Le Lutrin: AN HEROICK POEM, WRITTEN Originally in FRENCH, BY MONSIEƲR BOILEAƲ:

Made ENGLISH BY N. O.

LONDON, Printed by J. A. for Benjamin Alsop at the Angel and Bible in the Poultrey, 1682.

Le Lutrin: AN HEROICK POEM.

CANTO I.

The ARGUMENT.
The Argument? what needs a Proëme,
To vamp a Three-half-penny Poëme?
No, Reader, No; 'twas never writt
For thy sake, but for little Chitt.
St. George oth' back-side of the Horn-book,
The Dragon kills, to Humour Scorn-book.
And thus to wheddle in young Fops,
The gilded Sign hangs o're the Shops:
Miss won't come in to Buy, before
She spies the Knick-knacks at the Dore.
Thus Queasie Madams meat forbear
Untill they read, The Bill of Fare.
Instead of Frontispiece, or Babbie,
Canto 1.
We plac't to please some puiney Rabbie,
Who hates an Author that enlarges,
And cons the Index to save charges.
Discord, that Tearing, Hectoring Ranter,
Provokes a Dean and his Arch-chanter,
Who had liv'd friendly forty years,
To fall together by the ears;
A Rotten Pulpit plac'd i'th' Quire
Furnished fewel to the Fire:
Three swashing Blades, blind Fates agree
Should do the work: but who they bee,
Pray ask the Canto, that can tell
Better than I: and so Farewell.
Thus far the Porch, now view the House,
Here is the Mountain, there's the Mouse.
IMmortal feuds, and more than Civil Warrs,
And Fights thô fierce, disfigur'd with no Scarrs.
I sing! And thee Great Prelate, who of late,
Maugre the Chanter, and Reluctant Fate
Didst raise at length a Pulpit in the Quire,
Th' immortal Trophee of thy Mortal Ire.
Twice the Pragmatick Chanter, thô in vain,
Presum'd to discompose thy peaceful Reign;
Twice with Schismatick Pride did enterprize
To force the Chapter in Rebellion rise;
As oft the Dean him swoln with envious rage,
Hurl'd Headlong from high hopes; and by the sage
Sexton assisted, terrify'd the People
Who durst dispute the Title to his Steeple.
Instruct me Muse, for thou canst tell, what Thirst
Of sweet Revenge, thô Dire, engaged first
Religious Souls to break the Sacred Tye
Of blessed Peace and heaven-born Amitie,
To make old Friends new Rivals; can there rest
Such bitter Gall in a Religious Breast?
And thou Great Heroe, whose wise conduct stifled
The growing Schisme which else thy Church had rifled,
With favour influence my Advent'rous Verse,
Nor dare to laugh, whilest I thy Acts rehearse.
In melting Pleasures of Fraternal Peace
An ancient Abbey long had dwelt at ease,
Whose Scarlet Prebends blear'd poor Mortals eyes,
Whose Ermines, Winters Frost, and Snow defies;
Basking in fat, and Wealth, themselves they Bless
In sweet Repose of Sacred Idleness:
Thus Stretcht at length on downy Featherbeds,
To chaunt their Matines ne're lift up their Heads,
But before Dinner wak'd; for they could smell
The Kitchin Steams, though Deaf to th' Prayer-bell;
When Eyes and Ears Nights leaden Key composes,
Kind Sleep yet open left their subtle Noses;
These alwaies Eat in Person, but did praise
Their God by Proxie, in Harmonious Layes,
Pawning the Chanters, and Poor Singing-boyes
Condemn'd to those inferiour Drudgeries.
When Discord dappled o're with thousand Crimes,
The Villanies of our Debauched times
Quitting the humble Seat of Parish Churches,
On a Magnificent Cathedral Perches,
The hideous clang of her hate-bearing wing
Peace trembled: whilst the Fiend arm'd with her Sting
Allighting swift before the Pompous Pile
Of her proud Pallace, stood and paws'd a while.
Thence with observing eye, her Empire viewing,
Fomented Feuds and Warrs thereon ensuing,
Hatred, and variance, her self she blesses,
Applauds her Wit in these Atchiev'd successes;
From Norwich there, and Bristol Coaches, she
Legions of Tories dear, arriv'd might see,
And could her Vassals boast of all Degrees,
Cittizens, Nobles, Clerks, Priests, Dignities;
But above all her Feats renown'd in stories,
In this she Prides her self, in this she Glories,
That Troops of Barr-gowns rang'd under her Banner
Had routed Themes, and now Triumph't on her;
And yet she saw, and rag'd, and Griev'd to see
One Church disturb this rare Felicity,
One Church to brave her triumphs; one Alone
Threaten to shake the firmness of her Throne,
That amidst all these Herricanes and Scuffles
No breath of Stormy Wind it's Quiet ruffles.
Needs must so Odious a sight as this
Awake her Rage, make all her Serpents hiss;
With Stygian Aconite her mouth she fills,
From glaring eyes she streams of Flame distills:
"What? (said she with a tone made windows Quiver,)
"Have I been able hitherto to Shiver
"The Union 'twixt Cordeliers, Carmelites,
" Dominicans, Franciscans, Minorites,
"Betwixt the Molinists, the Celestines,
" Jansenists, Jesuites, and Augustines?
"Have I by secreet Arts, nourisht the Stickle
" Between the Church-men, and the Contenticle?
"And shall one Paultry Chappel dare to Brave me;
"Nay hope in time to it's nice Laws t' inslave me?
"And am I Discord still? who any more
" With Incense will my Sacred Shrines Adore?
Thus spoke the Hagg! And in a trice unseen
Of an Old Chanter takes the shape and meen:
A corner'd Cap her Snake-wigg'd Head did cover,
Her rich Face sparkling Rubies studded over,
Her Nose, emboss'd with Carbuncles Divine
Before her steps did like a Flamboy shine;
Accoutred thus, with Red-coat Soldiers pace
Haughty she march't to find the Prelates Grace.
A Stately Bed, the Posts most richly Gilt,
Cover'd with Sumptuous Crimson Damask Quilt,
Enclos'd with Double Curtains, scorning light
Of mid-day Sun, and counterfeiting Night,
Stood close in an Appartment like a Cell
Where Sweet Repose and Silence chose to Dwell;
The Tester was all fac'd with Looking Glass,
The rare Invention of this Golden Ass,
Contriv'd mysteriously that he might peep
And see how Blithe he lookt, when fast a-sleep.
Here lay the Mitred Head! in slumber drown'd,
Whilst gentle fumes his Dreaming Temples Crown'd;
A Sprightly Air adorns his Youthful Face,
His double Chin hangs down with goodly Grace;
The Claret shin'd through the transparent Skin,
A broad conjecture where he late had been;
And his Fat comely Corps, so thick and short
Made the Soft Pillows groan under his Port:
Here, in Sack-posset arm'd, without repining
He waits in patience the blest hour of Dining.
The Goddess entring, saw the Table spread,
And all within doors rarely ordered,
Then Softly marching to his lodging, took him
Profoundly napping, and thus she bespoke him.
"Sleep'st thou, Great Prelate? Sleep'st thou then Supine?
"And to the Chanter mean'st thy Place Resign?
"Whilst he sings Oremus, makes Grave Processions,
"And hurls about by whole-sale Vows and Blessings?
"Sleep'st thou securely, till the Chanter come,
"And without Bull, or Brief procur'd from Rome,
"Whilst thou'rt wrapt up in sloath, and free from Fears,
" Rotchet and Surplice shall pluck o're thy Ears?
"Sluggard, awake, arise, bestir thee quick,
"Renounce thy Ease, or quit thy Bishoprick!
