Loyal poems and satyrs upon the times since the beginning of the Salamanca plot written by several hands ; collected by M.T.

ADVICE TO THE Painters Adviser,

WE Dogs and Lions by their Voices know, For by their Notes themselves all Creatures show; Yet here's a Thing I know not what to call, He roars and Barks; what's Good he curses all. No Monster that e're yet from Africk came, But what would start at thy prodigious Fame; Yet we thy Name nor Pedigree can tell, Thou dar'st Blaspheme beyond the Mouths of Hell. What shall I call thee, Monster or base Fiend, That canst daub Paper to so base an end?

Unmouth that Tongue, maugre its double Pale, (Fit Instrument to tell the Devils Tale) Which dar'd blaspheme that Sacred Majesty, The voice of Angels joy'd to Deifie. Foul Traitor, to bespatter such a King With th' Aspish Poison of thy slandering, Whose ev'ry Action (if the Truth we scan) Speaks as much God, as his Foes find him Man? A Prince so tender of his Subjects Good, As would redeem the meanest with his Blood: Heavens Joy, Earths Pride; when After-age shall tell His Worth and Parts, 'twill want a Parrellel. Let Greece and Rome their Heroes Punies call, Our Charles the Great I'm sure outdoes them all. Curst Caitiff, thy sharp Arrow, bitter word, Gaul'd more than Europ's many edged Sword. Ye Heavens look to't, he that attempts so high As Vice-God Charles, threats Gignatomachy. So he that stabb'd fam'd Millain's Duke of yore, By Practice at his Picture did no more. But (Oh! the Devil) see the Serpent flies To his first course, he doubles his Advice To a poor Painter, to draw this and that, And draws himself into the Lord knows what. Even so those Brats of sin we blush to own, We bring to others doors, and lay them down. But (pox upon his Picture) to be short, The wary White could have no colour for't;

Else Hell had paid the Wages of th' abuse, His Quidlibit audendi's no excuse. Kings failings (if th' are any) ought not lie An open Prospect for the Vulgar Eye. He that drew Alexander's scarry Face, Discreetly put his Finger on the place: But where's the Artest that can frame a Line, To Shadow or Eclipse the Glorious Shine Of CHARLES'S Ray? what Eagle-eye can gaze On so much Sun, or fully such a Blaze. Illustrious i'th' Abstract, whose each Glance Would strike Presumption out of Countenance; Much less can any draw his Treasur'd Mind, To every Noble Virtuous Mood inclin'd; Ʋnblemish'd as the Saints, the Sun less clear In that first Shine which Summer'd all the Year: Our Painters well knew this, who e're read o're A Face more puzling Art, a Mind much more. Then, Devil do thy worst, with thy Advice, Charles and his Court are 'bove thy Calumnies. Powers and Dignities approach the Skies, Like Ships the more the Waves do under rise. But 'tis not each Gods Fate alone, else why Do Miscreants slight the Angels Ministry? Ours is but little lower, one remove, Vicegerent to the King of Kings above. The best are still the most malign'd with wrong, Vertue's no fence against a spiteful Tongue;

Is th' Object of his prophanation. Tho pure as new fall'n Snow, free from offence, As blameless Truth, and white as Innocence. His breath blasts those, whose breath perfuming Air, Makes all (save that) as sweet as they are fair, Unbitter'd bitterness it self of all, Earth's Heavenly few, the most Angelicall, But Vice be dam'd, thou art like one of those, Who giddi'd in a Ship at Sea, suppose The Continent doth move as well as they, All tread awry to those whose Feet are splay. If (though our thoughts are free) we must not think Ill of the King; he that shall black his Ink, And pale his Paper with words, startles more, Than, Lord, have mercy, chalk'd upon the door, To traduce Princes in the shapes of sin, Wise Painters choose to draw the Devil in; These are the marks o'th' Beasts, who casts an eye On those (as on a Basilisk) must die. The Mecha Pilgrims at their Prophets Tomb, Need nothing else to make them blind or dumb. Here now my Muse would sit as Judg at last, And Sentence pass on every Sentence past; But he's not worth the while, Avant, be gone; Yet first attend thy Benediction: Thou that darst own, and dost desire no Name, But what is Registred to endless shame, Live long in all the Plagues this World affords; And if thou wilt repent and eat thy words

To choak thee; or, to give the Devil's due, The Hangman draw thee, and thy Painter too.