch; All to agree the Articles were clear, The Holland Fleet and Parliament so near: Yet Harry must jobb back and all mature, Binding e're th' Houses meet the Treaty sure, And 'twixt necessity and spight, till then Let them come up so to go down agen▪ Up ambles Country Justice on his Pad, And Vest bespeaks to be more seemly clad: Plain Gentlemen are in Stage-Coach o'rethrown, And Deputy Lieutenants in their own;

The portly Burgess through the weather hot Does for his Corporation sweat and trot; And all with Sun and Choller come adust, And threaten Hide to raise a greater dust. But fresh, as from the Mint, the Courtiers fine Salute them, smiling at their vain design; And Turner gay up to his Perch doth march▪ With Face new bleacht, smoothed and stiff with Starch, Tells them he at Whitehall had took a turn, And for three days thence moves them to adjourn. Not so, quoth Tomkins, and straight drew his Tongue, Trusty as Steel that always ready hung, And so proceeding in his motion warm, Th' Army soon rais'd he doth as soon disarm. True Trojan! whilst this Town can Girls afford, And long as Cyder lasts in Hereford, The Girls shall always kiss thee, though grown old, And in eternal Healths thy Name be troul'd. Meanwhile the certain News of Peace arrives At Court, and so reprieves their guilty Lives. Hyde orders Turner that he should come late, Lest some new Tomkins spring a fresh Debate: The King that early rais'd was from his rest, Expects, as at a Play, till Turner's drest. At last together Eaton came and he, No Dial more could with the Sun agree: The Speaker summond to the Lords repairs, Nor gave the Commons leave to say their Pray'rs, But like his Pris'ners to the Bar them led, Where mute, they stand to hear their Sentence read; Trembling with joy and fear, Hide them prorogues, And had almost mistook, and call'd them Rogues. Dear Painter, draw this Speaker to the Foot, Where Pencil cannot, there my Pen shall do't. That may his Body, this his Mind explain; Paint him in golden Gown with Maces train; Bright Hair, fair Face, obscure, and dull of Head, Like Knife with Iv'ry Haft, and edge of Lead:

At Prayers his eyes turn up the pious white, But all the while his private Bill's in sight: In Chair he smoaking sits like Master Cook, And a Poll-bill does like his Apron look. Well was he skill'd to season any Question, And make a Sawce fit for Whitehall's digestion: Whence every day the Palate more to tickle, Court-Mushroms ready are sent in to pickle. When Grievances urg'd he swells like squatted Toad, Frisks like a Frog to croak a Taxes load: His patient Piss he could hold longer than An Urinal, and sit like any Hen; At Table jolly as a Country Host, And soaks his Sack with Norfolk like a Toast; At Night than Chanticlere more brisk and hot, And Serjeants Wife serves him for Portelott. Paint last the King, and a dead shade of Night, Only disperst by a weak Tapers light: And those bright gleams that dart along and glare From his clear Eyes (yet these too dart with care) There, as in the calm horror all alone, He wakes and muses of th' uneasie Throne: Raise up a sudden shape with Virgins face, Though ill agree her posture, hour or place; Naked as born, and her round Arms behind, With her own Tresses interwove and twin'd: Her Mouth lockt up, a blind before her Eyes, Yet from beneath her Veil her blushes rise, And silent tears her secret anguish speak; Her Heart throbs, and with very shame would break· The object strange in him no terror mov'd, He wondred first, then pitied, then he lov'd; And with kind hand does the coy Vision press, Whose beauty greater seem'd by her distress: But soon shrunk back, chill'd with a touch so cold, And th' airy Picture vanisht from his hold. In his deep thoughts the wonder did increase, And he divin'd 'twas England, or the Peace.

Express him startling next, with list'ning Ear, As one that some unusual noise doth hear; With Cannons, Trumpets, Drums, his Door surround, But let some other Painter draw the sound: Thrice he did rise, thrice the vain tumult fled, But again thunders when he lies in bed. His mind secure does the vain stroke repeat, And finds the Drums Lewis's March did beat. Shake then the Room, and all his Curtains tear, And with blue streaks infect the Taper clear, While the pale Ghost his Eye doth fixt admire Of Grandsire Harry, and of Charles his Sire. Harry sits down, and in his open Side The grisly Wound reveals of which he dy'd: And Ghostly Charles, turning his Coller low, The purple Thred about his Neck doth shew: Then whisp'ring to his Son in words unheard, Through the lockt Door, both of them disappear'd: The wondrous Night the pensive King revolves, And rising straight on Hide's disgrace resolves. At his first step he Castlemain does find, Bennet and Coventry as 'twere design'd; And they not knowing the same thing propose, Which his hid Mind did in his depths inclose: Through their feign'd speech their secret Hearts he knew, To her own Husband Castlemain untrue; False to his Master Bristol, Arlington And Coventry falser than any one, Who to his Brother, Brother would betray; Nor therefore trusts himself to such as they. His Father's Ghost too whisper'd him one Note, That who does cut his Purse will cut his Throat: But in wise anger he their Crimes forbear, As Thieves repriev'd from Executioner: While Hide provok't his foaming Tusk does whet, To prove them Traytors, and himself the Pett. Painter, adieu: How well our Arts agree! Poetick Picture, Painted Poetry!

But this great Work is for our Monarch fit, And henceforth Charles only to Charles shall sit. His Master-hand the Ancients shall out-do, Himself, the Painter, and the Poet too.

To the KING.

SO his bold Tube Man to the Sun apply'd, And Spots unknown in the bright Star descry'd, Shew'd they obscure him, while too near they please, And seem his Courtiers are but his Disease. Through Optick Trunk the Planet seem'd to hear, And hurls them off e'er since in his career. And you (Great Sir) that with him Empire share, Seen of our World, as he the Charles is there; Blame not the Muse that brought those Spots to sight, Which in your Splendor hid, corrode your Light: (Kings in the Country oft have gone astray, Nor of a Peasant scorn'd to learn the way,) Would she the unattended Throne reduce, Banishing Love, Trust, Ornament and Use; Better it were to live in Cloyster's lock, Or in fair Fields to rule the easy Flock; She blames them only who the Court restrain, And where all England serves themselves would reign. Bold and accurst are they that all this while Have strove to Isle this Monarch from this Isle; And to improve themselves by false Pretence, About the common Prince have rais'd a Fence: The Kingdom from the Crown distinct would see, And peel the Bark to burn at last the Tree. But Ceres Corn, and Flora is the Spring, Bacchus is Wine, the Country is the King. Not so does Rust insinuating wear, Nor Powder so the vaulted Bastion tear: Nor Earthquakes so an hollow Isle o'erwhelm, As scratching Courtiers undermine a Realm.

And through the Palaces Foundations bore, Burrowing themselves to hoard their guilty Store. The smallest Vermin make the greatest waste, And a poor Warren once a City rac't. But they whom born to Vertue and to Wealth, Nor Guilt to Flatt'ry binds, nor Want to Stealth; Whose gen'rous Conscience, and whose Courage high, Does with clear Councils their large Souls supply; That serve the King with their Estates and Care, And as in Love on Parliaments can stare; Where Few the number, Choice is there less hard; Give us this Court, and rule without a Guard.

By A. M.

The Loyal Scot.

By Cleaveland's Ghost, upon the Death of Captain Douglas, burnt on his Ship at Chatham.

OF the old Heroes, when the Warlike Shades Saw Douglas marching on the Elysium Glades, They all consulting gather'd in a Ring, Which of their Poets should his Welcome sing: And as a favourable Penance chose Cleaveland, on whom they would that task impose. He understood but willingly addrest His ready Muse to court that noble Guest. Much had he cur'd the tumour of his Vein, He judg'd more clearly now, and saw more plain; For those soft Airs had temper'd every Thought, And of wise Lethe he had drunk a Draught. Abruptly he began, disguising Art, As of his Satyr this had been a part.

Not so, brave Douglas, on whose lovely Chin, The early Down but newly did begin: And modest Beauty yet his Sex did veil, While envious Virgins hopes he is a Male. His yellow Locks curles back themselves to seek, Nor other Courtship knew but to his Cheek. Oft as he in chill Esk or Seyn by Night, Hardned and cool'd, his Limbs so soft, so white; Among the Reeds to be espy'd by him The Nymphs would rustle, he would forwards swim; They sigh'd, and said, Fond Boy, why so untame, That fly'st Loves fires, reserv'd for other flame? First on his Ship he fac't that horrid Day, And wondered much at those that run away: No other fear himself could comprehend, Than least Heaven fall e'er thither he ascend; But entertains the while his time too short, With birding at the Dutch, as if in sport; Or waves his Sword, and could he them conjure Within his Circle, knows himself secure. The fatal Bark him boards with grappling Fire, And safely through its Port the Dutch retire. That precious Life he yet disdains to save, Or with known Art to try the gentle Wave; Much him the honour of his ancient Race Inspir'd, nor would he his own Deeds deface; And secret Joy in his calm Soul does rise, That Monk looks on to see how Dowglas dies. Like a glad Lover the fierce flames he meets, And tries his first Embraces in their Sheets: His Shape exact, which the bright flames infold, Like the Suns Statue stands of burnisht Gold. Round the transparent Fire about him glows, As the clear Amber on the Bees does close; And as on Angels heads their Glories shine, His burning Locks adorn his Face divine. But when in his immortal Mind he felt His alt'ring Form, and soder'd Limbs to melt;

Down on the Deck he laid himself, and dy'd, With his dear Sword reposing by his Side: And on the flaming Plank so rests his Head, As one that warm'd himself, and went to Bed. His Ship burns down, and with his Reliques sinks, And the sad Stream beneath his Ashes drinks. Fortunate Boy! If either Pencils Fame, Or if my Verse can propagate thy Name; When Aeta and Alcides are forgot, Our English Youth shall sing the valiant Scot. Skip Saddles Pegasus, thou needst not brag, Sometimes the Galloway proves the better Nag. Shall not a Death so generous, when told, Unite our distance, fill our Breaches old? Such in the Roman Forum, Curtius brave Galloping down, clos'd up the gaping Cave. Nor more discourse of Scotch and English Race, No chaunt the fabulous hunt of Chevy Chase. Mixt in Corinthian Metal at thy Flame Our Nations melting, thy Colossus frame; Prick down the Point, whoever has the Art, Where Nature Scotland does from England part. Anatomists may sooner fix the Cells Where Life resides, and Understanding dwells: But this we know, though that exceeds our Skill, That whosoever separates them does ill. Will you the Tweed that sullen Bounder call Of Soyl, of VVit, of Manners, and of all? VVhy draw you not as well the thrifty Line From Thames, from Humber, or at least the Tine? So may we the State Corpulence redress, And little England, when we please make less. VVhat Ethic River is this wond'rous Tweed, VVhose one Bank Vertue, t'other Vice does breed? Or what new Perpendicular does rise Up from her Streams, continu'd to the Skies, That between us the common Air should bar, And split the Influence of every Star?

But who considers right, will find, indeed, 'Tis Holy Island parts us, not the Tweed. Nothing but Clergy could us two seclude, No Scotch was ever like a Bishop's Feud. All Litanies in this have wanted Faith; There's no Deliver us, from a Bishop's Wrath. Never shall Calvin pardon'd be for Sales, Never, for Burnet's sake, the Lauderdales; For Becket's sake Kent always shall have Tails. Who Sermons e'er can pacifie and Prayers? Or to the Joynt-stools reconcile the Chairs? Though Kingdoms joyn, yet Church will Kirk oppose, The Mitre still divides, the Crown does close; As in Rogation Week they whip us round, To keep in mind the Scotch and English Bound. What the Ocean binds, is by the Bishops rent, Then Sees make Islands in our Continent. Nature in vain us in one Land compiles, If the Cathedral still shall have its Isles. Nothing, not Bogs, nor Sands, nor Seas, nor Alps, Separate the World so as the Bishops Scalps. Scretch for the Line, their Circingle alone 'I will make a more unhabitable Zone. The friendly Load-stone has not more combin'd, Than Bishops crampt the Commerce of Mankind. Had it not been for such a Biass strong, Two Nations had ne'er miss'd the Mark so long. The VVorld in all doth but two Nations bear, The Good, the Bad, and these mixt every where: Und•••• each Pole place either of these two; The Bad will basely, Good will bravely do. And few, indeed, can parallel our Climes, For VVorth Heroick, or Heroick Crimes. The tryal would, however, be too nice, Which stronger were, a Scotch or English Vice: Or whether the same Virtue would reflect From Scotch or English Heart the same effect.

Nation is all but Name, a Shiboleth, Where a mistaken Accent causes Death. In Paradise Names only Nature show'd, At Babel Names from Pride and Discord flow'd; And ever since Men with a Female Spight, First call each other Names, and then they fight. Scotland and England, cause of just uproar, Do Man and Wife signifie, Rogue and Whore. Say but a Scot, and straight we fall to Sides, That Syllable like a Picts's VVall divides. Rational Mens Words, Pledges are of Peace, Perverted, serve Dissention to increase. For shame extirpate from each Loyal Breast, That senceless Rancour against Interest. One King, one Faith, one Language, and one Isle, English and Scotch, 'tis all but Cross and Pile. Charles, our Great Soul, this only understands, He our Affections both, and VVills commands. And where twin-Sympathies cannot attone, Knows the last Secret, how to make us one. Just so the prudent Husbandman that sees The idle Tumult of his factious Bees; The Morning Dews, and Flowers neglected grown, The Hive a Comb-Case, every Bee a Drone; Powders them o'er, till none discerns his Foes, And all themselves in Meal and Friendship lose: The Insect Kingdom straight begins to thrive, And all work Honey for the common Hive. Pardon, young Hero, this so long Transport, Thy Death more noble did the same extort. My former Satyr for this Verse forget; My Fault against my Recantation set. •• single did against a Nation write, Against a Nation thou didst single fight. My differing Crimes does more thy Virtue raise, And such my Rashness best thy Valour praise. Here Douglas smiling said, He did intend, After suck Frankness shewn, to be his Friend

Forewarn'd him therefore, lest in time he were Metempsycos'd to some Scotch Presbyter.

By A. M.

Britannia and Raleigh.

By A. Marvel, Esq

Brit.

AH Raleigh, when thou didst thy Breath resign To trembling James, would I h'd quitted mine▪ Cubs didst thou call them? Hadst thou seen this Brood Of Earls, Dukes, and Princes of the Blood; No more of Scottish Race thou wouldst complain, These would be Blessings in this spurious Reign. Awake, arise from thy long blest repose, Once more with me partake of mortal VVoes.

Ra.

What mighty Pow'r hath forc'd me from my rest? Oh mighty Queen, why so untimely drest?

Brit.

Favour'd by Night, conceal'd in this Disguise, VVhilst the lewd Court in drunken slumber lies, I stole away; and never will return, Till England knows who did her City burn: Till Cavaliers shall Favourites be deem'd, And Loyal Sufferers by the Court esteem'd: Till Leigh and Galloway shall Bribes reject; Thus O—ns Golden Cheat I shall detect: Till Atheist Lauderdale shall leave this Land, And Commons Votes shall Cut-Nose Guards disband: Till Kate a happy Mother shall become, Till Charles loves Parliaments, and James hates Rome.

Ral.

VVhat fatal Crimes make you for ever fly Your once lov'd Court, and Martyr's Progeny?

Brit.

A Colony of French possess the Court; Pimps, Priests, Buffoons, in Privy-Chamber sport. Such slimy Monsters ne'er approacht a Throne Since Pharaoh's Days, nor so defil'd a Crown.

In sacred Ear Tyrannick Arts they croak, Pervert his Mind, and good Intention choak: Tell him of Golden Indies, Fairy Lands, Leviathan, and absolute Commands. Thus Fairy-like the King they steal away, And in his room a Changling Lewis lay. How oft have I him to himself restor'd, In's Left the Scale, in's Right-hand plac'd the Sword? Taught him their use, what Dangers would ensue, To them who strive to separate these two? The bloody Scotish Chronicle read o'er, Shew'd him how many Kings in purple Gore Were hurl'd to Hell by cruel Tyrant Lore. The other day fam'd Spencer I did bring, In lofty Notes, Tudor's blest Race to sing; How Spain's proud Powers her Virgin Arms controul'd, And golden Days in peaceful Order roul'd: How like ripe Fruit she dropt from off her Throne, Full of grey Hairs, good Deeds and great Renown. As the Jessean Hero did appease Saul's stormy Rage, and stopt his black Disease; So the learn'd Bard, with artful Song supprest The swelling Passion of his canker'd Breast: And in his Heart kind Influences shed Of Countrys Love, by Truth and Justice bred: Then to perform the Cure so well begun, To him I shew'd this glorious setting Sun. How by her Peoples Looks pursu'd from far, So mounted on a bright Celestial Car Out-shining Virgo or the Julian Star. Whilst in Truth's Mirrour this good Scene he spy'd, Enter'd a Dame bedeck'd with spotted Pride, Fair Flower-de-Luce within an Azure Field, Her left-hand bears the antient Gallick Shield, By her usurp'd; her Right a bloody Sword, Inscrib'd Leviathan, our Sovereign Lord; Her tow'ry Front a fiery Meteor bears, An Exhalation bred of Blood and Tears;

Around her Jove's lewd rav'nous Curs complain, Pale Death, Lust, Tortures, fill her pompous Train: She from the easie King Truth's Mirrour took, And on the ground in spiteful Fall it broke; Then frowning, thus, with proud Disdain, she spoke: Are thred-bare Virtues Ornaments for Kings? Such poor pedantick Toys teach Underlings! Do Monarchs rise by Virtue, or by Sword? Who e'er grew Great by keeping of his Word? Virtue's a faint Green-sickness to brave Souls, Dastards their Hearts, their active Heat controuls: The Rival God, Monarchs of t'other VVorld, This mortal Poyson among Princes hurl'd; Fearing the mighty Projects of the Great, Shall drive them from their proud Celestial Seat, If not o'er-aw'd: This new found holy Cheat, Those pious Frauds too slight t'insnare the brave, Are proper Arts the long••ear'd Rout t'inslave. Bribe hungry Priests to deifie your Might, To teach your Will's your only Rule to Right, And sound Damnation to all that dare deny't. Thus Heavens designs 'gainst Heaven you shall turn, And make them feel those Powers they once did scorn, When all the gobling Interest of Mankind, By Hirelings sold to you, shall be resign'd; And by Impostures God and Man betray'd, The Church and State you safely may invade: So boundless Lewis in full Glory shines, Whilst your starv'd Power in Legal Fetters pines. Shake off those Baby-Bands from your strong Arms, Henceforth be deaf to that old Witches Charms: Tast the delicious Sweets of Sovereign Power, 'Tis Royal Game whole Kingdoms to deflower. Three spotless Virgins to your Bed I'll bring, A Sacrifice to you their God and King: As these grow stale we'll harrass Human kind, Rack Nature, till new Pleasures you shall find, Strong as your Reign, and beauteous as your Mind.

When she had spoke a confus'd Murmur rose, Of French, Scotch, Irish, all my mortal Foes: Some English too, O shame! disguis'd I spy'd, Led all by the wise Son in Law of Hide: With Fury drunk, like Bachanals, they roar, Down with that common Magna Charta Whore. With joynt Consent, on helpless me they flew, And from my Charles to a base Goal me drew: My reverend Age expos'd to Scorn and Shame, To Prigs, Bawds, Whores, was made the publick Game. Frequent Addresses to my Charles I send, And my sad State did to his Care commend: But his fair Soul transform'd by that French Dame, Had lost a Sense of Honour, Justice, Fame. Like a tame Spinster in's Seraigl' he sits, Besieg'd by Whores, Buffoons, and Bastards Chits; Lull'd in Security, rowling in Lust, Resigns his Crown to Angel Carwell's Trust. Her Creature O— the Revenue steals, False F—h, Knave Ang—esy, misguide the Seals: Mac-James the Irish Biggots does adore; His French and Teague commands on Sea and Shore: The Scotch-Scalado of our Court two Isles, False Lauderdale with Ordure all defiles. Thus the States Night marr'd by this hellish Rout, And no one left these Furies to cast out. Ah! Vindex come, and purge the poyson'd State; Descend, descend, e'er the Cure's desperate.

Ral.

Once more great Queen thy Darling strive to save, Snatch him again from Scandal and the Grave: Present to's Thoughts his long scorn'd Parliament, The Basis of his Throne and Government. In his deaf Ears sound his dead Father's Name; Perhaps that Spell may's erring Soul reclaim. Who knows what good Effects from thence may spring? 'Tis God-like good to save a falling King.

Brit.

Rawleigh, no more; for long in vain I've try'd, The Stewart from the Tyrant to divide;

As easily learn'd Vertuoso's may With the Dog's Blood his gentle Kind convey Into the Wolf, and make him Guardian turn, To the bleating Flock, by him so lately torn. If this Imperial Juice once taint his Blood, 'Tis by no potent Antidote withstood. Tyrants, like Lep'rous Kings, for publick Weal Should be immur'd, lest the Contagion steal Over the whole. Th' Elect of the Jessean Line, To this firm Law their Scepter did resign. And shall this base Tyrannick Brood evade Eternal Laws, by God for Mankind made. To the serene Venetian State I'll go, From her sage Mouth fam'd Principles to know: With her the Prudence of the Ancients read, To teach my People in their steps to tread. By their great Pattern such a State I'll frame, Shall eternize a glorious lasting Name. Till then, my Raleigh, teach our noble Youth To love Sobriety, and holy Truth. Watch and preside over their tender Age, Lest Court-Corruption should their Soul engage. Teach them how Arts and Arms in thy young Days Employ'd our Youth, not Taverns, Stews and Plays. Tell them the generous Scorn their rise does owe To Flattery, Pimping, and a Gawdy Show. Teach them to scorn the Carwells, Portsmouths, Nells, The Clevelands, O—Berties, Lauderdales, Poppea, Tegoline, and Arteria's Name, Who yield to these in Lewdness, Lust and Fame. Make 'em admire the Talbots, Sidneys, Veres, Drake, Cav'ndish, Blake; Men void of slavish Fears, True Sons of Glory, Pillars of the State, On whose fam'd Deeds all Tongues and Writers wait: When with fierce Ardour their bright Souls do burn, Back to my dearest Country I'll return. Tarquin's just Judg, and Caesar's equals Peers, With them I'll bring to dry my Peoples Tears.

Publicola with healing Hands shall pour Balm in their Wounds, and shall their Life restore: Greek Arts, and Roman Arms, in her conjoyn'd Shall England raise, relieve opprest Mankind. As Jove's great Son th' infested Globe did free From noxious Monsters, hell-born Tyranny: So shall my England, in a Holy War, In Triumph lead chain'd Tyrants from a far: Her true Crusado shall at last pull down The Turkish Crescent, and the Persian Sun. Freed by thy Labours, Fortunate, Blest Isle, The Earth shall rest, the Heaven shall on thee smile; And this kind Secret for Reward shall give, No poyson'd Tyrants on thy Earth shall live.

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.

To the KING.

GReat Charles, who full of Mercy would'st command In Peace and Pleasure this thy Native Land; At last take pity of thy tottering Throne, Shook by the Faults of others, not thine own. Let not thy Life and Crown together end. Destroy'd by a false Brother and a Friend. Observe the Danger that appears so near, That all your Subjects do each Minute fear: One drop of Poison, or a Popish Knife, Ends all the Joys of England with thy Life. Brothers, 'tis true, by Nature, should be kind; But a too zealous and ambitious Mind, Brib'd with a Crown on Earth, and one above, Harbours no Friendship, Tenderness, or Love: See in all Ages what Examples are Of Monarchs murther'd by their impatient Heir. Hard Fate of Princes, who will ne'er believe, Till the Stroke's struck which they can ne'er retrieve.

Nostradamus's Prophecy.

By A. Marvell, Esq

FOR Faults and Follies London's Doom shall fix, And she must sink in Flames in Sixty six; Fire-Balls shall fly, but few shall see the Train, As far as from White-Hall to Pudding-Lane; To burn the City which again shall rise, Beyond all hopes, aspiring to the Skies,

Where Vengeance dwells. But there is one thing more (Tho its Walls stand) shall bring the City low'r: When Legislators shall their Trust betray, Saving their own, shall give the rest away; And those false Men by th' easie People sent, Give Taxes to the King by Parliament; When bare-fac'd Villains shall not blush to cheat, And Chequer Doors shall shut up Lombard-street: When Players come to Act the part of Queens, Within the Curtains, and behind the Scenes: When Sodomy shall be prime Min'sters Sport, And Whoring shall be the least Crime at Court: When Boys shall take their Sisters for their Mate, And practice Incest between Seven and Eight: When no Man knows in whom to put his trust, And e'en to rob the Chequer shall be just: When Declarations, Lies, and every Oath Shall be in use at Court, but Faith and Troth, When two good Kings shall be at Brentford Town, And when in London there shall be not one; When the Seat's given to a talking Fool, Whom wise Men laugh at, and whom Women rule; A Min'ster able only in his Tongue, To make harsh empty Speeches two hours long: When an old Scotch Covenanter shall be The Champion for th' English Hierarchy: When Bishops shall lay all Religion by, And strive by Law t'establish Tyranny: When a lean Treasurer shall in one Year Make himself fat, his King and People bare: When th' English Prince shall English men despise, And think French only Loyal, Irish Wise: Whon Wooden Shoon shall be the English wear, And Magna Charta shall no more appear; Then th' English shall a greater Tyrant know, Than either Greek or Latin Story shew; Their VVives to's Lust expos'd, their VVealth to's Spoil, VVith Groans to fill his Treasury they toil;

But like the Bellides, must sigh in vain; For that still fill'd, flows out as fast again: Then they with envious Eyes shall Belgium see, And wish in vain Venetian Liberty. The Frogs too late grown weary of their Pain, Shall pray to Jove to take him back again.

Sir Edmundbury Godfrey's Ghost.

IT happen'd in the twy-light of the Day, As England's Monarch in his Closet lay, And Chiffinch step'd to fetch the Female-Prey. The bloody shape of Godfrey did appear, And in sad Vocal sounds these things declare: "Behold, Great Sir, I from the Shades am sent, "To shew these VVounds that did your Fall prevent. "My panting Ghost, as Envoy, comes to call, "And warn you, lest, like me, y' untimely fall; "VVho against Law your Subjects Lives pursue, "By the same Rule may dare to murder you. "I, for Religion, Laws, and Liberties, "Am mangled thus, and made a Sacrifice. "Think what befel Great Egypt's hardned King, "VVho scorn'd the Prophet's oft admonishing. "Shake off your Brandy-slumbers; for my VVords "More Truth than all your close Cabal affords: "A Court you have with Luxury o'er-grown, "And all the Vices e'er in Nature known; "VVhere Pimps and Pandors in their Coaches ride, "And in Lampoons and Songs your Lust deride. "Old Bawds and slighted Whores, there tell with shame, "The dull Romance of your Lascivious Flame. "Players and Scaramoches are your Joy; "Priests and French Apes do all your Land annoy: "Still so profuse, you are insolvent grown▪ "A mighty Bankrupt on a Golden 〈◊〉〈◊〉

"Your nauseous Palate the worst Food doth crave; "No wholsom Viands can an entrance have: "Each Night you lodge in that French Syren's Arms, "She strait betrays you with her wanton Charms; "VVorks on your Heart, softned with Love and VVine, "And then betrays you to some Philistine. "Imperial Lust does o'er your Sceptre sway; "And though a Sovereign, makes you to obey. "She that from Lisbon came with such Renown, "And to inrich you with the Afric Town. "In nature mild, and gentle as a Dove; "Yet for Religion can a Serpent prove: "Priest-rid with Zeal, she plots, and did design "To cut your Thread of Life, as well as mine: "Yet Thoughts so stupid have your Soul possest, "As if inchanted by some Magick Priest: "There's no Example urge you to relent, "You pardon guilty, punish innocent. "Next he who 'gainst the Senate's Vote did wed, "Took defil'd H. and Este to his Bed. "Fiend in his Face, Apostate in his Name, "Contriv'd to VVars to your eternal shame. "He antient Laws and Liberties defies; "On standing Guards and new-rais'd Force relies. "The Teagues he courts, and doth the French admire, "And fain he would be mounted one step higher. "All this by you must needs be plainly seen, "And yet he awes you with his daring Spleen. "Th' unhappy Kingdom suffer'd much of old, "VVhen Spencer and loose Gaveston controul'd; "Yet they by just Decrees were timely sent, "To suffer a perpetual Banishment. "But your bold States men nothing can restrain, "Their most enormous Courses you maintain. "They like those head strong Horses in the Sun, "Guided by the unskilful Phaeton: "Your tott'ring Chariot bears through uncouth ways, "Till the next VVorld's inflamed with your Rays.