She spoke; and from her Poysonous Mouth did fling
Into his Soul the Zeal of Quarrelling.
The Dean awakes; The choler in his breast
Fermented boils; yet he the Fury Blest!
Have you not seen a Bull by Gad-fly stung,
When his tormented pride flownc'd, kick't, and flung?
The vexed Air, with Ecchoes frighted rings!
Whilst he exhales his Rage in Bellowings!
So storm'd the Prelate, with his Dream o're-heated,
Poor Page, and Chambermaid were rudely treated;
His mettle mov'd with conceiv'd Indignation,
Needs will he go to'th' Quire before Collation.
When Prudent Gilotin his Almoner
With grave Advice stept into stint the Stir;
Shews him the Danger of that Rash Design,
How mad to go to Prayers, before he Dine;
"What Rage (quoth he) is this? what head-strong crotchet?
"Pray Sir, regard the Honour of your Rotchet!
"He that for Chappel lets warm Dinner cool,
"May think himself Devour, I'le think him Fool!
"Does our Church consecrate Prelates to Pray?
"For shame, this Zeal unseasonable allay!
"Shall all your Learning e're make me believe,
"That this is Lent, or any Saints dayes Eve?
"Then Reassume your self, forbear to Doat,
"Meat heated twice, is not worth half a Groat!
Thus reason'd Gilotin, and very loath
T' adjourn a Meal, bad 'em serve in the broath.
The Prelate stood a while in deep suspence,
He ey'd the Soupe with Holy Reverence;
O'recome at last with Reason and good Nature
He yields, and sits him down to tast the Creature:
'Yet inward Rage did all the while provoke him,
Twas fear'd each Morsel would go near to choke him;
Gilotin saw't, and sigh'd! in Zeal he rises
T' acquaint his party with these Enterprises;
Tells them with Grief of Heart, what rude Affronters
Of Lawn-sleev'd Grandeur were these Sawcy Chanters;
Protests they'd vex't his Lordship so that day
His Meat went down like Orts, or old chopt Hay!
Nay I may safely say't without Presumption,
This Course must bring him int' a Deep Consumption!
Now might you see whole troops of Chanons, all
To Rendevouz in the great Pallace-hall!
So have you seen perhaps Legions of Cranes,
Marching on Wing o're Strymons Spacious plains,
When the proud Pygmies, must'ring their warlike Nation
Design against them an Unjust Invasion!
Surpriz'd at sight of this great friendly Rabble,
The Sweetned Prelate rises from the Table;
Nodding he Touch't his Hat, to keep Decorum;
Nor seem'd to slight, nor basely to Adore 'um!
His face no longer shone with Orient Flame,
But pleas'd, recalls the good Westphalia Ham;
Then takes himself a lusty Beer-bowl brimmer
Of Racy Claret, and Commends a Swimmer
To the good Company; they with joint consent
Follow the Prelates gracious Precedent;
And, whilst their circling Healths and Heads go round,
Arnold and all his little Whigs, Confound!
With Nectar, killing-thirst they will allay;
The Voider comes, the Cloath is ta'ne away,
The Prelate then with words expressing Grief,
Unto his Confidents declaims in brief!
"My brave Confederates, in all Intriegues,
"Propping my Interest with your holy Leagues,
"VVhose Votes Unanimous once made me Dean,
"What boots this Meagre Title? Honour Lean?
"My Name but mention'd; Ay, and scarcely that,
"Unless perhaps at the Magnificat;
"How can you bear to see this Rascal Nose me,
"And his Combined mates thus dare t'oppose me?
"Invading all my Rights and Priviledges,
"My Compeer th' Impudent, himself Alledges.
"Thus leaping o're all bounds of Law and Reason,
"I think t'Indite the Rebel of High Treason;
"For I have by me, or at least can get
"Such VVitnesses, be sure shall do the feat!
"This very Morn ('tis no fond tale I tell thee,
"A Goddess in a Dream shew'd what befell me)
"This Insolent Ʋpstart e're I was Dressing
"Stept up into my Throne, and gave the Blessing;
"And now to cut my Throat, the last of Harms,
"The Villain would usurp my proper Arms. —
More would he fain have said, but briny tears
Mixt with redoubled sighs and inward fears,
Did intercept his speech, cut short his Story,
And spoil'd the Tenor of his Oratory.
But Zealous Gilotin, who condol'd his Merits,
Had one Device yet left to chear his Spirits:
For marking how the Prelates speech did vary,
He calls for a brisk Glass of old Canary.
Mean time came Sidrac in, whom Age made slow,
Limping upon his crutch, the News to know;
Full fourscore years, this Dotard in the Quire
Had practis'd; all the Customs of his Sire,
All Ancient usages he could Describe,
For he was Dad of all the singing Tribe;
Him time preferr'd, when waving many another,
From poor Church-warden to a Vestry-brother;
He by the Prelates pale and fading colour
Had quickly ghess't the nature of his dolour,
And sweetly smiling, he Addresses thus:
"And why, my Lord! so Pusillanimous?
"Leave to the Chanter fruitless moans and tears,
"Attend the wisdom of now fourscore years,
"Enricht with large experience of affairs;
"If of thy wrongs thou hopest for Repairs,
"Then lend thy Ear attentive, Sir, be wise,
"And put in practise what the Heavens Advise!
"At th' end o'th' Quire where now the Haughty Knave
"Enthron'd in borrowed lustre dares to Brave
"Thy Soveraignty, upon that Iron Grate
"Stood once a Pulpit square of Ancient date,
"Behind this Machine, cover'd as with a skreen,
"The Sneaking Chanter scarce could then be seen;
"Whil'st on the opposite Seat, our Dean did shine
"In Humane eyes with Majesty Divine;
"How't came about I know not, but some Devil
"I do conclude the Author of this Evil;
"Whether some envious hand had pluckt it down
"By Night; or Time, or rigid Fate had thrown
"The Structure from it's Base, yet this is true,
"One morn we found i'th Floor the Sacred Pew!
"The Chanter I suppose might Plot with Heaven;
"Be't so! we may with both in time be Even:
"But down it came, and for the better Grace,
"That Holy things might rest in Holy Place,
"We lodg'd it in the Vestry straight, and there
"'T has lyen despis'd in dust, these thirty year
"Fighting with Worms and Spiders, who therein
"Their curious Webbs do weave, and fine thred Spin;
"And thirty more might lie, for use of Preaching,
"Yet 'tis a Tool for this Rogues over-reaching.
"Now mark me Sir! no sooner shall the Night
"His sable Wings spread o're the vanquisht Light,
"But three out of our Number, without Ryot,
"Will Slip into the Church, while all is quiet,
"And under Covert of the darkness Strive
"Once more the Ruinous Pulpit's Mass Revive:
"And if next day the Chanter dares o'rethrow it,
"By twenty Actions thou shalt make him know it,
"What 'tis to rouze a sleeping Prelate! This
"The Proper Glory of a Prelate is,
"To Vindicate against Malignant People
"The Jus Divinum of his Ancient Steeple;
"To rescue from base Sacrilegious hands
"His Tithes, his Offerings, Perquisites, and Lands;
"This makes him Glorious to the present Age,
"This future Immortality Presage:
"What, wilt confine thy Glories to a Quire?
"To Preach and Pray did Heaven award thy Hire?
"Such Virtues might Adorn the dayes of Yore,
"When Prelates only Humble, Pious, Poor,
"Boasted in empty Epithetes; new Times
"Require new Manners, suited to our Crimes;
"Let Church-men now frequent the Barr and Plead,
"And Cook and Littleton, not Fathers read;
"The Law, the Law's thy work! then shall the Croud
"Pressing they Throne, with Prayers implore aloud
"Thy Benedictions, which thou may'st Dispense
"By dozens, scores, and Hundreds, and from thence
"To his Regrett, the fretting envious Elf
"Shall see thee thousands Bless; and hang himself!
