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.
      
       
         
           1697
        
      
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             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.
             Buckingham, George Villiers, Duke of, 1628-1687.
          
           [8], 224, 245-267, [1] p.
           
             s.n.],
             [London :
             Printed in the year 1697.
          
           
             In verse.
             Includes index.
             With a final page of advertisements.
             Text and register are continuous despite pagination.
             Reproduction of the original in the British Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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           Great Britain -- Politics and government -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800.
        
      
    
     
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           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
           .
        
         
           Printed
           in
           the
           Year
           1697.
           
        
         
         
         
      
       
         
         
         
           THE
           PREFACE
           .
        
         
           THE
           common
           aim
           of
           Prefaces
           to
           prepossess
           the
           Reader
           in
           favour
           of
           the
           Book
           ,
           is
           here
           wholly
           useless
           ;
           for
           what
           is
           now
           publish'd
           is
           none
           of
           the
           trifling
           Performances
           of
           the
           Age
           ,
           that
           are
           yet
           to
           make
           their
           fortune
           ,
           but
           a
           Collection
           of
           those
           vaulable
           Pieces
           ,
           which
           several
           great
           Men
           have
           produc'd
           ,
           no
           less
           inspir'd
           by
           the
           injur'd
           Genius
           of
           their
           Country
           ,
           than
           by
           the
           Muses
           .
           They
           are
           of
           Establish'd
           Fame
           ,
           and
           already
           receiv'd
           ,
           and
           allow'd
           the
           best
           Patriots
           ,
           as
           well
           as
           Poets
           .
           I
           am
           sensible
           ,
           that
           should
           we
           consult
           our
           superficial
           Hypocriticks
           ,
           they
           would
           often
           be
           apt
           to
           arraign
           the
           Numbers
           ;
           for
           there
           are
           a
           sort
           of
           Men
           ,
           who
           having
           little
           other
           merit
           ,
           than
           a
           happy
           chime
           ,
           would
           fain
           fix
           the
           Excellence
           of
           Poetry
           in
           the
           smoothness
           of
           the
           Versification
           ,
           allowing
           but
           little
           to
           the
           more
           Essential
           Qualities
           of
           a
           Poet
           ,
           great
           Images
           ,
           good
           Sense
           ,
           &c.
           
           Nay
           they
           have
           so
           blind
           a
           Passion
           for
           what
           they
           Excell
           in
           ,
           that
           they
           will
           exclude
           all
           variety
           of
           Numbers
           from
           English
           Poetry
           ,
           when
           they
           allow
           none
           but
           Iambics
           ,
           which
           must
           by
           an
           identy
           of
           sound
           bring
           a
           very
           unpleasing
           satiety
           upon
           the
           Reader
           .
           I
           must
           own
           that
           I
           am
           of
           
           opinion
           that
           a
           great
           many
           rough
           Cadencies
           that
           are
           to
           be
           found
           in
           these
           Poems
           ,
           and
           in
           the
           admirable
           
             Paradise
             Lost
          
           ,
           are
           so
           far
           from
           Faults
           that
           they
           are
           Beauties
           ,
           and
           contribute
           by
           their
           variety
           to
           the
           prolonging
           the
           pleasure
           of
           the
           Readers
           .
           But
           I
           have
           unawares
           faln
           into
           this
           Digression
           ,
           which
           requires
           more
           time
           and
           room
           than
           I
           have
           here
           to
           allow
           to
           set
           to
           it
           ,
           in
           that
           just
           Light
           it
           requires
           .
           I
           shall
           return
           to
           the
           following
           Poems
           ,
           writ
           by
           Mr.
           Milton
           ,
           Mr.
           
             Marvell
             ,
             &c.
          
           which
           will
           shew
           us
           ,
           that
           there
           is
           no
           where
           a
           greater
           Spirit
           of
           Liberty
           to
           be
           found
           ,
           than
           in
           those
           who
           are
           Poets
           ;
           
             Homer
             ,
             Aristophanes
          
           ,
           and
           most
           of
           the
           inspired
           Tribe
           have
           shewed
           it
           ;
           and
           Catullus
           in
           the
           midst
           of
           
           Caesar's
           Triumphs
           attack'd
           the
           Vices
           of
           that
           great
           Man
           ,
           and
           expos'd
           'em
           to
           lessen
           that
           Popularity
           and
           Power
           he
           was
           gaining
           among
           the
           Roman
           People
           ,
           which
           he
           saw
           would
           be
           turn'd
           to
           the
           destruction
           of
           the
           Liberty
           of
           Rome
           .
        
         
           Quis
           hoc
           potest
           videre
           ,
           quis
           potest
           pati
           ,
           &c.
           
        
         
           And
           
             
               Pulchre
               convenit
               improbis
               cinaedis
            
             
               Mamurrae
               ,
               ,
               Pathicoque
               ,
               Caesarique
               .
            
          
        
         
           And
           again
           
             Nil
             nimium
             studeo
             Caesar
             tibi
             velle
             placere
             ,
             &c.
             
          
        
         
           But
           it
           would
           be
           endless
           to
           quote
           all
           the
           Liberties
           the
           Poets
           have
           of
           old
           taken
           with
           Ill
           men
           ,
           whose
           Power
           had
           aw'd
           others
           to
           a
           servile
           Flattery
           ;
           the
           succeeding
           Tyrants
           have
           not
           been
           able
           to
           suppress
           the
           numerous
           Instances
           we
           have
           yet
           of
           it
           .
           We
           have
           therefore
           reason
           to
           hope
           that
           no
           Englishman
           
           that
           is
           a
           true
           lover
           of
           his
           Countries
           Good
           and
           Glory
           ,
           can
           be
           displeased
           at
           the
           publishing
           a
           Collection
           ,
           the
           design
           of
           each
           of
           which
           was
           to
           remove
           those
           pernicious
           Principles
           which
           lead
           us
           directly
           to
           Slavery
           ;
           to
           promote
           a
           Publick
           and
           Generous
           Spirit
           ,
           which
           was
           then
           almost
           a
           shame
           to
           the
           Possessor
           ,
           if
           not
           a
           certain
           Ruine
           .
           I
           believe
           were
           a
           man
           of
           equal
           Ability
           and
           unbyass'd
           Temper
           to
           make
           a
           just
           Comparison
           ,
           some
           of
           the
           following
           Authors
           might
           claim
           perhaps
           an
           equal
           share
           with
           many
           of
           the
           most
           celebrated
           of
           the
           Romans
           or
           Greeks
           .
           I
           know
           in
           a
           Nation
           so
           factious
           as
           this
           ,
           where
           the
           preposterous
           Principles
           of
           Slavery
           are
           run
           into
           a
           point
           of
           Conscience
           and
           Honour
           ,
           and
           yet
           hold
           abundance
           in
           unseasonable
           and
           monstrous
           Divisions
           ,
           it
           would
           be
           a
           task
           that
           must
           disoblige
           too
           many
           to
           undertake
           .
           But
           when
           all
           Europe
           is
           engag'd
           to
           destroy
           that
           tyrannick
           Power
           ,
           the
           mismanagement
           of
           those
           Times
           ,
           and
           the
           selfish
           evil
           Designs
           of
           a
           corrupt
           Court
           had
           given
           Rise
           to
           ,
           it
           cannot
           be
           thought
           unseasonable
           to
           publish
           so
           just
           an
           Account
           of
           the
           true
           sourse
           of
           all
           our
           present
           Mischiefs
           ;
           which
           will
           be
           evidently
           found
           in
           the
           following
           Poems
           ,
           for
           from
           them
           we
           may
           collect
           a
           just
           and
           secret
           History
           of
           the
           former
           Times
           .
        