"VVitness that Man, who had for divers Years "Pay'd the brib'd Commons, Pensions, and Arrears; "Though your Exchequer was at his Command, "Durst not before his just Accusers stand: "His Crimes and Treasons of so black a hue, "None dare to prove his Advocate but you. "VVho e'er within your Palace VValls remain, "Abhor your Actions, serve you but for Gain. "The Assyrians (as Histories relate) "Had once a King grown so effeminate; "All State Affairs seem'd irksom in his sight, "In Spinning-VVheels he plac'd his whole delight: "VVith his lewd Strumpet-Crew he did retire, "Condemn'd and loath'd, he set himself on fire, "And only in this Act the VVorld did own, "The greatest Man-hood of his Life was shewn. "Rome ne'er to such a glorious State had grown, "Had no luxurious Tarquin there been known, "A single Rape was deem'd such a Disgrace, "They extirpate his odious Name and Race: "Though he from Tuscan Kings did succour crave, "Yet they with Arms pursu'd him to the Grave: "Ingenious People always have withstood, "VVhat stains their Honour or the publick good: "Trust not in Prelates false Divinity, "VVho wrong their Prince, and shame their Deity, "Making their God so partial in their Cause, "Exempting Kings alone from humane Laws, "These lying Oracles they did infuse "Of old, and did your Martyr'd Sire abuse. "Their strong Delusions did him so enthral, "No Cautions would anticipate his Fall. "Repent in time, and banish from your sight "The Pimp, the VVhore, Buffoon, Church-Parasite▪ "Let Innocence deck your remaining Days, "That after-Ages may unfold your Praise: "So may Historians in new methods write, "And draw a Curtain 'twixt your black and white.

"The Ghost spake thus, groan'd thrice and said no more; "Straight in came Chiffinch, Hand in Hand, with Whore; "The King tho' much concern'd 'twixt Joy and Fear, "Starts from the Couch, and bids the Dame draw near.

An Historical Poem.

By A. Marvel, Esq.

OF a Tall Stature, and of Sable Hue; Much like the Son of Kish, that lofty Jew: Twelve years compleat he suffered in Exile, And kept is F—thers Asses all the while. At length by wonderful impulse of Fate, The People call him home to help the State; And what is more, they send him Mony too, And Cloath him all, from Head to Foot, a new. Nor did he such small Favours then disdain, But in his Thirtieth year began his Reign: In a slasht Doublet then he came ashore, And dubb'd poor P—mer's Wife his Royal Wh— Bishops and Deans, Peers, Pimps, and Knights he made, Things highly fitting for a Monarch's trade; With Women, Wine and Viands of Delight, His Jolly Vassals feast him Day and Night: But the best Times have ever some allay, His younger Brother dy'd by Treachery. Bold James survives, no dangers make him flinch, He Marries Seignior Fal—h's pregnate Wench: The Pious Mother Queen hearing her Son Was thus Enamour'd on a Butter'd Bun; And that the Fleet was gone in Pomp and State To fetch, for Charles, the Flow'ry Lisbon Kate, She Chaunts Te Deum, and so comes away, To wish her hopeful Issue timely Joy; Her most Uxorious Mate she rull'd of old, VVhy not with easie youngsters make as Bold? From the French Court she haughty Topicks brings, Deludes their Plyant Nature with vain things;

Her Mischief-breeding Breast did so prevail, The new got Flemish Town was set to sale; For these and Germains Sins she Founds a Church, So slips away, and leaves us in the Lurch. Now the Court-Sins did every Place defile, And Plagues and VVar fell heavy on the Isle. Pride nourisht Folly, Folly a Delight VVith the Batavian Common-wealth to fight: But the Dutch Fleet fled suddainly with Fear, Death and the Duke so dreadful did appear. The dreadful Victor took his soft Repose, Scorning pursuit of such Mechannick Foes. But now Y—k's Genitals grew over hot, VVith D—ham and Carneige's infected Plot; VVhich, with Religions so inflam'd his Ire. He left the City when 'twas got on Fire: So Philip's Son, inflam'd with a Miss, Burnt down the Palace of Presepolis. Foild thus by Venus, he Bellona woe's, And with the Dutch a second VVar renews. But here his French bred Prowess prov'd in vain, De Ruyter claps him in Sole Bay again. This Isle was well reform'd, and gain'd Renown, VVhilst the brave Tudor's wore th' Imperial Crown; But since the Royal Race of St—s came, It has recoyl'd to Popery, and Shame. Misguided Monarchs, rarely VVise and Just; Tainted with Pride, and with impetuous Lust. Should we the Blac••-Heath Project here relate, Or count the various Blemishes of State, My Muse would on the Reader's Patience grate. The poor Priapus King led by the Nose, Looks as a thing set up to scare the Crows; Yet in the Mimicks of the Spinstrian sport, Out-does Tiberius, and his Goatish Court. In Love's Delights none did 'em e're excel. Not Tereus with his Sister Philomel.

As they at Athens, we at Dover meet, And Gentlier far the Orleans Dutchess treat. What sad Event attended on the same, We'll leave to the Report of Common Fame. The Senate, which should head-strong Princes stay, Let loose the Reins, and give the Realm away, With lavish Hands they constant Tributes give, And Annual Stipends for their Guilt receive; Corrupt with Gold, they Wives and Daughters bring To the Black Idol for an Offering. All but Religious Cheats might justly swear, He true Vice-gerent to old Molock were. Priests were the first Deluders of Mankind. Who with vain Faith made all their Reason blind; Not Lucifer himself more proud than they, And yet perswade the World they must obey; 'Gainst Avarice and Luxury complain, And practise all the Vices they arraign. Riches and Honour they from Lay-men reap, And with dull Crambo feed the silly Sheep. As Killigrew Buffoons his Master, they Droll on their God, but a much duller way; With Hocus Pocus, and their Heavenly slight They gain on tender Consciences at Night. Who ever has an over zealous Wife, Becomes the Priest's Amphitrio, during life. Who would such Men Heavens Messengers believe, Who from the Sacred Pulpit dare deceive; Baal's wretched Curates Legerdemain'd it so, And never durst their Tricks above-board shew, When our first Parents Paradise did grace, The Serpent was the Prelate of the place. Fond Eve did for this subtil Tempter's sake, From the Forbidden Tree the Pippin take. His God and Lord this Preacher did betray, To have the weaker Vessel made his Prey. Since Death and Sin did humane Nature blot, The chiefest Blessings Adam's Chaplain got.

Thrice wretched they, who Nature's Laws detest. And trace the ways fantastick of a Priest; Till native Reasons basely forc'd to yeild, And Hosts of upstart Errors gains the Field. My Muse presum'd a little to digress, And touch their holy Function with my Verse. Now to the State again she tends direct, And does on Giant L—dale reflect. This haughty Monster, with his ugly Claws, First temper'd Poyson to destroy our Laws; Declares the Councils Edicts are beyond The most Authentick Statutes of the Land: Sets up in Scotland A-la-mode de France; Taxes, Excise, and Armies does advance. This Saracen his Country's Freedom broke, To bring upon our Necks the heavier Yoke: This is the Savage Pimp without dispute, First brought his Mother for a Prostitute. Of all the Mescreants that e'er went to Hell, This Villain Rampant bears away the Bell. Now must my Muse deplore the Nation's Fate, Like a true Lover, for her dying Mate. The Royal Evil so malignant grows, Nothing the dire Contagion can oppose. In our Weal-publick scarce one thing succeeds, For one Man's weakness a whole Nation bleeds, Ill-luck starts up, and thrives like evil Weeds. Let Cromwell's Ghost smile with contempt to see Old England strugling under Slavery. His Meager Highness now has got a stride, Does on Britannia, as on Churchil ride. White-liver'd D— for his swift Jack-call. To hunt down's Prey, and hopes to Master all. Clifford and Hide before had lost the Day; One hang'd himself, and the other ran away; 'Twas want of Wit and Courage made them fail. But O—ne and the D—ke must need, prevail.

The D—ke now vaunts with Popish Mermydons, Our Fleets, our Ports, our Cities, and our Towns, Are Man'd by him, or by his Holiness, Bold Irish Ruffians to his Court Address: This is the Collony to plant his Knaves, From hence he picks and culls his Murthering Braves. Here for an Ensign, or Lieutenant's place, They'll kill a Judge or Justice of the Peace. At his Command Mac will do any thing; He'll burn a City; or destroy a King. From Tiber came th' Advice-Boat monthly home, And brought new Lessons to the Duke from Rome. Here with curs'd Precepts, and with Councils dire, The godly Cheat-King (would be) did inspire; Heaven had him Chieftain of Great Britain made; Tells him the Holy Church demands his Aid, Bad him be bold, all Dangers to defy, His Brother, sneaking Heretick, should dye: A Priest should do it, from whose sacred stroke, All England strait should fall beneath his Yoke. God did Renounce him, and his Cause disown, And in his stead had plac'd him on his Throne. From Saul the Land of Promise thus was rent, And Jess's Son plac'd in the Government: The Holy Scripture vindicates his Cause, And Monarchs are above all humane Laws. Thus said the Scarlet Whore to her Gallant, Who streight design'd his Brother to supplant: Fiends of Ambition here his Soul possest, And thirst of Empire Calentur'd his Breast. Hence Ruine and Destruction had ensu'd, And all the People been in Blood imbru'd, Had not Almighty Providence drawn near, And stopt his Malice in its full career. Be wise you Sons of Men, tempt God ••o more, To give you Kings in's wrath to vex you sore: If a King's Brother can such Mischiefs bring, Then how much greater Mischiefs such a King?

Hodges's Vision from the Monument, December, 1675.

By A. Marvell Esq

A Country Clown call'd Hodge, went up to view The Pyramid; pray mark what did ensue.

WHen Hodge had numbered up how many score The Airy Pyramid contain'd, he swore, No Mortal Wight e're Climb'd so high before: To the best best vantage plac'd he views around The Imperial Town, with lofty Turrets Crown'd; That wealthy Store-house of the bounteous Flood, Whose Peaceful Tides o'••eflow our Land with good: Confused forms flit by his wondring Eyes, And his rapt ••ouls o'erwhelm'd with Extasies: Some God it seems had encer'd his plain Brest, And with's abode the rustick Mansion blest; Almighty change he feels in every part, Light shines in's Eyes, and Wisdom rules his Heart: So when her Pious Son, fair Venus shew'd His flaming Troy, with Slaughter'd Dardans strew'd; She Purg'd his Opticks, fill'd with mortal Night, And Troy's sad Doom he read, by Heaven's light. Such light Divine broke on the Clouded Eyes Of humble Hodge. Regions remote, Courts, Councils, Polices, The circling wills of Tyrants treacheries: He Views, Discerns, Unc••phers, Penetrates, From Charle's Dukes, to Europes armed States; First he beholds Proud Rome and France Combin'd, By double Vassallage to enslave Man-kind; That wou'd the Soul, this wou'd the Body sway, Their Bulls and Edicts, none must disobey. For these with War sad Europe they inflame, Rome says for God, and France declares for Fame: See Sons of Satan know Religions force,

Is Gentleness, Fame bought with Blood a Curse, He whom all stil'd Delight of humane kind, Justice and Mercy, Truth with Honour joyn'd: His kindly Rays cherish the teeming Earth, And struggling Virtue blest with prosperous Birth; Like Chaos you the tott'ring Globe Invade, Religion cheat, and War ye make a Trade. Next the lewd Palace of the Plotting King, To's Eyes new Scenes of Frantick Folly bring; Behold (says he) the Fountain of our Woe, From whence our Vices and our Ruin flow: Here Parents their own Off-spring prostitute, By such vile Arts t' obtain some viler Suit; Here blooming Youth adore Priapus's shrine, And Priests pronounce him Sacred and Divine. The Goatish God behold in his Alcove, (The secret Scene of Damn'd incestuous Love.) Melting in Lust, and Drunk like Lot he lies Betwixt two bright Daughter Divinities: Oh! that like Satura he had eat his Brood, And had been thus stain'd with their impious Blood, He had in that less ill, more Man-hood shew'd. Cease, cease, (O C—) thus to pollute our Isle, Return, return to thy long wish'd Exile; There with thy Court defile thy Neighbour States, And with thy Crimes precipitate their fates. See where the Duke in damn'd Divan does sit, To's vast designs wracking his Pigmy Wit; Whilst a choice Senate of the Ignation Crew, The waies to Murder, Treason, Conquest shew. Dissenters they oppress with Laws severe, That whilst to Wound those Innocents, we fear, Their cursed Sect we may be forc'd to spare. Twice the Reform'd must fight a Bloody Prize, That Rome and France may on their ruine rise: Old Bonner, single Hereticks did burn, These Reform'd Cities into Ashes turn, ••nd every year new Fires make us Mourn:

Ireland stands ready for his Cruel Reign, Well fatned once, she gapes for Blood again, For Blood of English Martyrs basely Slain. Our Valiant Youth abroad must learn the Trade Of unjust War, their Country to Invade, Whilst others here do guard us to prepare Our Gauled Necks, his Iron Yoke to bear. Lo how the Wight already is betray'd, And Bashaw Holms, does the poor Isle invade: T' ensure the Plot, France must her Legions lend Rome to restore, and to Enthrone Rome's Friend: 'Tis in return, James does our Fleet betray; (That Fleet whose Thunder made the World obey;) Ships once our safety, and our glorious might, Are doom'd with Worms and Rottenness to Fight; Whilest France rides Soveraign o're the British Main, Our Merchants robb'd, and our brave Seamen ta'ne: Thus this rash Phaeton with fury hurl'd, And rapid rage consumes our British World; Blast him, Oh Heavens! in his mad Career, And let this Isle no more his Frenzy fear. C— J—, 'tis he that all good Men abhor, False to thy self, but to thy Friend much more; To him who did thy promis'd Pardon hope,* 1.1 Whilst with pretended Joy he kiss'd the Rope: O'rewhelm'd with Guilt, and gasping out a Lye, Deceiv'd and unprepar'd, thou lets him Dye. With equal Gratitude and Charity. In spight of Jermin, and of Black-mouth'd Fame; This St—s trick Legitimates thy Name. With one consent we all her Death desire, Who durst her Husbands and her Kings Conspire; And now just Heavens prepar'd to set us free, Heaven and our hopes, are both oppos'd by thee. Thus fondly thou do'st Hides old Treason own, Thus makes thy new suspected Treason known. Bless me! What's that at Westminster I see? That piece of Legislative Pagentry?

To our dear James, has Rome her Conclave lent? Or has Charles bought the Paris Parliament: None else would promote James with so much Zeal, Who by Proviso hopes the Crown to steal: See how in humble guise the Slaves advance, To tell a tale of Army, and of France; Whilst proud Prerogative in scornful Guise, Their Fear, Love, Duty, Danger does despise; There in a brib'd Committee they contrive, To give our Birth-right's to Prerogative: Give, did I say? They sell, and sell so dear, That half each Tax D— distributes there D—, 'tis fit the price so great should be, They sell Religion, sell their Liberty; These Vipers have their Mothers Entrals torn; And wou'd by force a second time be born; They haunt the place to which you once were sent, This Ghost of a departed Parliament.* 1.2 Gibbets and Halters Country men prepare, Let none, let none, their Renegadoes spare: When that Day comes we'll part the Sheep and Goats, The spruce brib'd Monsieurs from the true Grey Coats. New Parliaments, like Manna, all Tastes please, But kept too long, our Food turns our Disease; From that loath'd sight, Hodge turn'd his weeping Eyes, And London thus Alarms with Loyal Cries. Tho' common Danger does approach so nigh, This stupid Town sleeps in Security: Out of your Golden Dream awake, awake, Your All, your All, tho' you see't not at's Stake; More dreadful Fires approach your falling Town, Then those which burnt your stately Structures down, Such fatal Fires, as once in Smithfield shone. If then ye stay till Edward's Orders give,* 1.3 No mortal Arm your safety can retrieve; See how with Golden Baits the crafty Gaul, Has brib'd our Geese to yield the Capital;

And will ye tamely see your selves betray'd? Will none stand up in our dear Country's aid? Self-preservation, Natures first great Law, All the Creation, except Man, does awe, 'Twas in him six'd, till lying Priests defac'd His Heav'n-born Mind, and Natures Tablets raz'd. Tell me (ye forging Crew) what Law reveal'd By God, to Kings the Jus Divinum seal'd ? If to do good, ye Jus Divinum call, It is the grand Prerogative of all: If to do lll unpunish'd be their Right, Such Power's not granted that great King of night; Man's Life moves on the Poles of hope and fear, Reward and Pain all Orders do revere. But if your dear Lord Sov'raign you would spare, Admonish him in his Blood-thirsty Heir: So when the Royal Lyon does offend, The beaten Currs example makes him mend: This said poor Hodge, then in a broken tone, Cry'd out, Oh Charles! thy Life, thy Life, thy Crown; Ambitious James, and Bloody Priests Conspire, Plots, Papists, Murders, Massacres, and Fire; Poor Protestants! With that his Eyes did rowl, His Body fell, out fled his frighted Soul.

A Dialogue between two Horses.

By Andrew Mar∣vell, Esq 1674.

The Introduction.

WE read in profane and sacred Records Of Beasts, that have utter'd Articulate VVords; When Magpies and Parrots cry, VValk Knaves walk, It is a clear Proof that Birds too may talk. And Statues without either Wind-pipes or Lungs, Have spoken as plainly as Men do with Tongues:

Livy tells a strange Story, can hardly be fellow'd, That a Sacrific'd Ox when his Guts were out, bellow'd. Phalaris had a Bull, which as grave Authors tell you, Would roar like a Devil with a Man in his Belly. Friar Bacon had a Head that speak, made of Brass; And Balaam the Prophet was reprov'd by his Ass. At Delphos and Rome, Stocks and Stones now and then Sirs, Have to Questions return'd Articulate Answers. All Popish Believers think something divine, When Images speak, possesseth the Shrine: But they that Faith Catholick ne'er understood, When Shrines give Answer, a Knaves on the Road. Those Idols ne're spoke, but are Miracles done By the Devil, a Priest, a Frier or a Nun. If the Roman Church, good Christians, oblige ye To believe Man and Beast have spoke in Effigie. Why should we not credit the publick Discourses In a Dialogue between two Inanimate Horses ? The Horses, I mean of VVool-Church and Charing — Who told many Truths worth any Man's hearing. Since Viner and Osborn did buy, and provide 'em▪ For the two mighty Monarchs that now do bestride 'em The stately brass Stallion, and the white marble Steed, One Night came together by all 'tis agreed: When both Kings being weary of sitting all Day, Were stollen off Incognito each his own way. And then the two Jades, after mutual Salutes, Not only discours'd, but fell to Disputes.

The Dialogue.

W.

Quoth the marble Horse, it would make a Stone speak, To see a Lord Mayor and a Lombard-street break: Thy Founder and mine to cheat one another, When both Knaves agreed to be each others Brother.

C.

Here Charing broke forth, and thus he went on, My Brass is provoked as much as thy Stone,

To see Church and State bow down to a Whore, And the Kings chief Minister holding the Door. The Mony of Widows and Orphans imploy'd, And the Bankers quite broke to maintain the Whores Pride.

VV.

To see Dei Gratia writ on the Throne, And the K—'s wicked Life say, God there is none.

C.

That he should be stil'd Defender of the Faith, Who believes not a Word, what the Word of God saith.

VV.

That the D.- should turn Papist, and that Church defy, For which his own Father a Martyr did die.

C.

Tho' he changed his Religion, I hope he's so civil Not to think his own Father is gone to the Devil.

VV.

That bondage and beggary should be in a Nation, By a curst House of Commons, and a blest Restoration.

C.

To see a white Staff make a Beggar a Lord, And scarce a wise Man at a long Council-board.

VV.

That the Bank should be seized, yet the Cheq. so poor, Lord have Mercy, and a Cross might be set on the door.

C.

That a Million and half should be the Revenue, Yet the King of his Debts pay no Man a Penny.

VV.

That a K— should consume three Kingdom's Estates, And yet all the Court be as poor as Church-Rats.

C.

That of four Seas Dominion and of their guarding, No token should appear, but a poor Copper Farthing.

VV.

Our Worm-eaten Ships to be laid up at Chatham, (Not our Trade to secure) but for Fools to come at 'em.

C.

And our few Ships abroad become Tripoli's scorn, By pawning for Victuals their Guns at Leghorn.

VV.

That making us Slaves by Horse and Foot-Guard, For restoring the King shall be all our reward.

C.

The basest Ingratitude ever was heard, But Tyrants ungrateful are always afraid.

VV.

On Harry the VII's Head, he that placed the Crown, Was after Rewarded by losing his own.

C.

That Parliament-men should rail at the Court, And get good Preferments immediately for't. To see them that suffer both for Father and Son, And helped to bring the latter to his Throne:

That with their Lives and Estates did loyally serve, And yet for all this, can nothing deserve; The King looks not on 'em, Preferments deni'd 'em, The Round-heads insult, and the Courtiers deride them. And none gets Preferments, but who will betray Their Country to Ruin, 'tis that ope's the way Of the bold talking Members.—

VV.

—If the Bastards you add, What a number of Rascally Lords have been made.

C.

That Traitors to their Country in a brib'd House of C. Should give away Millions at every Summons.

VV.

Yet some of those Givers, such beggarly Villains, As not to be trusted for twice fifty Shillings.

C.

No wonder that Beggars should still be for giving, Who out of what's given, do get a good living.

VV.

Four Knights and a Knave, who were Burgesses made, For selling their Consciences were liberally paid.

C.

How base are the Souls of such low prized Sinners, Who Vote with the Country for Drink and for Dinners,

VV.

'Tis they that brought on us this Scandalous Yoke. Of Excising our Cups, and Taxing our Smoak.

C.

But thanks to the Whores who made the K— dogged, For giving no more the R— are Prorogued.

VV.

That a King should endeavour to make a War cease, Which augments and secures his own profit and peace.

C.

And Plenipotentiaries send into France. With an addle-headed Knight, & a Lord without Brains

VV.

That the King should send for another French Whore, When one already had made him so Poor.

C.

The Misses take place, and advanc'd to be Dutchess, With Pomp great as Queens in their Coach and six Horses: Their Bastards made Dukes, Earls, Viscounts & Lords, And all the High Titles that Honour affords.

W.

While these Brats and their Mothers, do live in such Plenty The Nation's empoverisht, and the Chequor quite empty:

And tho' War was pretended when the Mony was lent, More on Whores, than in Ships, or in War, hath been spent.

C.

Enough, dear Brother, although we speak Reason; Yet truth many times being punish'd for Treason, We ought to be wary, and bridle our Tongues. Bold speaking hath done both Men and Beasts wrong: When the Ass so boldly rebuked the Prophet, Thou knowest what danger was like to come of it; Though the Beast gave his Master ne'er an ill Word, Instead of a Cudgel Balaam wish'd for a Sword.

W.

Truth's as bold as a Lion, I am not afraid, I'll prove every tittle of what I have said: Our Riders are absent, who is't that can hear; Lets be true to our selves, who then need we fear? Where is thy K— gone, (Chair.) to see Bishop Laud?

W.

To Cuckold a Scrivener, mines in Masquerade? On such Occasions he oft strays away, And returns to remount about break of Day. In very dark Nights sometimes you may find him With a Harlot, got up on my Crupper behind him.

C.

Pause Brother a while, and calmly consider What thou hast to say against my Royal Rider.

VV.

Thy Priest-ridden King turn'd desperate fighter For the Surplice, Lawn-sleeves, the Cross and the Miter; Till at last on the Scaffold he was left in the lurch By Knaves, that cry'd up themselves for the Church. Arch-Bishops and Bishops, Arch-Deacons and Deans;

C.

Thy King will ne'er fight unless't be for Queans.

VV.

He that dies for Ceremonies, dies like a Fool.

C.

The K— on thy back is a lamentable Tool.

VV.

The Goat and the Lion, I equally hate, And Freeman alike value Life and Estate: Though the Father and Son be different rods, Between the two Scourges we find little odds; Both Infamous stand in three Kingdoms Votes, This for Picking our Pockets, that for cutting our Throats:

C.

More tolerable are the Lion Kings Slaughters, Then the Goat making Whores of our Wives and Daughters. The Debauched and Cruel since they equally gall us, I had rather bear Nero than Sardanapalus.

VV.

One of the two Tyrants must still be our Case, Under all that shall Reign of the false S— Race. De Wit and Cromwell had each a brave Soul, I freely declare it, I am for old Nol; Though his Government did a Tyrant resemble, He made England great and his Enemies tremble.

C.

Thy Rider puts no Man to Death in his Wrath, But is bury'd alive in Lust and in Sloth.

VV.

What is thy Opinion of James Duke of York?

C.

The same that the Frogs had of Jupiter's Stork. With the Turk in his Head, and the Pope in his Heart, Father Patrick's Disciples will make England smart. If e'er he be King, I know Britain's Doom, We must all to a Stake, or be Converts to Rome. Ah! Tudor, ah! Tudor, we have had Stu—s enough; None ever Reign'd like old Bess in the Ruff. Her VValsingham could dark Counsels unriddle, And our Sir J—pk write New-Books, and Fiddle.

VV.

Truth Brother, well said, but that's somewhat bitter, His perfum'd Predecessor was never more fitter: Yet we have one Secretary Honest and Wise; For that very Reason, he's never to rise. But can'st thou devise when things will be mended?

C.

When the Reign of the Line of the S—ts, are ended.

Conclusion.

If Speeches from Animals in Romes first Age, ••rodigious Events did surely presage, That should come to pass, all Mankind may swear, That which two Inanimate Horses declare. But I should have told you before the Jades parted, ••oth gallop'd to Whitehall, and there humbly farted;

Which Tyranny's downfal portended much more Than all that the Beasts had spoken before. If the Delphick Sybil's Oracular Speeches, (As learned Men say) came out of their Breeches, Why might not our Horses, since Words are but Wind, Have the Spirit of Prophecy likewise behind? Tho' Tyrants make Laws, which they strictly proclaim, To conceal their own Faults, and cover their own Shame; Yet the Beasts in the Field, and the Stones in the Wall, Will publish their Faults and prophesy their Fall; When they take from the People the Freedom of words, They teach them the sooner to fall to their Swords. Let the City drink Coffee, and quietly groan, (They that conquer'd the Father won't be Slaves to the Son, For Wine and strong Drink make Tumults encrease, Chocolate, Tea and Coffee, are Liquors of Peace; No Quarrels or Oaths among those that drink them, 'Tis Bacchus and the Brewer, swear damn 'em and sink 'em, Then C—s thy late Edict against Coffee recal, There's ten times more Treason in Brandy and Ale.

On the Lord Mayor and Court of Alderman, pre∣senting the late King and Duke of York each with a Copy of their Freedoms, Anno Dom. 1674.

By A. Marvell, Esq

I.

THE Londoners Gent. to the King do present In a Box the City Maggot; 'Tis a thing full of Weight, that requires the Might Of whole Guild-Hall Team to drag it.

II.

Whilst their Church's unbuilt and their Houses undwelt, And their Orphants want ••read to fe••d 'em; Themselves they've bereft of the little Wealth they had left. To make an Offering of their Freedom.

III.

O ye Addle-brain'd Cits! who henceforth in their Wits Would intrust their Youth to your heading; When in Diamonds and Gold you have him thus en∣roll'd, You know both his Friends and his Breeding?

IV.

Beyond Sea he began, where such a Riot he ran, That every one there did leave him; And now he••s come o'er ten times worse than before, When none but such Fools would receive him.

V.

He ne'er knew, not he, how to serve or be free, Though he has past through so many Adventures; But e'er since he was bound, (that is he was crown'd) He has every Day broke his Indentures.

VI.

He spends all his Days in running to Plays, When he should in the Shop be poring: And he wasts all his Nights in his constant Delights, Of Revelling, Drinking and Whoring.

VII.

Thro'out Lumbard-street each Man he did meet, He would run on the Score and borrow, When they'd ask'd for their own, he was broke and gone, And his Creditors left to Sorrow.

VIII.

Though oft bound to the Peace, yet he never would cease, To vex his poor Neighbours with Quarrels, And when he was beat, he still made his Retreat, To his Cleavlands, his Nels, and his Carwels.

IX.

Nay, his Company lewd, were twice grown so rude, That had not Fear taught him Sobriety,

And the House being well barr'd with Guard upon Guard, They'd robb••d us of all our Propriety.

X.

Such a Plot was laid, had not Ashley betray'd, As had cancell'd all former Disasters; And your wives had been Strumpets to his Hignesses Trumpets, And Foot-Boys had all been your Masters.

XI.

So many are the Debts, and the Bastards he gets, Which must all be defray'd by London, That notwithstanding the Care of Sir Thomas Player, The Chamber must needs be undone,

XII.

His Words nor his Oath cannot bind him to Troth, And he values not Credit or History; And though he has serv'd through two Prentiships now, He knows not his Trade nor his Mystery.

XIII.

Then London Rejoyce in thy fortunate Choice, To have made him free of thy Spices; And do not mistrust he may once grow more just, When he's worn of his Follies and Vices.

XIV.

And what little thing is that which you bring To the Duke, the Kingdom's Darling; Ye hug it and draw like Ants at a Straw, Tho too small for the Gristle of Starling.

XV.