To see the Mighty Power of Eloquence,
How little short 'tis of Omnipotence!
Sidrac's discourse had charm'd their Ears and Heart,
And Planet-strook the Dean stood for his part;
Now on the Place before a foot they stirr,
The Lot must tell whom Destinies preferr
To this important service; All pretend
Both Zeal, and Fitness for this Noble end;
The Prelate then stroaking his Milk-white Beard
With Wisdom spoke, with Reverence was Heard:
The Lot, my Masters! I ordain your Law;
From Ʋrn Impartial each his Fortune draw:
'Twas said, 'twas done; Now all leave off their Quibling,
Each Mothers Son betakes himself to Scribling;
Full thirty Names at least, in Tickets rolled
Were reckon'd; And that none might be cajolled,
William, a Novice 'mongst the singing boyes
(Who serv'd in time of Need to make a Noise,)
Must draw the Lots; And now from fatal Bonnet
Each man abides his Doom, what e're comes on it.
Thrice had the Dean with hands lift up to Heaven
Unto this Pious Work the Blessing given;
His holy Hand thrice shakes the fatal Cap,
And happy man he's Dole who has the Hap!
Now William trembling to the Work Addresses,
Him too the bounteous Dean All-to-be-Blesses;
The Boy was newly shorn, of ruddy Hew,
But when he came to't, the poore Lad look't Blew;
And now he draws! first Brontin's Name appears,
Thrice happy Name to cure the Prelates fears!
For what less could that Thundring Name presage,
Than that he'd prove The Terror of the Age?
All's husht again; and for the second turn
The boy advanc'd his shaking hand to th' Urn;
When the kind fates gave out th' Auspicious Name
Of John the Clockmaker: A Cock oth' Game,
This John had been, but now a jolly fellow
Had yok'd himself to Nan, his dear Bed-fellow;
This happy pair, (say they) before their Marriage
Had guilty been of some unhandsome carriage,
But after three years stealing secret pleasure
The Priest had joyn'd their hauds, at least, together.
A third remains; The Prelate takes the Urn,
And to play fair gives it a double turn:
Their fligg'ring Souls do now on Tiptoes stand,
'Twixt fears and hopes for the deciding hand;
How blithe wast thou, how Buxome, and how chicket,
When once thy Name proclaimed by the Ticket,
Past all the fear of Contingent Disaster,
Appear'd before the face of thy great Master,
Boirude (I mean) the Sexton? Some do say,
Thy livid Front e're while as pale as Clay,
Glow'd into Sanguine; and thy Rosy Hew
Did the Wan Sallow of thy Hide Subdue!
Thy Gouty Legs and Toes benumm'd before,
Ventur'd to cut three Capers on the Floor!
Now might you hear the Crowd at chearful Rates
Applaud the Justice of the Gentle Fates,
Who by their peremptory strict commands
Dispos'd the work into such able Hands;
Faith with the Court Dissolves, all satisfi'd,
And to their Quarters in great Triumph hy'd.
The Dean alone, to cool his Zeal enraged,
Slumber'd till a soft Supper might asswage it!

CANTO. II. Canto 2.

The ARGUMENT.
Forsaken Nancy in this Canto,
Brings 'gainst her John a Quo Warranto,
'Cause he had left her in the Lurch,
To rear a Pulpit in the Church:
And under colour of Religion
Courted another pretty Pigeon.
Now you must know that all the Blame
Was laid upon the Baggage Fame;
Who rais'd between them the sad Squabble,
By forging of this Idle Fable!
Next you shall see in Sluggish Dress,
That Gallant Lady Idleness;
Who has more Suitors waiting on her,
Than the most virtuous Maid of Honour;
But here I almost had forgot
To own the Error of our Plot,
The Poet laid his Scene in France,
But I can't tell by what Mischance,
He now and then dares venture over,
And steps as far as Deal or Dover.
MEan while a Hagg, made up of Mouths and Ears,
Who prates both what, and more than what she hears,
The Moderns call her Fame: This crafty Jade
Of Slandring drives an unknown subtle trade;
For she had got the Faculty to Brew
With dubious, Certain; and with false, things true;
And with such Art she her Ingredients mixed,
That where she pleas'd A Calumny she fixed;
This Baggage once in her mad Moods and Tenses
Had Lombard nead, the Master o'th Sentences;
Thence she had learn'd to spread a Lie Malicious,
And then to serve a Turn, us'd the Officious;
When her light business call'd her to the Court
Us'd the Jocose, and lewdly ly'd in sport;
Her trade she practis'd first in private Letters,
Bespatter'd there, and vilifi'd her Betters:
In Coffee-houses then she grew a Prater,
Broke off all Trades, she sets up Observator.
A Justice once clapt her i'th' Stocks and stript her,
Then by a tough-back't Knave severely Whipt her;
Not warn'd, the Brazen-face would out be flying
Against the State with her Opprobrious Lying;
Jockey for Leasing put her to the Horning,
In England she was Pillory'd for Suborning;
A thousand pounds for False News she was fined;
And till she paid the fine to Gaol Confined:
Venturing at last on Scandalum Magnatum,
Two Thousand more; yet still the Jade did rate 'um:
Thus did the Gypsey flutter up and down
Through City, Country, Village, and good Town;
Once at a Barbers Shop she took a Lodging,
But fickle in her Humour soon was trudging
To th' Cross-keys, Gun, and Ship: still her Head-Quarters
Where e're she roam'd by day, was the Crack-farters!
Forging, and telling Stories, with swift Wings
This tale at last to Jealous Nancy brings:
She tells (her tale I'm sure, lost nought i'th' telling,)
How Johns misguided zeal, 'gainst Vows rebelling,
Under a quaint pretence to set upright
A Pew (forsooth!) intends to watch that Night;
But the perfidious wretch, intends (sayes fame)
To Gratifie another kind of Flame!
For tyr'd with Lawful Love, and honest Kisses,
He elswhere payes the Tribute of Caresses
Due to his Spouse alone: Easie Belief
Receiv'd the News with Terrour mixt with Grief!
With finger in Eye, and Hair about her Shoulders,
Poor Nan runs out; thought Mad by the beholders,
Nor caring much whether she wrong or right him,
In this rude language straight begins t'Indite him.
Dissembling Traitor! could not Faith once plighted,
Nor those Embraces wherein we delighted,
Nor thy Poor Wench ready to run a Madding,
Cool thy hot Cod-piece, but thou must be Gadding?
Perfidious Wretch! didst thou sit up to make
A Clock or Watch, some Comfort I might take;
And hope of Lawful gain might slake my Anguish,
Whilst in thy Absence, I, poor I did Languish:
But what wild Phrenzie? what capricious Folly?
What Whimsey? what Religious Melancholly?
What strange Conundrum's got into thy Head,
To leave for Rotten Pulpit thy sweet Bed?
Ah! whether goest my John? dost Fly thy Nancy?
Can our delightful Nights forsake thy Fancy?
What! can'st with dry Eyes view my tears still Dropping?
See how the Stupid Block stands mute, and moping!
If my soft Heart easie to thy Desires
Hath alwayes met with Equal Flames thy fires;
And if to gratifie thy Itch, (my Honey,)
I stood not on th' nice points of Matrimony;
If in my Arms, thou, thou hast had sole part,
Speak not that wounding, killing word, Depart.
