The pacificator a poem. Defoe, Daniel, 1661?-1731. 1700 Approx. 26 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 9 1-bit group-IV TIFF page images. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2003-01 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1). A37431 Wing D839 ESTC R4746 12137896 ocm 12137896 54803 This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal . The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission. Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A37431) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 54803) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 91:15) The pacificator a poem. Defoe, Daniel, 1661?-1731. [2], 14 p. Printed and are to be sold by J. 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Keying and markup guidelines are available at the Text Creation Partnership web site . eng 2002-07 TCP Assigned for keying and markup 2002-09 SPi Global Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2002-10 Emma (Leeson) Huber Sampled and proofread 2002-10 Emma (Leeson) Huber Text and markup reviewed and edited 2002-12 pfs Batch review (QC) and XML conversion THE PACIFICATOR . A POEM . LONDON : Printed , and are to be Sold by I. Nutt , near Stationers-Hall . 1700. The Pacificator . WHAT English Man , without Concern , can see The Approach of Bleeding Britain's Destiny ? That Glorious Land which Justly did Preside , For Wit and Wealth , o'r all the World beside ? In vain Victorious NASSAV did Advance His Conquering Arms against the Power of France , Since from those Conquests he is hardly come , But here 's a Civil War broke out at Home : Britannia's Warlike Sons disturb the Isle , Delighting one another to Dispoil , Enur'd to Discord , Envy , and Debate , Hereditary Frenzies of the State. The Fruits of Ten Years War they now prevent , By Civil Feuds , and Private Discontent . The Peace We Gain'd ! Does it so Cheap appear , To Prize so Low , what We have bought so Dear ? The Blood , the Treasure , which has been Destroy'd ! Methinks We shou'd with War and Wounds be Cloy'd , But 't will not be , We cannot hope to find That in the Birth which is not in the Kind : For Pride , and Strife , are Natives of our Soil , Freeholders born , and have Possess'd the Isle Long before Iulius Caesar Landed here , Or Picts , or Painted Brittons did appear , A stubborn People , Barbarous and Rude ; Who , like the Kentish Men , were ne'r Subdu'd . Fierce English Men , in Blood and Wounds delight , For want of Wars , with one another fight : Nothing 's so dangerous to them as Peace , To feed the Flame , and nourish the Disease ; No Laws can this Contentious humour Curb , Their Charter's such , they will themselves Disturb . O Iulian , Iulian , who begun the Cry Against our Safety , for our Liberty , Who wou'd no Mercenary Troops allow , Wou'd you Disband our Standing Army now ? Behold a Civil War is just at hand , I' th' very bowels of your Native Land ; The strong Contention 's grown to such a hight , The Pen's already drawn , and has begun the fight . The Pen's the certain Herald of a War , And Points it out like any Blazing Star : Men Quarrel first , and Skirmish with ill Words , And when they 're heated then they draw their Swords ; As little Bawling Curs begin to Bark , And bring the Mastive on you in the Dark . We had some Jealousies of this last Year , Both sides rais'd Forces , both in Arms appear ; But some Sage Doctors did them both Advise , To make it up without Hostilities : But the deep Quarrel 's now of such a Nature , As Magna Charta fights with Alma Mater ; The Doctors fight , and who shall heal the Matter ? The Dreadful Armies are Drawn out to fight , Encamp'd at large in one anothers fight ; Their Standards are the Red Rose and the White . Nothing but dire Destruction does Impend , And who knows where the fatal Strife will end ? The Men of Sense against the Men of Wit , Eternal fighting must determine it . Great Nokor does the Men of Sense Command , Prince Arthur Trailes a Pike at his Right Hand ; Heroic Nokor made the first Attack , And threw Drammatick Wit upon its Back ; Sixteen Battalions of Old Brittons stand , Enrich'd with Conquest from the Neustrian Strand , Ready to Charge when he the Signal makes ; And thus the Bloody Combat undertakes . His Sence was good , but see what Fate Decrees ! His hasty Talent threw him on his Knees , A Storm of Words the Hero overtook , Disorder'd all his Lines , and all his Squadrons broke . The adverse Troops pour'd in their Light Dragoons , Charg'd him with Forty thousand Arm'd Lampoons ; The Shock surpriz'd him into a Retreat , And Wits Gazette Proclaim'd a huge Defeat ; Printed a List of Wounded and of Slain , And bragg'd he ne'r cou'd Rally up again . But Nokor , like a Prudent General , Resum'd new Courage from a seeming Foil , The same Campagne again in Arms appear'd , And what the Prince had lost , the King repair'd ; Apollo Knighted him upon the spot , With other Royal Bounties I 've forgot . The Wits Commanders tho' they did retreat , Will not allow it to be a Defeat ; Their Troops , they say , soon made a stand again , Besides they lost but Thirteen thousand Men. C — r came next in order to the Charge , His Squadrons thin , altho' his Front was large , A modest Soldier , resolute and stout , Arm'd with a Coat of Sense from head to foot ; No more than need , for he was hard put to 't . He Charg'd the strongest Troops of all the Foes , And gave them several signal Overthrows , But over-power'd by multitudes of Wits , By Number , not by Force oppress'd , retreats ; So Sense , to Noise and Nonsence , oft submits . C — r's a calm and steady Combatant , And push'd the forward Troops with brave Intent , Modest , a Fault not known among his Tribe , And honest too , too honest for a Bribe : The Wits wou'd fain ha' bought his fury off , And proffer'd him Applause , and Gold enough , But 't wou'd not do , he boldly Charg'd again , And by Ten thousand Wounds at last was slain . Some say he was by his own Men betray'd , And basely left alive among the Dead , But I cannot understand how that can be , For how can Treachery and Sense agree ? In Honours Truckle-Bed the Hero lies , Till Sense again , the Lord knows when , shall rise . M — n , a Renegade from Wit , came on And made a false Attack , and next to none ; The Hypocrite , in Sense , could not conceal What Pride , and want of Brains , oblig'd him to reveal . In him the Critick's ruin'd by the Poet , And Virgil gives his Testimony to it ; The Troops of Wit were so enrag'd to see , This Priest Invade his own Fraternity , They sent a Party out , by Silence led , And without Answer shot the Turn-Coat Dead . The Priest , the Rake , the Wit , strove all in vain , For there , alas , he lies among the slain , Memento Mori ; see the Consequence , When Rakes and Wits set up for Men of Sense . But Sense still suffer'd , and the shock was rude , For what can Valour do to Multitude ? The General sent for help both far and near , To Cowley , Milton , Ratcliff , Rochester , Waller , Roscommon , Howard , and to Bhen , The Doubtful Fight the better to maintain ; Giants these were of Wit and Sense together , But they were dead and gone the Lord knows whether . The swift Express he then Commands to fly , To D — , M — , and N — , To send their Aid , and save him from Defeat , But their United Council was Retreat , Reserve your Fortunes for a better Day ; So Sailors , when the Ship 's a sinking , Pray . These are the Sages who Preside o'r Sense , And Laws to all the Common-wealth Dispence , But Wealth and Ease anticipates our fate , And makes our Heroes all degenerate , The Muses high Preferments they possess , And now their Pay's so great their Pains decrease ; So R — fought , so H — too fell on , Till Lords of O — made and T — . And now the Wits their Victory Proclaim , Loaden with Spoils of Sense , and swell'd with Fame ; Their Plunder first they carefully bestow , And then to spread their Conquest farther , go , Their Troops divide , their Terror to extend , And God knows where their Ravages will end . D — s Commanded the Forlorn of Wit , A stiff Politish Critick , very fit The open Country to over-run , And find out all Mens Errors but his own ; His Stony-Stratford Mistress read his Fate , A Slovens Fancy , and an Empty Pate . But now Commission'd by the Jingling Train , He has his Thousands , and Ten Thousands slain : He , like the Tartars , who fore-run the Turks , Easie to be distinguish'd by his Works , With equal Havock , and destructive Hate , Leaves all the Land he