Is it a Box of Pills to cure the Kings Ills? (He is too far gone to begin it) Or that your fine Show in Processioning go, With the Pix and the Host within It.

XVI.

The very first Head of the Oath you him read, Shew you all how fit he's to Govern, When in Heart (you all knew) he ne'er was nor will be true. To his Country or to his Soveraign.

XVII.

And who could swear, that he would forbear To cull out the good of an Alien, Who still doth advance the Government of France, With a Wife and Religion Italian?

XVIII.

And now, Worshipful Sirs, go fold up your Furrs, And Vyners turn again, turn again; I see who e'ers freed, you for Slaves are decreed Until you burn again, burn again.

On Blood's Stealing the Crown.

By A. Marvell, Esq

WHen daring Blood, his Rent to have regain'd Upon the English Diadem distrain'd: He chose the Cassock, Sursingle and Gown, The fittest Mask for one that robs the Crown; But his lay-pitty underneath prevail'd, And whilst he sav'd the Keepers Life he fail'd, With the Priests Vestment had he but put on, The Prelates Cruelty, the Crown had gone.

A. Marvell.

Farther Instructions to a Painter, 1670.

By A. Marvell Esq

PAinter once more thy Pencil re-assume, And draw me in one Scene London and Rome: Here holy Charles, there good Aurelius sat, Weeping to see their Sons Degenerate: His Romans taking up the Teemers Trade, The Britains Jigging it in Masquerade;

Whilst the brave Youths tired with the Toil of State, Their wearied Minds, and Limbs to recreate; Do to their more belov'd Delights repair, One to his —, the other to his Player, Then change the Scene, and let the next present A Landskip of our Motley Parliament; And Place hard by the Bar, on the Left-hand, Circean Clifford with his Charming Wand: Our Pig-ey'd on his Fashion, Set by the worst Attorney of our Nation: This great Triumvirate that can divide The spoils of England, and along that side Place Falstefs Regiment of thred bare Coats, All looking this way, how to give their Votes, And of his dear Reward let none Despair. For Mony comes when Sey—r leaves the Chair: Change once again, and let the next affoard The Figure of a Motley Council Board. At Arlingtons, and round about it sat, Our mighty Masters in a warm debate: Full Bowls, and lusty Wine repeat, To make them t'other Council-board forget: That while the King of France with powerful Arms, Gives all his fearful Neighbours strange Allarms; We in our glorious Bachanals dispose The humbled Fate of a Plebean Nose. Which to effect, when thus it was Decreed; Draw me a Champion mounted on a Steed, And after him a brave Briggade of Horse, Arm'd at all Points, ready to reinforce, His, this Assault upon a single Man. 'Tis this must make Obryon great in Story, And add more beams to Sandy's former Glory. Draw our Olimpia, next in Council set, With Cupid, S—r, and the tool of State. Two of the first recanters of the House. That Aim at Mountains, and bring forth a Mouse;

Who make it by their mean retreat appear, Five Members need not be demanded here: These must assist her in her Countermines, To overthrow the Darby House Designs. Whilst positive Walks, like Woodcock in the Park, Contriving Projects with a Brewer's Clark; Thus all Employ themselves, and without Pity, Leave Temple singly to be beat i'th' City.

A. Marvell.

Oceana. & Britannia.

By A. Marvell. Esq

Non ego sum vates, sed prisci Conscius aevi.

Oceana.

WHither, O whither wander I forlorn? Fatal to Friends, and to my Foes a scorn. My pregnant Womb is labouring to bring forth Thy off-spring Archon, Heir to thy just worth. Archon, O Archon, hear my groaning Cries; Lucina, help, asswage my Miseries. Saturnian spight pursues me thro' the Earth, No corner's left to hide my long wisht Birth. Great Queen of the Isles, yield me a safe retreat From the crown'd Gods, that would my Infants eat. To me O Delos on my Child-Bed smile, My happy Seed shall fix thy floating Isle. I feel fierce pangs assault my Teeming Womb, Lucina, O Britannia, Mother, come.

Britan.

What doleful shrieks pierce my affrighted Ear! Shall I ne'er rest for this lewd Ravisher? Rapes, Burnings, Murthers are his Royal Sport, These Modish Monsters haunt his perjur'd Court. No tumbling Player so oft e'er chang'd his shape, As this Goat, Fox, Wolf, timerous French Ape.

True Protestants in Roman Habits drest, With Scrogs he baits that Ravenous Butchers Beast. Tresilian Iones, that fair fac'd Crocodile, Tearing their Hearts, at once doth weep and smile, Neronian Flames at London do him please, At Oxford Plots to Act Agathocles. His Plot's reveal'd, his Mirth is at an end, And's fatal hour shall know no Foe nor Friend, Last Martyr's day I saw a Cherub stand A cross my Seas, one Foot upon the Land, The' other on the enthralled Gallick Shore, Aloud Proclaim their Time shall be no more. This mighty Power Heav'ns equal Ballance sway'd, And in one Scale Crowns, Cros••ers, Scepters laid. I'th' other a sweet Smiling Babe did lye, Circled with Glories, deck'd with Majesty. With steady Hand he pois'd the Golden pair, The gilded Gew-gaws mounted in the Air, The ponderous Babe descending in its Scale, Leapt on my Shore— Nature triumph'd, Joy eccho'd throw the Earth, The Heav'ns bow••d down to see the blessed Birth, What••s that I hear? A new born Babe's soft Cries, And joyful Mother's tender Lullabies! 'Tis so, behold my Daughter's past all harms. Cradeling an Infant in her fruitful Arms. The very same th' Angelick Vision shew'd In mein, in Majesty how like a God. What a firm Health does on her Visage dwell? Her sparkling Eyes Immortal Youth fore-tell. Rome, Sparta, Venice, could bring forth So strong, so temperate, such lasting worth. Marp••sia from the North with speed advance, Thy Sisters Birth brings thy Deliverance. Fergusian Founders this just Babe exceeds, I'th' Arts of Peace and mighty Martial Deeds. Ye Panopeians kneel unto your equal Queen, Safe from the Foreign Sword, and Barbarous Skeen.

Transports of Joy divert my yearning Heart From my dear Child, my Soul, my better part. Heav'n show'r her choicest Blessings on thy Womb, Our present help, our stay in time to come. Thou best of Daughters, Mothers, Matrons say, What forc'd thy Birth, and got this glorious Day?

Ocea.

Scap'd the slow Jaws o'th' grinding Pensioners, I fell i'th' Traps of Rome's dire Murtherers; Twice rescu'd by my Loyal Senate's Power, Twice I expected my Babes happy Hour. Malignant force twice check'd their Pious aid, And to my foes as oft my State betray'd. Great, full of pain, in a dark Winters-night, Threatned, pursu'd, escap'd by suddain flight. Pale fear gave speed to my weak trembling Feet, And far I fled e'er Day our World could greet. That dear lov'd Light which the whole Globe doth cheer, Spur'd on my flight, and added to my fear, Whilst black Conspiracy, that Child of Night, In Royal Purple clad, out dares the Light. By Day her self the Faith's Defender stiles, By Night dig Pits, and spreads her Papal Toils. By Day he to the Pompous Chappel goes, By Night with York adores Rome's Idol shews: Witness ye Stars and silent Powers of Night, Her Treacheries forc'd my Innocent flight. With the broad Day my danger too drew near, Of help, of Council void, how shall I steer? I'th' Pulpit of damn'd, Strumpet at Court proclaim'd, Where should I hide, where should I rest defam'd: Tortur'd in Thought, I rais'd my weeping Eyes, And sobbing Voice to th' all helping Skies; As by Heav'n sent a Reverend Sire appears, Charming my Grief, and stopping my flood of Tears: His busie circling Orbs (two restless Spies) Glanc'd to and fro, out-ranging Argos Eyes. Like fleeting Time, on's Front one lock did grow, From his glib Tongue Torrents of Words did flow.

Propose, Resolve, Agrarian Forty one, Lycurgus, Brutus, Solon, Harington. He said, he knew me in my Swadling bands, Had often danc'd me in his careful hands. He knew Lord Archon too, then wept and Swore, Enshrin'd in me, his Fame he did adore. His Name I ask'd, he said, Politico, Descended from the Divine Nicholo. My state he knew, my danger seem'd to dread, And to my safety vow'd, Hand, Heart, and Head. Grateful Returns I up to Heaven send, That in Distress had sent me such a Friend. I ask'd him where I was? Pointing he shew'd Oxford's Old Towers, once the Learned Arts aboad. (Once great in Fame, now a Pyratick Port, Where Romish Priests and Elvish Monks resort) He added near a new-built Colledge stood, Endow'd by Plato for the Publick good. Thither allur'd by Learned Honest Men, Plato vouchsaf'd once more to live again. Securely there I might my self repose, From my fierce Griefs and my more cruel Foes. Tyr'd with long flights, e'en hunted down with fear, The welcome news my drooping Soul did chear. His pleasing words shortned the time and way, And me beguil'd at Plato's house to stay. When we came in, he told me (after rest,) He'd shew me Plato and's Venetian Guest, I scarce reply'd, with weariness opprest, To my desir'd Apartment I repair'd, Invoking Sleep and Heaven's Almighty Guard. My waking Cares and stabbing frights recede, And nodding Sleep dropt on my drowsie Head. At last the summons of a busie Bell, And glimmering Lights did Sleeps kind Mists dispel. From Bed I stole, and creeping by the Wall, Thro' a small Chink I spy'd a Spacious Hall.

Tapers as Thick as Stars did shed their Light Around the place, and made a Day of Night. The curious Art of some great Master's hand, Adorn'd the Room —Hide, Clifford, D.— stand In one large piece, next them the two Dutch Wars, In bloody Colours paint our fatal Jars. Here London Flames in Clouds of smoke aspire, Done to the life, I'd almost cry'd out Fire. But living Figures did my Eyes divert From those, and many more of wondrous Art. There entred in three Mercenary Bands. (The different Captains had distinct Commands) The Begger's desperate Troop did first appear, L—ton led, proud S—re had the Rear. The disguis'd Papists under Garroway, Talbot Lieutenant (none had better pay) Next greedy Lee led Party-colour'd Slaves, Deaf Fools i'th' right, i'th' wrong sagacious Knaves. Brought up by M—, then a Nobler Train, (In Malice mighty, impotent in Brain) The Pope's Solicitor brought into th' Hall, Not guilty Lay much guilty Spiritual. I also spy'd behind a private Skreen, Colebert and Portsmouth, York and Mazarine. Immediately in close Cabal they joyn, And all applaud the Glorious Design. 'Gainst me and my lov'd Senates Free born Breath, Dire threats I hear'd, the Hall did Eccho Death. A Curtain drawn, another Scene appear'd, A tinckling Bell, a mumbling Priest I heard. At Elevation every Knee ador'd The Baker's Craft, Infallible's vain Lord. When Cataline with Vipers did conspire, To Murther Rome and bury it in Fire, A Sacramental Bowl of Humane Goar, Each Villain took, and as he drank he swore. The Cup deny'd, to make their Plot compleat, These Catalines their conjur'd Gods did eat.

Whilst to their Breaden Whimseys they did kneel, I crept away, and to the door did steal. As I got out, by Providence I flew, To this close Wood, too late they did pursue. That dreadful night, my Child-Bed Throws brought on, My Crys mov'd yours and Heaven's Compassion.

Britania.

Oh happy day! A Jubilee Proclaim, Daughter adore the unutterable name. With grateful Heart breath out thy self in Prayer. In the mean time thy Babe shall be my care. There is a man my Island's Hope and Grace, The chief Delight and Joy of humane Race. Expos'd himself to War, in tender Age, To free his Country from the Gallick Rage, With all the Graces blest his riper Years, And full blown Vertue wak'd the Tyrant's fears. By's Sire rejected, but by Heaven call'd, To break my Yoake, and rescue the Enthrall'd. This, this is he who with a stretch'd out Hand, And matchless might shall free my groaning Land. On Earth's proud Basilisks he'll justly fall, Like Moses Rod, and Prey upon them all. He'll guide my People through the Raging Seas, To Holy-Wars and certain Victories. His spotless Fame, and his Immense Desert, Shall plead Loves cause, and storm this Virgins Heart. She like Aegeria shall his Breast inspire, With Justice, Wisdom, and Celestial Fire. Like Numa he her Dictates shall obey, And by her Oracles the World shall sway.

On his Excellent Friend Mr. Anth. Marvell, 1677

WHile lazy Prelates lean'd their Mitred-Heads On downy Pillows, lull'd with Wealth and Pride,

(Pretending Prophesie, yet naught forsee.) Marvell, this Islands watchful Centinel Stood in the gap, and bravely kept his Post, When Courtiers too in Wine and Riot slept: Twas he th' approach of Rome did first explore, And the grim Monster, Arbitrary Power. The ugliest Giant ever trod the Earth, Who like Goliah marcht before the Host: Truth, Wit and Eloquence, his Constant Friends, With swift dispatch he to the Main-Guard sends, Th' Alarm strait their Courage did Excite, Which check'd the Haughty Foes bold Enterprize. And left them halting between Hope and Fear; He like the Sacred Hebrew Leader stood, The Peoples surest Guide, and Prophet too. Athens may boast of Virtuous Socrates, The Chief among the Greeks for Moral good. Rome of her Orator, whose fam'd Harangues, Foyl'd the Debauch'd Antony's designs. We him, and with deep Sorrows 'wail his loss; But whether Fate or Art unwind'd his thread, Remains in doubt, Fames lasting Register, Shall leave his Name enroll'd as great as theirs, Who in Phillippi for their Country fell.

An Epitaph on the Lord Fairfax.

By the D. of Buckingham.

I.

UNder this Stone does lye One, born for Victory, Fairfax the Valliant, and the only He, Who e'r, for that alone a Conqueror wou'd be, Both Sexes Virtues were in him combin'd: He had the Fierceness of the Manliest Mind, And eke the Meekness too of Woman kind.

He never knew what Envy was, or Hate: His Soul was fill'd with Worth and Honesty; And with another thing quite out, of date, Call'd Modesty.

II.

He ne'er seem'd Impudent, but in the Field; a Place Where Impudence it self dares seldom shew her Face: Had any stranger spy'd him in the Room With some of those whom he had overcome, And had not heard their Talk, but only seen, Their gesture and their meen, They wou'd have sworn he had the Vanquish'd been; For as they brag'd, and dreadful wou'd appear, While they their own ill lucks in War repeated, His Modesty still made him blush, to hear How often he had them Defeated.

III.

Through his whole Life, the Part he bore Was Wonderful, and Great, And yet, it so appear'd in nothing more, Than in his private last retreat: For it's a stranger thing, to find One Man of such a Glorious mind, As can dismiss the Pow'r h' has got, Than Millions of the Pools, and Braves; Those despicable Fools and Knaves, Who such a Pother make, Through dulness and mistake; In seeking after Pow'r, but get it not.

IV.

When all the Nation he had won, And with expence of Blood had bought, Store great enough he thought, Of Fame and of Renown; He then his Arms laid down,

With full as little Pride As if he had been of his Enemies side, Or one of them cou'd do that were undone: He neither Wealth, nor Places sought; For others, not himself he Fought. He was content to know, For he had found it so, That, when he pleas'd, to Conquer, he was able And left the Spoil and plunder to the Rabble: He might have been a King, But that he understood How much it is a meaner thing To be unjustly Great, than honourably Good.

V.

This from the World did admiration draw; And from his Friends, both Love and Awe, Remembring what in Fight he did before: And his Foes lov'd him too, As they were bound to do, Because he was resolv'd to fight no more. So bless'd of all, he Dy'd; but far more bless'd were we, If we were sure to live, till we could see A Man as great in War, in Peace as just as He.

An Essay upon the Earl of Shaftsbury's Death.

WHen ever Tyrants fall, the Air And other Elements prepare To Combat in a Civil-War, Large Oaks up by the Roots are torn, The Savage Train Upon the Forest or the Plain To a Procession through the Sky are born, Sulphureous Fire displays Its baneful Rays.

Then from the hollow Womb Of some rent Cloud does comes The Blazing Meteor or Destructive Stone; Distant below the Grumbling Wind Pent up in Earth a vent would find; But failing, roars Like broken Waves upon the Rocky Shores. The Earth with Motion rowls, Those Buildings which did brave the Sky, Now in an humble posture lye, While here and there A subtile Priest and Sooth sayer The Fatal Dirges howl. Thus when the first twelve Caesars fell, A Jubilee was kept in Hell; But when that Heaven designs the Brave Shall quit a Life to fill a Grave, The Sun turns pale and Courts a Cloud, From Mortals sight his Grief to shroud, Shakes from his Face a shower of Rain, And faintly views the World again. The Tombs of Ancient Heroes weep, Hard Marble Tears let fall: The Genii, who possess the Deep, And seems the Islands Fate to keep, Lament the Funeral. Silence denotes the greatest Woe, So Calms precede a Storm, Deep Waters smoothest are we know, And bear the evenest Form. So 'tis when Patriots cease to be, And hast to Immortality; Their Noble Souls blest Angels bear To the Ethereal Palace there, Mounting upon the ambient Air, While Wounded Atomes press the Ear Of Mortals who far distant are.

Hence sudden Grief does seize the Mind, For good and brave agree; Each being moves unto his Kind By Native Sympathy. So 'twas when mighty Cooper dy'd The Fabius of the Isle, A sullen look the Great o'er-spread, The Common People look as dead, And Nature droopt the while. Living; Religion, Liberty, A mighty Fence he stood, Peers Rights and Subjects Property None stronglier did maintain than he, For which Rome sought his Blood. Deep Politician, English Peer, That quash't the power of Rome, The change of State they brought so near, In bringing Romish Worship here, Was by thy skill o'er-thrown: 'Less Heav'n a Miracle design'd Sure it could never be One so Gyantick in his Mind, That soar'd a pitch 'bove humane kind, So small a Corps should be. Time was, the Court admir'd thy shrine, And did the homage pay: But wisely thou didst Countermine, And having found the black design, Scorn'd the Ignoble way. Having thus strongly stem'd the Tide, And set thy Country free: Thou, Cato like, an Exile prid'st, 'Mongst Enemies belov'd resid'st, Whilst Good men Envy thee. And as the Sacred Hebrew Seer Canaan to view desir'd; So Heav'n did shew this Noble Peer The end of Popish Malice here, Which done, his soul expir'd.

A Satyr in Answer to a Friend. 1682.

'TIs strange that you, to whom I've long been known, Should ask me why I always rail at th' Town▪ As a good Hound when he runs near his Prey, With double Eagerness is hard to Bay. So when a Coxcomb dot•• offend my sight, To ease my Spleen, I straight go home and write: I love to bring Vice ill conceal'd to light. And I have found that they that Satyr write, Alone can season the useful with the sweet. Should I write Songs, and to cool Shades confin'd, Expire with Love, who hate all Women kind! Then in my Closet, like some fighting Sparks, Thinking on Phillis Love upon my works! I grant I might with bolder Muse inspir'd, Some Hero Sing worthy to be admir'd, Our King hath Qualities might entertain, With Noblest Subjects Waller's lofty Pen. But then you'll own no Man is thought his Friend, That doth not love the Pope and York commend. He who his Evil Counsellours dislikes, Say what he will, still like a Traytor speaks. Now I Dissimulation cannot bear, Truth and good Sense, my Lines alike must share. I love to call each Creature by his Name, H— a Knave, S— an Honest Man. With equal scorn I always did abhor, The Effeminate Fops and bustling Men of War. The careful Face of Ministers of State, I always judg'd to be a down-right Cheat. The smiling Courtier, and the Counsellour Grave, I always thought two different Marks of Knave. They that talk loud, and they that draw i'th' Pit, These want of Courage shew, those want of Wit. Thus all the World endeavours to appear, What they'd be thought to be, not what they are.

If any then by most unhappy choice, Seek for content in London's crow'd and noise. Must form his words and manners to the place, If he'll see Ladies must like Villers dress. In a soft tone without one word of Sense, Must talk of Dancing and the Court of France. Must praise alike the ugly and the fair, Buckly's good Nature, Feltons shape and Hair, Exalt my Lady Portsmouth's Birth and Wit, And vow she's only for a Monarch fit. Although the fawning Coxcombs all do know, She's lain with Beaufort and the Count de Leau. This method with some ends of Plays, Basely apply'd, and drest in a French Phrase To Ladies favour, can e'en Hewit raise. He that from Business would Preferment get, Plung'd in the Toyls and Infamies of State, All Sense of Honour from his Breast must drive, And in a course of Villanies resolve to live. Must cringe and flatter the King's Owls and Curs, Nay worse, must be obsequious to his Whores. Must always seem to approve what they commend, What they dislike, by him must be contemn'd. And when at last by a thousand different Crimes, The Monster to his wisht-for Greatness climbs, He must in his continu'd greatness wait, With Guilt and Fears, the Imprison'd D—y's Fate This Road has H—r and S—r gone, And thus must answer for the Ills they've done. Who then would live in so deprav'd a Town, Where pleasure is but Folly, power alone By Infamy obtain'd?— Wise Heraclitus, all his life-time griev'd, Democritus in endless Laughter Liv'd; Yet to the first no fears of Plots were known, Nor Parliaments remov'd to Popish Town. Murthers not favour'd, Virtues not supprest, Laws not derided, Commons not opprest

Nor King, who Claudius like, expels his Son, To make th' Imperious Nero Prince of Rome; Nor yet to move the others merry vane, Did C••ckolds (who each Boy i'th' street could name) Most learned proof in publick daily give, That they themselves do their own shame contrive; While their Lewd Wives scouring from place to place, T' expose their secret Members, hide their Face. But Lo! how would this Sage have burst his spleen, Had he seen Whore and Fool with merry King, And Ministers of State at Supper sit, Mistaking Bawdy Ribaldry for wit; Whilst C—s with tottering Crown and empty purse, (Derided by his Foes, to's Friends a Curse) Abandon'd now by every Man of Wit, Delights himself with any he can get. Pimps, Fools, and Parasites, make up the Rout, For want of Wedding Garments, none's left out. But I shall weary both my self and you, To tell you all the Follies that I know. How a great Lord, in numbers soft, thought fit, (Though void of Sense, to set up for a Wit.) And how with wondrous Spirit, he and's Friend An Epitaph to Cruel Cloris pen'd; His Name (I think) I hardly need to tell, For who should be, but the Lord Ar—l. But should I here waste Paper to declare, The senseless Tricks of every silly Peer, I'd as good tell how many several ways, The trusty Duke his Country still betrays. How full the World is stuft with Knave and Fool, How to be very Honest is counted dull. How to speak plain, and greatness to dispise, Is thought a Madness, but Flattery is Wise, Dissimulation excellent, to cheat a Friend A very Trifle, provided still our end Be but the Snare We call our Interest, Then nothing is so bad, but that is best;

I'll therefore end this vain Satyrick rage, And leave the Bishops to reform the Age.

A Character of the English. In All••sion to Tacit. de Vit. Agric.

THE Free-born English, Generous and Wise, Hate Chains, but do not Government despise: Rights of the Crown, Tribute and Taxes, they When Lawfully Exacted, freely pay. Force they abhor, and Wrong they scorn to bear, More guided by their Judgment than their Fear; Justice with them is never held severe. Here Power by Tyranny was never got; Laws may perhaps Ensnare them, Force cannot: Rash Councils here, have still the same Effect; The surest way to Reign is to protect. Kings are least safe in their unbounded Will, Joyn'd with the Wretch'd Power of doing ill. Forsaken most when they're most Absolute; Laws guard the Man, and only bind the Brute: To force that Guard, and with the worst to joyn, Can never be a prudent King's design; What King would chuse to be a Cataline? Break his own Laws, stake an unquestion'd Throne, Conspire with Vassals to Usurp his own; 'Tis rather some base Favourites Vile pretence, To Tyrannize at the wrong'd King's expence. Let France grow Proud, beneath the Tyrants Lust, While the Rackt People crawl and lick the Dust: The mighty Genious of this Isle disdains Ambitious Slavery and Golden Chains. England to servile Yoke did ne••er bow, What Conquerours ne'er presum'd, who dares do now. Roman nor Norman ever could pretend To have Enslav'd, but made this Isle their Friend.

Cullen with his Flock of Misses, 1679.

AS Cullen drove his Sheep along, By Whitehall there was such a throng Of Earls Coaches at the Gate, The silly Swain was forc'd to wait. Chance threw him on Sir Edward S— The silly Knight that Rhimes to Mutton: Cullen, (said he,) this is the Day, For which poor England once did pray; The day that sets our Monarch free, From butter'd Buns and Slavery. This hour from French Intreagues, ('tis said,) He'll clear his Council and his Bed. Portsmouth he vouchsafes to know, Was the cast Whore of Count de Loe. She must return and sell her place; Buyers (you see) flock in a pace; Silence i th' Court being once Proclam'd, In steps fair Ri—d once so fam'd: She offers much but was refus'd, And of miscarriages accus'd. Nor would his Majesty accept her: At thirty, who at fifteen left her: She blusht and Modestly withdrew: Next M—ton appear'd in View, Who straight was told of M—ue. Of Cates from Hide; of Cloaths from France, Of Arm-pits, Toes of Nauseance; At which the Court set up a Laughter, She never pleads but for her Daughter; A Buxom lass sit for the place, Were not her Father in Disgrace: Besides some strange incestuous Stories Of Harvey and her long C—ies:

With these exceptions she's dismist, And M—nd Fair enters the List: Husband in Hand most decently, And begs at any rate to Buy: She offered Jewels of great price, And dear Sir Samuels next Device. Whether it be a Pump or Table, Glass House or any other Bauble. But she was told she had been try'd, And for good Reason lay'd aside. Next in steps pretty Lady G—y, Offers her Lord should nothing say; 'Gainst the next Treasurer accused, So her pretence was not refus'd: R— in rage bid her be gone, And play her game out with her Son; Or if she lik'd an aged Carcass, For L— get a Noble Marquess. Sh—ry offered for the place, All she had gotten from his Grace;* 1.4 She knew his wants and could comply With all his wants of Leachery. She was dismist with Scorn and told Where a Tall P— was to be Sold. Then in came Dowdy M—ine, That Foreign Antiquated Quean; Who soon was told the King no more Would deal with an Intrigueing Whore: That she already had about her To good an Equipage de Foutre; Her Grace at these Rebukes lookt Blank, And sneakt away to Villain Frank. Fair L— too her claim put in, 'Twas urg'd she was to much a Kin: She modestly reply'd no more A Kin than S—x was before: Besides she had often heard her Mother Call her the Daughter of another:

She did not drivel and had Sence, To which all his had no pretence; Yet for the present she's put off, And told she was not Whore enough. L—s Smil'd at that Exception, And doubted not of good Reception. Put in her claim, Vowing she'd Steal All that her Husband got of Neale: To by the place all she could get, By his long Suit with Mr. Pitt: But from Goliah's sieze of Gath, Down to the Pitch of little Wroth; The Court was told she lay with all, The roaring Roysters of White-hall: For which old R— lest she'd grudge, Gave her the making of a Judge: She bow'd and straight went her way, To Haunt the Court, Park, and Play. In stept stately Carry F—er, Straight the whole Court began to Praise her: As fine as Chains and Point could make her, She vow'd the King or Goal must take her. R— reply'd, he was Retrenching, And Vow'd no more of costly Wenching: That she was Proud and went too Gaudy, Nor could she Swear, Drink or talk Bawdy, Virtues requisite for that place More than Youth, Wit, or a good Face. C— and offered down a Million, But she was soon told of Castillion; At that name she fell a weeping And swore she was undone with Keeping: That C—, G—, had so drain'd her, She could not live on the Remainder: The Court said, there was no Record, Of any to that place Restor'd, Nor might the King at these Years venture, Who in his Prime could not content her.

Young Lady J—s stept up and urg'd, She'd give the Deed her Father Forg'd: But she was told her Family Was tainted with Presbytery: She said her Mother with clean Heart And Hand, had lately done her part, In bringing M—ne to Bed, Nor was't her fault the Babe was Dead: For her R—y own'd his Passion, But said, he staid for Declaration. Ingaged, no matter of great weight, To pass till after some debate In his great Council so they Adjourn'd, And Cullen with his Flocks return'd. Swearing there was at every Fair Blither Girls than any there.

Sir Tho. Amstrong's. Ghost.

THE groans, dear Armstrong, which the world employ, Would please thy Ghost, to see transform'd to joy: Had'st thou abroad found safety in thy flight, Thy immortal honour had not shin'd so bright; Thou still hadst been a worthy Patriot thought: But now thy glory's to perfection brought, In Exile and in Death to England true, What more could Brutus or just Cato do? What can the Villains spread to blast thy fame, Unless thy former Loyalty they blame? To be concern'd the Stuarts to restore, Is a reproach that hardly can be bore. The utmost Plague a Nation could befall, Like the forbidden Fruit, it curst us all. Yet thou in season a brave Convert grew, Abhorr'd their counsels and their int'rest too: And death at last before their smiles preferr'd; So holy Cranmer burnt the hand that err'd.