Thus spoke our Lover whining, plain and round,
And clos'd her speech with an half-dying swoon;
Upon a Pallet backwards down she fell,
Fortune had plac'd the Couch exceeding well;
Twenty to one she else had broke her Rump,
Up starts amazed John, bestirs his Stump,
'Twixt Zeal and Love, his heart stood long divided,
Till Zeal at last the Question decided;
And thus his smother'd passion got vent,
Smoothing with kind words o're his wild Intent.
Dear Spouse, (said he with voice unkindly kind)
Shall e're thy favours slide out of my mind?
The Rhine shall first his streams mix with the Loire,
E're I forget the sence of my Devoire;
Nay first shall France keep Faith and Oath with Spain,
E're I thy love-sick Agonies disdain:
But never Dream, that when I gave my Troth,
I would become a Slave unto my Oath;
Our Nation knows no such nice Obligation,
The Ancient Faith's now quite worn out of fashion;
Had the Fates trusted me with mine own Lot,
I ne're had rashly knit the VVedlock Knot;
But from those subtle Rites had still been free
To tast the fruit of the forbidden Tree;
But since that matters in this posture stand,
Grudge not my Glory, if I lend a hand
To this bless'd work, the Height of my desire,
To Raise the Pulpit in the sacred Quire.
Compose these passions strugling in thy Breast,
Dry up those Tears! Come Sweet! Lye down and rest!
He said; but what, the Wench regarded not,
E're half was done, the first she had forgot;
With hollow Cheeks, and staring Eyes she view'd him,
Trembling she lay, and in her heart beshrew'd him;
Long silent, stifled thoughts with pain at last
Broke prison, Raging then she Rail'd as fast.
No, no, Base Varlet! Thy Sire ne're was Baker,
Nor cam'st thou of the blood of a Clock-maker!
Thy Mother never rode in Hackney Coach,
A Bastard-brat rather of some Turn-broch,
Or Caucasus did form thee, of a Pebble,
Or some fell Tigress nurs'd thee with her nibble;
Sure with her milk thou drew'st in Feritie,
Other I'le ne're believe until I Die:
For to what end should I the Rascal flatter?
Let me sob, roar, or swoon, 'tis all a matter
To marble-hearted John; and all I gain
Is to draw on fresh injuries again!
A Pew! what Mortal throat can ever gulp it,
Thus to compare me with a Rotten Pulpit!
Has all my scolding squeez'd from's Eyes one Tear?
Has he express't the least Remorse for's Dear?
When he came hither first, this paltrey Jack
Had scarce a Shooe to's foot, a Rag to's back;
Nay I can safely swear't, because I know't,
The Villain was not worth a single Groat;
I like a Fool took him to Bed and Board,
And now the Rascal swaggers like a Lord:
But why thus Raving do I beat a Rock,
Only to purchase foam? Base Spirits mock
Abject complaints; Humble Petitionings,
Are still contemn'd, but in the breasts of Kings.
Then study brave Revenge, despised Love,
Nor shall Repentance e're my Pity move;
And when thy Ears shall hear my Passing-bell,
Then, then expect Another kind of Knell;
My Angry Ghost shall haunt thy Conscious Soul,
I'le Ring thee such a Peal, shall make thee Howl;
Hobgoblins shall thy house turn topsey-turvey,
Conscience shall then upbraid thee, what a Scurvey
Knave thou hast been to thy Deserted Wife,
And make thee Pulpits Curse, whil'st thou hast Life!
Nay, I'le pursue thee to the Stygian Lake,
And ugly Ballads, Boyes of thee shall make.
This said, she dropt backwards upon her breech,
For raging sorrow quite had stopt her speech;
The noise awaken'd Asse her trusty Maid,
Who Hobling soon came in unto her Aid.
Now Darkness had exil'd th' expiring Day,
Supper to Service had given leave to play;
The fudling, Chanters now in Clubs were got,
Wetting their Whistles with the good Ale-pot.
Brontin, whom Zeal for th' service had made quicker,
Bethought himself, A Punch of Nappy Liquor
In a Gold Winters Night was no false Latine,
To qualifie Devotion for the Matine;
This Cargo, Gilotin's deep providence
Laid in; he was (say truth) A man of sence,
The smell o'th' Bottle made him eas'ly lugg
The grateful Cumber of the Double Jugg;
Thus trudg'd he nimble: Whom should he stumble next on,
But that tough stick of Wood, Boirude the Sexton?
Now both together warm'd with Zeal were hasting
To meet the Clock-maker, for Time was wasting:
Come! come away! (cry'd they) with quick devotion,
The Sun's now gone to tipple in the Ocean!
The Murky Night which veils the Evenings bravery,
Will make a handsome Cloak to hide our Knavery;
What ails thee Man? where hast of late been mew'd up?
Thou look'st as if first eaten, and then spew'd up:
VVhere is that morning Zeal, that with thee rose?
Chear up, and pluck thy Heart out of thy Hose!
Come, fear no Colours! The end the Act will hallow!
Then whether Honour calls thee, bravely follow.
The Clock-maker knew not well how to take it,
Nor whether Jest or Earnest he should make it,
Half Pale, half Red he look't with motley passion,
For Shame and Rage had dy'd him in that fashion;
Yet, on my word the Knave had wit in's Anger,
And wisely took along his rusty Hanger;
For he resolv'd at a Dead pinch to knock it,
And scorn'd to stand, and sneak with hands in Pocket:
Nails he a handful took, and on his shoulders
A Massie Beetle, frighted the beholders;
An Axe, a Saw, a Hammer, and a Mallet
The sturdy knave had truss'd in Leathern Wallet;
They march accoutred in Warlike Parade,
And John appears at th' Head of the Brigade;
The silent Moon, viewing their stately Port,
Withdrew her Beams, she might not spoil the sport.
Discord saw all, and set up a loud Laughter,
Th' Eccho rebounds and shook Heavens hollow Rafter;
The Noise had almost waken'd Idleness
As she at Court with Ease held sweet Caress,
The frisking Pleasures danced by her side,
The Nuns her Votaries, her Deify'd;
One, in a Corner Stufft the Prebends hides,
One, pleasantly the Chanons robes Deribes;
Luxury to her State devoutly bows,
And Sleep drop't Poppy-water on her Brows.
This Even the sleepy Dose they had redoubled,
In vain! for Discord's cries her sleep had troubled!
And envious Night conspiring with that Devil,
Buzz'd in her Drowsy Ears the Tragick Evil;
Night tells her how the Prelate did design
To make Disturbance in the Sacred Shrine;
How she had seen three Mortal Foes to Quiet,
March in Battalia; and Three will make a Ryot:
How Discord threatned, to augment the fray,
A Pulpit to erect by Break of Day;
Which would the people raise in Mutinies,
Thus, thus the Fates had written in the Skies!
At this Report, portending deadly Harm,
Idleness rais'd her self up on one Arm,
One Languid Eye she opes, and with weak Voice
Drop't these soft whispers; fearing her own Noise.
Ah Night! sad tale thou tell'st! what envious Fiend,
With new Combustions doth my Quiet rend?
Ah! what's become of those thrice blessed Dayes,
VVhen Idle Princes crown'd with wither'd Bayes
Slept on their Thrones, and tamely worshipt me,
Leaving their Scepters to a Deputy?
All Night the Court did Feast, and slept all Day,
Creeping abroad perhaps when verdant May
VVith Gentle breathing Zephyrs sweet approaches
Call'd them to th' Park, drawn in six Horse-and-Coaches.
That happy Age is fled; for now a Prince
Has got the Throne, and banisht me long since;
Scorning my Pleasures: to my melting Charms
He stops his Ears with Thundring Drums Alarms:
And breaks my pleasing Dreams with Trumpets Sound,
Nor Summers Heat, nor VVinters Frost confound
His Daring projects; warlike preparations,
Resolv'd to Attack the VVorld with fresh Invasions!