         
           
             And
             looking
             backward
             with
             a
             wise
             Affright
             ,
          
           
             See
             Seams
             of
             Wounds
             dishonest
             to
             the
             Sight
             .
          
        
         
           Oh
           that
           we
           cou'd
           yet
           learn
           ,
           under
           this
           Auspicious
           Government
           founded
           on
           Liberty
           ,
           the
           generous
           principles
           of
           the
           Publick
           Good
           !
           Sure
           th●s
           
           Consort
           of
           Divine
           Amphions
           will
           charm
           the
           distracted
           pieces
           of
           the
           publick
           Building
           into
           one
           noble
           and
           regular
           Pile
           to
           be
           the
           wonder
           ,
           as
           well
           as
           safeguard
           of
           Europe
           .
           This
           being
           the
           aim
           of
           this
           present
           Publication
           ,
           it
           must
           be
           extremely
           approv'd
           by
           all
           true
           Patriots
           ,
           all
           lovers
           of
           the
           general
           Good
           of
           Mankind
           ,
           and
           in
           that
           most
           certainly
           of
           their
           own
           particular
           .
           
             
               Omnes
               profecto
               liberi
               libentius
            
             
               Sumus
               ,
               quam
               servimus
               .
            
          
           Take
           off
           the
           gawdy
           veil
           of
           Slavery
           ,
           and
           she
           will
           appear
           so
           frightfull
           and
           deform'd
           that
           all
           would
           abhorr
           her
           :
           For
           all
           Mankind
           naturally
           preferr
           Liberty
           to
           Slavery
           .
        
         
           'T
           is
           true
           some
           few
           of
           these
           Poems
           were
           printed
           before
           in
           loose
           Papers
           ,
           but
           so
           mangled
           that
           the
           persons
           that
           wrote
           them
           would
           hardly
           have
           known
           ,
           much
           less
           have
           owned
           them
           ;
           which
           put
           a
           Person
           on
           examining
           them
           by
           the
           Originals
           or
           best
           Copies
           ,
           and
           they
           are
           here
           published
           without
           any
           Castration
           ,
           with
           many
           curious
           Miscellaneous
           Poems
           of
           the
           same
           great
           Men
           ,
           which
           never
           before
           see
           the
           Light.
           
        
      
       
         
           By
           mistake
           of
           the
           Printer
           ,
           the
           Running
           Titles
           of
           the
           Sheet
           G
           ,
           (
           viz.
           )
           from
           
             p.
             81
          
           to
           96
           are
           printed
           wrong
           ;
           and
           should
           have
           been
           printed
           ,
           
             Poems
             on
             State
             Affairs
          
           ,
           instead
           of
           
             State
             Poems
             Continued
          
           .
        
      
       
         
         
           The
           INDEX
           .
        
         
           
             A
             Panegyrick
             on
             
               Oliver
               Cromwell
            
             and
             his
             Victories
             ,
             by
             
               E.
               Waller
            
             ,
             
               Esq
            
             
               Page
               1
            
          
           
             ●●ree
             Poems
             on
             the
             Death
             of
             the
             late
             Protector
             
               Oliver
               Cromwell
            
             ,
             viz.
             by
             Mr.
             
               Dryden
               ,
               p.
               6
            
          
           
             By
             Mr.
             
               Sprat
               ,
               p.
               13
            
          
           
             By
             Mr.
             Waller
             ,
             called
             the
             Storm
             ,
             
               p.
               23
            
          
           
             ●●rections
             to
             a
             Painter
             ,
             said
             to
             be
             written
             by
             Sir
             
               John
               Denham
            
             ,
             but
             believed
             to
             be
             writ
             by
             Mr.
             
               Milton
               ,
               p.
               24
            
          
           
             〈◊〉
             the
             King
             by
             the
             same
             ,
             
               p.
               33
            
          
           
             ●●ntinuation
             of
             Directions
             to
             a
             Painter
             ,
             by
             the
             same
             ,
             
               p.
               34
            
          
           
             〈◊〉
             the
             King
             ,
             by
             the
             same
             ,
             
               p.
               45
            
          
           
             ●●rections
             to
             a
             Painter
             ,
             by
             the
             same
             ,
             
               p.
               46
            
          
           
             ●●rections
             to
             a
             Painter
             ,
             by
             the
             same
             ,
             
               p.
               50
            
          
           
             〈◊〉
             last
             Instructions
             to
             a
             Painter
             about
             the
             Dutch
             Wars
             ,
             1667
             ,
             by
             
               A.
               Marvell
            
             ,
             
               Esq
            
             
               p.
               54
            
          
           
             〈◊〉
             the
             King
             ,
             by
             the
             same
             ,
             
               p.
               78
            
          
           
             〈◊〉
             Loyal
             Scot
             ,
             or
             
             Cleaveland's
             Ghost
             ,
             upon
             the
             Death
             of
             Captain
             Douglas
             ,
             burnt
             in
             his
             Ship
             at
             Chatham
             ,
             by
             the
             same
             ,
             
               p.
               79
            
          
           
             ●●itannia
             and
             Rawleigh
             ,
             a
             Dialogue
             ,
             by
             
               A.
               Marvell
            
             ,
             Esq.
             
               p.
               84
            
          
           
             ●dvice
             to
             a
             Painter
             ,
             by
             
               A.
               Marvell
            
             ,
             Esq.
             
               p.
               89
            
          
           
             〈◊〉
             the
             King
             ,
             by
             the
             same
             .
             
               p.
               92
            
          
           
             
             ●ostradamus's
             Prophesies
             ,
             by
             
               A.
               Marvell
            
             ,
             
               Esq
            
             Ibid.
             
          
           
             ●●r
             Edmundbury
             Godfrey's
             Ghost
             ,
             
               p.
               94
            
          
           
             〈◊〉
             Historical
             Poem
             ,
             by
             
               A.
               Marvell
            
             ,
             Esq.
             
               p.
               97
            
          
           
             
             ●odge's
             Vision
             from
             the
             Monument
             ,
             
               Decemb.
               1675
            
             ,
             by
             the
             same
             .
             
               p.
               102
            
          
           
             〈◊〉
             Dialogue
             between
             two
             Horses
             ,
             by
             the
             same
             ,
             
               1674
               ,
               p.
               106
            
          
           
             〈◊〉
             the
             Lord
             Mayor
             and
             Court
             of
             Aldermen
             presenting
             the
             late
             King
             and
             Duke
             of
             York
             each
             with
             a
             Copy
             of
             their
             Freedoms
             ,
             1674
             ,
             by
             the
             same
             ,
             
               p.
               112
            
          
           
             〈◊〉
             
             Blood
             's
             stealing
             the
             Crown
             ,
             by
             the
             same
             ,
             
               p
               115
            
          
           
             ●●rther
             Instructions
             to
             a
             Painter
             ,
             1670
             ,
             by
             the
             same
             ,
             Ibid.
             