Let 'em now place thy Quarters in the Air, 'Twill please thy soul to think they flourish there: Thou scorn'st to hope for freedome in the Grave; And slumbring lie, whilst England was a Slave: Thy Carcass stands a Monument to all, Till the whole Progeny a Victim fall; And like their Father, tread that Stage, which some, In a blasphemous strain, call Martyrdom; For they in guilt transcendently excell, All that e'er Poets or Historians tell. To act fresh Murders, and by Flames devour, Is but the recreation of their power: For they alone are for destruction chose, Who either Rome or Tyranny oppose: Tarquin and Nero were but Types of these, In whom all crimes are in their last degrees▪ Swelling like Nile in a prodigious Flood Of execrable Villanies and Blood: Yet how the age their Lives and Peace betray, And those whom th' ought to sacrifice th' obey. They lick up Poyson and to Tortures run, And madly hugg all Egypt's Plagues in one. Degenerous Slaves! such Monsters to adore, Was ever Sodom so caress'd before? Quick vengeance put a period to their breath, By their destruction ease the groaning earth: For Mortals attempt the righteous work in vain; Heaven it self does th' immediate glory claim, For they're reserv'd by Thunder to be slain.

The Royal Game: or, A Princely new Play found in a Dream, &c. 1672.

PROLOGVE.

WHoever looks about and minds things well, And on Affairs abroad doth take a view,

May think the Story which I here do tell Was never dream't it falleth out so true. I do confess it's something hard to find A crooked Path directly in the dark; And while a Man's asleep, you know he's blind, And can't easily hit on a Mark. Well, be it so, yet this you know is right, What's seen i'th' Day is dreamt again at Night. A Dream I hope will no Wise man offend, Nor will it Treason be (I trow) to lend A Copy of my Dream unto my Friend. Cabal, beware your Shins, For thus my Tale begins.

The Dream of the Cabal: A Prophetick Satyr. Anno 1672.

AS 'tother Night in Bed I thinking lay, How I my Rent shou'd to my Landlord Pay, Since Corn, nor Wool, nor Beast would Money make; Tumbling perplex'd, these Thoughts kept me awake. What will become of this mad World, quoth I? What••s its Disease? what is its Remedy? Where will it issue? whereto does it tend? Some ease to Misery 'tis to know its end. Till Servants Dreaming, as they us'd to doe Snor'd me asleep, I fell a Dreaming too. Methought there met the Grand Cabal of Seven, (Odd numbers some Men say do best please Heaven) When sate they were, and Doors were all fast shut, I secret was behind the Hangings put: Both hear and see I could; but he that there Had placed me, bad me have as great a care Of stirring, as my life: and ere that out From thence I came, resolv'd shou'd be my Doubt. What would become of this mad World, unless Present Designs were cross'd with ill success?

An awful Silence there was held some space, Till trembling, thus began one call'd his Grace. Great Sir, your Goverment for first twelve years Has spoil'd the Monarchy,* 1.5 and made our Fears So potent on us, that we must change quite Th' old Foundations, and make new, wrong or right. For too great mixture of Democracy Within this Goverment allay'd must be; And no allay like nulling Parliaments O'th' Peoples Pride and Arrogance, the vents Factious and Saucy, disputing Royal Pleasure, Who your Commands by their own humours measure. For King in Barnacles (and to th' Rack-Staves ty'd) You must remain, if these you will abide. So spake the Long blue-Ribbon: then a Second, Though not so tall, yet quite as wise is reckon'd,* 1.6 Did thus begin: Great Sir, you are now on A tender Point much to be thought upon, And thought on only; for by Ancient Law, 'Twas Death to mention what my Lord fore-saw; His trembling shew'd it, wherefore I am so bold To advise its standing, lest it shou'd be told We did attempt to change it; for so much Our Ancestors secur••d it, that to touch, Like Sacred Mount, 'tis Death; and such a Trick, I no-ways like my Tongue shou'd break my Neck. Thus said, he sate. Then Lord of Northern Tone, In Gall and Guile a second unto none,* 1.7 Inraged rose, and Col'rick, thus began. Dread Majesty, Male beam of Fame, a Son Of th' hundred and tenth Monarch of the Nore; De'l split the Weam of th' Loon that spoke afore, Shame faw the Crag of that ill-manner'd Lord, That nent his King durst speak so faw a word; And aw my Saul, right weell the first man meant, De'l hoop his Luggs that loves a Parliament. Twa Houses aw my Saul are too too mickle, They'll gar the Leard shall ne'er have a more prickle;

No money get to gee the bonny Lass, But full as good be Born without a— Ten thousand Plagues light on his Cragg (that gang) To make you be but third part of a King. De'l take my Saul, I'll ne'er the matter mince, I'd rather subject be then sike a Prince. To Hang, and Burn, and Slay, and Draw, and Kill, And measure aw things by my awn gude will, Is gay Dominion; a Checkmate I hate, Of Men, or Laws, it looks so like a State. This eager well-meant Zeal some Laughter stirr'd; Till Nose half Plush, half Flesh, the Inkhorn Lord Crav'd Audience thus. Grave Majesty Divine,* 1.8 (Pardon that Cambridge Title, I make mine) We now are enter'd on the great'st Debate That can concern your Throne and Royal State. His grace hath so spoke all, that we who next Speak after, can but comment on his Text: Only 'tis wonder at this sacred Board, Shou'd sit 'mongst us a Magna Charta Lord, A Peer of old Rebellious Barons breed, Worst, and great'st Enemies to Royal Seed. But to proceed; well was it urg'd by s Grace, Such Liberty was given for twelve years space, That are by past, there's no necessity Of new Foundations, if safe you'll be. What Travel, Charge and Art before was set This Parliament, we had, you can't forget; Now force, cajole, and court, and bribe for fear They wrong should run, e'er since they have been here. What diligence, what study, day and night Was on us, and what care to keep them right? Wherefore (if good) you can't make Parliament, On whom such costs, such art and pains were spent, And Moneys, all we had for them to do; Since we miss that, 'tis best dismiss them too. ••Tis true, this House the best is you can call, But in my Judgment, best is none at all:

Well mov'd, the whole Cabal cry'd, Parliaments Are cloggs to Princes, and their brave intents. One did object, 'twas against Majesty To obey the Peoples pleasure. Another he Their Inconvenience argues, and that neither Close their Designs were, nor yet speedy either. Whilst thus confused chatter'd the Cabal, And many mov'd, none heard, but speak did all; A little bobtail'd Lord, Urchin of State,* 1.9 A Praise-God-bare-bone Peer whom all men hate, Amphibious Animal, half Fool, half Knave; Begg'd silence, and this purblind Counsel gave: Blest and best Monarch that e'er Scepter bore, Renown'd for Vertue, but for Honour more; That Lord spake last, has well and wisely shown, That Parliaments, nor new, nor old, nor none Can well be trusted longer; for the State And Glory of the Crown, hate all Checkmate. That Monarchy may from its Childhood grow To man's Estate; France has taught us how Monarchy's Divine: Divinity it shows, That he goes backward that not forward goes. Therefore go on, let other Kingdoms see Your Will's your Law, that's absolute Monarchy; A mixt hodge-podge will now no longer do, Caesar or nothing you are brought unto: Strike then, Great Sir, 'fore these Debates take wind, Remember that Occasion's bald behind. Our Game is sure in this, if wisely play'd, And sacred Votes to th' Vulgar not betray'd; But if the Rumour shou'd once get on wing, That we consult to make you abs'lute King, The Plebeians head, the Gentry forsooth, They strait would snort and have an aking Tooth; Lest they, I say, should your great Secrets scent, And you oppose in nulling Parliament. I think it safer, and a greater skill To obviate, than to o'ercome an ill:

For those that head the Head are full as rude, When th' humor takes, as th' following Multitude; Therefore be quick in your Resolves, and when Resolv'd you have, execute quicker then. Remember your great Father lost the Game by slow Proceedings, mayn't you do the same? An unexpected, unregarded blow Wounds more than ten made by an open Foe. Delays do Dangers breed; the Sword is yours, By Law declar'd, what need of other Powers? We may unpolitick be judg'd, or worse, If we can't make the Sword command the Purse; No Art, or Courtship can the rule so shape Without a Force, it must be done by Rape: And when 'tis done, to say you cannot help, Will satisfie enough the gentle Whelp. Phanaticks they'll to Providence impute Their Thraldom, and immediately grow mute; For they, poor pious Fools, think the Decree Of Heaven falls on them, though from Hell it be; And when their reason is abas'd to it, They forthwith think t' Religion to submit, And vainly glorying in a passive Shame, They'll put of Man to wear the Christian Name: Wherefore to lull 'em, do their Hopes fulfill With Liberty, they're halter'd at your Will; Give them but Conventicle-room, and they Will let you steal the Englishman away, And heedless be, till you your Nets have spread, And pull'd down Conventicles on their Head. Militia therefore and Parliaments cashier, A formidable standing Army rear, They'll mount you up, and up you soon will be, They'll fear who ne'er did love your Monarchy: And if they fear, no matter for their hate; To rule by Law becomes a sneaking State. Lay by all Fear, care not what People say, Regard to them will your Designs betray:

When bite they cannot, what hurt can barking do? And, Sir, in time we'll spoil their barking too, Make Coffee-Clubs talk of more humble things Than State Affairs, and Interest of Kings. Thus spake the Rigling Peer, when one more grave, That had much less of Fool, but more of Knave, Began: Great Sir, it gives no small content,* 1.10 To hear such Zeal (for you) 'gainst Parliament; Wherefore, though I an Enemy no less To Parliaments than you your selves profess; Yet I must also enter my protest 'Gainst these rude rumbling Counsels indigest. And, Great Sir, tell you, 'tis an harder thing Than they suggest, to make you abs'lute King; Old Buildings to pull down, believe it true, More danger in it hath, than building New. And what shall prop your Superstructure till Another you have built that suits your Will? An Army shall, say they (content) but stay, From whence shall this new Army have its pay? For easie gentle Government a while Must first appear this Kingdom to beguile The Peoples minds, and make them cry up you, For raising Old, and making better New. For Taxes with new Government all will blame, And put the Kingdom soon into a flame: For Tyranny has no such lovely Look To catch Men with, unless you hide the Hook; And no Bait hides it more than present Ease; Ease but their Taxes, then do what you please. Wherefore, all wild Debates laid by, from whence Shall Money rise to bear this vast expence? For our first thoughts thus well resolved, we in other things much sooner shall agree: Join then with Mother-Church, whose bosom stands Ope to receive us, stretching forth her Hands: Close but this breach, and she will let you see Her Purse as open as her Arms shall be.

For sacred Sir, (by guess I do not speak) Of poor she'll make you rich, and strong of weak. At home, abroad, no Money, no nor Men, She'll let you lack, turn but to her agen. The Scot cou'd here no longer hold, but cry'd,* 1.11 Del' take the Pape, and all that's on his side; The Whore of Rome, that mickle Man of Sin, Plague take the Mother, Bearns, and aw the Kin. What racks my Saul! must we the holy Rood Place in God's Kirk again? troth 'tis not gude, I defy the Loon, the De'l and all his Works, The Pape shall lig no mare in God's gude Kirk, The Scot with Laughter check'd, they all agreed, The Lord spoke last shou'd in his Speech proceed,* 1.12 Which thus he did; Great Sir, You know 'tis Season Salts all the motions that we make with Reason; And now a season is afforded us, The best e'er came, and most propitious. Besides the Summ the Cath'licks will advance, You know the Offers we are made from France; And to have Money and no Parliament, Must fully answer your design'd intent. And thus without tumultuous noise, or huff Of Parliaments, you may have Money enough; Which, if neglected now, there's none knows when Like Opportunities may be had again, For all to extirpate, now combined be, Both civil and religious Liberty. Thus Money you'll have to exalt the Crown, Without stooping Majesty to Country Clown. The triple League, I know, will be objected; As if that ought by us to be respected; But who to Hereticks, or Rebel pay'th The truth ingag'd to by solemn Faith, Debauched Vertue, by those very things, The Church profaneth and debaseth Kings, As you your self have admirably shown By burning solemn Cov'nant, though your own;

Faith, Justice, Truth, Plebeian Vertues be, Look well in them, and not in Majesty. For publick Faith is but a publick Thief, The greatest Cheat in Nature's vain Belief. The second Lord though check'd, yet did not fear, Impatient grew and could no longer bear, But rose in heat, and that a little rude The Lord's voice interrupts, and for Audience su'd: Great Majesty, authentick Authors say, When hands was lifted up, Craesus to slay, The Fathers's danger on th' Dumb Son did make Such deep Impressions that he forthwith spake. Pardon, Great Sir, If I, in imitation, Seeing the danger to your Land and Nation, Do my resolv'd-on Silence also break, Although I see the matter I shall speak, Under such disadvantages will fall, That it, as well as I, exploded shall; But vainly do they boast they Loyal are, That can't for Princes good, Reflections bear; Nor will I call Compurgators to prove, What honour to the Crown Iv'e born, with Love, My Acts have spoken, and sufficient are, Above what e'er Detractors did or dare. Wherefore, Great Sir, 'tis Ignorance, or Hate, Dictates these Counsels, you to precipitate. For say't again I will, not eat my word, No Council's Power, no, nor yet the Sword Can old Foundations alter or make new: Let time interpret who hath spoken true. Those Country Gentry with their Beef and Bacon, Will shew how much you Courtiers are mistaken; For Parliaments are not of that cheap rate, That they will down without a broken Pate; And then I doubt you'll find those worthy Lords More Brave and Champions with their Tongue tha•• Sword Wherefore, Dread Sir, encline not Royal Ear To their Advice, but safer Counsels hear;

Stay till these Lords have got a Crown to lose, And then consult with them which way they'll chuse, Will you all hazard for their humours sake, Who nothing have to loose, nothing at stake; And at one Game your Royal Crown expose, To gratifie the foolish Lusts of those, Who hardly have subsistence how to live, But what your Crown and Grace to them does give? And one of those (Bagg-pudding) Gentleman, (Except their Places) would buy nine or ten: Then, why they should thus slight the Gentleman, I see no reason, nor think how they can; For had not Gentleman done more than Lord, I'll boldly say't, you ne'er had been restor'd. But why, of Armies now, Great Sir, must we (So fond just now) all on the sudden be? What faithfull Guardians have they been to Pow'rs That have employ'd 'em, that you'd make 'em yours? Enough our Age, we need not seek the glory Of Armies Faith, in old, or doubtfull Story: Your Father 'gainst the Scots an Army rear••d, But soon, that Army more than Scot he fear'd: He was in hast to raise them, as we are, But to disband them was far more his care; How Scottish Army after did betray His Trust and Person both, I need not say. Rump-Parliament an Army rear'd, and they The Parliament that rais'd them, did betray; The Lord Protector they set up one hour, The next pull'd down the Protectorian pow'r. Your Father's Block and Judges the same Troops Did guard, some Tongues at Death of both made hoops: And will you suffer Armies to beguile, And give your Crown and them to Cross and Pile? What if as Monk shou••d both swear, lie and feign, Till he does both your Trust and Army gain, And you believe his Oath and Faith is true, But serves himself instead of serving you.

Pardon, Great Sir, if Zeal transports my Tongue, T•• express what your Greatness don't become. Expose I can't your Crown and sacred Throat To the false Faith of a common Red-coat. Your Law, your All does sence secure from Fears; That kept, what trouble needs of Bandileers? Consider, Sir, 'tis Law that makes you King, The Sword another to the Crown may bring; For Force knows no distinction, longest Sword Makes Peasant Prince, Lackquey above his Lord. If that be all that we must have for Laws, Your Will inferiour may be to Jack Straw's. If greater Force him follow; there's no Right Where Law is failing, and for Will men fight. Best Man is he alone whose Steel's most strong; Where no Law is, there's neither right nor wrong. That Fence broke down, and all in common laid, Subjects may Prince, and Prince may them invade. See, greatest Sir, how these your Throne lay down, Instead of making great your Royal Crown, How they divest you of your Majesty: For Law destroy'd, you are no more than we. And very vain would be the Plea of Crown, When Statute-Laws, and Parliaments are down. This Peer proceeded on to shew how vain An Holy League would be with Rome again, And what dishonour 'twould be to our Crowns, If unto France give cautionary Towns. He's interrupted, and bid speak no more, By's enraged Majesty, who deeply swore, His Tongue had so run o'er, that he'd take Such Vengeance on him, and example make To after Ages, all which heard shou'd fear, To speak what wou'd displease the Royal Ear; And bid the Lord that spoke before go on, And silence all should keep till he had done; Who thus his Speech re'ssum'd. If Lord spake last, To interrupt me had not made such hast,

I soon had done; for I was come, Great Sir, T' advise your sending Dutch Embassador; But much it does concern you whom to trust, With this Embassy: for none true, nor just, Wise, Stout, or Honourable, nor a Friend, Should you in any wise resolve to send, Lest any unseen, or unlucky Chance Shou'd in this War befall to us or France. We may that loathed wretch give to the hate Of th' Peoples fury, them to satiate. And when all's done that can be done by man, Much must be left to chance, do what we can. And if you'll make all Christendom your Friend, And put to Dutch-land-League an utter end; Then surely you may have of Men and Treasure Enough of both to execute your Pleasure. This Speech being ended, five or six agree, France shall be lov'd, and Holland hated be. All gone, I wak'd, and wondred what should mean All I had heard, methought 'twas more than Dream. And if Cabal thus serve us Englishmen, 'Tis ten to one but I shall dream again.

On the Three Dukes killing the Beadle on Sunday Morning, Febr. the 26th, 1670/1.

NEar Holborne lies a Park of great Renown, The place, I do suppose, is not unknown. For brevity's sake the Name I shall not tell, Because most genteel Readers know it well, Since middle Park near Chairing-Cross was made, They say there is a great decay of Trade, 'Twas there Gleek of Dukes by Fury brought With bloody mind a sickly Damsel sought, And against Law her Castle did invade, To take from her her instrument of Trade,

'Tis strange (but sure they thought not on't before) Three Bastard Dukes should come t'undoe one Whore. Murder was cry'd (truth is, her case was sad) When she was like to lose ev'n all she had: In came the Watch, disturb'd with Sleep and Ale, By shrill Noises, but they could not prevail, T' appease their Graces; straight rose Mortal Jarrs Betwixt the Night black Guard and Silver Stars; Then fell the Beadle by a Ducal Hand, For daring to pronounce the sawcy Stand. The way in Blood certain Renown to win, Is first with Bloody Noses to begin. The high-born Youths their hasty Errand tell, Dam ye you Rogue, we'll send your Soul to Hell. They need not send a Messenger before, They're too well known there to stay long at Door. See what mishaps dare ev'n invade Whitehall; This silly Fellow's death puts off the Ball, And disappoints the Queen, poor little Chuck, I warrant 'twould have danc'd it like a Duck. The Fidlers, Voices, Entries, all the sport, And the gay Show put off, where the brisk Court Anticipates in rich Subsidy-Coats All that is got by Mercenary Votes: Yet shall Whitehall the Innocent, the Good, See these men dance all daub'd with Lace and Blood. Near t'other Park there stands an aged Tree, As sit as if 'twere made o'th nonce for Three; Where that no Ceremony may be lost, Each Duke for State may have a several Post. What Storms may rise out of so black a Cause, If such Turd-Flies shall break through Cobweb Laws

The History of Insipids; A Lampoon, 1676.

By the Lord Roch—r.

1.

CHast, pious, prudent, C— the Second, The Miracle of thy Restoration, May like to that of Quails be reckon'd Rain'd on the Israelitish Nation; The wish'd for Blessing from Heav'n sent, Became their Curse and Punishment.

2.

The Vertues in thee, C— inherent, Although thy Countenance be an odd-piece, Prove thee as true a God's Vicegerent As e'er was Harry with the Codpiece: For Chastity and pious Deeds, His Grandsire Harry, C— exceeds.

3.

Our Romish Bondage-breaker Harry, Espoused half a dozen Wives; C— onely one resolv'd to marry, And other Mens he never— Yet hath he Sons and Daughters more, Than e'er had Harry by threescore.

4.

Never was such a Faith's Defender, He like a politick Prince, and pious, Gives liberty to conscience tender, And doth to no Religion tye us. Jews, Turks, Christians, Papists, he'll please us, With Moses, Mahomet, or J—

5.

In all affairs of Church or State, He very zealous is, and able, Devout at Prayers, and sits up late At the Cabal and Council-Table;

His very Dog at Council-Board, Sits grave and wise as any Lord.

6.

Let C— his Policy no man flout, The wisest Kings have all some Folly; Nor let his Piety any doubt; C— like a Sovereign wise and holy, Make young Men Judges of the Bench, and Bishops those that love a Wench,

7.

His Father's Foes he doth reward, Preserving those that cut off's Head: Old Cavaliers the Crown's best Guard, He let's them starve for want of Bread. Never was any King endow'd With so much Grace and Gratitude.

8.

Blood that wears Treason in his Face, Villain compleat, in Parson's Gown, How much is he at Court in Grace For stealing Ormond and the Crown? Since Loyalty does no man good, Let's steal the King and out-do Blood.

9.

A Parliament of Knaves and Sots, Members by name, you must not mention, He keeps in Pay, and buys their Votes; Here with a Place there with a Pension. When to give Money he can't cologue 'um, He doth with Scorn prorogue, prorogue 'um.

10.

But they long since, by too much giving, Undid, betray'd, and sold the Nation; Making their Memberships a Living, Better than e'er was Sequestration. God give thee C— a Resolution To damn the Knaves by Dissolution,

11.

Fame is not grounded on Success, Though Victories were Caesar's Glory; Lost Battels make not Pompey less, But left them stiled great in Story, Malicious Fate doth oft devise To beat the Brave and fool the Wise.

12.

Charles in the first Dutch War stood fair To have been Sovereign of the Deep; When Opdam blew up in the Air, Had not his Highness gone to sleep. Our Fleet slack'd Sails, fearing his waking, The Dutch else had been in sad taking.

13.

The Bergen Business was well laid, Though we paid dear for that Design: Had we not three days parling staid, The Dutch Fleet there, Charles had been thine. Though the false Dane agreed to sell 'um, He cheated us, and saved Skellum.

14.

Had not Charles sweetly choos'd the States, By Bergen baffle grown more wise, And made them Shit as small as Rats, By their rich Smyrna Fleets surprize. Had haughty Holms but call'd in Spragg, Hans had been put into a Bag.

15.

Mists, Storms, short Victuals, adverse Winds, And once the Navies wise Division, Defeated Charles his best designs, Till he became his Foes Derision. But he had swing••d the Dutch at Chattam, Had he had ships but to come at 'um.

16.

Our Blackheath Host without dispute, Rais'd, (put on Board, why, no man knows)

Must Charles have rendered absolute, Over his Subjects or his Foes. Has not the French King made us Fools, By taking Maestricht with our Tools?

17.

But Charles what could thy Policy be, To run so many sad Disasters; To join thy Fleet with false D' Etrees, To make the French of Holland Masters? Was't Carewell, Brother James, or Teague, That made thee break the Triple League?

18.

Could Robin Viner have foreseen The glorious Triumphs of his Master, The Wool-Church Statue Gold had been, Which now is made of Alabaster: But wise Men think, had it been Wood, 'Twere for a Bankrupt K— too good.

19.

Those that the Fabrick well consider, Do of it diversly discourse; Some pass their Censure of the Rider, Others their Judgment of the Horse: Most say the Steed's a goodly thing, But all agree 'tis a Lewd K—

20.

By the Lord Mayor and his grave Coxcombs, Free-man of London Charles is made; Then to Whitehall a Rich Gold Box comes, Which was bestow'd on the French Jade. But wonder not it should be so, Sirs, When Monarchs rank themselves with Grocers.

21.

Cringe, scrape no more, ye City Fops, Leave off your Feasting and fine Speeches, Beat up your Drums, shut up your Shops, The Courtiers then will kiss your Breeches,

Arm'd, tell the Popish Duke that rules, You're Free-born Subjects, not French Mules.

22.

New Upstarts, Pimps, Bastards, Whores, That Locust-like devour the Land, by shutting up th' Exchequer Doors, When thither our Money was trapann'd, Have rendred C— his Restauration, But a small Blessing to the Nation.

23.

Then C— beware of thy Brother York Who to thy Government gives Law; If once we fall to the old Sport, You must again both to Breda: Where 'spight of all that would restore you, Grown wise by wrongs, we shall abhor you,

24.

If of all Christian Blood the guilt Cry loud for Vengeance unto Heaven; That Sea by Treacherous Lewis spilt, Can never be by God forgiven. Worse Scourge unto his Subjects, Lord, Than Pestilence, Famine, Fire or Sword.

25.

That false repacious Wolf of France, The Scourge of Europe, and its Curse, Who at his Subjects cry, does dance, And studys how to make them worse. To say such Kings, Lord, rule by thee, Were most prodigious Blasphemy.

26.

Such know no Law but their own Lust, Their Subjects Substance, and their Blood, They count it Tribute due and just, Still spent and spilt for Subjects good. If such Kings are by God appointed, The Devil may be L— Anointed.

27.

Such Kings cust be the Power and Name, Let all the World henceforth abhor 'em; Monsters which Knaves sacred proclaim, And then like Slaves fall down before 'em. What can there be in Kings Divine? The most are Wolves, Goats, Sheep, or Swine.

28.

Then farewell sacred Majesty, Let's pull all Brutish Tyrants down; When Men are born, and still live free, Here ev'ry Head doth wear a Crown, Mankind like miserable Frogs, Prove wretched, Kings by Storks and Logs.

ROCHESTER's Farewell, 1680.

TIr'd with the novsom Follies of the Age, And weary of my part, I quit the Stage; For who in Lif's dull Farce a part would bear, Where Rogues, Whores, Bawds, all the head Actors are? Long I with charitable Malice strove, Lashing the Court, those Vermin to remove, But thriving Vice under the Rod still grew, As aged Letchers whipp'd, their Lust renew; Yet though my Life hath unsuccessfull been, (For who can this Augaean Stable clean) My gen'rous end I will pursue in Death, And at Mankind rail with my parting breath. First then, the Tangier Bullies must appear, With open Bravery, and dissembled Fear: Mulg—e their Head; but Gen'ral have a care, Though skill'd in all those Arts that cheat the fair, The undiscerning and Impartial Moor, Spares not the Lover on the Ladies score. Think how many perish by one fatal shot, The Conquests all thy Ogling ever got.

Think then (as I presume you do) how all The English Beauties will lament your fall; Scarce will there greater Grief pierce ev'ry heart, Should Sir George Hewit of Sir Carr depart. Had it not better been, than thus to roam. To stay and tye the Cravat-string at home? To strut, look big, shake Pantaloon, and swear With Hewit, Dame, there's no Action there. Had'st thou no Friend that would to Rowly write, To hinder this thy eagerness to fight? That without danger thou a Brave might'st be, As sure to be deny'd as Shrews—y. This sure the Ladies had not fail'd to do, But who such Courage could suspect in you? For say, what reason could with you prevail, To change Embroider'd Goat for Coat of Mail? Let Plim—h, or let Mord—t go, whom Fate Has made not valiant but desperate. For who would not be weary of his Life, Who's lost his Money, or has got a Wife? To the more tolerable Alcaid of Alcazzer, One flies from's. Creditors, the other from Frazier; 'Twere cruelty to make too sharp Remarks, On all the little, forward, fighting Sparks; Only poor Charles I can't but pity thee, When all the pert young Voluntiers I see. Those Chits in War, who as much Mirth create, As the Pair Royal of the Chits of State: Their Names shall equal or exceed in Story, Chit Sund—d, Chit Godo—n, and Chit L—y. When thou let'st Plim—h. go twas such a jest, As when the Brother made the same request; Had Rich—d but got leave as well as he, The Jest had been compleat and worthy thee. Well since be must, he••ll to Tangier advance It is resolv'd, but first let's have a Dance. First, at her Highness Ball he must appear, And in a parting Country Dance, learn there With Drum and Fife to make a Jigg of War;

What is of Soldier seen in all the heap, Besides the flutt'ring Feather in the Cap, The Scarf, and Yard or two of Scarlet Cloath, From Gen'ral Mulg—e down to little Wroth? But now they're all embark'd and curse their Fate, Curse Charles that gave them leave, and much more Kate, Who then Tangier to England and the King No greater Plague, besides her self could bring; And wish the Moors, since now their hand was in, As they have got her Portion, had the Queen. There leave we them, and back to England come, Where-by the wiser Sparks that stay at home, In safe Ideas by their fancy form'd, Tangier (like Mastrich) is at Windsor storm'd. But now we talk'd of Mastrich, where is he, Fam'd for that brutal piece of Bravery? He with his thick impenetrable Skull, The solid, hard'ned Armour of a Fool: Well might himself to all Wars ill expose, Who (come what will yet) had no Brains to lose: Yet this is he, the dull unthinking he, Who must (forsooth) our future Monarch be, This Fool by Fools (Armstrong and Ven—n) led, Dreams that a Crown will drop upon his head, By great example, he this Path doth tread, Following such sensless Asses up and down, (For Saul sought Asses when he found a Crown) But Rosse is risen as Samuel at his call, To tell that God hath left th' ambitious Saul. Never (says Heaven) shall the blushing Sun, See Proger's Bastard fill the Regal Throne. So Heaven says, but Bran—n says he shall, But who e'er he protects is sure to fall. Who can more certain of Destruction be, That he that trusts to such a Rogue as he? What good can come from him who York forsook, T' espouse the Interest of this booby Duke?