Nay all my Subjects ripe for Insurrection
Imbibe with eagerness the Dire Infection.
'Twice had I hop'd with flatt'ring Peace to cool
His Martial Ardor; 'twice to shut the School
Of Janus: All in Vain! except I find
More VVorlds to satiate his Ambitious Mind!
'Twould tire my feeble feet to trace the way
VVhere the hard Stages of his Valour lay;
But yet I pleas'd my self with hopes to meet
For my disturbed Soul some safe Retreat:
I fancied that A Church might ease afford,
VVhere Church-men sleep in Bed, and wake at Board;
But Oh! these Chanters, Chanons make a Pother,
A Dog can't rest, whil'st one worries another:
And which provokes me most to Indignation,
The whole world's set a gog on Reformation.
VVhat Holy Mother Church, Imposing saith,
This Age receives not with Implicit Faith;
Nay Blind Obedience now is styl'd A Vice,
Sawcy Dissenters will be counted wise;
Men now Plead Conscience, make a heavy Din
VVith Heaven and Hell; of Duty prate, and Sin:
These empty Names have set the World on fire!
Now e're they swallow, they will first enquire;
They'l see a Reason given for Church Commands,
And use their Eyes, e're they bestir their Hands.
Who can Remember, and not sadly grieve,
Those easie dayes when on the Prelates sleeve
The supple Laity had pinn'd their Soul,
Nor Private durst the Publick Faith Controll;
When Canons, Conscience; Rubrick, Reason mated,
And Souls had learn't to bow, and ne're debate it?
Then Masse's, Ave's, Credo's Glory earned,
Canto 3.
Blind Vot'ries then could reach it unconcerned!
But now the Begging Fryars are all for travel,
They exercise their Toes in Dust and Gravel;
The preaching Friars such a coil do keep,
My aking head can get no wink of Sleep!
Yet my Cistercians did a little bless
My hopes, in Cloisters pamp'ring Idleness,
When a Mischievous Pulpits Curst intent
Threatens to force me thence to Banishment!
Ah Night! the Dear Associate of my Sleep,
VVilt with these Villains Correspondence keep?
Ah Night! Sweet Night! If e're thou didst Essay
VVith me the Joyes concealed from the Day,
Then suffer not— Much more she would have spoke,
Had not a Qualm crept o're her heart, and broke
The Languid purpose: Down she sank in Bed,
Sigh'd, stretch'd her Arms, clos'd Eyes, and Slumbered!

CANTO III.

The ARGUMENT.
An Owl instructed by the Night,
Cunningly counterfeits A Sprite:
In Pulpit close she lies Perdue,
And terrifies the Prelates Crew!
They Routed fly with heavy Clatter,
The Canto tells you, what's the matter;
But Discord to Retrieve the sport
Rallies them soon in Warlike sort:
All Oppositions overpast,
They set the Pulpit up at last:
But fear not lest the Prelate Preacht in't;
Alas he has a further reach in't!
To spight his Foes, yet for all's Feating,
The proof of th' Pudding's seen i'th' eating.
BUt Night in hast with her Dark Canopy,
Shrowding the viny Plains of Burgundy,
Flew back to th' City; and as suddenly
Wheel'd round to view the Towers of Monlheri;
Those walls, whose towering Summits mate the skies,
Built on a Rock which Duskie Clouds disguise.
And objects representing seen from far,
That they did move perswade the Passenger.
Here ominous Birds, here Ravens foreboding fate,
In ruinous Chinks do roost, and keep their state;
Here thirty Winters mur'd in obscure Cell
An Owl-secure from hatefull Light did dwell:
This trusty Messenger of Dire mishap
Has the first News of Ill dropt in her lap;
And alwayes ready to proclaim sad Tiding
Waits in these Deserts, Nights approach abiding:
At whose return her Accents rend the Skies,
And fright the Vicinage with black Destinies;
Complaining Progne answers to her Tones,
And mourning Philomel renewe her Groans.
To whom Night thus: Come, follow me! The Bird
Obey'd, when first her Mistress voice she heard:
With flight Precipitant, the Pair, out spring
And reach the Town high sayling on the Wing,
Then wafting at one Reach, they proudly Pearch
On highest Pinnacle of the fatal Church!
Night curst her Eyes to see the Camrades march,
For now All three had reacht the Porches Arch;
She saw the Clock-maker, with faithful fingers
A glass of smiling Wine hold, glad, nor lingers:
Here Trusty Mates, A health I here Begin,
They pledg'd him, to their Patron Gilotin:
Oh see (says Night) these Rogues sing Huzza! proud
Of sure success, under my favouring Shroud;
But come! the Traitors soon shall feel our Might,
If I at least be justly styled Night!
This said, she leads into the Sacred Vault,
Into the Vestry flies, there makes an Alt,
And in the Concave of the fatal Pew,
Orders Madge-Howlet there to lie Perdue!
Mean while, our three great Champions flown with Wine,
And Wines effects, Audacity; with Design
To push their Project on, without regard
To Danger near, had pass'd the Pallace-yard,
Embolden'd with success, still on they go
And mount the Stairs, leading to th' Portico,
Here a Bookseller in his back-shop slept,
And under double Padlock safely kept
Rogero's worthy Works! and he may still
Keep 'em entire, for sure no other will.
Now wary Boirude, fearing Danger nigh
Stops his rash Friends in heat of Zeal; to try
How they might light a Candle: from his Pocket
He takes his Marchasite, begins to knock it
With hardned Steel, out springs an Active spark,
The hope of Light in the Despair of Dark;
The spark in Tinder cherisht, toucht with Metch
In Sulphur dip't, kindles with quick dispatch
The Torch; which like a Comet blazing bright
Supplies the Office of Don Phoebus Light.
Boirude the Sexton, kept the Church-dore Key,
And if he entrance got, then why not they?
With equal pace the Temples Nave they measure!
Into the Vestry came: Here lies the Treasure!
Here prostrate they behold the Pulpit's frame,
And with due Reverence adore the same!
The Gloomy shades of that Religious place
Horrour begat, the Bigot Church-man's Grace,
Horror awakes Devotion; they pray!
And dread those Deities they Scorn'd by day.
When thus the Clock-maker: Why stare ye thus,
My Masters, A-la-mort? time's precious!
Why stand we trembling, trifling, shall I, shall I?
Our work's before us, let's no longer dally!
The Pulpit must be rais'd, that by to morrow
Our Dean may see't with Joy, his Foes with Sorrow!
So said, he laid his bones to't; and did strain
To roll it o're, with all his Might, and Main;
He scarce had mov'd it, O portentous wonder!
When from its hollow womb a Voice did Thunder;
Brontin starts back! The Sexton lookt like Dead!
John with his Dear, twice wisht himself in Bed!
But on their purpose obstinately bent,
They roll it or'e, true Zeal will ne're relent!
Out flies the broad-fac'd Chorister of the Night,
And with her ruffling wings strikes out the Light:
This struck their Souls with horrible Confusion,
Amaz'd they stand, they doubt; but in conclusion,
As soon as Fear lent them the use of Feet
Away they trudge, fill'd with shame and Regret;
The Nave they soon recover; whil'st their hair
Stands bristling on their heads, dissolving fear
Makes their Knees quiver underneath their Bodies,
And there they sneaking stand like baffled Noddies,
Sheltred by the same Darkness brought them thither,
The Squadron flies at last, they knew not whither.
So when a Jolly Crew of Truants gather
Into some Nook, to play their pranks together,
Secure of Eyes from Monitor and Master,
They burn the day in game, and sport the faster;
If now by chance, the Tyrants Eye doth watch 'em,
And unawares at Cards or Dice he catch 'em;
The sad surprize, their Mirth and Pastime dashes,
And each shifts for himself to scape his lashes.