          
           
             ●ceana
             and
             Britannia
             ,
             a
             Dialogue
             ,
             by
             the
             same
             ,
             
               p.
               117
            
          
           
             〈◊〉
             his
             Excellent
             Friend
             ,
             Mr.
             
               Andrew
               Marvell
               ,
               p.
               122
            
          
           
             〈◊〉
             Epitaph
             on
             the
             Lord
             Fairfax
             ,
             by
             the
             Duke
             of
             
               Buckingham
               ,
               p.
               123
            
          
           
             〈◊〉
             Essay
             upon
             tho
             Earl
             of
             
             Shaftsbury's
             Death
             ,
             
               p.
               125
            
          
           
             〈◊〉
             Satyr
             in
             Answer
             to
             a
             Friend
             ,
             
               p.
               128
            
          
           
             〈◊〉
             Character
             of
             the
             English
             in
             allusion
             to
             
               Tacitus
               de
               Vita
               Agric.
               p.
               131
            
          
           
             ●ollen
             with
             his
             Flock
             of
             Court
             Misses
             ,
             
               p.
               132
            
          
           
             ●●r
             Tho.
             Armstrong's
             Ghost
             ,
             
               p.
               135
            
          
           
             ●he
             Royal
             Game
             ,
             or
             a
             Princely
             New
             Play
             found
             in
             a
             Dream
             ,
             
               1672
               ,
               p.
               136
            
          
           
             ●he
             Dream
             of
             the
             Cabal
             ,
             a
             Prophetick
             Satyr
             ,
             
               1672
               ,
               p.
               137
            
          
           
             ●n
             the
             three
             Dukes
             killing
             the
             Beadle
             on
             a
             Sunday
             Morning
             ,
             
               Feb.
               26.
               1670
               ,
               p.
               147
            
          
           
             ●he
             History
             of
             Insipids
             ,
             a
             Lampoon
             ,
             1676
             ,
             by
             the
             Lord
             
               Roch
               —
               r
               ,
               p
               149
            
          
           
             
             ●ochester's
             Farewell
             to
             the
             Court
             ,
             
               1680
               ,
               p.
               154
            
          
           
             
             
             Marvell's
             Ghost
             ,
             by
             Mr.
             
               Jo.
               Ayloffe
               ,
               p.
               16●
            
          
           
             The
             True
             
               Englishman
               ,
               1686
               ,
               p.
               16●
            
          
           
             On
             the
             young
             Statesmen
             ,
             by
             
               J
               D
               —
               n
               ,
               1680
               ,
               p.
               16●
            
          
           
             
             Portsmouth's
             Looking-glass
             ,
             by
             the
             Lord
             
               Roch
               —
               r
               ,
               p.
               16●
            
          
           
             The
             Impartial
             Trimmer
             ,
             
               1682
               ,
               p.
               16●
            
          
           
             Bajazet
             to
             
               Gloriana
               ,
               1683
               ,
               p.
               16●
            
          
           
             On
             King
             Charles
             ,
             by
             the
             Earl
             of
             Rochester
             ,
             for
             which
             we
             he
             was
             banish'd
             the
             Court
             and
             turn'd
             Mountebank
             ,
             
               p.
               17●
            
          
           
             
             Cato's
             Answer
             to
             Libanius
             when
             he
             advised
             him
             to
             go
             and
             consult
             th●
             Oracle
             of
             
               Jupiter
               Hamon
            
             ,
             translated
             out
             of
             the
             Ninth
             Book
             of
             
               Lucan
               ,
               p.
               17●
            
          
           
             The
             Lord
             
             Lucas's
             Ghost
             ,
             
               1687
               ,
               p.
               17●
            
          
           
             An
             Epitaph
             on
             
               Algernoon
               Sidney
               ,
               p.
               17●
            
          
           
             The
             Brazen
             Head
             ,
             
               p.
               17●
            
          
           
             The
             Answer
             to
             it
             ,
             Ibi●
          
           
             Upon
             the
             Execrable
             Murther
             of
             the
             Right
             Honourable
             Arthur
             Earl
             〈◊〉
             
               Essex
               ,
               p.
               17●
            
          
           
             An
             Essay
             upon
             Satyr
             ,
             by
             
               J.
               D
               —
               n
            
             ,
             
               Esq
            
             
               p.
               179
            
          
           
             Upon
             an
             undeserving
             and
             ungratefull
             Mistress
             ,
             whom
             he
             could
             not
             hel●
             loving
             ,
             
               p.
               186
            
          
           
             The
             Town
             Life
             ,
             
               p.
               19●
            
          
           
             A
             Satyr
             on
             the
             Modern
             Translators
             ,
             
               1684
               ,
               p.
               19●
            
          
           
             The
             Parliament-House
             to
             be
             Lett
             ,
             
               1678
               ,
               p.
               19●
            
          
           
             Advice
             to
             
               Apollo
               ,
               1678
               ,
               Ibid
            
          
           
             The
             Duel
             of
             the
             Crabs
             ,
             by
             the
             Lord
             
               B
               —
               st
            
             ,
             occasion'd
             by
             Sir
             
               R.
               H●
            
             his
             Duel
             of
             the
             Stags
             ,
             
               p
               20●
            
          
           
             Instructions
             to
             his
             Mistress
             how
             to
             behave
             her self
             at
             Supper
             with
             he●
             Husband
             ,
             
               1682
               ,
               p.
               20●
            
          
           
             The
             Sessions
             of
             the
             Poets
             ,
             to
             the
             Tune
             of
             Cook
             Lawrel
             ,
             
               p.
               20●
            
          
           
             Desire
             ,
             a
             Pindarick
             ,
             
               p.
               21●
            
          
           
             On
             the
             Prince's
             going
             to
             England
             with
             an
             Army
             to
             restrore
             the
             Government
             ,
             
               1688
               ,
               p.
               21●
            
          
           
             On
             his
             Royal
             Highness's
             Voyage
             beyond
             Sea
             ,
             
               March
               3d.
               1678
               ,
               p.
               21●
            
          
           
             The
             Rabble
             ,
             
               1680
               ,
               p.
               21●
            
          
           
             A
             New
             Song
             of
             the
             Times
             ,
             
               1683
               ,
               p.
               21●
            
          
           
             The
             Battle-Royal
             :
             A
             Dream
             ,
             
               1687
               ,
               p.
               22●
            
          
           
             An
             Epitaph
             upon
             Felron
             ,
             who
             was
             hang'd
             in
             Chains
             for
             Murdering
             th●
             Old
             Duke
             of
             Buckingham
             :
             Written
             by
             the
             late
             Duke
             of
             
               Buckingham
               ,
               p.
               24●
            
          
           
             An
             Answer
             to
             Mr
             Waller's
             Poem
             on
             
             Oliver's
             Death
             ;
             called
             the
             Storm
             Written
             by
             Sir
             
               W
               —
               G
               —
               .
               p.
               24●
            
          
           
             
             Clarindon's
             House-Warming
             :
             Printed
             formerly
             with
             the
             Directions
             to
             〈◊〉
             Painter
             .
             Writ
             by
             an
             unknown
             Hand
             .
             
               p.
               24●
            
          
           
             Royal
             Resolutions
             :
             By
             
               A.
               Marvell
            
             ,
             
               Esq
            
             
               p.
               25●
            
          
           
             On
             the
             Lord
             Chancellour
             H
             —
             e's
             Disgrace
             and
             Banishment
             ,
             by
             King
             
               Charles
               II.
               p.
               25●
            
          
           
             The
             Parallel
             ,
             
               1682.
               p.
               254
            
          
           
             The
             perfect
             Enjoyment
             ,
             by
             the
             Earl
             of
             
               Rochester
               ,
               p.
               25●
            
          
           
             A
             Satyr
             against
             Marriage
             ,
             by
             the
             same
             ,
             
               p.
               25●
            
          
        
         
           
             ADDENDA
             .
          
