Good Deeds ill Requited: OR, AN ANSWER TO INNOCENCE UNVEIL'D. BEING A POEM In Vindication of Dr. Oates and Mr. Bedloe.
WIse
Solomon has said, 'Tis sometimes fit
To answer one, that has nor
Sense, nor
Wit,
Lest the vain
Fop grow wise, in's own Conceit.
A
Poem! Bless us,
Muses! railing Rhimes,
Where Discord only, and no Musick chimes:
Where
Malice, and no
Wit or
Sence is shown,
And Puddle-dirt at worthy men is thrown.
That mortal man in paltry
Rhime should prate,
Like a she-
Orator of
Billingsgate;
Who, if she ever did at
Crambo play,
Might rail in
Rhime, and better things would say.
Poor quibling Fool did lack some
Oaten drink,
To help inspire his wooden Wit, I think,
Who his fine
Poem usher'd (out upon't!)
With a most silly
Quibble in the Front.
Those very Men his Worship termeth Fools
Handle edge, better than he rhiming, tools:
And tho these men he
Saviours calls in scorn,
And doth with
Coxcombs, Fools, and
Knaves, adorn
His railing Verse; they shall in Story dwell
In Heav'nly Fame, like Angels that ne'er fell,
Whilst such as he lie in Oblivions Hell.
What Stuff he's made of, all the world may see;
But
Jesuit's Heart won't with
Fool's Brain agree.
We can his Spleen however well detect;
Their Evidence he'd make of no effect.
At that alone his squinting Verses look,
A safer way indeed than
Reading took:
But 'twill not do; his
Rhymes do
Reason lack,
For all the
Law, of which you so much crack;
The Foil'd may rise, and lay some on their back.
Touch the gall'd back of any furious Beast,
He'll bite and kick, or wince and fling at least;
And he that meddles, when the Beast does feel,
Had need be guarded well, gainst iron heel.
I am no
Surgeon, and shan't rake in Sore;
The World have Eyes, and I shall say no more.
If some say Black is White, I am content,
Or call a
running Sore an
Ornament.
The
Romans did not cackling
Geese despise,
Who kept their
Capitol from a Surprise:
But we fling Dirt at men, like unwise Sots,
Who have the
Nation sav'd from
Jesuits Plots.
Since
Jesuits can't the Nation now trepan,
They'll do it all the Mischief that they can,
And with foul
Mouths, worse
Pens, and lying
Notes,
Rail with full Cry, at
Bedloe, and at
Oates.
Who will hereafter
Traytors Plots make known,
If no Encouragement to these are shown?
When scurrilous
Pamphleteers shall dayly try
To make their Evidence to seem a Lye;
To make them
Juglers, wicked, perjur'd
Knaves,
Inventors of strange Plots, the worst of
Slaves;
Men who of right by us should honour'd be,
Their Names made great to all Posteritie;
And for Encouragement, and greater Grace,
Their
Statues set up in some publick place.
Whate'er that scribling
Poetaster writes,
Those very
Commons which his Worship slights,
May in good time make
Truth and
Justice known;
And who the
Knaves are then, will best be shown.
Then
Oates and
Bedloe's Story will be told,
And 'twill appear they have not been too bold,
But that both
Truth and
Justice once was fold.
FINIS.