Such was our Warriours plight when once the Owl
Sprung from the Pew, set up her Doleful howl.
Discord, who saw unseen their fowl disgrace,
Clapping her wings, pity'd their woful case:
Their Spirits quail'd, their Courages abated;
Rallies in hast the Troop disanimated.
Of Sidrac, she th' Audacious Visage borrow'd,
His front she smooth'd into a smile; but furrow'd
His face with wrinkles deep; A Truncheon strong
Confirms his staggering steps; thus stalks along
The Marble Pavement; guided by a Torch,
Finds out the skulking Cowards near the Porch;
Then with a squeaking Voice spoke fourscore years,
A wakes their mettle, dissipates their Fears.
Rascals! where are you? what Pannick Dread does rout you?
Run from one paultry Owl? ne're look about you!
Where are those boasts which late breath'd nought but Thun­der?
Fie! shall a harmless Bird disperse y' asunder?
How would you sneak, vile Souls, if at the Barr,
My daily sport, you met with horrid Warr?
How would you stand a tedious Chanc'ry Hearing,
If poor Hobhowchin puts you in this fearing?
How would your hearts misgive to bide a Triall,
No Friend at Hand, nor in your Purse a Ryall?
Believe me (Cowards!) I, with Grace be't spoken,
Simply thô I stand here, have foil'd and broken
A Chapter, with her Chanons, Prebends, Dean;
Nor was my Soul so Abject, Base, so Mean,
But I durst look the Proctors in their faces,
And scorn their proudest braves, their stern Menaces!
I have pursu'd 'em all, Asham'd, confuted,
'Tis Persecutors, cry'd out, Persecuted!
All this I did, and ten times more in sooth,
With the sole Breast-plate arm'd of Naked Truth!
The Church of old was mann'd with Gallant Spirits,
A Novice then confiding in the Merits
Of the fam'd Good Old Cause, dar'd to Defend it
In formâ Pauperis, and make 'em end it!
But this Decrepid Age to Sloath inclines,
Nor brings forth now such Puissant Divines!
Thus far howe're their Virtues imitate,
Let not an Owl your Courages abate:
Think what a Blot it draws upon your Glory,
How it does stain the lustre of your story:
If once the Chaunter learns your base Defeat,
Your flight Ignoble, and your vile Retreat,
Where e're he meets you, hee'l thus fleer and flout you;
Heark, the Owl cryes! brave Souldiers look about you!
Then will your conscious guilt with shame upbraid you,
You'l curse your slavish fears that Cowards made you!
Then reinforce your Spirits, by preventing
Th' Affronts, which will be bitter in resenting:
Remember, Sirs, whose Cause your hands engages,
First win, then bravely wear his Lawrel wages:
Recall your wonted worth, new frights forgetting;
'Tis York-shire Cloath, you know, that shrinks i'th' wetting!
But I perceive success my speech doth follow,
Then march, run, fly (brave Boys!) where dangers call you!
That our Great Mitred Prince, may see his Engines
Before th' Affront be spread, taking due Vengeance.
This spoke, the Fiend disguis'd in flash of Fire
Vanisht, with fresh rage did their hearts inspire.
Just so it was, Great Conde! at that battle
When thy brave Arms made Rhine and Sheld to rattle,
Thy wings, and Battle on Lens spacious Border
Inclin'd to rout, and lean'd to foul disorder,
Thy Valour firm'd the wavering Troops that day,
And spirited their Files with flesh arry!
Inspir'd new Hearts, and gave 'em all New Hands,
Till vanquisht Victory follow'd thy Commands!
Thus in a moment Rage succeeded Fear,
And clouded courage once again shone clear!
They countermarch! The Owl Retreats quite routed,
And now they scorn her, whom so late they doubted.
Not unreveng'd! for as she flew, she muted
In Boirude's gaping mouth, triumph'd and hooted;
Rascally Bird, (said he) All Face and Feather!
The Shame of Day; the Boder of Ill Weather!
Dar'st thou presume (profane!) to spice i'th' Quire?
And make the Pulpit A Sir-Reverence higher?
And Scot-free this! No, no, I'm not in sport;
I'le trounce and bounce thee for't i'th' Spiritual Court;
Where Doctors, Proctors, Paritors together
Shann't leave upon thy Naked back one Feather;
I'le make thee then for all thy Hooting, sneak
Like her that scap'd the Devils Arse i' th' Peak:
But talk's but talk! Come Boyes, let's fall to action!
The Owl is flown! the last o'th' Chanters faction!
The Pulpit now is heav'd into the Quire,
And on the Chanter's Seat advanced higher,
Her Rotten ledge repair'd; her Joints that gaped
With Planes united; all was comely shaped!
The Wainscott eccho's to the lab'ring hammer,
The Roof back to the Walls resounds the Clamor;
The Organ-pipes provok'd with this rude Rumbling,
Struck up a Base, and gravely fell a grumbling!
Now Chanter! black's thy Day, thou little thinkest
What work's a brewing; Sleep in Boles thou drinkest,
On both ears; snoring after late Debauches,
Nor dream'st what mischief now thy Head approaches:
Secure thou ly'st unarm'd, unwarn'd of Harms,
Hugging thy Dainty Doxy in thy Arms!
O that some friendly Ghost, in Nightly Vision
Would timously reveal thy sad condition!
Now! now they heave! the hateful Pulpit rearing!
'Twould strike thee dead, wer't thou within the Hearing;
Alas! above thy Seat, the Machine glories
To have surmounted thee five lofty stories;
The Sexton at three strokes, makes the Nail enter,
And now the Pulpit stands firm on its Center.

CANTO IV.

The ARGUMENT.
Alas! The Poëms curious Model
Is Alter'd quite i' th' Poets Noddle!
So Nature oft, for want of Tools,
Decrees Wise men, produces Fools:
To tell you True, my Muse and I
Design'd at first, the Victory
To Master Dean; how 't came about
I cannot tell; but now the Rout
Is His: yet so, The Fancy's richer
To end in Pot, commence in Pitcher!
Such was the Project! such th' Event!
But listen to the Argument!
The Chanter's Dream: A Chapter called;
Fine Speeches made; The Pulpit mawled;
This Counter-Scuffle, I dare stand in't,
The Goddess Discord had a hand in't:
The Prelates foes;
Canto 4.
The Chanters friends;
The Canto, and the Poëme ends.
THE Pulpit now lifting its lofty Head
With carved Canopy stands Covered;
When the Church-clocks with their melodious chime,
Summon'd the Singing-boyes to rise: 'Tis time
To Rise to Matins! Thus the Bells did Chink!
Thus did at least the dreaming Sluggard think.
Drown'd in sweet Sleep th' Arch-chanter roll'd at ease,
(A Soveraign Medicine 'gainst the twinging Fleas,)
Whose roving Fancy traverst many a Theme,
Startled at last with terror of a Dream;
He cry'd out, waken'd at his own fierce crying,
And parboil'd in his mellow Sweat lay frying.
His Pages starting at the sudden Noyse,
Began to bussle, rubbing their gum-glew'd Eyes;
One frighted runs, but poor fool, knew not whither,
And from the dore leaps back, e're well got thither:
Girot, (a trustier Slave ne're waited on him,)
Runs to his Master, ne're a Rag upon him;
What the Rope ails you? (cry'd the testy Lacquey,)
Does th' Night-mare ride you, or the Old Witch make you
Roar at this rate? What a mad coil you keep here,
That people cannot steal a Nap, or sleep here?
Compose your self for shame! The wiser Sun
His race Nocturnal has but half-way run;
Is this a time for Prayers? Let Singing-boyes
Whose Pension's pay for't, do those Drudgeries!