treads on Desolate ; He roots up Sense , and sows the Weeds of Wit , And Fops and Rakes , ten thousand strong , submit . C — e and D — n , H — s and M — x , D — y , and everlasting Fops , and Beaus , Led up the Battel Fifty thousand strong , Arm'd with Burlesque , Bombast , and Bawdy-Song ; Flesh'd with Great C — 's Slaughter they led on , Shouting Victoria , the Day 's their own . No Bounds to their Licentious Arms they know , But Plunder all the Country as they go , Kill , Ravish , Burn , Destroy , do what they please ! The French at Swamerdam were Fools to these . The Cruelties they Exercis'd were such , Amboyna's nothing , they 've out-done the Dutch ; Never such Devastation sure was known , A Man of Sense cou'd not be seen in Town . T — n , even Hackney T — n , wou'd not Print , A Book without Wits Imprimatur in 't ; And as in Revolutions of the State , Men strive the present things to imitate , So when the Wits , and Fops , had got the best , Men Acquiesc'd , and took the Oaths and Test : Few wou'd be Martyrs for their Understanding , But all went over at the Prince's Landing ; So Story tells , in Crook-back'd Richard's Time , Folks wore false Humps to make them look like him . News , hasty News , the Post is just come in . Nokor has Rally'd all his Troops again ; In a Pitch'd Field he met the haughty Foe , And gave them there a total Overthrow , The Slaughter's great , the Soldiers still pursue ▪ For they give Quarter but to very few ; Wits Routed , all the Beaus are quite undone , Their General 's slain , their Army 's fled and gone . See the uncertain fate of humane Things ! Change lays its fickle hands on States and Kings ; This bloody Battel has undone us all , Wit from its Glorious blazing Throne will fall , For all the Flower of Gallantry , and Wit , Was listed here , and overthrown in it . The Florid G — h was General of Horse , And lost his Life and Fame too , which was worse ; The Credit of this new Commander brought , With hopes of Plunder , many a Coward out , Who hitherto had very wisely chose , The Name of Wits , but had declin'd the blows . 'T was dismal to behold the Field of War , What Desolation Wit has suffer'd there , Whole Squadrons of Epick Horse appears , Trod down by his Heroic Curassiers , G — h lost his Darling Satyrick Dragoons , And two Brigades of Light Horse , call'd Lampoons , Old Soldiers all , well beaten to the Wars , Known by their Roughness , Vgliness , and Scars ; Fellows , the like were never heard nor read of , " Wou'd bite sometimes , enough to bite one's Head off , Nor cou'd their swiftness their Escape procure , For Nokor's Fury nothing cou'd endure : Enrag'd with former Losses he fell on , Resolv'd to Conquer , or be quite undone , Whole Wings of Foreign Troops he overthrew , Whom G — h from France to Wits assistance drew , Something the Matter was those Troops betraid 'em , He ill Procur'd them , or he had not Paid 'em ; 'T was a dull fancy in him to think fit , To polish English Sense with Foreign Wit. Among the Foot the Battel was severe , For Wits best Troops were wisely planted there , Led up by old Experienc'd Commanders , As D — n , C — e , A — n and S — s. The Granadiers were known by their Blue Bonnets , For they had been in Scotland making Sonnets ; Pun-Master-General D — y led them on , And with his Chattering Tunes the fight began . His Orders were to Charge , and then retire , And give the Body liberty to fire ; Ten Regiments of Plays stood on the Right , Led on by General D — n to the Fight ; The Tragedies had made some small pretence To Mutiny , and so Revolt to Sense . For D — n had some Sense , till he thought fit To Dote , and lately Deviate into Wit ; The Reason's plain , and he has found it true , He follow'd Wit which did too fast pursue . The Left was form'd of seven large Brigades , Of Farces , Opera's , and Masquerades , With several little Bands of Dogrel Wit , To Scowre the Ways , and Line the Hedges fit . Between these mighty Wings was rang'd in sight , A solid Phalanx of Compounded Wit ; Ten thousand Lyrick Foot , all Gallant Beaus , Arm'd with soft Sighs , with Songs , and Billet-Doux . There was Eight thousand Elegiack Foot , By Briny Tears and Sullen Grief made stout ; Five Pastoral Bands , lately bred up in Arms , By Chanting Gloriana's