           
             In
             Opposition
             to
             Mr.
             
             Dryden's
             Essay
             on
             Satyr
             ,
             
               1689.
               p.
               16●
            
          
        
      
    
     
       
         
         
           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
             Oxford
             ,
             and
             Mr.
             
               Edm.
               Waller
            
             .
          
           
             
               Heroick
               Stanza's
               ,
               on
               the
               late
               Vsurper
               
                 Oliver
                 Cromwell
              
               :
               Written
               after
               his
               Funeral
               ,
            
             
               by
               Mr.
               Dryden
               .
            
             
               
                 I.
                 
              
               
                 AND
                 now
                 't
                 is
                 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
                 't
                 is
                 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
                 .
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 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
               Wadham
               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
               humbly
               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
               general
               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
               Indulgence
               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
                 ,
                 Pindarick
                 Odes
              
               .
            
             
               
                 I.
                 
              
               
                 T
                 IS
                 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
                 .
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 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
                 .
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 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
                 !
              
               
                 Whos
                 's
                 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
                 't
                 was
                 little
                 ,
                 't
                 was
                 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
                 ;
              
               
                 'T
                 was
                 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
                 ;
              
               
                 'T
                 was
                 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
                 't
                 is
                 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
                 ,
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 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
               Vsurper
               
                 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
             ,
          
           
             'T
             is
             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
             't
             was
             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
             ,
          
           
             'T
             were
             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
               ,
            
             
               'T
               is
               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
               't
               is
               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
            
             
               'T
               was
               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
               't
               were
               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
            
             
               'T
               was
               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
               it
               s
               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
               .
            
             
               'T
               is
               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
               ,
               't
               is
               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.
            
             
               'T
               is
               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
               ,
               't
               is
               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
               ,
               't
               was
               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
               't
               is
               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
               't
               was
               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
               't
               is
               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
                 't
                 would
                 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
               't
               was
               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
               't
               were
               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
               .
            
             
               'T
               is
               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
             't
             is
             right
             ?
          
           
             For
             so
             we
             too
             without
             a
             Fleet
             can
             fight
             .
          
           
             Or
             canst
             thou
             daub
             a
             sign-post
             ,
             and
             that
             ill
             ?
          
           
             'T
             will
             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
             ?
          
           
             'T
             will
             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
             't
             was
             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
             't
             were
             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
             't
             were
             sweet
             ,
          
           
             But
             with
             a
             Parliament
             abhorrs
             to
             meet
             ;
          
           
             And
             thinks
             't
             will
             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
             't
             was
             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
             't
             were
             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
             ,
          
           
             'T
             is
             
               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
             ,
             't
             is
             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
               ,
            
             
               'T
               is
               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
               ?
            
             
               'T
               is
               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
               ,
            
             
               'T
               is
               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
            
             it
             s
             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
             ,
             't
             is
             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
             —
             ther
             's
             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
             't
             was
             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
             ;
          
           
             'T
             was
             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
             :
          
           
             'T
             is
             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
               —
            
             ,
             't
             is
             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
             ,
             
          
           
             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
               —
            
             ,
             't
             is
             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
             .
             
          
           
             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
             ,
             
          
           
             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
             ,
          
           
             'T
             was
             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
               Marvell
            
             ,
             
               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
               't
               is
               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
                 ,
                 't
                 is
                 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.
                 
              
               
                 'T
                 is
                 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
                 ;
              
               
                 Le
                 ts
                 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
                 —
                 t
                 s
                 ,
                 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
               ,
            
             
               'T
               is
               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
             ,
             presenting
             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
               ;
            
             
               'T
               is
               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
               enroll'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.
          
           
             'T
             is
             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
               !
            
             
               'T
               is
               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
             :
          
           
             T
             was
             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
             't
             is
             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
             't
             was
             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
            
             .
          
           
             'T
             Is
             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
             ;
          
           
             'T
             is
             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
             ,
             (
             't
             is
             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
             ;
             
          
           
             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
             ,
          
           
             'T
             was
             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
             ,
          
           
             'T
             will
             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
               't
               is
               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
               ,
               
               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
               ,
               
            
             
               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
               ,
            
             
               'T
               was
               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
               ,
               't
               is
               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
               ,
               
            
             
               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
               ,
               
            
             
               (
               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
               't
               is
               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
               ,
               't
               is
               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
               ,
               't
               was
               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
               ,
               
            
             
               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
               't
               is
               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
               ,
               
            
             
               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
               ,
               't
               is
               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
               ,
               
            
             
               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
               't
               is
               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
               ,
               
            
             
               Which
               thus
               he
               did
               ;
               Great
               Sir
               ,
               You
               know
               't
               is
               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
               ,
               't
               is
               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
               ,
               't
               is
               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
               't
               would
               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
               't
               was
               more
               than
               Dream
               .
            
             
               And
               if
               Cabal
               thus
               serve
               us
               Englishmen
               ,
            
             
               'T
               is
               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
             ,
          
           
             'T
             was
             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
             ,
          
           
           
             'T
             is
             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
             't
             would
             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
             't
             were
             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
               ,
            
             
               'T
               were
               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
               't
               is
               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
             ;
          
           
             'T
             were
             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
             t
             was
             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
               ,
            
             
               'T
               is
               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
               ,
            
             
               'T
               will
               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
             't
             is
             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
             't
             is
             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
             't
             is
             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
             't
             was
             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
             .
          
           
             'T
             is
             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
             ;
          
           
             'T
             was
             
             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
             't
             was
             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
          
           
             'T
             was
             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
             ,
          
           
             'T
             is
             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
             ,
          
           
             'T
             will
             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
             ,
             beginning
             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
             whos
             's
             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
               .
            
             
               'T
               IS
               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
             Honourable
             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
             't
             is
             the
             Talent
             of
             each
             vulgar
             Wit
             ;
          
           
             Besides
             ,
             t
             is
             labour
             lost
             ;
             for
             who
             would
             preach
          
           
             Morals
             to
             Armstrong
             ,
             or
             dull
             Aston
             teach
             ?
          
           
             'T
             is
             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
             ;
          
           
             'T
             is
             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
             !
          