Ah friend! (reply'd the quaking Chanter) friend!
Insult not o're my juster Passion; lend
Thy patient Ear to my sad Fate, and joyn
Thy secret sorrowes to these tears of mine!
Attend I say! (I tremble whil'st I'm speaking,)
The weighty Reasons of my poor heart breaking!
God Morpheus long before the peep of day,
Had lockt my Senses up with leaden Key
In second sleep; when dulcid fumes and vapours,
In Fancies Cell, disport in frolick Capers;
Methought I sat enthroned in the Quire,
Where crowds of Choristers my Grace admire;
There blest the gawping throng; there Incense sweet,
Stolne from the Saints, my pleased Senses meet,
When from the bottom of the Vestry came
A Prodigy too terrible to name;
From Dusky Clouds (methought) of wreathed Smoak
Wide opening, A Hideous Monster broke,
Whose Mouth, Eyes, Nostrils, vomit flame, fume, fire,
How pale look'd all the Choristers i'th' Quire!
Him the proud Prelate dragg'd along in Chains,
Tame like a broken Colt, with Bit and Reins;
But, that which struck us all more than half dead,
A Pulpit issued from the Dragons Head.
Horripilation seiz'd me! my flesh quiver'd!
My loins relax'd with dismal horror shiver'd!
We all conclude from the Sulphureous smell,
Dragon and Pulpit both must come from Hell;
Led by his Guide, the Monster doth aspire
Unto my Seat, there plac'd himself i'th' Quire.
Think! think, my Ganymede, how was I appalled
To see the Horrid Fiend thus high installed;
I scriecht in vain, in vain I fled the Fury!
This I'le depose, is Truth before a Jury!
But here the Chaunter paws'd: he judg'd it best
To let his Eyes and Looks speak out the rest.
Girot essay'd to comfort him in vain;
This Vision, Sir! perhaps might rise from pain
In your disturb'd Head; Melancholly Vapours
Careering in the Brain beget these Capers:
The Chaunter cross'd, storms, rages, and in choler
Leaps out of bed to mitigate his dolour;
Scorning with sorry Page to brawl, and quarrell,
He calls in hast for's Holy-day Apparell!
A fair silk Cassock, richly lin'd with Plush
Tho' dusty ( Girot could not find the Brush,)
He first put on; next a silk Mohair Gown
Which to his heels with dragling train hung down;
A pair of Purple Gloves his proper badges,
A Rotchet which the Dean once gave as wages;
Yet jealous lest his Tail the ground should sweep,
The Shears had dockt it short, three Inches deep.
His corner'd Cap (for fear of cold) on's Head,
His Hood in's hand for hast, he hurried;
Away he speeds thus gorgeously equipped,
Never did seventy years so nimbly trip it!
He curst an old Sciatica that Stop'd him,
But yet his wooden Crutch most stoutly prop't him;
Rage added wings; inspir'd with Zealous Fire
(Whil'st others lagg'd) he first arriv'd i'th' Quire.
O Thou, who in a Rapture, tranc'd in Boggs,
Describ'st the Battel of the Mice and Froggs!
And Thou! whose curious Pencil drew to th' Life
All Italy for Goats-wooll fallen at strife;
Or rather thou, whose Muse did Pen the Stories
Of the sad Contrasts 'tween the Whiggs and Tories!
Lend me a Tongue that may express a Passion,
Of mixed Envy, Spight, Rage, Emulation,
First pale and dumb he stood, like one confounded;
As if ten thousand Furies him surrounded;
His Mass of Blood boils, all his Humours bubble;
Such power have Pulpits to create our trouble!
His belly swell'd like Sybils raptur'd Priest,
With hollow sounding noise like Pythonist,
Strugling he stood under this inward load,
Releas'd at last he thus shook off the God!
See! Girot see! the True Interpretation
Of my late Phantasme, which thy foolish Passion
Call'd a Delusion! thus the Dream I conster,
This Pulpit is the Hideous Hell-born Monster!
This! this the fatal, the Malignant skreen
Will never more let me, poor me, be seen!
Ah Prelate! trebble Vengance now indeed
Thy plotting pate has heap'd upon my Head!
Could not thy Malice hugg it self in bed,
Between two Nappy blanckets covered?
To force my cold Seat, thy warm Couch resign?
Put out thy right Eye, to put out both mine?
O Heavens! O Hell! see how this Hateful Mass
Has made a Tomb of my once glorious Place?
Where I may sleep Inglorious, Sans Regard,
Nor more than Powers Unseen, be seen, or heard!
Nay rather than endure this fowl disgrace,
A thousand times I'le quit this loathed Place:
Ne're sing Te Deum more! Renounce the Alter!
And end my dayes at Tyburn in a Halter!
I ought not, cannot, will not live a Minute
I' th' Church, whilst hateful Pulpit triumphs in it;
Come Girot! lend thy friendly helping hand,
If I have breath and strength, it shall not stand!
He spoke! his Arm waited upon his words,
Strength fill'd his Arm, and Fury strength affords:
Arrests the Pulpit; and with haughty frown,
Come down thou Idol! or I'le pluck thee down!
Just in the juncture of this flaming hate,
As the wise Destinies ordain'd, and Fate,
Who should come in, but Girard the Bell-ringer?
And at his heels amain, Ribout the Singer?
No couple greater Bigots of the Chanters,
Against the Prelate none more desperate Ranters;
At the Dire sight though both did Sympathize,
Yet they advis'd his Worship to be wise!
Pray Sir! said they, for once be rul'd by Fools!
'Tis dangerous medling naked, with edg'd Tools!
'Tis ten to one the Prelate will Alledge
This fact of yours guilty of Sacriledge!
Nay who can tell but at the General Dyet
We may be Question'd, and Condemn'd of Ryot?
Call then a Chapter; put it to the Vote,
Let faithful tellers take the Poll, and note
The Ay's and Noe's; And if we carry't, then Sir!
Down goes the Innovation, once agen Sir!
This sage Advice repriev'd some little while
The trembling Pulpit: The Chanter feigns a smile!
Call then a Chapter! Run! Make hast! Away!
Summon the Drowzy Drones! Nay Pray you stay,
Quoth Honest Ribout the fam'd Chorister;
No more hast than good speed, beseech you Sir!
Rash actions often bring too late Repentance!
Girard was hugely taken with the sentence,
And seconds him: Great Sir! this weighty Business,
This Nice point will not bear Haste, or Remisness!
Perhaps the Chanters and the Monks may be
Awak'd, but did your Reverence ever see
Prebends and Canons before break of Day
Frequent the Chappel, there to sing, or say
Sursum Corda! Believe me, Sir! believe me,
I speak't with troubled Heart, the thing does grieve me,
When six bells jangling, for these thirty Years
Could never pierce their Barricado'd Ears,
What hope two sniveling Chanters cryes should wake 'em,
And to Cold Prayers from their warm Beds betake 'em?
Could you send Jove with his loud Thunder-claps,
Your Plot perhaps might take, and but perhaps:
With what Charms then, hope you here to prevail?
These Adders stop their Ears with their own Tail.
The Chanter netled heard in fustian fume
Rejoyning Girard thus sawcily presume,
And thus! Nay now false heart, I plainly see
What leg thou halt'st on! 'Tis the Prelate, he
That mortifies thy base enfeebled Spirits,
Vile Venal Soul! what know'st thou not my Merits?
I oft have seen thee cringe with supple Hams,
To woe his blessings; Alas! mere flim-flams!
Well! go, and basely bend thy Oyled knees,
I have enow without thee, to make 'em rise.