But who the best of Masters could desert, Is the most fit to take a Traytor's part. Ungrateful! This thy Master-piece of sin, Exceeds ev'n that with which thou didst begin. Thou great Proficient in the Trade of Hell, Whose latter Crimes still do thy first excell: The very top of Villainy we seize, By steps in order, and by just degrees. None e'er was perfect Villain in one day, The murder'd Boy to Treason led the way; But when degrees of Villainy we name, How can we chuse but think on Buck—m? He who through all of them hath boldly ran, Left ne'er a Law unbroke of God or Man. His treasured Sins of Supererogation, Swell to a summ enough to damn a Nation: But he must here, per force, be let alone, His acts require a Volume of their own: Where rank'd in dreadful order shall appear, All his Exploits from Shrews—y to Le Meer. But stay, methinks I on a sudden find, My Pen to treat of th' other Sex inclin'd: But where in all this choice shall I begin? Where, but with the renowned Mazarine? For all the Bawds the Courts rank Soil doth bear, And Bawds and Statesmen grow in plenty there. To thee submit and yield, should we be just, To thy experienc'd and well-travell'd Lust: Thy well-known Merits claim that thou should'st be, First in the Glorious Roll of Infamy. To thee they all give place, and Homage pay, Do all thy Letcherous Decrees obey; (Thou Queen of Lust, thy Bawdy Subjects they.) While Sussex, Brughill, Betty Felton come, Thy Whores of Honour, to attend thy Throne; For what proud Strumpet e'er could merit more, Than be Anointed the Imperial Whore?

For tell me in all Europe, where's the part, That is not conscious of thy Lewd desert. The great Pedalion Youth, whose Conquests run O'er all the World, and travell'd with the Sun, Made not his Valour in more Nations known, Than thou thy Lust, thy matchless Lust have shown. All Climes, all Countries do with Tribute come, (Thou World of Lewdness) to thy boundless Womb: Thou Sea of Lust, that never ebb dost know, Whither the Rivers of all Nations flow. Lewd Messaline was but a Tipe of thee, Thou highest, last degree of Letchery: For in all Ages, except her and you, Who ever sinn'd so high and stoop'd so low? She to the Imperial Bed each Night did use, To bring the stink of the exhausted Stews; Tir'd (but not satify'd) with Man did come, Drunk with abundant Lust, and reeling home. But thou to our admiring Age dost show More sin than innocent Rome did ever know; And having all her Lewdnesses out-ran, Takes up with Devil, having tir'd Man: For what is else that loathsome ugly Black, Which you and Sussex in your Arms do take? Nor does Old Age, which now rides on so fast, Makes thee come short of all thy Lewdness past: Though on thy Head, Grey Hairs, like Etna's Snow Are shed, thour't Fire and Brimstone all below. Thou monstrous thing, in whom at once does rage The Flames of Youth, and Impotence of Age. My Lady Dutchess takes the second place, Proud with thy favour and peculiar grace; Ev'n she with all her Piety and Zeal, The hotter flames that burn in thee does feel. Thou dost into her kindling Breast inspire, The lustful Seeds of thy contagious fire; So well the Spirit and the Flesh agree, Lust and Devotion, Zeal and Letchery.

Of what Important use Religion's made, By those who wisely drive the cheating Trade; As Wines prohibited securely pass, Changing the Name of their own native Place. So Vice grows safe, dress'd in Devotion's Name, Unquestion'd by the Custom-house of Fame: Where ever too much Sanctity you see, Be more suspicious of hid Villany? Whose' ever's Zeal is than his Neighbours more, If Man suspect him Rogue, if Woman Whore: And such a thing art thou religious Pride, So very Lew'd, and yet so sanctify'd. Let now the Dutchess take no further care, Of numorous Stallions let her not despair, Since her indulgent Stars so kind have been, To send her Bromley H— and Mazarine; This last doth banish'd Monmouth's place supply, And Wit supplanted is by Letchery. For Monmouth's he had Parts, and Wit, and Sense, To all which Mazrine had no pretence; A proof that since such things as she prevail, Her Highness Head is lighter than her Tail. But stay, I Portsmouth almost had forgot, The common Theam of ev'ry rhiming Sot; She'll after railing make us laugh a while, For at her Folly who can chuse but smile? While them who always slight her, great she makes, And so much pains to be despis'd she takes. Goes sauntring with her Highness up to Town, To an old Play, and in the dark come down; Still makes her Court to her as to the Queen, But still is Justled out by Mazarine. So much more Worthy a kind Bawd is thought, Than even she who her from Exile brought. O Portsmouth, foolish Portsmouth! Not to take The offer the great Sun—d did make. When cringing at thy Feet; e'en Monmouth bow'd, The Golden Calf, that's worshipp'd by the Crowd.

But thou for Y—k, who now despises thee, To leave both him and pow'rful Shaftsbury. If this is all the Policy you know, This all the skill in States you boast of so, How wisely did thy Countreys Laws ordain, Never to let the foolish Women reign, But what must we expect, who daily see Unthinking Charles rul'd by Unthinking thee?

Marvil's Ghost.

By Mr. Jo. Ayloffe.

FRom the dark Stygian Lake I come, To acquaint poor England with her doom; Which by the infernal Sisters late, I copied from the Book of Fate: And though the sense may seem disguis'd, 'Tis in these following Lines compriz'd.

When England shall forsake the Broom, And take the Thistle in the room; A wanton Fidler shall be led By Fate to shame his Master's Bed; From whence a spurious Race shall grow, Design'd for Britain's overthrow. These, whilst they do possess her Throne, Shall serve all interests but their own; And shall be both in Peace and War, Scourges unto themselves and her. A brace of Excil'd Youths, whose Fates Shall pull down Vengeance on those States That harbour'd them abroad, must come Well skill'd in foreign Vices home, And shall their dark designs to hide, With two contesting Churches side; Till with cross persecuting Zeal, They have destroy'd the Common-weal:

Then Incest, Murder, Perjury, Shall fashionable Vertues be; And Villainies infest this Isle, Shall make the Son of Claudius smile. No Oaths or Sacraments hold good, But what are seal'd with Lust and Blood: Lust, which cold Exile could not tame, Nor Plague nor Fire at home reclaim: For this she shall in Ashes mourn, From Europe's envy turn her scorn, And curse the day that e'er gave Birth To Caecil, or to Monk on Earth. But as I onwards strove to look, The angry Sister shut the Book, And said, No more, that fickle State Shall know no further of her Fate; Her future Fortunes must be hid, Till her known Ills be remedied; And she to those Resentments come, That drove the Tarquins out of Rome; Or such as did in fury turn The Assyran's Palace to his Urn.

The True Englishman, 1686.

CUrs'd be the tim'rous Fool, whose feeble Mind Is turn'd about with every blast of Wind; Who to self-interest basely does give ear, And suffers Reason to be led by Fear: He only merits a true English Name, Who always says, and does, and is the same; Who dares be honest, though at any rate, And stands prepar'd to meet the worst of Fate: He laughs at Threats, and Flatt'ries does despise, And won't be knavish to be counted wise: No publick storm can his clear Reason blind, Or bad example influence his mind.

Let M— like a Cur kick'd out of doors, For his aspiring Projects and Amours, Unman himself to sneak, fawn, cringe and whine, And play the Spaniel, till they let him in; Then, with a grinning and affected Leer, Run his red Snout in every Lady's ear. Let a lewd Judge come reeking from a Wench, To vent a wilder Lust upon the Bench; Bawl out the Venom of his rotten Heart, Swell'd up with envy, over-act his part; Condemn the Innocent by Laws ne'er fram'd; And study to be more than doubly damn'd. Let a mean scoundrel Lord (for equal fear Of hanging, or of starving) falsely swear; Let him, whose Knavery and Impudence Is known to every Man's experience, With scraps of broken evidence, contrive To feed, and keep a fainting Plot alive: Nay, though he swears by the same Deities, Whom he has mock'd by Mimmic Sacrifice. Let Rumsey, with his ill-look'd treacherous Face, That swarthy off-spring of a Hellish Race, Whose Mother, big with an intriguing Devil, Brought an Epitome of all that's evil: Let him be perjur'd, and as rashly damn T' eternal Infamy his odious Name. Let Knaves and Fools confound the tott'ring State, And plunge the Subjects in their Monarch's hate; Blinding by false accounts of Men and Things, The most indulgent and the best of Kings. Let an unthinking hair-brain'd Bigot's zeal, (Not out of any thought of doing well, But in a pure defiance of the Law) In bloody Lines his true Idea draw; That Men may be inform'd, and early see, What such a Man (if once in pow'r) wou'd be: Of Royal Mercy: let him stop the sourse, That Death may have a free and boundless course;

Till shivering Ghosts come from their gloomy Cell, And in dumb Forms a fatal story tell. Let the Court swarm with Pimps, Rogues, Bawds and Whores, And honest men be all turn'd out of doors; Let Atheism and prophaneness there abound, And not an upright Man (God save the King) befound. Let men of Principles be in disgrace, And mercenary Villains in their place; Let free born Cities be by Treach'ry won, Lose their just Liberties, and be undone: Let States-men sudden Changes undertake, And make the Government's foundation shake; Till strange tempestuous Murmers do arise, And show a storm that's gath'ring in the Skies. Let all this happen. Nay, let certain Fate Upon the issue of their Actions wait; If you've a true, a brave undaunted Mind Of English Principles, as well as kind; You'll on the bottom of true Honour stand, Firm as a Rock, unshaken as the Land: So when vast Seas of Trouble 'gainst you beat, They'll break, and force themselves to a Retreat; No Fate, no flattery can e••er controul A steady, resolute, Heroick Soul.

On the Young Statesmen.

By J. Dryden, 1680.

CLarenden had Law and Sense, Clifford was Fierce and Brave, Bennet's grave look was a pretence, And D—y's matchless impudence Help'd to support the Knave.

2.

But Sund—d, God—n, L—y, These will appear such Chits in story, 'Twill turn all Politicks to Jests,

To be repeated like John Dory, When Fidlers sing at Feasts.

3.

Protect us, mighty Providence, What wou'd these Mad-men have? First, they would bribe us without Pence, Deceive us without common Sense, And without Power enslave.

4.

Shall free-born Men in humble awe, Submit to servile shame; Who from consent and custom, draw The same Right to be rul'd by Law Which Kings pretend to reign?

5.

The Duke shall wield his conq'ring Sword, The Chancellor make a Speech, The King shall pass his honest word, The pawn'd Revenue Summs afford; And then come kiss my Breech.

6.

So have I seen a King on Chess, (His Rooks and Knights withdrawn, His Queen and Bishops in distress) Shifting about, grow less and less, With here and there a Pawn.

Portsmouth's Looking-Glass.

By the Lord Roch—r.

MEthinks I see you newly risen, From your Embroidered Bed and pissing; With studied Mein and much Grimace, Present your self before your Glass, To varnish and rub o'er those Graces, You rub'd off in your Night Embraces: To set your Hair, your Eyes, your Teeth, And all those Powers you Conquer with;

Lay trains of Love and State-Intrigues, In Powders, Trimmings, and curl'd Wigs: And nicely chuse, and neatly spread, Upon your Cheeks the best French Red. Indeed for Whites none can compare, With those you naturally wear; And though her Highness much delights To laugh and talk about your Whites; I never could perceive your Grace Made use of any for your Face. Here 'tis you practice all your Art, To triumph o'er a Monarch's Heart; Tattle and smile, and wink and twink on't, It almost makes me sp— to think on't. These are your master-strokes of Beauty, That keeps poor Rowley to hard Duty: And how can all these be withstood, By frail amorous Flesh and Blood? These are the Charms that have bewitcht him, As if a Conjurer's Rod had switcht him: Made him he knows not what to do, But loll and fumble here with you. Amongst your Ladies, and his Chitts, At Cards and Council here he sits: Yet minds not how they play at either, Nor cares not when 'tis walking weather: Business and Power he has resign'd, And all things to your mighty Mind. Is there a Minister of State, Or any Treasurer of late, That's fawning and imperious too? He owes his Greatness all to you: And as you see just cause to do it, You keep him in, or turn him out. Hence 'tis you give us War and Peace, Raise Men, disband them as you please: Take any Pensions, retrench Wages, For Petticoats, and lusty Pages:

Contrive and Execute all Laws, Suiting the Judges to the Cause. Learn'd Scroggs and honest Jeffreys, A Faithfull Friend to you who e're is; He made the Jury come in booty, And for your service wou'd hang Doughty. You govern every Council meeting, Making th•• Fools do as you think fitting: Your Royal Cully has command, Onely from you at second hand; He does but at the Helm appear, Sits there and sleeps while your Slaves steer: And you are the bright Northern Star, By which they guide this Man of War; Yet without doubt they might conduct Him better, were you better f— Many begin to think of late, His Crown and C—ds have both one date; For as they fall, so falls the State. And as his Reins prove loose and weak, The Reigns of Government must break.

The Impartial Trimmer. 1682.

SInce there are some that with me see the state Of this declining Isle, and mourn its fate; French Councellors and Whores, French Education, Have chang'd our Natures, and enslav'd our Nation: There was a time when Barons boldly stood, And spent their Lives for their dear Countries good; Confim'd our Charter, with a Curse to light On those that shou'd destroy that sacred Right, Which Power with Freedom can so well unite, The hated name of Rebel is not due To him that is to Law and Justice true.

Brutus bold part may justly claim Renown, Preferring Right to Friendship and a Crown; For 'twas not Treason then to keep our own. But now the Nation with unusual need Cries help, where is our bold, our English Breed? Popery and Slavery are just at hand, And every Patriot is a S—d. Shaftsbury's gone, another Change to try; He hates his Word, yet more the Monarchy. No Head remains our Loyal Cause to grace, For Monmouth is too weak for that high Place: More proper for the Court where he was rais'd, His Dancing envy'd, and his Dressing prais'd, Where still such Folly is so well protected, Those few that han't it are oblig••d t' affect it; For Statesmen, King, and Whore, and all have sworn T'advance such Wit and Virtue as their own: Degenerate Rome and Spain deserves to out-brave us, If Hide or Hallifax can e'er enslave us; Or he that kneels 'twixt his Dogs and Whore, Rul'd by a Woman, he can use no more; Whispers with Knaves, and Jests all day with Fools, Is chid to Counsel like a Boy to School. False to Mankind, and true to him alone. Whose Treason still attempts his Life and Crown. Rouse up and cry, No Slavery, no York And free your King from that devouring ••••ork; Tho' lull'd with Ease and Safety he appear, And trusts the Reins to him he ought to fear. 'Tis Loyalty indeed to keep the Crown Upon a Head that would it self dethrone. This is the case of our unthinking Prince, Wheedled by Knaves, to rule 'gainst common Sense; That we provok'd our Wrongs to justi••••e, Might in his Reign his Brother's Title try. Live long then Charles, secure of those you dread, There's not five Whiggs that ever wish'd you dead,

For as old Men rarely of Gout complain, That Life prolongs, but sooths its wholsome pain. So we with as small cause (God knows) to boast, Bear much with you, rather than with him roast: For if a subject he such Terror bring, What may we hope from a revengefull King? Both lew'd and zealous, stubborn in his Nonsense, He'll sacrifice Mankind to ease his Conscience. O happy Venice, whose good Laws are such, No private Crime the publick Peace can touch. But we most wretched, while two Fools dispute, If Leg or Armstrong shall be absolute.

Bajazet to Gloriana, 1683/4;.

FAir Royal Maid, permit a Youth undone, To tell you how he drew his ruin on; By what degrees he took that Passion in, That made him guilty of Promethean Sin, Who from the Gods durst steal Celestial Fire; And tho' with less success I did as high aspire: Ah! why (you Gods) was she of mortal Race, And why 'twix her and me was there so vast a space? Why was she not above my Passion made? Some Star in Heaven or Goddess of the Shade. And yet my haughty Sold could ne'er have bow'd To any Beauty of the common Crowd. None but the Brow that did expect a Crown Could charm or awe me with a Smile or Frown. I liv'd the Envy of the Arcadian Plains, Sought by the Nymphs, and bow'd to by the Swains. Where e'er I pass'd, I swept the Street along, And gather'd round me all the gazing Throng. In numerous Flocks and Herds I did abound, And when I vainly spread my Wishes round, They wanted nothing but my being crown'd;

Yet witness all you spightfull Pow'rs above, If my Ambition did not spring from Love: Had you, bright Gloriana, been less fair, Less excellent, less charming than you are, I had my honest Loyalty retain'd, My noble Blood untainted had remain'd; Witness your Graces, witness your sacred Bowers, You shaded River, Banks, and Beds of Flowers, Where the expecting Nymphs have past their Hours; Witness how oft (all careless of their fame) They Languish'd for the Author of their Flame: And when I came reproach'd, my old reserve Ask'd for what Nymph I did my Joys preserve? What sighing Maid was next to be undone, For whom I drest and put my Graces on? And never thought (tho' I feign'd ev'ry proof Of tender Passion) that I lov'd enough. While I with Love's Variety was cloy'd, Or the faint Pleasure like a Dream enjoy'd; 'Twas Gloriana's Eyes, my Soul alone, With everlasting Gust could feed upon. From her first Bloom my fate I did pursue, And from the tender fragrant Bud I knew, The charming Sweet it promis'd when it blew. They gave me hope, and 'twas in vain I try'd The Beauty from the Princess to divide: For he at once must feel whom you inspire A soft Ambition and a haughty Fire, And hopes the natural Aid of young Desire. My unconsidering Passion had not yet Thought your Illustrious Birth for mine too great 'Twas Love that I pursu'd, that God that leads Sometimes the equall'd Slave to Princes Beds. But oh! I had forgot that Flame must rest In your bright Soul that makes th' Adorer blest; Your sacred Fire alone must you subdue, 'Tis that, not mine, can raise me up to you;

Yet if by chance m' ambition meet a stop, With any thought that check'd m' advancing hope: This new one straight wou'd all the rest confound, How every Coxcomb aim'd at being crown'd: The vain young Fool with all his Mother's parts, Who wanted Sense enough for little arts; Whose composition was like Cheder Cheese, (〈…〉〈…〉 Production all the Town agrees.) To whom from Prince to Priest was added Suff, From great King Charles e'en down to Father Goff; Yet he with vain Pretension lays a claim, To th•• glorious 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of a Sovereign: And when for Gods such wretched things set up, Was it so great a Crime for me to hope? No Laws of God or Man my Vows reprove, There is no Treason in ambitious Love: That sacred Antidote i'th' poyson'd Cup, Quells the Contagion of each little drop. I bring no forces but my Sighs and Tears, My Languishments, my soft Complaints and Prayers. Artillery which was never sent in vain, Nor fails, where-e'er it lights, to wound or pain. Here only, here rebated they return, Meeting the solid Armour of your Scorn; Scorn by the Gods, I any thing could bear, The rough Fatigues and Storms of dangerous War; Long Winter Marches or the Summer's Heat, Nay e'en in Battle from the Foe defeat; Scars on this Face, Scars, whose dull recompence Wou'd ne'er attone for what they rob from thence; Scandal of Coward, nay half witted too, Or siding with the pardon'd rebel Crew: Or ought but Scorn, and yet you must frown on, Your Slave was destin'd thus to be undone; You the avenging Deity appear, And I a Victim fall to all the injur'd fair.

On King CHARLES, by the Earl of Rochester, For which he was banish'd the Court and turn'd Mountebank.

IN the Isle of Great Britain long since famous known, For breeding the best C— in Christendom; There reigns, and long may he reign and thrive, The easiest Prince and best bread Man alive: Him no ambition moves to seek Renown, Like the French Fool, to wander up and down, Starving his Subjects, hazarding his Crown. Nor are his high desires above his strength, His scepter and his P— are of a length, And she that plays with one may sway the other, And make him little wiser than his Brother. I hate all Monarchs and the Thrones that they sit on, From the Hector of France to the Cully of Britain. Poor Prince, thy P— like the Boffoons at Court, It governs thee, because it makes thee sport; Tho' Safety, Law, Religion, Life lay out, 'Twill break through all to make it's way to C—. Restless he rolls about from Whore to Whore, A merry Monarch, scandalous and poor. To Carewell the most Dear of all thy Dears, The sure relief of thy declining Years; Oft he bewails his fortune and her fate, To love so well, and to be lov'd so late; For when in her he settles well his T—, Yet his dull graceless Buttocks hang an Arse. This you'd believe, had I but time to tell you, The pain it costs to poor laborious Nelly, While she employs Hands, Fingers, Lips and Thighs, E'er she can raise the Member she enjoys.

Cato's Answer to Libanius, when he advis'd him to go and consult the Oracle of Jupiter Hamon; translated out of the 9th. Book of Lucan, begin∣ning at quid quin. Labiene jubes, &c.

By Mr. John Ayloffe.

WHat should I ask my Friends which best wou'd be, To live enslav'd or thus in Arms dye free; If any force can honours price abate, Or Vertue bow beneath the Blows of Fate: If Fortune's Threats a steady Soul disdains; Or if the Joys of life be worth the pains: If it our Happiness at all import, Whether the foolish Scene be long or short: If when we do but aim at noble ends, The attempt alone immortal Fame attends: If for bad accidents which thickest press, On Merit we should like a good cause less, Or be the fonder of it for success. All this is clear, words in our Minds it strikes, Nor Hamon nor his Priest can deeper fix, Without the Clergies venial Cant and Pains, Gods never frustrate Will holds ours in Chains, Nor can we act, but what th' All-wise ordains, Who need no Voice nor perishing Word to awe Our wild Desires and give his Creatures Law; Whate'er to know, or needfull was or fit, In the wise Frame of humane Souls is writ, Both what we ought to do and what forbear, He once for all did at our Birth declare; But never did he seek out desert Lands, To bury Truth in unfrequented Sands; Or to a corner of the World withdrew Head of a Sect, or partial to a few.

Nature's vast Fabrick is his House alone, This Globe his Footstool, and high Heaven his Throne. In Earth, Air, Sea, and in who e'er excells In knowing Heads and honest Hearts he dwells. Why seek we then among these barren Sands, In narrow Shrines and Temples built with hands; Him whose dread Presence does all Places fill, Or look but in our Reason for his Will? And we e'er saw is God, in all we find Apparent print of the eternal Mind. Let flatt'ring Fools their course by Prophets steer, And always of the future live in fear: No Oracle or Dream the Crowd is told, Can make me more or less resolv'd or bold; But certain Death which equally on all Both on the Coward and the Brave must fall; This said, and turning with disdain about, He left scorn'd and Hamon to the vulgar Rout.

The Lord Lucas's Ghost, 1687.

FRom the blest Regions of eternal day, Where Heaven-born Souls imbibe th' immortal Ray, Where Liberty and Innocence reside Free from the Gripes of Tyranny and Pride, Where pious Patriots that have shed their Blood For sacred Truths and for the publick Good, Now rest secure from thence (poor Isle) I come To see thy Sorrows and bewail thy Doom, Thy sore Oppressions and thy piercing Cry, Disturbs our Rest and drowns our Harmony. When stiff-neck'd Israel did their God reject, And in his stead an Idol-King erect: Heav'ns flaming Sword he brandish'd in his hand, And dreadfull Thunder struck their sinfull Land▪

Till Penitence atton'd his sinful Ire, And quench'd the rage of his consuming fire. But this poor Land still feels the dire Effect Of his just Wrath, who his mild Reign reject. Unhappy Isle, how oft hast thou been curst With f—lish Kings; but this of all's the worst. The Fire, the Plague, the Sword, are dreadful fiends, This R—l Plague all other far transcends. From him the Fountain of all our Mischifs flows, From him the Fire, from him the War arose. With Rome he plots, Religion to o'erthrow, With France combines to enslave the People too. No Man must near his sacred Person come, Unless he be for Tyranny and Rome. With hardned Face he assaults the frail and fair, Uses his Power the Vertuous to ensnare. With Troops of Vice he conquers Liberty; Depresses Virtue, enthrones Tyranny; Threatens the Coward, fawns upon the Bold, Debauches all with Power or with Gold. Lift up thy Head, afflicted Isle, and hear, The time of thy Deliverance draws near; His full-blown Crimes will certainly pull down A slow, but sure Destruction of his Crown. His loathed Acts thy freedom's Birth shall cause, Secure Religion, produce wholesome Laws. No more the Poor, the Rich one shall devour; No more shall Right yield to oppressive Power: No more shall Rapine make the Country groan, Nor Civil Wars shall Reign within the Town: The Iron Scepter, and the Tyrant's Hand, Shall cease henceforth to bruise thy happy Land. Rome's Hocus Pocus Ministers no more Shall cause Mankind their jugling Priests t' adore: Thy Learned Clergy shall confound them all, And they, like Ely's Sons, unpitied fall. Dark Mists of Errors then must fly away, And Hell's Delusions shrink from the bright day

Truth's sacred Light in full abundance shall Upon thy Teachers and thy People fall. So when th' eternal Son was born to die For all the World, the lesser Gods did fly; His bright appearance struck their Prophets dumb, And Death, like Silence, did their Gods intomb. The tunefull Spheres with Hallelujahs rung, Heaven's mighty Host with Man one Chorus sung▪ Ne'er fading Glory unto God above, Peace upon Earth, to Men eternal Love. Thus the Creation shouted with one Voice; Thus Heaven and Earth did at his Birth rejoice: And thus shall all repeat this Song again, When upon Earth he shall begin to reign. But this lov••d Isle shall be the chosen place, Here shall the King of Kings begin his race: Judea was his Cradle and the Tomb, Britain shall be his Throne in time to come.

An EPITAPH.

ALgernoon Sidney fills this Tomb: An Atheist, by declaiming Rome: A Rebel bold, by striving still To keep the Laws above the Will; And hindring those would pull them down, To leave no limits to a Crown: Crimes damn'd by Church and Government, Oh! whither must his Soul be sent? Of Heaven it must needs despair, ••f that the Pope be Turn-key there; And Hell can ne'er it entertain, For there is all Tyrannick Reign; And Purgatory's such a Pretence, As ne'er deceiv'd a Man of Sense. Where goes it then? Where't ought to go, Where Pope and Devil have nought to do.

The Brazen-Head, 1688

WHat strepitantious Noise is it that sounds From raised Banks, or from the lower Grounds▪ From hollow Caverns, Labyrinths from far, Threatning Confusions of a dreadfull War? What dismal Cries of People in Despair, Fill the vast Region of the troubled Air? The Tune of Horror, or of what's as strange, That strikes uneven like a World of Change? With such a bold Surprize attacks my Sense, Beyond the Power of Counsel or Defence? But tho' blind Fortune rools her turning Wheel With a perpetual Motion, who can feel This Surge of Fate, push'd on with Fire and Steel? You precious Moments of serener Days! When many Victories enlarg'd my Praise, And all things ran in a most easie Stream, Back unto me their Ocean and Supreme. Are you all vanish'd by the sudden Fright, And left m' encompass'd with a dismal Night? By my own Subjects in suspicion held, Murmurings as bad, as if they had Rebell'd? You all controling Powers of things above! Whose easier Dictates guide the World by Love! Avert th' impendent Miseries, and show Us Earthly Gods to govern here below.

The Answer.

'TIS well you've thought upon the chiefest Cause, Change nothing of Religion nor the Laws. Let the great Monarch this good Motto wear, Not only in his Arms but every-where. Integer Vitae, is my whole Defence; Scelerisque purus, a most strong Defence;

Non eget Mauri, that no Forces need, Jaculis nec Arcu, which contentions breed: Nec venenatis gravida Sagittis Pharetra, to make Loyal his own Cities.

Vpon the Execrable Murder of the Ho∣nourable Arthur Earl of Essex.

MOrtality wou'd be too frail to hear, How ESSEX fell, and not dissolve with fear▪ Did not more generous Rage take off the Blow, And by his Blood the steps to vengeance show.

The Tow'r was for the Tragedy design'd, And to be slaughter'd he is first confin'd: As fetter'd Victims to the Altar go. But why must noble ESSEX perish so? Why with such fury dragg'd into his Tomb, Murther'd by Slaves, and sacrific'd to Rome?