           
             'T
             were
             Crime
             in
             any
             Man
             but
             him
             alone
             ,
          
           
             To
             use
             a
             Body
             so
             ,
             though
             't
             is
             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
             't
             is
             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
             't
             is
             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
             :
          
           
             'T
             is
             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
             't
             is
             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
             't
             is
             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
             ,
          
           
             'T
             is
             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
             ;
          
           
             'T
             is
             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
             encroaching
             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
             .
          
           
             'T
             is
             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
             't
             is
             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
             't
             is
             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
             ?
          
           
             'T
             is
             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
             ,
             't
             is
             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
             ▪
             't
             is
             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
             ,
          
           
             (
             'T
             is
             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
               ,
               't
               is
               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
             't
             is
             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
               ,
               't
               is
               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
               't
               were
               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
               ,
               't
               is
               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
               ;
            
             
               'T
               is
               thou
               the
               blushes
               dost
               impart
               ,
            
             
               'T
               is
               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
               't
               is
               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
               ,
            
             
               'T
               is
               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
             ,
             't
             is
             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
               ?
            
             
               'T
               is
               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
               Highness
               ?
            
             
               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
               .
            
             
               'T
               was
               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
               't
               is
               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
             't
             is
             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
             .
          
           
             'T
             is
             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
             .
          
           
           
             'T
             was
             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
             't
             is
             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
             't
             was
             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.
            
             
          
           
             'T
             IS
             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
               ;
            
             
               'T
               was
               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
               Atom
               .
            
          
           
             
               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
               .
            
          
           
             
               'T
               was
               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
               burning
               .
            
          
           
             
               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
               enlarge
               ,
            
             
               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
             't
             is
             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
             't
             is
             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
             ,
             't
             is
             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
             .
          
           
             'T
             is
             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
             't
             is
             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
             't
             is
             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
             ,
             't
             is
             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
           .
        
      
    
     
       
         
         
           ADDENDA
           .
        
         
           
             In
             Opposition
             to
             Mr.
             
             Dryden's
             Essay
             on
             Satyr
             .
             
               1680
            
             .
          
           
             
               NOW
               the
               Reformer
               of
               the
               Court
               and
               Stage
               ,
            
             
               The
               common
               Beadle
               of
               this
               wilfull
               Age
               ,
            
             
               Has
               with
               impartial
               Hand
               whipt
               Soverain
               Sin
               ,
            
             
               In
               me
               it
               is
               but
               manners
               to
               begin
               .
            
             
               To
               correct
               Vice
               keen
               Satyr
               may
               prevail
            
             
               Beyond
               the
               Law
               ,
               when
               preaching
               Blockheads
               fail
               :
            
             
               For
               Law
               and
               Satyr
               from
               one
               Fountain
               flow
               :
            
             
               Were
               not
               men
               vicious
               there
               would
               be
               no
               Law.
            
             
               But
               to
               cry
               up
               his
               sawcy
               Cant
               and
               Rule
               ,
            
             
               For
               lawfull
               Satyr
               ,
               proves
               the
               Witt
               or
               Fool.
            
             
               To
               rail
               at
               States
               ,
               and
               Monarchs
               ill
               entreat
               ,
            
             
               Then
               cry
               't
               is
               Good
               because
               the
               Subject's
               Great
               :
            
             
               As
               Man
               were
               onely
               plac'd
               in
               Paradice
               ,
            
             
               To
               nibble
               on
               the
               Fruit
               on
               which
               he
               dies
               .
            
             
               Can
               Owls
               and
               VVoodcocks
               with
               the
               Eagle
               play
               ,
            
             
               And
               not
               in
               danger
               to
               become
               a
               Prey
               ?
            
             
               VVhat
               is
               't
               to
               lash
               the
               King
               and
               Council-Table
               ,
            
             
               VVhen
               I
               my self
               am
               kickt
               by
               the
               Town
               Rabble
               ?
            
             
               For
               me
               to
               labour
               in
               a
               lower
               sphere
            
             
               I
               think
               too
               much
               ,
               yet
               it
               is
               safest
               there
               :
            
             
               Nor
               do
               I
               covet
               matter
               to
               my
               Rhymes
            
             
               The
               greatest
               Person
               ,
               but
               the
               greatest
               Crimes
               .
            
             
               VVhat
               is
               't
               to
               me
               ,
               who
               keeps
               a
               Mis
               ,
               who
               's
               VVed
               ,
            
             
               Or
               who
               got
               
               Carwell's
               costly
               Maidenhead
               :
            
             
               VVho
               got
               the
               better
               on
               't
               ,
               the
               Peer
               or
               Knight
               ;
            
             
               VVhat
               Lord
               was
               drunk
               ,
               or
               Lady
               —
               last
               night
               .
            
             
               These
               are
               the
               crying
               Crimes
               ;
               yet
               one
               may
               do
            
             
               All
               this
               ,
               and
               be
               an
               honest
               Subject
               too
               .
            
             
             
               But
               to
               supplant
               the
               Government
               ,
               to
               cry
            
             
               A●legiance
               down
               ,
               and
               raze
               out
               Monarchy
               ;
            
             
               To
               make
               Caballs
               ,
               and
               by
               a
               bold
               Petition
            
             
               Imbrue
               the
               Nation
               in
               a
               new
               Sedition
               ;
            
             
               To
               sowce
               Rebellion
               ,
               lay
               up
               Plots
               in
               pickle
               ,
            
             
               And
               make
               each
               Tavern-bar
               a
               Conventicle
               ;
            
             
               This
               would
               become
               a
               Muses
               Excellence
               ,
            
             
               To
               whi●
               the
               Club
               into
               Allegiance
               .
            
             
               who
               'd
               not
               be
               as
               affected
               as
               Sir
               Carr
               ?
            
             
               As
               proud
               as
               
                 M
                 —
                 ve
              
               ,
               as
               dull
               as
               
                 D
                 —
                 ar
              
               ?
            
             
               drunk
               as
               Fish
               ,
               who
               lost
               himself
               and
               Prince
            
             
               〈…〉
               Debauch
               ,
               and
               ne'er
               was
               sober
               since
               ;
            
             
               〈…〉
               than
               that
               insatiate
               Beast
               of
               prey
               ,
            
             
               〈…〉
               Flock
               ,
               to
               make
               himself
               away
               .
            
             
               〈…〉
               cloy'd
               with
               Blood
               of
               Lambs
               and
               Ews
               ,
            
             
               〈…〉
               the
               Shepherd's
               Noose
               .
            
             
               〈…〉
               Men
               find
               a
               more
               safe
               abode
               ,
            
             
               〈…〉
               Paths
               to
               keep
               the
               Road.
            
             
               〈…〉
               humane
               wisdome
               ever
               shou'd
            
             
               〈…〉
               pretence
               of
               doing
               good
               :
            
             
               〈…〉
               Men
               ,
               that
               wou'd
               prescribe
               us
               Rules
            
             
               〈…〉
               ,
               prove
               either
               Knaves
               or
               Fools
               .
            
             
               〈◊〉
               the
               ●ataline
               that
               left
               Whitehall
               ,
            
             
               To
               be
               made
               President
               of
               the
               Cabal
               :
            
             
               So
               h●'s
               in
               play
               ,
               (
               provided
               there
               's
               no
               blows
               )
            
             
               It
               matters
               not
               the
               New
               ,
               or
               the
               Old
               Cause
               .
            