Mighty Charms , And Thund'ring out King WILLIAM's loud Alarms . Pindarick Legions , seven I think appear'd Like Brandenburghers , with the Enchanted Beard , For Lions Skins , and Whisker's late so fear'd . These were led up by able old Commanders , As C — e , H — s , Soldiers Bred in Flanders , With D — s , D — y , T — n , Dull M — x , B — r , W — y , P — s , Fops and Beaus , Dull T — e , and Pious B — y , Old T — e , G — n , Tom B — n , and many a Subaltern ; Some Flying Troops were plac'd in Ambuscade , Mock-Wits , Beau-Wits , and Wits in Masquerade , Some Amazonian Troops of Female Wit , For Ostentation , not for Combat fit ; The Witty D — t appear'd there too , Whose Wit 's in Prose , but all Incognito . There was one Caledonian Voluntier , With some Hibernian Wits brought up the Rear ; The whole , as by the Musters may be seen , Was Ninety seven thousand Fighting Men. All these drawn up , and ready to Engage , Old General D — n , with a Pious Rage , That the Great Work might with success go on , First Sacrific'd to the Emperor o' th' Moon ; The Poet and the Priest alike in Fame , " For Priests of all Religions are the same . When Nokor's Conquering Troops began t' appear , They found a very warm Reception here , He had Invok'd the Gods of Wit before , And vow'd to make their Altars smoke once more , With Bloody Hecatombs of Witty Gore . Swifter than Lightning at their Host he flew , His Word was D — , D — , M — , His Squadrons in Poetick Terror shone , And whisper'd Death to Wit as they came on : The strong Brigades of his Heroic Horse , Dreadful for Sense , for Pointed Satyr worse , Wing'd with Revenge , in fiery Raptures flew , And dipt in Poison'd Gall the Darts they threw ; Nothing cou'd Nokor's furious Troops withstand , Nor cou'd he check them with his own Command . The Troops of Wit , Disorder'd , and O'r-run , Are Slain , Disperc'd , Disgrac'd , and Overthrown ; The Shouts of Triumph reach the distant Sky , And Nokor lies Encamp'd in the Field of Victory . These are the doubtful dark Events of War , But who Britannia's Losses shall Repair ? For as when States in Civil Wars Engage , Their Private Feuds and Passions to asswage , The Publick suffers , harmless Subjects bear The Plagues , and Famines , which attend the War. So if we this Destructive War permit , Britain will find the Consequence of it , A Dearth of Sense , or else a Plague of Wit ; For Wit , by these Misfortunes desperate , Begins to arm at an unusual rate , Levies new Forces , gives Commissions out , For several Regiments of Horse and Foot , Recruits from every side come in amain , From Oxford , Cambridge , Will 's , and Warwick-lane . The scatter'd Troops too , from the last Defeat , Begin to Halt , and check their swift Retreat : In numerous Parties Wit appears again , Talks of another Battel this Campagne , Their strong Detachments o'r Parnassus range , And meditate on nothing but Revenge . To whom shall we Apply , what Powers Invoke , To deprecate the near impending stroke ? Ye Gods of Wit and Arts , their Minds inspire With Thoughts of Peace , from your Pacifick Fire ; Engage some Neighbouring Powers to undertake To Mediate Peace , for Dear Britannia's sake ; Pity the Mother rifl'd of her Charms , And make her Sons lay down Intestine Arms. Preliminary Treaties first begin , And may short Truce a lasting Peace let in , Limits to Wits Unbounded Ocean place , To which it may , and may no farther pass ; Fathom the unknown Depths of sullen Sense , And Purge it from its Pride , and Insolence , Your secret Influences interpose , And make them all dispatch their Plenipo's ; Appoint Parnassus for a Place to meet , Where all the Potentates of Wit may Treat , Around the Hill let Troops of Muses stand , To keep the Peace , and Guard the Sacred Land ; There let the high Pretensions be discuss'd , And Heaven the fatal Differences adjust . Let either side abate of their Demands , And both submit to Reason's high Commands , For which way ere the Conquest shall encline , The loss Britannia will at last be thine . Wit , like a hasty Flood , may over-run us , And too much Sense has oftentimes undone us : Wit is a Flux , a Looseness of the Brain , And Sense-abstract has too much Pride to Reign : Wit-unconcoct is the Extreme of Sloth , And too