By Stealth they kill, and with a secret Stroke Silence that Voice, which charm'd when'er it spoke. The bleeding Orifice o'erflow'd the Ground, More like some mighty Deluge than a Wound. Through the large space his Blood and Vitals glide, And his whole Body might have past beside. The reeking Crimson swell'd into a Flood, And stream'd a second time in Capel's Blood. He's in his Son again to death pursu'd, An instance of the high'st Ingratitude. They then malitious Stratagems employ, With Life, his dearer. Honour to destroy; And make his Fame extinguish with his Breath, And act beyond the Cruelties of Death Here Murther is in all its shapes complete, As Lines united in their Centre meet;

Form'd by the blackest Politicks of Hell: Was Cain so dev'lish when his Brother fell?

He that contrives, or his own Fate desires. Wants Courage, and for fear of Death expires; But mighty ESSEX was in all things brave, Neither to Hope, nor to Despair, a Slave. He had a Soul too Innocent and Great, To fear, or to anticipate his Fate: Yet their exalted Impudence and Guilt, Charge on himself the precious Blood they spilt. So were the Protestants some Years ago, destroy'd in Ireland without a Foe. By their own barbarous Hands the Mad men dye, And massacre themselves, they know not why: Whilst the kind Irish howl to see the Gore, And pious Catholicks their Fate deplore. If you refuse to trust erroneous Fame, Royal Mac-Ninny will confirm the same.

We have lost more in injur'd Capel's Heir, Than the poor Bankrupt Age can e'er repair, Nature indulg'd him so, that there we saw All the choice Stroakes her steady Hand cou'd draw. He the Old English Glory did revive, In him we had Plantagenets alive. Grandeur and Fortune, and a vast Renown, Fit to support the Lustre of a Crown. All these in him were potently conjoyn'd, But all was too ignoble for his Mind: Wisdom and Vertue, properties Divine, Those, God-like ESSEX, were entirely thine.

In this great Name he's still preserv'd alive, And will to all succeeding Times survive. With just Progression, as the constant Sun Doth move, and through its bright Ecliptick run.

For whilst his Dust does unextinguish'd lye, And his blest Soul is soar'd above the Sky, Fame shall below his parted Breath supply.

An Essay upon Satyr:

By J. Dr—en, Esquire.

HOW dull, and how insensible a Beast Is Man, who yet would Lord it o'er the rest? Philosophers and Poets vainly strove In every Age the lumpish Mass to move: But those were Pedants when compar'd with these, Who know not only to instruct, but please. Poets alone found the delightful way, Mysterious Morals gently to convey In charming Numbers; so that as men grew Pleas'd with their Poems, they grew wiser too. Satyr has always shone among the rest, And is the boldest way if not the best, To tell men freely of their foulest Faults, To laugh at their vain Deeds, and vainer Thoughts. In Satyr too the Wise took different ways, To each deserving its peculiar praise. Some did all Folly with just sharpness blame, Whilst others laugh'd and scorn'd them into shame. But of these two, the last succeeded best, (As men aim rightest when they shoot in jest:) Yet if we may presume to blame our Guides, And censure those who censure all besides; In other things they justly are preferr'd, In this alone methinks the Ancients err'd; Against the grossest Follies they disclaim, Hard they pursue, but hunt ignoble Game. Nothing is easier than such blots to hit, And 'tis the Talent of each vulgar Wit; Besides, tis labour lost; for who would preach Morals to Armstrong, or dull Aston teach? 'Tis being devout at Play, wise at a Ball, Or bringing Wit and Friendship to Whitehall;

But with sharp Eyes those nicer faults to find, Which lie obscurely in the wisest Mind; That little speck, which all the rest does spoil, To wash off that would be a noble Toil, Beyond the loose-writ Libels of this Age, Or the forc'd Scenes of our declining Stage; Above all Censure too, each little Wit Will be so glad to see the greater hit: Who judging better, though concern'd the most, Of such Correction will have cause to boast. In such a Satyr all wou'd seek a share, And every Fool will fancy he is there. Old Story-tellers too must pine and dye, To see their antiquated Wit laid by; Like her who miss'd her Name in a Lampoon, And grieved to find her self decay'd so soon; No common Coxcomb must be mention'd here, Not the dull train of dancing Sparks appear; Not fluttering Officers, who never fight? Of such a wretched Rabble who would write? Much less half Wits, that's more against our Rules; For they are Fops, the other are but Fools. Who would not be as silly as Dunbarr? As dull as Monmouth, rather than Sir Carr? The cunning Courtier should be slighted too, Who with dull Knavery makes so much adoe; Till the shrew'd Fool, by thriving too too fast, Like Aesop's Fox, becomes a Prey at last: Nor shall the Royal Mistresses be nam'd, Too ugly, or too easie to be blam'd; With whom each rhyming Fool keeps such a pother, They are as common that way as the other: Yet santering Charles between his beastly Brace, Mee••s with dissembling still in either place, Affected Humour or a painted Face. In Loyal Libels we have often told him, How one has Jilted him, the other sold him.

How that affects to laugh, how this too weep; But who can rail so long as he can sleep? Was ever Prince by two at once mis-led, False, foolish, old, ill-natur'd, and ill-bred? Earnely and Aylesbury, with all that Race Of busie Block-heads shall have here no place; At Council set as foils on D—'s score, To make that great false Jewel shine the more; Who all that while was thought exceeding wise, Only for taking pains and telling lies. But there's no medling with such nausceous Men, Their very Names have tyr'd my lazy Pen; 'Tis time to quit their company, and chuse Some fitter Subject for a sharper Muse. First, let's behold the merriest Man alive, Against his careless Genius vainly strive; Quit his dear Ease, some deep design to lay, 'Gainst a set time, and then forget the day: Yet he will laugh at his best Friends, and be Just as good Company as Nokes and Lee. But when he aims at Reason or at Rule, He turns himself the best in ridicule. Let him at business ne'er so earnest sit, Shew him but Mirth, and bait that Mirth with Wit; That shadow of a Jest shall be enjoy'd, Though he left all Mankind to be destroy'd: So Cat transform'd sat gravely and demure, Till Mouse appear'd and thought himself secure; But soon the Lady had him in her Eye. And from her Friend did just as odly fly; Reaching above our Nature does no good, We must fall back to our old flesh and blood. As by our little Matchi avel we find (That nimblest Creature of busie kind) His Limbs are crippled, and his Body shakes, Yet his hard Mind, which all this bustle makes, No pity of its poor Companion takes.

What Gravity can hold from laughing out, To see that drag his feeble Legs about; Like Hounds ill coupled, Jowler lugs him still Through Hedges, Ditches, and through all that's ill! 'Twere Crime in any Man but him alone, To use a Body so, though 'tis one's own: Yet this false Comfort never gives' him 'o're, That whilst he creeps his vigorous thoughts can soar: Alas, that soaring to those few that know, Is but a busie groveling here below. So Men in Rapture think they mount the Sky, Whilst on the Ground th'intransed Wretches lye; So modern Fops have fancied they could fly: Whilst 'tis their Heads alone are in the Air, And for the most part building Castles there; As the new Earl with Parts deserving praise, And wit enough to laugh at his own ways; Yet loses all soft days and sensual nights, Kind Nature checks, and kinder Fortune slights; Striving against his quiet all he can, For the fine Notion of a busie Man; And what is that at best but one whose Mind, Is made to tire himself and all Mankind: For Ireland he would go, faith let him reign, For if some odd fantastick Lord would fain Carry in Trunks, and all my drudgery do, I'll not only pay him but admire him too; But is there any other Beast that lives, Who his own harm so wittily contrives? Will any Dog that has his Teeth and Stones, Refin'dly leave his Bitches and his Bones To turn a Wheel? and bark to be employ'd, While Venus is by rival Dogs enjoy'd; Yet this fond Man to get a Statesman's Name, Forfeits his Friends, his Freedom and his Fame. Though Satyr nicely writ, no humour stings But those who merit Praise in other things;

Yet we must needs this one exception make, And break our rules for folly Tropos sake; Who was too much despis'd to be accus'd; And therefore scarce deserves to be abus'd; Rais'd only by his mercenary Tongue, From railing smoothly, and from reasoning wrong: As Boys on Holy-days let loose to play, Lay waggish Traps for Girls that pass that way; Then shout to see in dirt and deep distress, Some silly Cit in flowr'd foolish Dress; So have I mighty satisfaction found, To see his tinsel reason on the Ground. To see the florid Fool despis'd (and know it) By some who scarce have words enough to show it; (For sense sits silent, and condemns for weaker The finer; nay, sometimes the wittiest Speaker) But 'tis prodigious so much Eloquence Should be acquired by such a little Sense; For words and wit did anciently agree, And Tully was no Fool though this may be: At Bar abusive, on the Bench unable, Knave on the Woolsack, Fop at Council-Table▪ These are the Grievances of such Fools as wou'd, Be rather wise than honest, great than good. Some other kind of Wits must be made known, Whose harmless Errours hurt themselves alone; Excess of Luxury they think can please, And laziness call loving of their ease; To live dissolv'd in pleasures still they feign, Though their whole Life's but intermitting pain: So much of Surfeits, Head-aches, Claps are seen, We scarce perceive the little time between: Well-meaning men who makes this gross mistake, And pleasure lose only for pleasures sake; Each pleasure has its price, and when we pay Too much of pain we squander Life away. Thus D—et purring like a thoughtfull Cat, Married but wiser, Puss ne're thought of that:

And first he worried her with railing rhime, Like Pembrook's Mastives at his kindest time; Then for one night sold all his slavish Life, A teeming Widow but a barren Wife; Suckl'd by contract of such a fulsome toad, He lugg'd about the matrimonial load; Till Fortune blindly kind as well as he, Has ill restor'd him to his liberty; Which he would use in all his sneaking way, Drinking all night, and dozing all the day; Dull as Ned Howard, whom his brisker Times, Had fam'd for dulness in malicious Rhimes. Mul—ve had much adoe to scape the snare, Though learn'd in those ill Arts that cheat the Fair: For after all his vulgar Marriage-mocks, With Beauty dazled Numps was in the Stocks: Deluded Parents dry'd their weeping Eyes, To see him catch his Tartar for his Prize: Th' impatient Town waited the wisht for change, And Cuckolds smil'd in hopes of sweet revenge; Till Petworth Plot made us with sorrow see, As his Estate his Person too was free: Him no soft thoughts, no gratitude could move, To Gold he fled from Beauty and from Love; Yet failing there he keeps his freedom still, Forc'd to live happily against his will: 'Tis not his fault if too much wealth and power, Break not his boasted quiet every hour. And little Sid—y for Simile renown'd, Pleasures has always sought but never found: Though all his Thoughts on Wine and Women fall, His are so bad sure he ne'er thinks at all. The Flesh he lives upon his rank and strong, His Meat and Mistresses are kept too long; But sure we all mistake this pious Man, Who mortifies his Person all he can: What we uncharitably take for Sin, Are only Rules of this old Capuchin;

For never Hermit under grave pretence, Has liv'd more contrary to common sense; And 'tis a miracle we may suppose, No Nastiness offends his skilfull Nose: Which from all stink can with peculiar art Extract Perfume, and Essence, from a F—t; Expecting Supper is his great delight, He toils all day but to be drunk at night: Then o'er his Cups this Night-bird chirping sits, Till he takes Hewet, and Jack Hall for Wits. Roch—r I despise for his meer want of wit, Though thought to have a Tail and Cloven Feet; For while he mischief means to all Mankind, Himself alone the ill effects does find; And so like Witches justly suffers shame, Whose harmless malice is so much the same. False are his words, affected is his wit, So often he does aim, so seldom hit; To every face he cringes while he speaks, But when the back is turn'd the head he breaks. Mean in each Action, lew'd in every Limb, Manners themselves are mischievous in him: A proof that chance alone makes every Creature, A very Killigrew without good Nature. For what a Bessus has he always liv'd, And his own Kickings notably contriv'd: For (there's the folly that still mixt with fear) Cowards more blows than any Hero bear; Of fighting Sparks some may her pleasures say, But 'tis a bolder thing to run away: The World may well forgive him all his ill, For every Fault does prove his penance still: Falsly he falls into some dangerous noose, And then as meanly labours to get loose; A Life so infamous is better quitting, Spent in base injury and low submitting. I'd like to have left out his Poetry; Forgot by all almost as well as me.

Sometimes he has some humour, never wit, And if it rarely, very rarely hit, 'Tis under so much nasty rubbish laid, To find it out's the Cinder-woman's trade; Who for the wretched remnants of a fire, Must toil all day in ashes and in mire: So lewdly dull his idle Works appear, The wretched Texts deserve no Comments here; Where one poor Thought sometimes left all alone, For a whole Page of dulness to attone: 'Mongst forty bad, one tolerable line, Without expression, fancy, or design. How vain a thing is Man, and how unwise, Even he would himself the most despise; I who so wise and humble seem to be, Now my own Vanity and Pride can't see. While the World's nonsense is so sharply shewn, We pull down others but to raise our own; That we may Angels seem, we paint them Elves, And are but Satyrs to set up our selves. I who have all this while been finding fault, Even with my Master, who first Satyr taught; And did by that describe the Task so hard, It seems stupendious and above reward. Now labour with unequal force to climb That lofty Hill, unreacht by former time; 'Tis just that I should to the bottom fall, Learn to write well, or not to write at all.

Vpon an undeserving and ungratefull Mistress, whom he could not help loving.

Being a Paraphrastical Translation of Ovid's Tenth Elegy. Lib. 3. Amorum.

I Have to long endur'd her guilty Scorn, Too long her falseness my fond Love has born;

My freedom and my wits at length I claim; Be gone base Passion, dye unworthy Flame; My Life's sole torment and my Honour's stain, Quit this tir'd Heart, and end the lingring pain. I have resolv'd I'le be my self once more Long banish'd Reason to her right restore, And throw off Love's tyrannick sway, that still en∣croaching power. My growing shame I see at last, tho' late, And my past Follies both despise and hate: Hold out my Heart, nor let her Beauty move, Be constant in thy Anger as thy Love: My present pains shall give thee future ease, As bitter Potions cure, tho' they displease. 'Tis for this end, for freedom more assur'd, I have so long such shamefull Chains endur'd. Like a scorn'd Slave before her door I lay, And proud repulses suffer'd every day; Without complaining, banish'd from her sight, On the cold ground I spent the tedious Night; While some glad Rival in her Ams did lye, Glutted with Love and surfeited with Joy. Thence have I seen the tir'd Adulterer come, Dragging a weak exhausted Carkass home. And yet this Curse a Blessing I esteem, Compar'd with that of being seen by him; By him descry'd attending in the Street, May my foes only such Disgraces meet. What toyl and time has this false Woman cost? How much of unreturning Youth has for her sake been lost? How long did I, where fancy led or fate; Unthank'd unminded, on her Rambles wait? Her Steps, her Looks were still by mine pursu'd, And watch'd by me she charm'd the gazing Crowd. My diligent Love and over-fond Desire, Has been the means to kindle others Fire. What need I mention every little Wrong, Or curse the softness of her soothing Tongue.

The private Love-signs that in publick pass, Between her and some common staring Ass. The Coquet Art her faithless Heart allows, Or tax her with a thousand broken Vows: I hear she's sick, and with wild hast I run, Officious Hast, and Visit importune. Entring, my Rival on her Bed I see, The politick Sickness only was to me. With this and more oft has my Love been try'd, Some other Coxcomb let her now provide, To bear her Jilting and maintain her Pride; My batter'd Bark has reach'd the Port at last, Nor fears again the Billows it has past. Cease your soft Oaths and that still ready show'r, Those once dear words have lost their charming pow'r. In vain you flatter, I am now no more, That easie Fool you found me heretofore. Anger and Love a doubtfull fight maintain, Each strives by turns my staggering heart to gain: But what can long against Lov's force contend, My love I fear will conquer in the end; I'll do what e'er I can to hate you still, And if I Love, know 'tis against my Will. So the Bull hates the Ploughman's Yoke to wear, Yet what he hates, his stubborn Neck must bear. Her manners oft my Indignation raise, But straight her Beauty the short storm allays. Her Life I loath, her Person I adore; Much I contemn her, but I love her more. Both with her and without her I'm in pain, And rage to lose what I should blush to gain: Uncertain, yet at what my wishes aim; Loath to abandon Love or part with Fame: That Angel-form ill suits a form all sin; Ah! be less fair without, or more within. When these soft Smiles my yielding Powers invade, In vain I call her Vices to my aid;

Tho' now disdaining the disguise of Art, In my esteem her Conduct claims no part, Her Face a natural right has to my Heart. No Crime's so black as to deform her Eyes, Those Clouds must scatter when these Suns shall rise. Enough, fair Conqueror, the day's your own, See at your Feet, Love's vanquish'd Rebel thrown; By these dear Joys, (Joys dear tho' they are past) When in the kindest Links of Love we held each other fast; By th'injur'd Gods your false Oaths did prophane By all those Beauties that support and feed your proud disdain; By that lov'd Face from the whole Sex Elect, To which I all my Vows and Pray'rs direct, And equal with a Power divine respect: By every feature of a turn so fine, And by those Arms that charm and dazle mine. Spare from new triumphs, cherish without art, This over-faithfull, this too tender Heart: A Heart that was respectfull while it strove, But yielding is all blind impetuous Love: Live as you please, torment me as you will, Still are you fair, and I must love you still. Think only, if with just and clement Reign, A willing Subject you wou'd chuse to gain, Or drag a conquer'd Vassal in a Chain; But to what ever Conduct you incline, Do suffer, be what my worse fears divine, You are, you ought, you must, you shall be mine, Reason for ever, the vain strife give o'er, Thy cruel Wisdom I can bear no more; Let me indulge this one soft Passion's rule, Curb vexing Sense and be a happy Fool; With full spread Sails the tempting Gale obey, That down Love's Current drives me fast away.

The Town Life.

ONce how I doated on this Jilting Town, Thinking no Heaven was out of London known; Till I her Beauties artificial found, Her pleasure's but a short and giddy round; Like one who has his Phillis long enjoy'd Grown with the fulsom repetition cloy'd: Love's Mists then vanish from before his Eyes, And all the Ladies Frailties he descries: Quite surfeited with Joy, I now retreat To the fresh Air, a homely Country Seat, Good Hours, Books, harmless Sports, & wholsom Meat. And now at last I have chose my proper Sphere, Where Men are plain and rustick, but sincere. I never was for Lies not Fawning made, But call a Wafer Bread, and Spade a Spade. I tell what merits got Lord — his place, And laugh at marry'd M—ve to his Face. I cannot vere with ev'ry change of State, Nor flatter Villains, tho' at Court they're great: Nor will I prostitute my Pen for Hire, Praise Cromwell, damn him, write the Spanish Fryar: A Papist now, if next the Turk should reign, Then piously transverse the Alcoran. Methinks I hear one of the Nation cry, Be Christ, this is a Whiggish Calumny, All Virtues are compriz'd in Loyalty. Might I dispute with him, I'd change his Note, I'de silence him, that is, he'd cut my Throat. This powerfull way of reasoning never mist, None are so possitive but then desist, As I will, e'er it come to that extreme; Our Folly, not our Misery is our Theam. Well may we wonder what strange Charm, what Spell, What mighty Pleasures in this London dwell,

That Men renounce their Ease, Estates and Fame, And drudge it here to get a Fopling's Name. That one of seeming sense advanc'd in years, Like a Sir Courtly Nice in Town appears: Others exchange their Land for tawdry Cloaths, And will in spight of Nature pass for Beauxs. Indulgent Heaven, who ne'er made ought in vain, Each Man for something proper did ordain; Yet most against their Genius blindly run, The wrong they chuse, and what they're made for shun. Thus Ar—n thinks for State affairs he's fit; Hewit for Ogling, Chomly for a Wit: But 'tis in vain, so wise, these Men to teach, Besides the King's learn'd Priests should only preach. We'll see how Sparks the tedious day employ, And trace them in their warm pursuit of Joy; If they get drest (with much ado) by Noon, In quest of Beauty to the Mall they run, Where (like young Boys) with Hat in hand they try To catch some flutt'ring gawdy Butterfly. Thus Gray pursues the Lady with a Face, Like forty more, and with the same success, Whose Jilting Conduct in her Beauty's spite, Loses her fame, and gets no pleasure by't. The secret Joys of an Intrigue she slights, And in an Equipage of Fools delights: So some vain Heroes for a vain command, Forfeit their Conscience, Liberty and Land. But see high Mass is done, in Crowds they go, What, all these Irish and Mall Howard too? 'Tis very late, to Lockets let's away, The Lady Frances comes, I will not stay. Expecting Dinner, to discourse they fall, Without respect of Morals censuring all: The Nymph they lov'd, the Friend they hug'd before▪ He's a vain Coxcomb, she's a common Whore: No obligation can their Jests prevent; Wit, like unruly Wind in Bowels pent, Torments the bearer till he gives it vent;

Tho' this offends the Ear as that the Nose,, No matter, 'tis for Ease and out it goes. But what they talk (too nauseous to rehearse) I leave for the late Ballad-writers Verse. After a dear bought Meal they hast away, To a desert of Ogling at the Play: What's here which in the Box's front I see, Deform'd old Age, diseases Infamy. Warwick, North, Poget, Hinton, Martin, Willis, And that Epitome of Lewdness, Elly's: I'll not turn that way, but observe the Play, Pox▪ 'tis a tragick Farce of Banks to day: Besides some Irish Wits the Pit invade With a worse Din than Cat-call Serenade: I must be gone, let's to Hide-Park repair, If not good Company, we'll find good Air: Here with effected Bow and Side-Glass look, The self-conceited Fool is easily took. There comes a Spark with six in Tarsels drest, Charming the Ladies Hearts with dint of Beast: Like Scullers on the Thames with frequent bow, They labour, tugg, and in their Coaches row, To meet some fair one, still they wheel about, Till she retires, and then they hurry out. But next we'll visit where the Beauxs in order come, ('Tis yet too early for the drawing-room) Here Nowels and Olivio's abound; But one plain Manly is not to be found: Flattring the present, the absent they abuse, And vent their Spleen and Lies, pretending News: Why, such a Lady's pale and wou'd not dance; This to the Country gone, and that to France: Whose marry'd, slipp'd away, or mist at Court, Others Misfortunes thus offord them sport: A new Song is produc'd, the Author guest, The Verses and the Poet made a Jest.

Live Laureat E—er, in whom we see, The English can excell Antiquity. Dryden writes Epick, Wosley Odes in vain, Virgil and Horace still the chief maintain: He with his matchless Poems has alone, Bavius and Mevius in their way out-done. But now for Cards, and play they all propose, While I who never in good breeding lose, Who cannot civilly sit still and see The Ladies pick my Purse and laugh at me, Pretending earnest business drive to Court, Where those who can do nothing else resort. The English must not seek preferment there, For Mack's and O's all places destin'd are. No more we'll send our Youth to Paris now, French Principles and Breeding once wou'd do: They for improvement must to Ireland sail, The Irish Wit and Language now prevail. But soft my Pen, with care this Subject touch, Stop where you are, you soon may write too much. Quite weary with the hurry of the day, I to my peacefull home direct my way; While some in Hack and Habit of Fatigue, May have (but oft pretend) a close Intrigue; Others more open to the Tavern scower, Calling for Wine, and every Man his Whore, As safe as those with quality perhaps, For N—rgh says great Ladies can give Claps: Somewhere they're kept, and many where they keep; Most see an easie Mistress e'er they Sleep. Thus Sparks may dress, dance, play, write, fight, get drunk, But all the mighty Pother ends in Punk.

A Satyr on the modern Translators. Odi imitatores servum pecus, &c.

By Mr. P—r.

SInce the united cunning of the Stage, Has balk'd the hireling Drudges of the Age: Since Betterton of late so thrifty's grown, Revives old Plays, or wisely acts his own: Thumb'd Rider with a Catalogue of Rhimes, Makes the compleatest Poet of our times: Those who with nine months toil had spol'd a Play, In hopes of eating at a full Third day, Justly despairing longer to sustain A craving Stomach from an empty Brain, Have left Stage-practice, chang'd their old Vocations, Attoning for bad Plays, with worse Translations, And like old Sternhold with laborious spite, Burlesque what nobler Muses better write: Thus while they for their causes only seem To change the Channel, they corrupt the Stream. So breaking Vintners to increase their Wine, With nauseous Drugs debauch the generous Vine: So barren Gipsies for recruit are said, With Strangers Issue to maintain the Trade; But lest the fair Bantling should be known, A daubing Walnut makes him all their own. In the head of this Gang too John Dryden appears, But to save the Town-censure and lessen his Fears, Joyn'd with a Spark whose title makes me civil, For Scandalum Magnatum is the Devil; Such mighty thoughts from Ovid's Letters flow, That the Translation is a work for two; Who in one Copy joyn'd their shame have shewn, Since T—e could spoil so many tho' alone: My Lord I thought so generous would prove, To scorn a Rival in affairs of Love:

But well he knew his teeming pangs were vain, Till Midwife Dryden eas'd his labouring Brain; And that when part of Hudibras's Horse Jogg'd on, the other would not hang an Arse; So when fleet Jowler hears the joyfull hallow, He drags his sluggish Mate, and Tray must follow. But how could this learn'd brace employ their time? One construed sure, while th' other pump'd for Rhime: Or it with these, as once at Rome, succeeds, The Bibulus subscribes to Caesar's Deeds: This, from his Partners acts ensures his Name, Oh sacred thirst of everlasting Fame! That could defile those well-cut Nails with Ink, And make his Honour condescend to think: But what Excuse, what Preface can attone, For crimes which guilty Bayes has singly done? Bayes, whose Rose Alley Ambuscade injoyn'd, To be to Vices which he practic'd kind, And brought the venom of a spitefull Satyr, To the safe innocence of a dull Translator. Bayes, who by all the Club was thought most fit To violate the Mantuan Prophet's wit, And more debauch what loose Lucretius writ. When I behold the rovings of his Muse, How soon Assyrian Ointments she would lose For Diamond Buckles sparkling at their Shoes. When Virgil's height is lost, when Ovid soars, And in Heroics Canace deplores Her Follies louder than her Father roars, I'd let him take Almanzor for his Theme; In lofty Verses make Maximin blaspheme, Or sing in softer Airs St. Katharine's Dream. Nay, I could hear him damn last Ages Wit, And rail at Excellence he ne'er can hit; His Envy shou'd at powerfull Cowley rage, And banish Sense with Johnson from the Stage: His Sacrilege should plunder Shakespear's Urn, With a dull Prologue make the Ghost return

To bear a second Death, and greater pain, While the Fiend's words the Oracle prophane; But when not satisfied with Spoils at home, The Pyrate wou'd to foreign Borders roam; May he still split on some unlucky Coast, And have his Works or Dictionary lost; That he may know what Roman Authors mean, No more than does our blind Translatress Behn. The Female VVit; who next convicted stands, Nor for abusing Ovid's Verse but Sand's: She might have learn'd from the ill borrow'd Grace, (VVhich little helps the ruin of her Face) T••at VVit, like Beauty, triumphs o'er the Heart, VVhen more of Nature's seen and less of Art: Nor strive in Ovid's Letters to have shown, As much of Skill, as Lewdness in her own: Then let her from the next inconstant Lover, Take a new Copy for a second Rover: Describe the cunning of a jilting VVhore, From the ill Arts her self has us'd before; Thus let her write, but Paraphrase no more. R—mer to Crambo privilege does claim, Not from the Poet's Genius, but his Name; VVhich Providence in contradiction meant, Though he Predestination coul'd prevent, And with bold dulness translate Heavens intent. Rash Man! we paid thee Adoration due, That ancient Criticks were excell'd by you: Each little VVit to your Tribunal came To hear their doom, and to secure their Fame: But for respect you servilely sought praise, Slighted the Umpire's Palm to court the Poet's Bays; VVhile wise Reflections and a grave Discourse, Declin'd to Zoons a River for a Horse. So discontented Pemberton withdrew, From sleeping Judges to the noisie Crew; Chang'd awefull Ermin for a servile Gown, And to an humble fawning smooth'd his frown:

The Simile will differ here indeed; You cannot versify, though he can plead.