             
               Has
               on
               all
               points
               of
               Government
               ran
               his
               rounds
               ,
            
             
               As
               Gore
               the
               Compass
               did
               with
               Blood
               and
               Zounds
               .
            
             
               But
               sooner
               may
               you
               fix
               the
               Northern
               wind
               ,
            
             
               Than
               hope
               the
               Weathercock
               will
               be
               confin'd
               .
            
             
               Nature
               made
               him
               a
               perverse
               Wight
               ,
               whose
               Nose
            
             
               Extracts
               the
               Essence
               of
               his
               Gouty
               Toes
               .
            
             
               Double
               with
               head
               to
               tail
               he
               crawls
               apart
               ;
            
             
               His
               Bodies
               Emblem
               of
               his
               double
               Heart
               .
            
             
               In
               the
               Courts
               Sun
               he
               riggles
               like
               a
               Snail
               ;
            
             
               Touch
               but
               his
               Horns
               he
               shrinks
               into
               his
               Shell
               .
            
             
               Rowl'd
               like
               a
               Hedgehog
               up
               ,
               he
               shews
               his
               Snout
               ,
            
             
               And
               at
               the
               Council-table
               makes
               a
               rout
               .
            
             
             
               Gainst
               King
               and
               the
               Succession
               domineers
               ;
            
             
               If
               ought
               oppose
               him
               ,
               he
               has
               Forks
               and
               Spears
               .
            
             
               Like
               a
               vile
               Skuller
               he
               abjures
               the
               Realm
               ,
            
             
               And
               sinks
               the
               Barge
               'cause
               he
               's
               not
               chief
               at
               Helm
               .
            
             
               Then
               cries
               all
               hands
               to
               pump
               a
               leak
               i'
               th'
               Keel
               ,
            
             
               And
               stops
               it
               up
               with
               
               Julian's
               Conger-Eel
               .
            
             
               And
               when
               a
               shot
               pierc'd
               the
               broad-side
               ,
               e'en
               then
            
             
               Clapt
               in
               the
               hole
               ,
               and
               sav'd
               Sir
               
               Edward's
               Men.
            
             
               The
               way
               's
               to
               keep
               him
               there
               ,
               if
               he
               get
               through
               ,
            
             
               Secures
               himself
               ,
               he
               drowns
               the
               Ship
               and
               Crew
               .
            
             
               If
               to
               the
               Ocean
               back
               again
               he
               's
               bent
               ,
            
             
               With
               Rabble
               ,
               he
               's
               in
               his
               own
               Element
               .
            
             
               There
               let
               him
               plot
               and
               ne'er
               behold
               the
               Sun
               ,
            
             
               Till
               he
               has
               through
               all
               scenes
               of
               Folly
               run
               ,
            
             
               Under
               pretext
               of
               Wit
               to
               be
               undone
               .
            
             
               As
               the
               late
               Duke
               who
               for
               a
               glorious
               Bully
               ,
            
             
               Retir'd
               from
               Court
               to
               be
               the
               City
               's
               Cully
               ;
            
             
               The
               City's
               Minion
               ,
               now
               their
               scorn
               and
               sport
               ,
            
             
               There
               more
               despis'd
               than
               once
               ador'd
               at
               Court
               :
            
             
               Who
               did
               his
               Fall
               so
               cunningly
               contrive
               ,
            
             
               In
               quaint
               Disguise
               ,
               to
               Ryot
               ,
               Rant
               ,
               and
               S
               —
               ve
               ,
            
             
               And
               when
               he
               lifts
               himself
               in
               Infamy
               ,
            
             
               Reviles
               the
               State
               ,
               and
               rails
               at
               Monarchy
               .
            
             
               The
               only
               means
               true
               Glory
               to
               pursue
               ;
            
             
               And
               must
               the
               best
               way
               be
               because
               't
               is
               new
               .
            
             
               Would
               any
               Hewson
               from
               the
               Throne
               retreat
            
             
               To
               th'
               Stall
               under
               disguise
               of
               being
               Great
               :
            
             
               And
               only
               for
               to
               merit
               vulgar
               praise
               ,
            
             
               Rather
               than
               not
               be
               popular
               ,
               be
               base
               .
            
             
               So
               once
               an
               Emperour
               ,
               as
               Stories
               say
               ,
            
             
               Exchang'd
               his
               Sceptre
               for
               a
               Ferula
               ;
            
             
               And
               only
               proud
               to
               prove
               himself
               a
               Fool
               ,
            
             
               Did
               quit
               the
               Throne
               to
               keep
               a
               
                 Petty
                 School
              
               .
            
             
               Yet
               this
               was
               great
               ;
               while
               only
               for
               the
               noise
            
             
               Of
               Sovereign
               sway
               he
               lords
               it
               over
               Boys
               .
            
             
               Look
               to
               it
               York
               ,
               the
               Nation
               first
               shall
               bleed
               ,
            
             
               Or
               the
               two
               Kings
               of
               Brandford
               shall
               succeed
               .
            
             
             
             
             
             
             
               H
               —
               for
               an
               Empire
               has
               as
               great
               an
               itch
               ,
            
             
               As
               ever
               Dog
               had
               for
               his
               salt
               swoln
               Bitch
               .
            
             
               High
               on
               ambitious
               plumes
               aloft
               he
               flies
               ,
            
             
               And
               to
               be
               something
               melts
               them
               in
               the
               Skies
               ;
            
             
               VVhile
               th'
               humble
               wretch
               at
               home
               lies
               prostrate
               down
            
             
               To
               all
               the
               barking
               Beagles
               in
               the
               Town
               .
            
             
               Young
               D
               —
               too
               does
               in
               the
               Club
               intrude
               ,
            
             
               To
               be
               applauded
               by
               the
               multitude
               :
            
             
               VVith
               zeal
               to
               King
               and
               Countrey
               he
               abounds
               ;
            
             
               Keeps
               with
               the
               Hare
               ,
               and
               opens
               with
               the
               Hounds
               :
            
             
               Now
               of
               the
               Court
               ,
               now
               of
               the
               Countrey
               free
               ,
            
             
               Mistakes
               Prerogative
               for
               Liberty
               .
            
             
               How
               well
               a
               Regiment
               would
               him
               become
               ,
            
             
               If
               the
               loud
               Commons
               did
               but
               beat
               the
               Drum.
            
             
               My
               Masters
               vote
               it
               (
               Sir
               )
               a
               Prohibition
               ;
            
             
               I
               can't
               in
               Conscience
               brook
               with
               your
               Commission
               .
            
             
               To
               levy
               Forces
               ,
               and
               assign
               Commanders
               ,
            
             
               Is
               Treason
               in
               the
               King
               to
               France
               ,
               or
               Flanders
               .
            
             
               But
               if
               the
               House
               command
               me
               though
               I
               starve
               ,
            
             
               I
               'le
               quit
               VVine
               ,
               VVhores
               ,
               Allegiance
               too
               ,
               to
               serve
               .
            