much Sense is the Extreme of both ▪ Abstracted-wit 't is own'd is a Disease , But Sense-abstracted has no Power to please : For Sense like Water is but Wit condense , And Wit like Air is rarify'd from Sense : Meer Sense is sullen , stiff , and unpolite , Meer Wit is apoplectick , thin , and light : Wit is a King without a Parliament , And Sense a Democratick Government : Wit , like the French , where e'r it reigns Destroys , And Sense advanc'd is apt to Tyrannize : Wit without Sense is like the Laughing-Evil , And Sense unmix'd with Fancy is the D — l. Wit is a Standing Army Government , And Sense a sullen stubborn P — t : Wit by its haste anticipates its Fate , And so does Sense by being obstinate : Wit without Sense in Verse is all but Farce , Sense without Wit in Verse is all mine A — . Wit , like the French , Performs before it Thinks , And Thoughtful Sense without Performance sinks : Sense without Wit is flegmatick and pale , And is all Head , forsooth , without a Tail : Wit without Sense is cholerick and red , Has Tail enough indeed , but has no Head. Wit , like the Jangling Chimes , Rings all in One , Till Sense , the Artist , sets them into Tune : Wit , like the Belly , if it be not Fed , Will starve the Members , and distract the Head ▪ Wit is the Fruitful Womb where Thoughts Conceive , Sense is the Vital Heat which Life and Form must give : Wit is the Teeming Mother brings them forth , Sense is the Active Father gives them worth . Vnited : Wit and Sense , makes Science thrive , Divided : neither Wit nor Sense can live ; For while the Parties eagerly contend , The Mortal Strife must in their Mutual Ruin end . Listen , ye Powers , to Lost Britannia's Prayer , And either side to yielding Terms Prepare ; And if their Cases long Debates admit , As how much Condescention shall be fit , How far Wits Jurisdiction shall extend , And where the stated Bounds of Sense shall end , Let them to some known Head that strife submit , Some Judge Infallible , some Pope in Wit , His Triple Seat place on Parnassus Hill , And from his Sentence suffer no Appeal : Let the Great Balance in his Censure be , And of the Treaty make him Guarantee , Let him be the Director of the State , And what he says , let both sides take for Fate : Apollo's Pastoral Charge to him commit , And make him Grand Inquisitor of Wit , Let him to each his proper Talent show , And tell them what they can , or cannot do , That each may chuse the Part he can do well , And let the Strife be only to Excel : To their own Province let him all confine , Doctors to Heal , to Preaching the Divine ; D — n to Tragedy , let C — h Translate , D — y make Ballads , Psalms and Hymns for T — e : Let P — r Flatter Kings in Panegyrick , R — ff Burlesque , and W — y be Lyrick : Let C — e write the Comick , F — e Lampoon , W — ly the Banter , M — n the Buffoon , And the Transgressing Muse receive the Fate Of Contumacy , Excommunicate . Such as with Railing Spirits are possess'd , The Muses Frenzy , let them be suppress'd , Allow no Satyrs which receive their Date From Iuno's Academy , Billinsgate ; No Banters , no Invective lines admit , Where want of Manners , makes up want of Wit ▪ Such as are hardned in Poetick Crimes , Let him give up to their own foolish Rhimes ; Let those Eternal Poets be Condemn'd , To be Eternal Poets to the end : Let D — s still continue unpolite , And no Man read what Dull M — c shall write , Reduce him to his Letter-Case and Whore , Let all Men shun him as they did before . Let M — n talk for what he can't Defend , And Banter Virgil which he ne'r cou'd Mend ; Let all the little Fry of Wit-Profaners Rest as they are , with neither Sense , nor Manners , Forsaken of Apollo's Influence , With want of Language , and with want of Pence ▪ What Fools Indite , let none but Blockheads Read , And may they write in vain , who write for Bread : No Banters on the Sacred Text admit , Nor Bawdy Lines , that Blasphemy of Wit : To Standard Rules of Government Confine , The Rate of every Bard , and Worth of every Line , And let the Rays of their Ambition burn , Those Phaeton-Wits who this Subjection scorn : If they aspire to Invade the Government , Bring them before the Muses Parliament , No Universal Monarchy admit , A Common-wealth's the Government for Wit. FINIS .