To painfull Creech my last advice descends, That he and Learning would at length be Friends; That he'd command his dreadfull forces home, Not be a second Hannibal to Rome. But since no Counsel his Resolves can bow; Nor may thy fate, O Rome, resist his Vow; Debarr'd from Pens as Lunaticks from Swords, He should be kept from waging VVar with words. VVords which at first like Atoms did advance, To the just measure of a tunefull Dance, And jumpt to form, as did his worlds, by chance. This pleas'd the Genius of the vicious Town; The VVits confirm'd his Labours with renown, And swear the early Atheist for their own. Had he stopt here—but ruin'd by success, VVith a new Spawn he fill'd the burthen'd Press, Till, as his Volumes swell'd, his fame grew less. So Merchants flattered with increasing gain, Still tempt the falshood of the doubtfull Main; So the first running of the lucky Dice, Does eager Bully to new Bets intice; Till Fortune urges him to be undone, And Ames-Ace loses what kind Sixes won. VVitness this truth Lucretia's wretched Fate, VVhich better have I heard my Nurse relate; The Matron suffers Violence again, Not Tarquin's Lust so vile as Creech's Pen; Witness those heaps his Mid-night Studies raise, Hoping to Rival Ogilby in Praise: Both writ so much, so ill, a doubt might rise, Which with most Justice might deserve the Prize; Had not the first the Town with Cutts appeas'd, And where the Poem fail'd, the Picture pleas'd. Wits of a meaner Rank I wou'd rehearse, But will not plague your Patience nor my Verse:

In long Oblivion may they happy lie, And with their Writings may their Folly die. Now why should we poor Ovid yet pursue, And make his very Book an Exile too, In words more barbarous than the place he knew? If Virgil labour'd not to be translated, Why suffers he the only thing he hated? Had he foreseen some ill officious Tongue, Wou'd in unequal Strains blaspheme his Song; Nor Prayers, nor Force, nor Fame shou'd e'er prevent The just Performance of his wise Intent: Smiling h'had seen his Martyr'd Work expire, Nor live to feel more cruel Foes than Fire. Some Fop in Preface may those Thefts excuse, That Virgil was the draught of Homer's Muse: That Horace's by Pindar's Lyre was strung, By the great Image of whose Voice he sung; They found the Mass, 'tis true, but in their Mould They purg'd the drossy Oar to current Gold: Mending their Pattern, they escap'd the Curse; Yet had they not writ better, they'd writ worse. But when we bind the Lyric up to rhime, And lose the Sense to make the Poem chime: When from their Flocks we force Sicilian Swains, To ravish Milk-maids in our English Plains; And wandring Authors, e'er they touch our shore, Must, like our Locust Hugonots, be poor; I'de bid th' importing Club their pains forbear, And traffick in our own, tho' homely Ware, Whilst from themselves the honest Vermin spin, I'de like the Texture, tho' the Web be thin; Nay, take Crown's Plays, because his own, for wit; And praise what D'urfey, not translating, writ.

The Parliament-House to be Lett, 1678.

1.

HEre's a House to be lett, For C—s S—d swore, On Portsmouth's bare Arse, He wou'd shut up the Door.

2.

Inquire at the Lodgings Next Door to the Pope, At Duke Lauderdale's Head, With a Cravat of Rope.

3.

And there you will hear How next he will let it, If you pay the old Price You may certainly get it.

4.

He holds it in Tail, From his Father, who fast Did keep it long shut, But paid for't at last.

Advice to Apollo, 1678.

I'VE heard the Muses were still soft and kind, To Malice Foes, to gentle Love inclin'd; And that Parnassus Hill was fresh and gay, Crown'd still with Flowers, as in the fairest May; That Helicon with pleasures charm'd the Soul, Could Anger tame and restless care controul: That bright Apollo still delights in Mirth, Chearing (each welcome day) the drowsie Earth; Then whence comes Satyr, is it Poetry? O great Apollo, God of Harmony!

Far be't from thee, this cruel Art t'inspire, Then strike these VVretches who thus dare aspire, To tax thy gentleness, making thee seem Malicious as their Thought, harsh as their Theme. First, strike Sir Carr, that Knight o'th' wither'd Face, VVho (for th' reversion of a Poet's place) VVaits on Melpomene, and sooths her Grace; That angry miss alone he strives to please, For fear the rest should teach him wit and ease, And make him quit his lov'd laborious walks, VVhen sad or silent o'er the room he stalks, And strives to write as wisely as he talks. Next with a gentle Dart strike Dryden down, VVho but begins to aim at the Renown Bestow'd on Satyrists, and quits the Stage, To lash the witty Follies of the Age. Strike him but gently that he may return, VVrite Plays again, and his past Follies mourn. He had better make Almanzor give offence In fifty Lines without one word of Sense, Than thus offend and wittily deserve, VVhat will ensue with his lov'd Muse to starve. D—set writes Satyr too, but writes so well, O great Apollo! let him still rebell, Pardon a Muse which does so far excell: Pardon a Muse which does with Art support, Some drowsie VVit in our unthinking Court. But M—ve strike with many angry Dart, He who profanes thy Name offends thy Art, Ne'er saw thy Light, yet would usurp thy power, And govern VVit, and be its Emperour. In see with Dryden to be counted wise, VVho tells the VVorld he has both VVit and Eyes. Rochester's easie Muse does still improve, Each hour thy little wealthy VVorld of Love, (That VVorld in which each Muse is thought a Queen) That he must be forgiven in Charity then;

Though his sharp Satyrs have offended thee; In charity to Love who will decay, When his delightfull Muse (its only stay) Is by thy power severely ta'en away. Forbear (then) civil Wars, and strike not down Love, who alone supports thy tottering Crown. But sawcy Sh—ard with the affected train, Who Satyrs write, yet scarce can spell their Name, Blast, great Apollo, with perpetual shame.

The Duel of the Crabs:

By the Lord B—st.

IN Milford-lane near to St. Clement's Steeple, There liv'd a Nymph kind to all Christian People. A Nymph she was, whose comely Mien and Stature, Whose height of Eloquence and every Feature, Struck through the heart of City and of Whitehall, And when they pleas'd to court her, did 'em right all▪ Under her beauteous Bosom their did lie A Belly smooth as Ivory. Yet Nature to declare her various Art, Had plac'd a Tuft in one convenient part, No Park with smoothest Lawn or highest Wood, Cou'd e'er compare with this admir'd abode. Here all the Youth of England did repair, To take their pleasure and unease their care. Here the distressed Lover that had born His haughty Mistress Anger or her Scorn Came for Relief; and in this pleasant Shade, Forgot the former, and this Nymph obey'd. And yet what corner of the World is found, Where pain or pleasure does not still surround? One wou'd have thought that in this shady Grove, Nought cou'd have dwelt but Quiet, Peace and Love. But Heaven directed otherwise; for here, I'th' midst of plenty bloody Wars appear: The Gods will frown where ever they do smile; The Crocodile infests the fertil Soil:

Lyons and Tygers on the Lybian Plains, Forbid all pleasures to the fearfull Swains: Wild Beasts in Forests do the Hunters fright, They fear their ruin 'midst of their delight. Thus in the shade of this dark silent Bower, Strength strives with strength, & power vies with power. Two mighty Monsters did this Wood infest, And struck such awe and terror in the rest, That no Sicilian Tyrant e'er could boast He e'er with greater rigour rul'd the roast. Each had his Empire, which he kept in awe, Was by his will obey'd, allow'd no Law: Nature so well divided had their states, Nought but Ambition cou'd have chang'd their fates: For 'twixt their Empire, stood a briny Lake, Deep as the Poets do the Centre make; But dire Ambition does admit no bounds, There are no limits to aspiring Crowns. The Spaniard by his Europe Conquests bold, Sail'd o'er the Ocean for the Indian's Gold: The Carthaginian Hero did not stay, Because he met vast Mountains in his way: He pass'd the Alps like Mole-hills; such a Mind As thinks on Conquest will be unconfin'd. Both with these haughty thoughts one course to tend, To try if this vast Lake had any end: Where finding Countries yet without a Name, They might by Conquests get eternal Fame. After long Marches both their Armies tired, At length they find the place so much desired: Where in a little time each does descry, The glymps of an approaching Enemy. They in this sight do equal pleasure prove, As we should do in well rewarded Love: Blood-thirsty Souls, whose only perfect Joy, Consists in what their fury can destroy. And now both Armies do prepare to fight, And each of th'other unto War incite;

In vain, alas, for all their force and strength Was quite consumed by their Marches length; But the great Chiefs, impatient of delay, Resolve by single fight to try the day. Each does the other with Contempt defie, Resolv'd to conquer, or resolv'd to die; Both Armies are commanded to withdraw, In expectation who should give 'em Law; While the amaz'd Spectators full of care, Hope for a better or worse Tyrant fear: And now these Princes meet, now they engage With all their chiefest Strength and highest Rage: Now with their Instruments of Wrath they push, As Hills in Earthquakes on each other rush; Where their Militia lies is still in doubt, Whether like Elephants upon their Snout; Or if upon their Heads vast Horns they wore, Or if they fought with Tusks like the wild Boar. Some Greshamites perhaps, with help of Glass, And poring long upon't, may chance to guess; But no Tradition has inform'd our Age, What were their chiefest instruments of Rage. With small or no advantage they proceed, Both are much bruised, and their Wounds do bleed: Both keep their Anger, both do lose their force, Both get the better, neither get the worse; Justice her self might put into each Scale One of these Princes, and see neither fall: Spurr'd on by Fury, now they both provide, To let one grapple, this great cause decide; Joyning, they strive, and such resistance make, Both fall together in the Briny Lake, Where from the trouble of a tottering Crown, Each mighty Monarch is laid gently down: Both Armies at this sight amazed stand, In doubt, who shall obey, who shall command: In this extremity they both agree, A Common-wealth their Government shall be.

Instructions to his Mistress how to behave her self at Supper with her Husband, 1682.

SInce to restrain our Joys, that ill, but rude Familiar thing, your Husband, will intrude; For a just judgment, may th' unwelcome Guest, At this Night's lucky Supper eat his last; O how shall I with Patience e'er stand by, While my Corinna gives another Joy; His wanton hands in her soft Bosom warms, And folds about her Neck his clasping Arms. O tortering Sight; but since it must be so, Be kind, and learn what 'tis I'de have you do. Come first be sure; for though the place may prove, Unfit for all we wish, you'll show me Love: When call'd to Table, you demurely go, Gently in passing, touch my hand or so: Mark all my Actions, well observe my Eye, My speaking Signs, and to each Sign reply. If I do ought of which you would complain, Upon your Elbow languishingly lean: But if you're pleas'd with what I do or say, Steal me a Smile, and snatch your Eyes away: When you reflect on our past secret Joys, Hold modestly your Fan before your Eyes; And when the nauseous Husband tedious grows, Your lifted Hands with scornfull Anger close, As if you call'd for vengeance from above, Upon that dull impediment to Love: A thousand skilfull ways we'll find to show Our mutual Love, which none but we shall know. I'll watch the parting Glass where-e'er you drink, And where your Lips have touch'd it, kiss the Brink: Like still the dish that in your reach does stand, Taking the Plate, I so may feel your hand. But what he recommends to you to eat, Coyly refuse, as if you loath'd the Meat;

Nor let his Matrimonial Right appear, By any ill-tim'd Houshold freedom there: Let not his fulsom Arms embrace your Wast, Nor lolling Head upon your Bosom rest. One Kiss would straight make all my Passion known, And my fierce Eyes with rage would claim their own; Yet what thus passes will be done i'th' Light, But oh! the Joys that may be kept from Sight; Legs lock't in Legs, Thighs pressing Thighs, and all The wanton Spells that up Love's Fury call: Those cunning Arts that I so oft have us'd, Makes me now fear to be my self abus'd; To clear my doubts, so far your Chair remove, As may prevent th' intelligence of Love Put him in mind of pledging ev'ry Health, And let the tutor'd Page add Wine by stealth; The Sot grown drunk, we easier may retire, And do as the occasion will require: But after all, (alas) how small the gains Will be, for which we take such mighty pains: Torn from my Arms, you must go home to bed, And leave your poor forsaken Lover dead: Cruel Divorce, enough to break my Heart, Without you promise this before we part; When my blest Rival goes to reap his Joy, Receive him so as may the Bliss destroy: Let not the least kind mark of Love escape, But all be Duty and a lawfull Rape; So deadly cold and void of all desire, That like a Charm it may put out the Fire; But if compell'd you should at last comply, When we meet next be sure you all deny.

The Session of the Poets,

to the Tune of Cook Lawrel

1.

APollo concern'd to see the Transgressions Our paultry Poets do daily commit, Gave order once more to summon a Sessions, Severely to punish the abuses of Wit.

2.

Will D'Avenant wou'd fain have been Steward o'th Court To have fin'd and amer'd each Man at his will; But Apollo, it seems, had heard a report, That his choice of new Plays did show h'had no skill.

3.

Besides some Criticks had ow'd him a spite, And a little before had made the God fret, By letting him know the Laureat did write, That damnable Farce, The House to be Lett.

4.

Intelligence was brought, the Court being set, That a Play Tripartite was very near made; Where malicious Matt Clifford and spiritual S—t Were joyn'd with their Duke, a Peer of the Trade.

5.

Apollo rejoyc'd, and did hope for amends, Because he knew it was the first case, The Duke e'er did ask the advice of his Friends, And so wish his Play as well clapt as his Grace.

6.

O yes being made, and silence proclaim'd, Apollo began to read the Court Roul, When as soon as he saw Frank Berkley was nam'd, He scarce cou'd forbear from tearing the Scroul.

7.

But Berkley, to make his interest the greater, Suspecting before what would come to pass, Procur'd him his Cozen Fitz harding's Letter, With which Apollo wiped his Arse.

8.

Guy with his Pastoral next went to Pot, At first in a dolefull Study he stood, Then shew'd a Certificate which he had got From the Maids of Honour, but it did him no good.

9.

Humorous Weeden came in in a pet, And for the Laurel began to splutter; But Apollo chid him, and bid him first get A Muse not so common as Mrs. Rutter.

10.

A number of other small Poets appear'd, With whom for a time Apollo made sport; Clifford and Flecknoe were very well jear'd, And in conclusion whipp'd out of the Court.

11.

Tom Killegrew boldly came up to the Bar, Thinking his jibing would get him the Bays, But Apollo was angry and bid him beware That he caught him no more a printing his Plays.

12.

With ill luck in Battle but worse in Wit, George Porter began for the Laurel to bawl, But Apollo did think such impudence fit To be thrust out of Court, as he's out of Whitehall.

13.

Savage missing Cowley came into the Court, Making Apologies for his bad Play, Ev'ry one gave him so bad a report, That Apollo gave heed to all he could say:

14.

Nor wou'd he have had, 'tis thought, a rebuke, Unless he had done some notable Folly; Writ Verses unjustly in praise of Sam Tuke, Or printed his pitifull Melancholy.

15.

Cotton did next to the Bays pretend, But Apollo told him it was not fit,

Though his Virgil was well, it made but amends For the worst Panegyrick that ever was writ.

16.

Old Shirley stood up and made an excuse, Because many young Men before him were got; He vow'd he had switch'd and spur-gall'd his Muse, But still the dull Jade kept to her old Trot.

17.

Sir R—t H—d call'd for over and over, At length sent in Teague with a Pacquet of News, Wherein the sad Knight, to his grief, did discover, How Dryden had lately robb'd him of his Muse.

18.

Each man in the Court was pleas'd with the Theft, Which made the whole Family swear and rant, Desiring their Obin i'th' lurch being left, The Thief might be fin'd for the wild Gallant.

19.

Dryden, whom one wou'd have thought had more Wit, The censure of ev'ry man did disdain, Pleading some pitifull Rhimes he had writ, In praise of the Countess of Castlemaine.

20.

Ned Howard, in whom great Nature is found, Tho' never took notice of till that day, Impatiently sat till it came to his round, Then rose and commended the Plot of his Play.

21.

Such Arrogance made Apollo stark mad, But Sherly endeavour'd to appease his Chollar, By owning the Play, and swearing the Lad In Poetry was a very pert Scholar.

22.

James Howard being call'd for out of the Throng, Booted and spurr'd to the Bar did advance, VVhere singing a damn'd nonsensical Song, The Youth and his Muse were sent into France.

23.

Newcastle and's Horse for entrance next strives, Well stuff'd was his Cloakbag and so was his Breeches. And unbutt'ning the place where Nature's Posset-maker lives, Pull'd out his Wife's Poems, Plays, Essays & Speeches.

24.

Whoop, quoth Apollo, what a Devil have we here, Put up thy Wife's Trumpery good noble Marquiss, And home again, home again take thy Carreer, To provide her fresh Staw, and a Chamber that dark is.

25.

Sam Tuke sat and formally smil'd at the rest, But Apollo, who well did his Vanity know, Call'd him to the Bar to put him to th' Test, But his Muse was so stiff she scarely could go.

26.

She pleaded her Age desir'd a Reward▪ It seems in her Age she doated on praise, But Apollo resolv'd that such a bold Bard Sou'd never be grac'd with a Per'wig of Bays.

27.

Stapleton stood up and had nothing to say, But Apollo forbid the old Knight to despair, Commanding him once more to write a new Play, To be danc'd by the Poppets at Barthol'mew Fair.

28.

Sir William Killegrew doubting his Plays, Before he was call'd crept up to the Bench, And whisper'd Apollo, in case he wou'd praise Selyndra, he shou'd have a Bout with the VVench.

29

B—st and Sydley, with two or three more Translators of Pompey dispute in their claim, But Apollo made them be turn'd out of door, And bid them be gone like Fools as they came.

30.

Old Waller heard this, and was sneaking away, But somebody spy'd him out of the Crowd; Apollo though h' had not seen him many a day, Knew him full well, and call'd to him aloud;

31.

My old Friend Mr. Waller, what make you there, Among those young Fellows that spoil the French Plays; Then beck'ning to him, whisper'd in his Ear, And gave him good counsel instead of the Bays.

32.

Then in came Denham, that limping old Bard, Whose fame on the Sophy and Cooper's Hill stands; And brought many Stationers who swore very hard, That nothing sold better, except 'twere his Lands.

33.

But Apollo advis'd him to write something more, To clear a suspicion which possess'd the Court, That Cooper's Hill, so much bragg'd on before, Was writ by a Vicar, who had forty pound for't.

34.

Then Hudibras boldly demanded the Bays, But Apollo bad him not be so fierce; And advis'd him to lay aside making his Plays, Since he already began to write worse and worse.

35.

Tom Porter came into the Court in a huff, Swearing damn him he had writ the best Plays; But Apollo, it seems, knew his way well enough, And would not be hector'd out of his Bays.

36.

Ellis in great discontent went away, Whilst D'Avenant against Apollo did rage; Because he declar'd the Secrets a Play, Fitting for none but a Mountebank Stage.

37.

John Wilson stood up and wildly did stare, When on the sudden stept in a bold Scot;

And offer'd Apollo he freely would swear, The said Maister Wilson mought pass for a Sot.

38.

But all was in vain, for Apollo, 'tis said, Would in no wise allow of any Scotch wit; Then Wilson in spite made his Plays to be read, Swearing he'd answer for all he had writ.

39.

Clarges stood up, and laid claim to the Bays, But Apollo rebuk'd that arrogant Fool; Swearing if e're he translated more Plays, He'd Crown him Sir-Reverence with a Close-stool.

40.

Damn'd Holden with's dull German Princess appear'd, Whom if Davenant he got as some do suppose, Apollo said the Pillory should crop off his Ears, And make them more suitable unto his Nose.

41.

Rhodes stood and play'd at bo-peep in the door, But Apollo instead of a Spanish Plot; On condition the Varlet would never write more, Gave him three pence to pay for a Pipe and a Pot.

42.

Ethridge and Shadwell and the Rabble appeal'd To Apollo himself in a very great rage; Because their best Friends so freely had deal'd, As to tell them their Plays were not fit for the Stage.

43.

Then seeing a Crowd in a Tumult resort, Well furnish'd with Verses, but loaded with Plays; It forc'd poor Apollo to adjourn the new Court, And left them together by th' Ears for the Bays.

DESIRE. A Pindaric.

WHat art thou, O thou new fond pain? From what Infection dost thou spring? Tell me, O tell me, thou inchanting thing, Thy Nature and thy Name. Inform me by what subtil art, What pow'rfull influence, You got such vast Dominion in a part, Of my unheeded and unguarded Heart, That Fame and Honour cannot drive you thence? Oh mischievous Usurper of my Peace! Oh soft Intruder on my Solitude! Charming disturber of my Ease, That hast my nobler Fate pursu'd; And all the Glories of my Life subdu'd.

Thou haunt'st my inconvenient Hours, The business of the day, nor silence of the night, That shou'd to cares and sleep invite, Can bid defiance to thy conquering pow'ers. Where hast thou been this live-long Age, That from my Birth till now, Thou never didst one thought ingage, Or charm my Soul with the uneasie Rage, That made it all its humbler Feebles know? Where wer't thou, O malicious Sprite, When shining glory did invite? When int'rest call'd, then thou wer't shy, Nor one kind aid to my assistance brought; Nor would'st inspire one tender thought, When Princes at my feet did lie When thou could'st mix Ambition with my Joy, Then, peevish Phantom, thou wer't nice and coy. Not beauty would invade thee then, Nor all the arts of lavish Men;

Not all the powerfull Rhet'rick of the Tongue, Nor sacred Wit cou'd charm thee on; Not the soft play that Lovers make, Nor Sighs cou'd fan thee to a Fire; No pleading Tears or Vows cou'd thee awake, Nor charm the unform'd — Something— to Desire.

Oft I've conjur'd thee to appear, By Youth, by Love, by all their pow'rs, Have search'd and sought thee every-where, In silent Groves, in lonely Bowers, On flow'ry Beds, where Lovers wishing lie, In sheltring Woods, where sighing Maids To their assinging Shepherds hie, And hide their Blushes in the gloom of Shades. Yet there, ev'n there, though Youth assail'd, Where Beauty prostrate lay, aad Fortune woo'd, My Heart (insensible) to neither bow'd; Thy lucky Aid was wanting to prevail. In Courts I sought thee then, thy proper Sphere, But thou in Crowds wer't stifled there; Interest did all the loving bus'ness do, Invites the Youths, and wins the Virgins too; Or if by chance some Heart thy Empire own, Ah, pow'r ingrate! the Slave must be undone. Tell me thou nimble Fire, that dost dilate Thy mighty force through every part What God or human Power did thee create, In my (till now) unfacil Heart? Art thou some welcome Plague sent from above, In this dear Form, this kind Disguise? Or the false Off-spring of mistaken Love, Begot by some soft thought that feebly strove With the bright piercing Beauties of Lysander's Eyes. Yes, yes, Tormenter, I have found thee now, And found to whom thou dost thy Being owe; 'Tis thou the blushes dost impart, 'Tis thou that tremblest in my Heart.

When the dear Shepherd does appear, I faint and dye with pleasing pain; My words intruding, sighings break, Whene'er I touch the charming Swain; Whene'er I gaze, whene'er I speak, Thy conscious fire is mingled with my Love. As in the sanctify'd Abodes Misguided Worshippers approve The mixing Idols with their Gods. In vain (alas) in vain I strive, With Errors which my Soul do please and vex; For Superstition will survive, Purer Religion to perplex.

Oh tell me, you Philosophers in Love, That can these burning fev'rish Fits controul, By what strange Arts you cure the Soul, And the fiery Calenture remove?

Tell me, ye Fair ones, you that give Desire, How 'tis you hide the kindling Fire? Oh wou'd you but confess the truth, It is not real Vertue makes you nice: But when you do resist the pressing Youth, 'Tis want of dear Desire to thaw the Virgin-Ice. And while your young Adorers lie, All languishing and hopeless at your Feet; Raising new Trophies to your Chastity, Oh, tell me how you do remain discreet? And not the Passion to the throng make known, Which Cupid in revenge has now confin'd to one. How you suppress the rising Sighs, And the soft yielding Soul that wishes in your Eyes, While to the admiring Crowd you nice are found, Some dear, some secret Youth, who gives the wound, Informs you all your Vertue's but a Cheat, And Honour but a false disguise, Your Modesty a necessary slight.

To gain the dull repute of being wise? Deceive the foolish world, deceive it on, And veil your Passion and your Pride; But now I've found your weakness by my own, From me the needfull fraud you cannon hide; For, though with Vertue I the world perplex, Lysander finds the feeble of my Sex: So Helen, tho' from Theseus's Arms she fled, To charming Paris yields her Heart and Bed.

On the Prince's going to England, with an Army to restore the Government, 1688.

Hunc saltem everso Juvenem succurrere Saeclo Ne prohibite— Virg. Georg. Lib. 1.

ONce more a FATHER and a SON falls out; The World involving in their high dispute; Remotest India's Fate on theirs depends, And Europe, trembling, the Event attends. Their motions ruling every other State, As on the Sun the lesser Planets wait. Power warms the Father, Liberty the Son, A Prize well worth th' uncommon venture run. Him a false pride to govern unrestrain'd, And by mad means, bad ends to be attaind; All bars of property drives headlong through, Millions oppressing to enrich a few. Him Justice urges and a noble Aim To equal his Progenitors in Fame, And make his life as glorious as his Name. For Law and Reason's power he does engage, Against the reign of appetite and rage. There all the license of unbounded might: Here conscious Honour and deep sense of Right, Immortal enmity to arms incite.

Greatness the one, Glory the other fires, This only can deserve what that desires. This strives for all that e'er to Men was dear, And he for what the most abhor and fear. Caesar and Pompey's cause by Cato thought So ill adjudg'd, to a new Tryal's brought, Again at last Pharsalia must be fought. Ye fatal Sisters! now to Right be Friends, And make Mankind for Pompey's Fate amends. In Orange's great Line, 'tis no new thing, To free a Nation, and uncrown a King.

On his Royal Highness's Voyage beyond Sea. March 30. 1678.

R. H. they say is gone to Sea, Designed for the Hague; But Portsmouth's left behind to be The Nations Whorish Plague.

Some think he went unwillingly, Say others he was sent there; But most conclude for certainty, He's gone to keep his Lent there.

What need I to apologize? 'Tis said, nothing more true is, The chiefest part of's Errand lies, To fetch in Cosen Lewis.

That both together, as they say, If one may dare to speak on't; Thro' Hereticks Throats may cut their way, To bring in James the Second.

By Yea and Nay the Quaker cries, How can we hope for better?

Truth's not in him that this denies; Read Edward Coleman's Letter.

Gar, gar, the Jockey swears faw things, Man here is mickle work; Dee'l split his Wem, he's ne'er be King, Whose Name does rhime to Pork.

Cot's splutter a Nails, the Welshman cries, Got shield her frow her Foes; He near shall be a Prince of Wales, That wears a Roman Nose.

The RABBLE. 1680.

THE Rabble hates, the Gentry fear, And wise Men want support: A rising Country threatens, There, And Here a starving Court.

Not for the Nation, but the Fair, Our Treasury provides: Buckly's, Go—n's only care, As Middleton is Hyde's.

Rowly too late will understand, What now he shuns to find; That nothing's quiet in the Land, Except his careless Mind.

England is now 'twixt Thee and York, The Fable of the Frog: He is the fierce devouring Stork, And Thou the lumpish Log.

A New Song of the Times, 1683.

1.

'TWere folly for ever, The Whigs to endeavour Disowning their Plots, when all the world knows 'um; Did they not fix On a Council of Six, Appointed to govern though no body chose 'um? They that bore sway, Knew not one would obey, Did Trincalo make such a ridiculous pother: Monmouth's the Head, To strike Monarchy dead, They chose themselves Vice-Roys all o'er one another.

2.

Was't not a damn'd thing For Russel and Hambden, To serve all the Projects of hot-headed Tony? But much more untoward, To appoint my Lord Howard Of his own Purse and Credit to raise Men and Money? That at Knightsbridge did hide Those brisk Boys unspy'd, Who at Shaftsbury's Whistle were ready to follow; And when Aid he should bring, Like a true Brandford King, Was here with a whoop, and gone with a hollow.

3.

Algernoon Sidney, Of Common-wealth Kidney, Compos'd a damn'd Libel (ay marry was it) Writ to occasion Ill Blood in the Nation, And therefore dispers'd it all over his Closet. It was not the Writing Was prov'd, or indicting;

Tho' he urg'd Statutes, what was it but fooling, Since a new trust is Plac'd in the Chief Justice, To damn Law and Reason too by over-ruling.

4.

What if a Traytor, In spite of the State, Sir, Should cut his own Throat from one Ear to the other? Shall then a new freak Make Braddon and Speak To be more concern'd than his Wife or his Brother? A Razor all bloody, Thrown out of a Study, Is Evidence strong of his desperate Guilt, Sir; So Godfrey, when dead, Full of horrour and dread, Run his Sword through his Body, up to the Hilt, Sir.

5.

Who can think the case hard Of Sir Patience Ward, That lov'd his just Rights more than those of his High∣ness? Oh disloyal Ears, As on Record appears, Not to hear when to do the Papists a kindness. An old doting Citt, With his Elizabeth Wit, Against the French mode for Freedom to hope on; His Ears that told Lies, VVere less dull than his Eyes, For both them were shut when all others were open.

6.

All Europe together Can't shew such a Father, So tenderly nice of his Son's Reputation, As our good King is, To labour to bring his By tricks to subscribe to a sham Declaration. 'Twas very good reason To pardon his Treason,

To obey (not his own, but) his Brother's Command, Sir; To merit whose Grace, He must in the first place Confess he's dishonest under his hand, Sir.

7.

Since fate the Court blesses, With daily Successes, And giving up Charters go round for a frolick, Whilst our Duke Nero, The Churches blind Hero By Murder is planting his Faith Apostolick. Our modern Sages, More wise than past Ages, Think ours to establish by Popish Successors; Queen Bess never thought it, And Cecil forgot it, But 'tis lately found out by our prudent Addressors.

The Battle-Royal: A Dream, 1687.