             
               G
               —
               better
               far
               might
               slight
               his
               Sovereigns
               bounty
               ;
            
             
               He
               had
               a
               Regiment
               within
               his
               County
               :
            
             
               And
               poor
               enough
               to
               back
               his
               tatter'd
               Cause
               ,
            
             
               VVou'd
               R
               —
               venture
               but
               a
               broken
               Nose
               .
            
             
               Appease
               this
               mouthing
               Cerberus
               with
               a
               bone
               ;
            
             
               Honour
               's
               a
               dainty
               Crust
               to
               pick
               upon
               ;
            
             
               VVhile
               his
               dear
               Doxy
               makes
               a
               shift
               to
               rub
            
             
               The
               business
               out
               with
               M
               —
               at
               the
               Club.
            
             
               And
               Rolleston
               leads
               the
               Van
               while
               they
               combine
               ,
            
             
               And
               humbly
               beg
               their
               Sovereign
               to
               resign
               .
            
             
               How
               Faction
               and
               the
               quenchless
               thirst
               of
               Rule
            
             
               Hurries
               to
               ruine
               the
               ambitious
               Fool
               ,
            
             
               VVhose
               haughty
               Soul
               pufft
               up
               with
               Sovereign
               sway
               ,
            
             
               VVill
               never
               scarce
               be
               humbled
               to
               obey
               .
            
             
               The
               pious
               Earl
               had
               such
               a
               spacious
               poop
               ,
            
             
               As
               swallow'd
               up
               
                 N
                 —
                 B
                 —
                 n
              
               and
               his
               Troop
               :
            
             
               VVho
               lately
               Lord
               Lieutenant
               of
               a
               Realm
               ,
            
             
               Seem'd
               a
               good
               Pilot
               while
               he
               sat
               at
               Helm
               ;
            
             
             
               But
               when
               he
               was
               depos'd
               ,
               he
               overthrew
            
             
               His
               Master's
               Cause
               and
               sided
               with
               the
               Crew
               .
            
             
               Now
               
                 B
                 —
                 d
              
               he
               had
               much
               the
               worst
               o'
               th'
               lay
               ,
            
             
               Having
               more
               Wit
               or
               honesty
               than
               they
               ,
            
             
               Sneakt
               off
               and
               left
               the
               Club
               ,
               his
               Game
               to
               play
               .
            
             
               Who
               after
               he
               had
               led
               them
               to
               the
               Porch
               ,
            
             
               Like
               Buckingham
               ,
               he
               left
               them
               in
               the
               lurch
               :
            
             
               At
               such
               a
               juncture
               of
               a
               time
               as
               odly
               ,
            
             
               As
               Peyton
               for
               his
               Highness
               left
               the
               Godly
               ;
            
             
               Or
               
                 Escrick
                 Howard
              
               to
               become
               a
               bawler
               ,
            
             
               Withdrew
               from
               Court
               to
               cry
               up
               active
               Waller
               .
            
             
               These
               are
               the
               Men
               who
               all
               the
               bustle
               make
               ,
            
             
               And
               Empire
               check
               meerly
               for
               Empire
               sake
               .
            
             
               They
               lay
               their
               stamp
               on
               the
               revolting
               Darling
               ,
            
             
               And
               in
               the
               Club
               make
               Treason
               pass
               for
               Sterling
               .
            
             
               There
               are
               some
               other
               Beagles
               in
               this
               pack
               ,
            
             
               That
               make
               a
               noise
               the
               Royal
               Chase
               to
               back
               ;
            
             
               But
               when
               a
               Mastiff
               opens
               in
               the
               dark
               ,
            
             
               The
               little
               Dogs
               will
               shake
               their
               tails
               and
               bark
               :
            
             
               And
               though
               the
               foremost
               Hound
               but
               start
               the
               Hare
               ,
            
             
               The
               rest
               will
               mouth
               it
               as
               they
               claim'd
               a
               share
               :
            
             
               Who
               follow
               by
               the
               scent
               ,
               and
               scarce
               have
               sense
            
             
               To
               judge
               'twixt
               Treason
               and
               Allegiance
               ;
            
             
               As
               Fops
               meet
               in
               a
               Pit
               to
               damn
               a
               Play
               ,
            
             
               Not
               as
               they
               know
               ,
               but
               by
               what
               others
               say
               .
            
             
               Unmeaning
               Fools
               ,
               who
               something
               to
               be
               at
               ,
            
             
               Follow
               the
               leading
               Cuckow
               ,
               like
               the
               Batt
               ;
            
             
               And
               justly
               merit
               as
               they
               are
               despis'd
               ,
            
             
               Rather
               to
               be
               rejected
               than
               chastis'd
               .
            
             
               So
               bawling
               
                 H
                 —
                 n
              
               and
               K
               —
               the
               mute
               ,
            
             
               With
               Noise
               and
               Nonsense
               fill
               up
               the
               Dispute
               ;
            
             
               And
               while
               the
               Club
               proclaims
               the
               lawless
               strife
               ,
            
             
               One
               is
               the
               Drum
               ,
               and
               t'other
               is
               the
               Fife
               .
            
             
               What
               shall
               we
               say
               of
               
                 Fa
                 —
                 ge
                 ,
                 Br
                 —
                 er
                 ,
              
            
             
               Or
               
                 C
                 —
                 ry
              
               ,
               or
               dull
               
                 D
                 —
                 gh
              
               shall
               I
               flatter
               ;
            
             
               Who
               in
               the
               Synod
               drudge
               like
               Gally-slaves
               ,
            
             
               And
               buy
               the
               Stock
               to
               make
               a
               Gleek
               of
               Knaves
               .
            
             
             
               Like
               Beasts
               insensible
               of
               wrong
               they
               stray
               ,
            
             
               And
               find
               a
               Pound
               quitting
               the
               King's
               Highway
               .
            
             
               And
               now
               behold
               in
               triumph
               to
               their
               Follies
               ,
            
             
               In
               
               Noll's
               old
               Coach
               of
               State
               comes
               sneaking
               
                 H
                 —
                 s.
              
            
             
               Who
               sold
               the
               Father
               by
               an
               old
               Commission
               ,
            
             
               And
               purchases
               the
               Son
               with
               a
               Petition
               .
            
             
               Now
               whether
               has
               the
               better
               on
               't
               ,
               the
               Club
               ,
            
             
               Or
               the
               Five
               Members
               in
               the
               Royal
               Job
               ?
            
             
               This
               is
               the
               Bakers
               Dozen
               makes
               the
               Rump
               ,
            
             
               And
               little
               Wa
               —
               r's
               leaven
               to
               the
               lump
               ;
            
             
               When
               
                 B
                 —
                 rd
              
               civilly
               had
               made
               his
               legg
               ,
            
             
               The
               Club
               engender'd
               and
               brought
               forth
               an
               Egg
               ;
            
             
               Which
               like
               Grand
               Cairo
               for
               a
               quick
               dispatch
               ,
            
             
               Hot
               
                 Monsieur
                 Parliament
              
               must
               sett
               and
               Hatch
               .
            
