Poems on several occasions. Humbly dedicated to the right honourable the Marchioness of Tavestock. By the author.
Walwyn, Herbert.
Page 40
On the Heavy Tax on Paper.
THE Tax on Bumfodder, may chance
To cause a want of It in France;
For sure that Monarch can't but think,
We'll beat him till we make him stink:
Yet tho' he flies he'll finely fit us,
When his Back's turn'd upon's besh-t us.
For after all, unhappy we,
Who'll Celebrate our Victory?
The Poet dar'n't advance a Thought,
Tho' Actious throng, and should be wrote,
He won't be Damn'd for the State's Fault.
The Historian will his Memory trust,
With what he has not Tools to adjust,
But the frail Bag I fear will burst.
Page 41 And the poor Hunter of the Planet,
Can't give it House-room when he has won it;
Predicts no more of Popish Downfal,
Himself does first unto the Ground fall,
By strange Decrees made this side Heaven,
A Blow his Stars would ne'er ha' given.
The Parson, tho' he's Charitable,
About the Matter makes a Squabble,
And as the Weavers did, will raise the Rabble.
Then Wo be to the Western Sages,
If those Black Journey-men ha'n't Wages:
For should they lose Dear Pro and Con,
And Preach Extempore alone,
Then those that are Inspired least,
Will only Talk what Wrath suggests,
And so instead of due Applause,
Make long Harangues against the Laws,
Page 42 Tell them their Statues Tongue-tye Fame,
And Banging Lewis makes them Lame.
Down goes Wise Socrates, and Plato,
And Aristotle too, and Cato,
Grey as they are, without Compassion,
Or Mercy of a New Translation,
Tho' Legacy'd to Bless the Nation.
Ay, and (I dread to think on't) Moses
All his Good Old Acquaintance loses,
Doom'd to his Hebrew Garb this Moment,
Nor more wears English Ruff or Comment:
Lost in the Ruins of the Press
Are these, and many more than these;
From Writing Priest to Printing Deacon,
And what I Die a'most to speak on,
The Bookseller must help he Break on.