Come Girot! Come, my trusty steel-edg'd friend,
Thee on this desp'rate Errand I dare send,
Nor fear success: Take me the Thund'ring Hammer,
On Holy Thursday us'd to raise a Clamour;
And trust me friend, The Rising Sun shall see
The Chapter met in it's Formality!
'Twas said, 'twas done! forth from the sacred Chest
Where it did lie from year to year at rest,
The Mawl is brought: Away they March, and cry
The Chapter waits you; waits you instantly!
Discord would not be wanting in the Brawl,
She enters straight the Prelates Palace-Hall,
Augments the Din; the Neighbour-hood she scares
With rising Scare-fires, sudden Massacres;
The Chanons now Awake! Strange tale to tell,
Such wonder in an Age had scarce befell!
One swears the Lightnings did invest the Town,
That Thunder-bolts had beat the Houses down,
And one cryes, Fire! Fire! Fire! the Church doth burn
A second time; A third hopes a new turn,
For Holy Thursday! some whose gutts chim'd Noon
Bless't the Occasion that call'd them so soon
From Bed to Board; for all Agree, no Knell
Could more concern them than the Dinner-bell!
But yet the Noise that had unglew'd their eyes
Could not perswade the Sluggish Chanons rise,
Nor leave the Pleasures of th' enchanted Bed,
Till wily Girot got this trick in's Head;
With Stentors Voice he makes loud Proclamation▪
O yez! I'th' Chapter House, A rare Collation
Stands ready dress't to meet your Appetite!
He needed say no more: O blessed sight
To see the Prebends hast in Numerous throngs!
What Rhetorick has Soup! how little Songs!
Deaf Bellies now found Ears: one Chanon ran
With one hose off, the other scarcely on;
Another durst not stay to tye his shooes,
But slip-sho'd hobbl'd, lest he Breakfast loose.
A third, whose appetite severely itches
Had not due time to hook his dropping Breeches!
Fallacious Hopes! here was nor bread, nor Wine!
The cheated Fools must with Duke Humphrey dine!
Yet mute they sate, expecting when at last
The Servitors bring in the hop'd Repast?
Nor was it Reason that the gutled Fops
Should spend their Tongues, who could not use their Chops.
The Chanter though he saw his plot succeed,
Yet fear'd Delay might unseen Danger breed;
Rising with blubber'd eyes brim full of Tears,
Unbosoms to them all his Griefs and Fears.
But Chanon Everard, whose barking Maw
All Hungry Guests, but yet no Victuals saw,
Impatient of delay, as he was able,
Cry'd out aloud; Pray Sirs, bring in the Table;
What mean you thus to frustrate our rais'd Hopes?
Must we sit alwayes pining in our Copes?
The Chanter conscious of his cheat, gave way
To his Just Indignation; nor durst say
Ought in Reply; till Father Allain broke
The Horrid silence, and most gravely spoke:
This Allain you must know, was a learn'd Rabbin,
Who spent his dayes at study in his Cabbin;
Twice twenty times had he turn'd o're the Summs
Of Father Bauny, had pick't up the Crums
Of Thomas à Kempis; he knew the Lattin,
Although his Gown was neither Silk nor Sattin;
He gravely cought, and coughing gravely Rose,
Discharg'd his mind in Ciceronian Prose;
Which cause the sence was Great, the language terse,
The Poet has Immortaliz'd in Verse.
I'le pawn my Life on't (said the Canonist)
This is the Knavery of some Jansenist!
I dare believe my own eyes Information!
Our Prelate's pleas'd with Gurniers Conversation:
Arnold that Heretick waits our Destruction,
And this Tool uses for the Deans seduction:
No doubt but he can from St. Austin prove
That one St. Lewis sent from Heaven above,
In after Ages rising in our France,
A Pulpit in this Chappel should advance:
Now to confute him there lies all the skill,
Hee'l plague us with the Torrent of his Quill;
One Argument we've yet left to confute him,
Let's burn him in Effigie, that will rout him!
Let others turn o're each Voluminous Father,
That's not my Province; To be short, I'de rather
Consult with Father Bauny; he alone
With me is twenty Anstins, all in One:
Go then and Rumage all Antiquity,
If any footsteps there, of Pulpits be;
We've time enough e're day! fall to your task,
No longer space than till day-break we ask:
So many Heads, and hands I doubt not, can
Before Sun-rise perufe the Vatican!
This uncouth motion startled all that heard it,
Till fat-guts Everard open'd, and quite marr'd it:
A wise device! (quoth he) And pray, what Gains
Shall answer all this Cumber, all these pains?
For one poor lowzy Pew, to break our Brains:
'Tis more Ingenious to Study Meat,
Let his Thin Chops his Musty Authors Eat!
We've other Fish to fry! I am a man
That Read alike Bible and Alchoran!
If I can learn what Rents my Tenants owe;
When Mortgag'd Vineyards forfeited do grow;
Can I precisely learn the Quarters day,
When wooden Shooes trudge up their dues to pay;
There lies my Talent! I no Learning lack,
But what is enter'd in my Almanack.
Imprimis, fifty Marks a year in Ground-Rents;
Item, twice fifty more Per-ann. in Pound-Rents!
When Wheat, and Mault in crowded Garners lie,
I boast me of a well-stor'd Library!
Why vex we then Dead Fathers, Greeks and Lattins?
Our Mother Tongue will serve to Mumble Mattins;
I'le ask no help of Scotus to pull down
A Pulpit! This great Arm the Work shall Crown.
All's one to me, let Arnold judge or quit me,
I'le hit him home agen, whoe're dares hit me:
Fie on these long Harangues! Let's live, and Drink!
And let censorious Whigs think what they think!
Thus Everard spoke! A heavy Abbey Lubber!
Whose Head was alwayes nuzling in the Cubber'd!
Ribout the Chorister then demurely rose,
And these Impertinencies stiffly oppose.
I never lik'd tedious Circumlocutions,
And shall advise to more concise conclusions!
Let Trombaut make but the great Organs roar,
They'l blow the Pulpit quickly out o'th' dore!
Needs must the Chanter own each man his friend,
Though diff'ring in the Means, they jumpt i'th' Eend!
The General cry went still, Ay! one and all!
Let the Proud Pulpit, Let the Pulpit fall!
Thus all Unanimous held the Conclusion,
But in the Premises was great Confusion:
Just so at Trent, when Concord in a Bag
Came Post from Rome, they hit it to a Tag!
The least he lik'd was he that last had spoke,
His Patience that a little did provoke:
I ne're Approv'd (quoth he) this moral work!
Who knows what fallacy may under't lurk?
Who can assure me but the Pulpits blast
May puff the Organs out of Doors at last?
We sometimes saw the sad experiment,
Away with that Dubious Expedient;
Come, Come! Lets make (said he) a Quick dispatch!
Whil'st we prate here, we fast in pain, and watch!
Down with the Idol! As I am a sinner,
My eager stomach crokes, and calls for Dinner!
There will we sit, Chat, Eat, Drink, Laugh, grow fat,
Exiling fretting Care, that kills a Cat!
He rose in hasty Zeal; The faithful Troop,
Arm'd with the Pregnant hopes of Sacred Soup,
Follow their Leader: to the Quire they go,
There view the Object of their Rage, and Wo;
There on the Common Enemy they lay
United hands; and at the first essay
Pluck down the Provocation of their Spleen;
So in the Woods of Ardenne have I seen,
Sacred to Jove, an Ancient spreading Oak
Fall at the Axes oft redoubled stroke!
The Boards they rend in Pieces; and the Quarry
In Triumph to the Chanters Kitchin carry!
So Arduous was the work! of such Renown!
To set a Pulpit up, to pluck a Pulpit down!
FINIS.

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