AS restless on my Bed one Night I lay, Hoping with Sleep to ease the toils of Day, I thought, as graver Coxcombs us'd to doe, On all the mischiefs we had late run through, And those which are now likely to ensue: What 'tis that thus the frantick Nation dreads? And from what cause their jealousie proceeds? Whither at last to what event and end, These sad Presages probably might tend? For as Physicians always chuse to know Th'original cause from whence Distempers flow; And by their early Symptoms boldly guess, Whether or no their art shall have success: So I, like a young bold State Emp'rick too, Did the same methods, and same course pursue; Till with variety of thoughts opprest, I turn'd about to sleep and take my rest:

VVhile fancy like a Quean alone bore sway, And did this Vision in a Dream convey. Unknown, and unperceiv'd, I was me-thought, Into a close retiring Chamber brought, And by my Guide behind the Hangings plac'd, VVhere I cou'd hear and see whatever pass'd: VVhen in a corner of the room there sat Three fierce contenders in a hot debate; And on a Table lay before them there The Directory, Mass, and Common-Pray'r. This in a Cloak, That had a shaven Crown, The other in a Surcingle and Gown; VVho by his Garb, Demeaner, and grave Look, I for a Church of England Preacher took; For howsoe'er they're drest they may be known By a peculiar Carriage of their own. At first I heard a strange confused Sound, Nor could the meaning, nor the sense expound: Till he I mention'd last in rage up rose, And partly thro' the Mouth, and thro' the Nose, Did thus his whining Sentiments disclose. And is this all the great reward we must Enjoy for being faithfull to our trust? VVill all the Services we've done the King, No better recompence and profit bring? And can our boasted Loyalty return No other payment but Contempt and Scorn? Must we thus basely from our hopes fall down, And grow the publick scandal of the Town? As our insulting Pride and Government Has been the publick Grievance and Complaint; Our Prebends, and our Bishops too, turn'd out, Depriv'd, and scorn'd, in Querpo walk about; And must a transubstantiating Priest, Be with their goodly Lands and Lordships blest? Did we for this the Popish Plot deride, And all our Sense, and Nonsense too apply'd

To blind the people's Reason and their Eyes, To take it for a Sham and meer Device: Our best and learned'st of Divines employ To foil the Scent, and to divert the Cry; Set bawling P—ing up to talk it down, And fill with canting Raillery the Town? Did we for this young Levites send about, To charm the Rabble and possess the Rout, With feign'd Chymera's of a strange design, Against the Church, and State, and Royal Line? And vilely Russel and the rest remov'd, When neither Crime or Plot was ever prov'd? Nay did we all for this the Church disown, And coin a New Religion of our own, Of a more spruce and fashionable make, Than was the Old; and boldly undertake By Scripture for to prove the Common Prayer, When we well knew there's no such matter there: Yet like the Calves at Bethel set it up, And made them all before the Idol stoop; And whosoe'ere the business would dispute, We did by Fines and Pillory confute. O precious Book! the dearest thing that's ours, Except our Livings and our Sine-cures; For which, might they but still with us abide, We'd part with thee, or any thing beside: As heretofore without reluctance we, Have truckt our forfeit Consciences for thee: But those are going too—no more he cou'd, Prevented by an overflowing Flood Of Tears, which his lawn Band and Gown besmear'd, As th' Ointment drench'd his Predecessor's Beard. The subtle Priest who had resolv'd to stay, Till he had spoken all he had to say; Seeing the wretch with too much Grief o'relaid, Stood up, and thus the following Answer made. 'Tis true, you've done all this and ten times more, As bad or worse than we have done before;

And if ye think ye have oblig'd the King, Who were but under-Actors in the thing; Then what do we deserve, whose wit and brain Contriv'd the Plot and every private Scene? For though a Conquest always is obtain'd, And by each Souldier's single valour gain'd; Yet those who did command and lead them on, Share all the open Honour and Renown. Ye were our Instruments, and Drudges too; As Rumney, Keeling, Howard, were to you; Who when they brought about your own design, You left them to themselves to starve and pine: So we the grand projectors of the Plot, Who did to you your several parts allot, Having no farther Service to employ, Think fit, as useless Tools, to lay you by. Besides, what title or pretence have you, To any thing ye hold as right and due, Since they were setled first on us alone, And could no other Lords and Masters own; Till ye by Rapine, Sacrilege and Force, Discas'd us of our Rights and made them yours? Nor can a Case more Legal e're appear, At Court of Conscience, or at Chanc'ry Barr, Than what ye did by violence obtain, Should to their ancient Lords return again. But that which you so much insist upon, Your boasted Loyalty and Service done, From whence ye most erroneously inferr'd, The Justice of your Claim to a Reward, Is a meer trifle and a weak defence, With no validity of Consequence; For there's no reason he should be repaid, Who undesignedly a Kindness did; When all the while his thoughts were fix'd upon His own advancement and increase alone; And all the profit that to me he brings, Is by the bye and natural course of things.

'Twas rancour, envy, meer revenge and spite, That made ye thus against Fanaticks fight; And the dear dread of losing all ye had, That first engag'd your malice on our side, To plead the Royal Cause, and to promote The King's Concern, and for Succession vote; When could ye any other way have kept The Saddle, and in ease and safety slept, The King might have been banish'd, hang'd or drown'd, E're Succour or Relief from you have found. But matters and affairs as yet are not To such a difficult Conjuncture brought, But that an handsome fetch may bring ye off With Honour and Security enough: One gentle turn will all the business do, Advance your Livings and secure them too; Safe ye shall lie from all Fanatick harms, Encircled in your Mother-Churches Arms, From which ye've stray'd so long, and now to whom Ye ought in duty and respect to come. The mournfull Levite straight prick'd up his Ears, As glad that things were better than his fears, And joyfull heard what means the Priest had found, That might for his dear Benefice compound, Compos'd his Band, and wip'd his blubber'd Cheeks, Stood up again, and thus demurely speaks. The Proverb to my case I may apply, Winners may justly laugh, and losers cry: For when I thought my Livelihood was gone, It was no wonder that I so took on; As 'tis none now, Smiles should my gladness shew, For these good tydings I receive from you; Therefore, dear Sir, let us our Hearts combine, And both in league against Dissenters joyn. My self I under your tuition place, For Management and Method in the case, How to proceed — The Cloak, who all this while, Had unprovok'd and unconcern'd sate still,

And wisely what they'd both be at he guest, Stood up to speak and to compleat the Jest: But glowing Anger had so now prevail'd, That in the first attempt he stopp'd and fail'd; And when he found his Tongue to be confin'd, He made his active Hands declare his Mind. The one engag'd the Levite on the place, And with the Directory smote his Face. Confounded with the Stroke he stagger'd round, And falling in his wrath tore up the Ground. T'other he laid directly o'er the Chest, Sent Ecchoes from the hollow Breast of Priest, Who stumbling as he went to take his flight, Fell prostrate o'er his new made Proselyte. On both their bodies mounts the nimble Cloke, And this his Epicinium manly spoke: Dejected Wretches, there together lie, Unpitied, unbewail'd by every Eye; May after-Ages your curst Names deride, As we your damn'd Hypocrisies and Pride; No mark remain to know what ye have been, But the remembrance of your Curse and Sin; Which shall down time's continual Tide descend, To propagate your fatal shame and end. So may they fall, and all they that design, Whoe'er in league against the truth combine, By an unarm'd defenceless hand like mine. Pleas'd with the Conquest of victorious Cloke, I laugh'd aloud methought, and so awoke.

An Epitaph upon Felton, who was hang'd in Chains for Murdering the Old Duke of Buckingham:

Written by the late Duke of Buckingham.

HEre uninterr'd suspends, though not to save Surviving Friends th' Expences of a Grave,

Felton's dead Earth; which to the World will be Its own sad Monument, his Elogy: As large as Fame, which whether Bad or Good I say not; by himself 'twas wrote in Blood; For which his Body is intomb'd in Air, Arch'd o'er with Heaven, set with a thousand fair, And glorious Stars; a noble Sepulchre, Which time it self can't ruinate; and where Th' impartial Worm (that is not brib'd to spare Princes corrupt in Marble) cannot share His Flesh; which oft the charitable Skies Imbalm with Tears; daining those Obsequies Belong to Men shall last, till pitying Fowl Contend to reach his Body to his Soul.

An Answer to Mr. Waller's Poem on Oliver's Death, called the Storm:

Written by Sir W— G—n.

'TIS well he's gone (O had he never been) Hurried in Storms loud as his crying Sin; The Pines and Oaks fell prostrate at his Urn; That with his Soul his Body too might burn: Winds pluck up Roots, and fixed Cedars move, Roring for Vengeance to the Heavens above. From Theft, like his, Great Romulus did grow, And such a Wind did at his Ruin blow, Strange that the lofty Trees themselves should fell Without the Axe; so Orpheus went to Hell: At whose descent the stoutest Rocks were cleft, And the whole Wood its wonted station left. In Battle Hercules wore the Lyon's Skin; But our fierce Nero wore the Beast within: Whose Heart was brutish more than Face or Eyes, And in the shape of Man was in Disguise: Where-ever Men, where-ever Pillage lies, Like ravenous Vultures our wing'd Navy flies:

Under the Tropick we are understood, And bring home Rapine through a purple Flood: New Circulations found our Blood is hurl'd, As round the lesser to the greater World. In civil Broils he did us first engage, And made Three Kingdoms subject to his Rage. One fatal Stroke slew Justice and the Cause Of Truth, Religion, and our Sacred Laws. So fell Achilles by the Trojan Band, Though he still fought with Heaven its self in's hand: Nor would Domestick Spoil confine his Mind, No Limits to his Fury but Mankind. The British Youths in Foreign Courts are sent, Towns to destroy, but more to Banishment; Who since they cannot in this Isle abide, Are confin'd Prisoners to the World beside. No wonder then if we no Tears allow To him that gave us Wars and Ruin too: Tyrants that lov'd him, griev'd, concern'd to see, There must be Punishment for Cruelty. Nature her self rejoyced at his Death, And on the Waters sung with such a Breath, As made the Sea dance higher than before, While here glad Waves came dancing to the Shore.

Clarindon's House-Warming: Printed formerly with the Directions to a Painter. Writ by an unknown hand.

WHen Clarindon had discern'd before hand (As the Cause can eas'ly foretell the Effect) At once three Deluges threatning our Land; 'Twas the season he thought to turn Architect.

Us Mars, and Apollo, and Vulcan consume; While he the Betrayer of England and Flander, Like the Kings-fisher chuseth to build in the Broom, And nestles in flames like the Salamander.

But observing that Mortals run often behind, (So unreasonable are the rates they buy-at) His Omnipotence therefore much rather design'd How he might create a house with a Fiat.

He had read of Rhodope, a Lady of Thrace, Who was digg'd up so often e'er she did marry; And wish'd that his Daughter had had as much grace To erect him a Pyramid out of her Quarry.

But then recollecting how the Harper Amphyon Made Thebes dance aloft while he fidled and sung, He thought (as an Instrument he was most free on) To build with the Jews-Trump of his own Tongue.

Yet a President fitter in Virgil he found, Of African Poultney, and Tyrian Dide, That he begg'd for a Palace so much of his ground, As might carry the measure and name of an Hide.

Thus daily his Gouty Inventions he pain'd, And all for to save the expences of Brickbat, That Engine so fatal, which Denham had brain'd, And too much resembled his Wife's Chocolat.

But while these devices he all doth compare, None solid enough seem'd for his strong Castor; He himself would not dwell in a Castle of Air, Though he had built full many a one for his Master.

Already he had got all our Money and Cattle, To buy us for Slaves, and purchase our Lands, What Joseph by Famine, he wrought by Sea Battle, Nay scarce the Priest's Portion could scape from his hands.

And hence like Pharaoh that Israel prest To make Mortar and Brick, yet allow'd them no straw, He car'd not though Egypt's ten Plagues us distrest, So he could to build but make Policy Law.

The Scotch Forts and Dunkirk, but that they were sold, He would have demolish'd to raise up his Walls; Nay ev'n from Tangier have sent back for the mould, But that he had nearer the Stones of St. Paul's.

His Wood would come in at the easier rate, So long as the Yards had a Deal or a Spar: His Friend in the Navy would not be ingrate, To grudge him some Timber who fram'd him the War.

To proceed in the Model he call'd in his Allons, The two Allons when jovial, who ply him with gallons. The two Allons who serve his blind Justice for ballance, The two Allons who serve his Injustice for Tallons.

They approve it thus far, and said it was fine; Yet his Lordship to finish it would be unable; Unless all abroad he divulg'd the design, For his house then would grow like a Vegetable.

His Rent would no more in arrear run to Worster; He should dwell more noble, and cheap too at home, While into a Fabrick the Presents would muster; As by hook and by crook the World cluster'd of A∣tom.

He lik'd the advice, and then soon it assay'd, And Presents croud headlong, to give good example: So the Bribes overlaid her that Rome once betray'd; The Tribes ne'er contributed so to the Temple.

Straight Judges, Priest, Bishops, true Sons of the Seal, Sinners, Governours, Farmers, Banquers, Patentees, Bring in the whole Mite of a year at a meal, As the Chedder Clubs Dairy to the incorporate Cheese.

Bulteales, Beak'ns, Morley, Wrens fingers with telling Were shrivelled, and Clutterbuck, Eagers and Kips; Since the Act of Oblivion was never such selling, As at this Benevolence out of the Snips.

'Twas then that the Chimney-Contractors he smoak'd, Nor would take his beloved Canary in kind: But he swore that the Patent shou'd ne'er be revok'd, No, would the whole Parliament kiss him behind.

Like Jove under Aetna o'erwhelming the Gyant, For foundation the Bristol sunk in the Earth's bowel; And St. John must now for the Leads be compliant, Or his right hand shall also be cut off with a Trowel.

For surveying the building, Prat did the seat; But for the expence he rely'd upon Worstenholm, Who sat heretofore at the King's Receipt; But receiv'd now and paid the Chancellor's custom.

By Subsidies thus both Clerick and Laick, And with matter profane, cemented with holy: He finish'd at last his Palace Mosaick, By a Model more excellent than Lesly's Folly.

And upon the Tarrus to consummate all, A Lanthorn, like Faux's surveys the burnt Town, And shews on the top by the Regal guilt Ball, Where you are to expect the Scepter and Crown.

Fond City, its Rubbish and Ruins that builds, Like vain Chymists, a flower from its ashes returning, Your Metropolis House is in St. James's Fields, And till there you remove, you shall never leave burn∣ing.

This Temple, of War and of Peace is the Shrine; Where this Idol of State sits ador'd and accurst, And to hansel his Altar and Nostrils Divine, Great Buckingham's Sacrifice must be the first.

Now some (as all Builders must censure abide) Throw dust in its Front, and blame situation: And others as much reprehend his Back-side, As too narrow by far for his expatiation.

But do not consider how in process of times, That for Name sake he may with Hyde-Park it en∣large, And with that convenience he soon for his Crimes, At Tyburn may land, and spare the Tower-Barge.

Or rather how wisely his Stall was built near, Lest with driving too far his Tallow impair: When like the good Ox, for publick good chear, He comes to be roasted next St. James's Fair.

Upon his House.

HEre lies the sacred Bones, Of Paul beguiled of his Stones: Here lie Golden Briberies, The price of ruin'd Families: The Cavaliers Debenter Wall, Fix'd on an Eccentrick Basis; Here's Dunkirk-Town and Tangier-Hall, The Queen's Marriage and all; The Dutch-man's Templum Pacis.

Royal Resolutions:

By A. Marvell, Esq.

1.

WHen Plate was at Pawn, and Fob at an Ebb, And Spider might weave in Bowels its Web, And Stomach as empty as Brain:

2.

Then C— without Acre, Did swear by his Maker, If e'er I see England again,

3.

I'll have a Religion all of my own, Whether Popish or Protestant it shall not be known; And if it prove troublesome I will have none.

4.

I'll have a long Parliament always to Friend, And furnish my Treasure as fast as I spend, And if they will not, they shall have an end.

5.

I'll have a Council shall sit always still, And give me a licence to do what I will; And two Secretaries shall piss thro' a Quill.

6.

My insolent Brother shall bear all the Sway,

If Parliaments murmur, I'll send him away, And call him again as soon as I may.

7.

I'll have a rare Son in marrying tho' marr'd, Shall govern (if not my Kingdom) my Guard, And shall be Successor to me or Gerrard.

8.

I'll have a new London instead of the old, With wide Streets and uniform to my own Mould, But if they build too fast, I'll bid 'em hold.

9.

The ancient Nobility I will lay by, And new ones create their Rooms to supply, And they shall raise Fortunes for my own Fry.

10.

Some one I'll advance from a common Descent So high, that he shall hector the Parliament, And all wholsom Laws for the Publick prevent.

11.

And I will assert him to such a Degree, That all his foul Treasons tho' daring and high, Under my Hand and Seal shall have Indempnity.

12.

And what-e'er it cost me, I'll have a French Whore, As bold as Alice Pierce, and as fair as Jane Shore. And when I'm weary of her, I will have more,

13.

Which if any bold Commoner dare to oppose, I'll order my Bravo's to cut off his Nose, Tho' for't I a branch of Prerogative lose.

14.

My Pimp shall be my Minister Primier, My Bawds shall Ambassadors far and near, And my Wench shall dispose of Conge d'lire.

15.

I'll wholly abandon all publick Affairs, And pass all my time with Buffoons and Players, And santer to Nelly when I should be at Prayers,

16.

I'll have a fine Pond with a pretty Decoy, Where many strange Fowl shall feed and enjoy, And still in their Language, quake Vive le Roy.

On the Lord Chancellor H—e's Disgrace and Banishment,

by King Charles II.

PRide, Lust, Ambition, and the Peoples Hate, The Kingdom's Broker, ruin of the State; Dunkirk's sad Loss, Divider of the Fleet, Tangier's Compounder for a barren Sheet: This Shrub of Gentry, marry'd to the Crown, His Daughter to the Heir, is tumbled down; The grand Impostor of the Nobles lies Grov'ling in Dust, as a just sacrifice; To appease the injur'd King and abus'd Nation, Who wou'd believe this sudden Alteration: God will revenge too for the Stones he took From aged Paul's to make a nest for Rooks; All Cormorants of State as well as he, We now may hope in the same plight to see. Go on, great Prince, thy People do rejoyce, Methinks I hear the Nation's total Voice, Applauding this day's action to be such, As roasting of the Rump, or beating of the Dutch: Now look upon the valiant Cavaliers, Who for rewards have nothing had but Tears; Thanks to this Wiltshire Hog, Son of the Spittle, Had they been look'd on he had had but little. Break up the Coffers of this hoarded Thief, There Millions will be found to make him Chief. Of Sacrilege, Ambition, Lust and Pride, All comprehended in the Name of Hyde; For which his due rewards I'd almost said, The Nation may most justly claim his Head.

The Parallel, 1682.

AS when proud Lucifer aim'd at a Throne, To have usurp'd it and made Heaven his own; Blasphemous damn'd Design: but soon he fell, Guarded with dreadfull Lightnings down to Hell: Or as when Nimrod lofty Babel built, A Structure as eternal as his guilt: Let us, said he, raise the pround Tower so high, As may amaze the Gods and kiss their Sky: He spoke, but the success was different found, Heaven's angry Thunder crush'd it to the ground; So Lucifer and so proud Babel fell, And 'tis a cursed fall from Heaven to Hell: So fall's our Courtier now to pride a Prey, And falls too with as much Reproach as they, And justly— That with his nauseous Courtship durst defile, The sweetest choicest Beauty of our Isle; That he was proud, we knew, but now we see, (Like Janus looking at Eternity) Both what he was and what he meant to be. Stern was his Look, and sturdy was his Gate, He walk'd and talk'd, and would have in State; Disdain and Scorn sate Pearching on his Brow; But (Presto) where is all that greatness now? Why vanish'd, fled, dissolv'd to empty Air, Fine Ornaments indeed to cheat the Fair; And which is yet the strangest thing of all, He has not got a Friend to mourn his fall; But 'tis but just that he who still maintain'd, Disdain to all should be by all disdain'd: Had not the lazy Drone been quite as blind, Equally dim both in his Eye and Mind: He might have plainly seen— For the Example's visible to all, How strangely low, ingratefull Pride may fall.

Presumptuous Wretch! but that's too kind a Name, For one so careless of his Master's fame; For as the Serpent did by Fraud deceive, Th' unwary Soul of our first Parent Eve; So he as impudently strove to inspire The Royal Maid with his delusive Fire; But Heaven be prais'd not with the same Success, For though his Pride's as great, his Cunning's less.

The Perfect Enjoyment:

By the E— of R—.

SInce now my Sylvia is as kind as fair, Let endless Joy succeed a long Despair. Oh what a Night of Pleasure was the last! A full Reward for all my Troubles past: And on my Head if future mischiefs fall, This happy Night will make amends for all. Nay tho' my Sylvia's love should turn to hate, I'de think on this, and dying kiss my fate. Twelve was the lucky minute when we met, And on her Bed we're close together set: Tho' listning Spies might be perhaps too near. Love fill'd our Hearts there was no room for fear. And whilst I strove her melting heart to move, With all the powerfull Eloquence of Love, In her fair Face I saw the colour rise, And an unusual softness in her Eyes: Gently they look, and I with joy adore That only Charm they never had before. What she forbids Love doth by signs command, Languishing Looks and squeezing of the Hand, Love's Cypher is not hard to understand: Whilst I transported too with amorous rage, And fierce with expectation to engage: But fas•• she holds her Hands, and close her Thighs▪ And what she longs to do, with Frowns denies.

A strange Effect in foolish Woman wrought, Bred in Disguises, and by Custom taught: Custom, which often Wisdom over-rules, And onely serves for Reason to the Fools. Taught by this method of her foolish Sex, She's forc'd a while me and her self to vex: But when at length we had been striving long, Her Limbs grown weak, and her desires strong, Who then can hold to let the Hero inn, When he assaults and Love betrays within? At last her hand to hide her blushes leave The Fort ungarded, willing to receive My fierce assault, mad with a Lovers hast, Like Lightning piercing and as quickly past: Some little pain might check her kind desire, But not enough to make her once retire: Maids wounds for pleasure bear as Men for praise, Here Honour heals, there Love the smart allays. Now she her well contented thoughts employs, On her past Fears and on her present Joys, Whose Harbinger did freely all remove To make fit room for great luxurious Love: Fond of the welcome Guest, her Arms embrace My Body, and her hand a better place: Which with one touch so pleasing proud did grow, It swell'd beyond the grasp that made it so. Confinement scorns in any closer walls Than those of Love, where it contented falls. Tho' twice o'rethrown it more enflam'd does rise, And will to the last drop fight out Loves prize. She like some Amazon in Story proves, That overcomes the Hero who she loves. In the close strifes he took so much delight, She then would think on nothing but the fight. With joy she laid me panting at her feet, But with more joy does his recovery meet: Her trembling hand first gently rais'd his head, She almost dies for fear lest he is dead:

Then does support him with a busie hand, And with that Balm enables him to stand: Till by her Charms she conquers him once more, And wounds him deeper than she did before: Now faln from the top of pleasure's hill, With longing Eyes we look up thither still; Still thither our unwearied wishes tend, Till we that height of happiness ascend; By gentle steps th' ascent it self exceeds All Joys but that alone to which it leads. First then so long and lovingly we kiss, As if like Doves we knew no other bliss: Still in one mouth our Tongues together play, Whilst groping hands are pleas'd no less than they. Thus cling'd together now awhile we rest, Breathing our Souls into each others Breast: Then give a general kiss of all our parts, Whilst this blest way we make exchange of hearts▪ Here would my praise as well as pleasure dwell, Injoyments self I scarcely like so well: What little this comes short of rage and strength Is largely recompenc't with endless length. This is a Joy if we could last and stay, But Love's too eager to admit delay, And hurries us along so smooth a way. Now wanton with Delight we nimbly move Our pliant Limbs in all the shapes of Love: Our motion's not like those of idle fools, Whose active Bodies shew their heavy Souls, But sports of Love in which the willing mind Makes us as able as our Souls are kind: At length all languishing and out of breath, Panting as in the agonies of Death We lie entranc't, till one provoking kiss Transports our ravisht Souls to Paradise. Oh heaven of Love! thou moment of Delight! Wrong'd by my words, my fancy does the right.

Methinks I lie all melting in her Charms, And fast lockt up within her Legs and Arms. Bent are our minds and all our thoughts on fire, Still striving in the pangs of hot desire; At once like Misers wallowing in their store Of full possession yet desiring more. Thus with repeated pleasures do we wast Our happy hours, which like short minutes past. To such a summ of Bliss our Joys amount, The number now becomes too great to count; And Nature now denying farther force, From Deeds (alas) we fall into Discourse: A fall which each of us in vain bemoans, A greater fall than that of Kings from Thrones. The tyde of pleasure flowing now no more, We lie like Fishes gasping on the shore. And now as after fighting wounds appear, Which we in heat did neither feel nor fear, She for my sake intreats me to give o're, And yet confest she'd gladly suffer more. Her words are coy, while all her motions wooe; And when she askt if that it pleas'd me too, I rag'd to shew how well, but could not doe. Thus does fond Man run himself out of breath, And seeking rest would find it soon in death, Did not kind Nature with a double force, Restrain its strength and stop its headlong course. Indulgently severe she well does spare, This Child for hers that most deserves her care.

A Satyr against Marriage, by the same.

HUsband, thou dull unpitied Miscreant, Wedded to noise, to misery and want: Sold an eternal Vassal for thy Life, Oblig'd to cherish and to hate thy Wife.

Drudge on till Fifty at thy own expence, Breathe out thy Life in one Impertinence. Repeat thy loath'd Embraces every night, Prompted to act by duty not delight. Christen thy forward Bantling once a year, And carefully thy spurious Issue rear. Go once a week to see the Brat at nurse, And let the young Impostor drain thy Purse. Hedge-Sparrow like what Cuckows have begot, Do thou maintain, incorrigible Sot. Oh I could curse the Pimp, (who could do less?) He's beneath pity, and beyond redress. Pox on him let him go, what can I say? Anathema's on him are but thrown away: The wretch is married, and hath known the worst; And his great'st Blessing is, he can't be curst. Marriage! Oh hell and furies name it not! Hence, hence ye holy Cheats, a Plot, a Plot: Marriage, 'tis but a licens'd way to Sin, A Noose to catch Religious Woodcocks in: Or the Nick-name of Love's malicious Fiend, Begot in Hell to persecute Mankind. 'Tis the destroyer of our peace and health, Mispender of our time, our strength and wealth. The Enemy of Valour, Wit, Mirth, all That we can vertuous, good, or pleasant call. By Day 'tis nothing but a needless noise, By Night the eccho of forgotten Joys: Abroad the sport and wonder of the crowd, At home the hourly breach of what they vow'd. In Youth 'tis Opium to our lustfull rage, Which sleeps awhile, but wakes again in Age. It heaps on all men much, but useless care, For with more trouble they less happy are. Ye Gods! that Man by his own slavish Law Should on himself such inconvenience draw. If he would wiser Nature's Laws obey, Those chalk him out a far more pleasant way.

When lusty Youth and flagrant Wine conspire, To fan the blood into a generous fire, We must not think the Gallant will endure The puissant Issue of his Calenture: Nor always in his single pleasures burn, Tho' Nature's handmaid sometimes serves the turn. No, he must have a sprightfull, youthfull Wench, In equal floods of Love his flames to quench: One that will hold him in her clasping Arms, And in that circle all his Spirits charms, That with new motion and unpractis'd art, Can raise his Soul and re-insnare his Heart. Hence spring the noble, fortunate and great, Always begot in passion and in heat: But the dull Off-spring of the Marriage-bed, What is it but a humane lump of lead? A sottish lump, ingender'd of all ills, Begot like Ca••s against their Fathers wills. If it be basterdiz'd, 'tis doubly spoil'd, The Mother's fears entail'd upon the Child. Thus whether illegitimate or not, Cowards and Fools in Wedlock are begot. Let no ennobled Soul himself debase By lawfull means to basterdize his race: But if he must pay Nature's debt in kind, To check his eager Passion let him find Some willing Female out; what though she be The very dregs and scum of infamy? Though she be Linsey-woolsey Bawd and Whore, Close-stool to Venus, Nature's common shore, Impudent, foolish, bawdy, and disease, The Sunday Crack of Suburb Prentices, What then she's better than a Wife by half, And if thour't still unmarried thou art safe. With Whores thou canst but venture: what thou'st lost, May be redeem'd again with care and cost; But a damn'd Wife by inevitable fate, Destroys Soul, Body, Credit and Estate.

FINIS.

Notes

• * 1.1

  Coleman.
• * 1.2

  Octob. the 15th, 76.
• * 1.3

  Major.
• * 1.4

  D— of Buck.
• * 1.5

  Buck.
• * 1.6

  Orm.
• * 1.7

  Lauder•• .
• * 1.8

  Arling.
• * 1.9

  Chancel Shafts.
• * 1.10

  Cliff.
• * 1.11

  Laud.
• * 1.12

  Cliff.