             
               
                 R
                 —
                 ly
              
               began
               to
               puff
               and
               shake
               his
               Noddle
               ,
            
             
               And
               told
               them
               in
               plain
               terms
               the
               Brood
               was
               addle
               ;
            
             
               That
               to
               a
               Rump
               he
               never
               more
               would
               give
            
             
               Away
               his
               Birthright
               ,
               or
               Prerogative
               .
            
             
               Then
               like
               a
               God
               ,
               which
               from
               his
               breath
               did
               leap
               ,
            
             
               Dissolv'd
               the
               Chaos
               of
               confused
               heap
               .
            
             
               Bravely
               he
               spake
               ,
               and
               wisely
               he
               perform'd
               ,
            
             
               While
               still
               the
               Club
               against
               the
               Council
               storm'd
               :
            
             
               Who
               rather
               than
               from
               Faction
               wou'd
               be
               free
               ,
            
             
               Or
               touch
               no
               more
               of
               the
               forbidden
               Tree
               ,
            
             
               Would
               damn
               themselves
               and
               their
               posterity
               .
            
          
           
             
               How
               vile
               a
               thing
               is
               Man
               !
               how
               sudden
               Fate
            
             
               Attends
               his
               frailty
               in
               the
               best
               Estate
               !
            
             
               When
               arm'd
               with
               Innocence
               and
               Vertue
               ,
               all
            
             
               That
               makes
               him
               blest
               is
               subject
               then
               to
               fall
               :
            
             
               The
               great
               first
               bold
               Offender
               oft
               I
               chid
               ,
            
             
               When
               I
               my self
               agreed
               to
               what
               he
               did
               :
            
             
               Had
               I
               been
               there
               ,
               perhaps
               I
               had
               done
               worse
               ,
            
             
               And
               on
               my
               Rase
               entail'd
               a
               double
               curse
               :
            
             
               Ev'n
               I
               who
               all
               this
               while
               exclaim'd
               at
               Vice
               ,
            
             
               And
               made
               to
               Loyalty
               a
               Sacrifice
               ,
            
             
               May
               be
               deem'd
               sawcy
               ,
               insolent
               and
               rude
               ,
            
             
               And
               thought
               as
               guilty
               by
               the
               multitude
               .
            
             
             
               This
               Balm
               I
               'le
               save
               against
               the
               deepest
               Wounds
               ,
            
             
               To
               keep
               my
               sharper
               Pen
               within
               its
               bounds
               ;
            
             
               And
               lest
               my
               soaring
               Muse
               too
               meanly
               fall
               ,
            
             
               Learn
               to
               write
               mannerly
               ,
               or
               not
               at
               all
               .
            
          
        
      
       
         
         
           ADVERTISEMENT
           .
        
         
           
             STate
             Poems
             continued
          
           ,
           from
           the
           Time
           of
           
             Oliver
             Cromwell
          
           ,
           to
           this
           year
           ,
           1697
           ,
           by
           the
           greatest
           Wits
           of
           the
           
             Age
             ,
             viz.
          
           Lord
           Rochester
           ,
           Lord
           
             D
             —
             t
          
           ,
           Lord
           
             V
             —
             n
          
           ,
           the
           Honourable
           Mr.
           
             M
             —
             ue
          
           ,
           Sir
           
             F.
             Sh
             —
             d
          
           ,
           Mr.
           Milton
           ,
           Mr
           ,
           Prior
           ,
           Mr.
           Stepney
           ,
           Mr.
           
             Ayloffe
             ,
             &c.
          
           
           Among
           which
           ,
           are
           several
           Poems
           in
           English
           and
           Latin
           ,
           in
           Praise
           of
           
             Oliver
             Cromwell
          
           ,
           by
           Dr.
           South
           ,
           Mr.
           Lock
           ,
           Sir
           
             W.
             G
             —
             n
          
           ,
           Dr.
           Crew
           ,
           Mr.
           
             Busby
             ,
             &c.
          
           On
           King
           Charles
           II'ds
           Return
           ,
           by
           my
           Lord
           Rochester
           ;
           Three
           Satyrs
           by
           the
           same
           ,
           written
           between
           1670
           and
           1680.
           
           A
           Charge
           to
           the
           Grand
           Inquest
           of
           England
           ,
           1674.
           
           The
           Royal
           Buss
           and
           Windsor
           ,
           by
           the
           Lord
           Rochester
           .
           An
           Epitaph
           on
           Card.
           Mazarine
           ;
           Satyr
           Unmusled
           ;
           the
           Hind
           and
           Panther
           transverst
           to
           the
           story
           of
           the
           City-Mouse
           and
           Country-Mouse
           ;
           the
           Man
           of
           Honour
           ,
           by
           the
           Honourable
           Mr.
           
             M
             —
             ue
          
           .
           The
           Vision
           ;
           the
           Converts
           ;
           the
           Lawreat
           ;
           the
           Poets
           Address
           ;
           the
           Audience
           ;
           the
           Dream
           ;
           
           Caesar's
           Ghost
           .
           On
           the
           University
           of
           Cambridge
           ,
           burning
           the
           Duke
           of
           
           Monmouth's
           Picture
           ,
           1685
           ,
           by
           Mr.
           Stepney
           ;
           on
           the
           Commencement
           there
           ,
           by
           Mr.
           Ayloffe
           ;
           to
           Mr.
           
             F.
             Shepherd
          
           ,
           by
           Mr.
           Prior
           ;
           an
           Answer
           to
           King
           
           James's
           Declaration
           ,
           by
           several
           Hands
           ;
           on
           the
           Death
           of
           the
           Late
           Queen
           ,
           by
           the
           Lord
           Cutts
           ;
           on
           
           Tunbridge-Wells
           ,
           by
           Mr.
           Causton
           ;
           an
           Essay
           on
           Writing
           and
           Printing
           ;
           a
           Prologue
           ,
           by
           the
           Earl
           of
           Rochester
           ;
           on
           melting
           down
           the
           Plate
           ,
           1697.
           
           On
           
           Tunbridge-Wells
           by
           the
           Lord
           Rochester
           .
           A
           Satyr
           against
           Brandy
           .
           On
           the
           Infanta
           of
           Portual
           .
           On
           the
           Return
           of
           King
           Charles
           ,
           by
           Dr.
           South
           .
           With
           many
           other
           excellent
           Poems
           ,
           never
           before
           Printed
           .
           Price
           3
           s.
           Sold
           by
           the
           Booksellers
           of
           London
           and
           Westminster
           .
        
         
           This
           First
           Part
           ,
           with
           the
           Continuation
           above
           ,
           makes
           a
           compleat
           Collection
           of
           all
           that
           is
           valuable
           in
           this
           Nature
           ,
           for
           these
           Forty
           Years
           .
        
         
      
       
         Notes, typically marginal, from the original text
         
           Notes for div A55276-e2930
           
             Coleman
             .
          
           
             Octob.
             the
             15
             th
             ,
             76.
             
          
           
             Major
             .
          
           
             
               D
               —
               of
               Buck.
            
          
           
             Buck.
          
           
             Orm.
          
           
             Lauder●
             .
          
           
             Arling
             .
          
           
             
               Chancel
               Shafts
            
             .
          
           
             Cliff.
          
           
             Laud.
          
           
             Cliff.