The loyal and impartial satyrist containing eight miscellany poems ...

THE GHOST OF AN Engliſh Jeſuite, Addreſſing himſelf to The Royal Cabal IN FRANCE. BRavely perform'd my Friends! and who can tell But this rare Change may add new Life to Hell? It ſhall; Succeſs ſhall all your Fears confute, And bring the Devil again into Repute. In ſpight of Heav'n your Fame ſhall wider ſpread, And ſtamp a Terrour both on Quick and Dead: 〈1 page duplicate〉〈1 page duplicate〉 The Northern Hereſie ſhall now go down, That has ſo long out-brav'd the Gallick Throne; And Heav'n it ſelf ſhall with new bluſhes glow At th • dire Ills which you tranſact below. O Britany! thy Fate rides on apace, And Rome ſhall puniſh thy accurſed Race: The Leaguing Pow'rs of Hell and Earth combine With cruel Martyrdoms to make thee ſhine, And nobly to revenge my fall by Thine. I thought that Monarch for whoſe ſake I ſell, And Head-long went before my Time to Hell; Would have atton'd my Fate with active ſpeed, When Time ſhould plant the Crown upon his Head: Had he done ſo and ſhew'd true Roman Skill, I could have own'd him for my Maſter ſtill; Had he but mark't each Week or Day with Blood, Begun with his own Vile, Apoſtate Brood; Had he thought Mary's Reign too ſoft and good, And ſcorn'd t'have been b'a Woman thus out-done; Had he from London Tow'r lanc't Thunder down When like a Trojan Horſe it fac't the Town; Had he inverted Seaſons, forc't a Day With blazing Biſhop, ſhew'd the fouleſt play That Rome could Act, or Hell it ſelf can Name, 'Till he by poaching had deſtroy'd the Game: Nay had he been the ſecond of his time, Bleſt with a Genius for ſome lower Crime; Had he taught Heretick Tiburns ſteps to climb, Mow'd 'em down thick, and left no work for time; Trod on their Necks with true Ignatian Pride, And brav'd 'em with the Goſpel on their ſide; Had he done this, and more he ſhould have done; Rome might have own'd him for her True-born Son: But he alas! was Innocent and Tame; Too much oth' Brother's Mettal in his frame Check't all the Praiſe that hope did e're create, And ſtop't thoſe Glories which on ſlaughter wait: But I forget — Th' Infernal Council ſate, And much was ſaid about Affairs of State; At length the Unanimous Sages have decreed, You ſhould their Glory raiſe with gen'rous ſpeed Hail Mighty Monarch! who alone art fit To mix with Hell in Council, and to ſit Commiſſioner of the Infernal State, The Deſtinies of Kingdoms to debate: To thy wiſe Conduct, and fam'd Policy Satan with all the Royal Progeny Submits a weighty and important Cauſe; Which if well manag'd will ſubvert all Laws Divine and Humane, thoſe of Nature too; And therefore only fit for ſuch as you: Nor can I doubt thy gallant helping hand, For tho' thy Arms were lately at a ſtand; Tho' ſprightly Rage run out of breath gave ground, And thy ſunk Cauſe felt an inglorious Wound; Yet theſe laſt Triumphs do all Fears controul, And now brave Thoughts gild thy enligten'd Soul: Deſpair is gone, that Lethargy oth' mind, Which did thy ſtagg'ering Vaſſal's Spirits bind; The drowſie Spell's diſſolv'd; th' Enchantment's gone; Fear's now depos'd, and Vengeance ſits 'th' Throne; Commands all Faculties, and rules alone. Hell ſoon perceiv'd, when firſt this Change began; Through th' horrid Vale the riſing Rumour ran: Fame through the deep-ſunk-Vault did Echoing bound, While thick'ning Shades ſnatch't and devour'd the ſound: With ſudden Rapture wing'd, they did reſort To th' place of Rendevouz, with Antick Sport, And a long Jubilee gracing the Report. Great Loyola's Ghoſt did ſeem to quit his pains Strutted in Bonds, and Triumph'd in his Chains: He laid aſide his Rage, and made a pauſe; With envious Joy he mutter'd your Applauſe: And I methinks, in ſweet diſorder toſs't Am in a Labyrinth of Wonder loſt, While my illuminated Eyes behold Tyranny fluſh't, and Execution bold: How is my Soul imparadi'ſt, to ſee Theſe nice Black Arts ſo well improv'd, which I So ſlowly did puſh on? By Hell I'm glad To ſee the Charm ſurvive, tho' the Magitian's dead. Advance Great Potentate with bold Alarms, And make the World pay Homage to thy Arms: Advance, 'till rais'd above all ſenſe of Good Thou doſt in Jolly and Triumphant Mood, Upon poor bleeding Europe's Ruins ſtand, And with thy Armies Thunder-ſhake the Land. Sin on to ſuch a brave Tranſcendent pitch, 'Till harden'd like ſome Covenanting Witch, Ages as yet unborn may call thee curſt, And think thee by ſome Bear, or She Wolf nurſt; Hatch't in a Storm, and in ſome D • ſart bred, And Mithridates-like with Poyſon fed: May pious Wretches, and Seraphick Fools That ſneakingly pretend to Holy Rules, The Annals of thy Reign with Horrour read, And fear thy Riſing Ghoſt, when thou art Dead. May Matrons faint when e're thy Name they hear, And ſuffer Pangs greater than Women bear: May Virgins which ne're knew unchaſt deſires, While ſleeping Dream they feel thy Luſtful Fires, May they ſhriek, ſob, and cry, and long complain To the proud Raviſher of their Joys in vain. Thou needeſt not Caeſar-like thy Deeds proclaim, Which have already fill'd the Mouth of Fame; Ambitious Villains nothing read but thee, The Godly put thee in their Letany: The Brave accoſt thee with a generous flame; Ev'n England in diſtreſs invokes thy Name. And when the wretched World muſt loſe its Lord, Such as Fate never ſhall again afford, Nature ſhall feel the Change; th' Infernal Rout Shall ſhake the Earth's Foundations with a ſhout; A Pompous Train of Sprights ſhall upwards go To meet thy Mighty Shade; They ſhall conduct thee in, and crown thy Ghoſt below Legions of Fiends ſhall be at thy Command; E'vn Lucifer himſelf ſhall proudly ſtand, And place thee in a Throne on his Right Hand: Surviving Sinners ſhall thy Shade implore, If they but ſee thy Picture they'll Adore; They will riſe up and ſay, Lo this is the True Stamp of Majeſty, This is the Mighty Lewis, this was he That Hector'd Heaven, chaſt Monarchs up and down, And made all Pow'rs alike ſtoop to his own; While he like Jove, and as ſecure from Crime, 'Twixt Luſt and Thunder did divide his time. And you My Lords and Friends, that are thought fit In Bloody Council with your Prince to ſit; You, who by being his Slaves far greater are, Than other Puny-Monarchs do appear, Act equal to the Character you bear. Let no Sex, Age, or Innocence be free From your quick All-Attoning Cruelty, By an Herodian Provident Act Deſtroy Young Sprawling Hereticks, blaſt the blooming Joy: Let 'em in Mother's Tears Baptized be, And Martyr'd the next Moment, and when ſhe Has ſeen and felt her Tender Infants dye, With one kind Thruſt let her away be hurl'd, T' Attend her Darling Brats ith' other World. Snatch Bluſhing Females from the Nuptial Bed, And on their ſuffering Honour boldly tread, Seize 'em all Pale and Panting in Deſpair, With Tatter'd Vail, and Wild Diſhrevel'd Hair; And then with Sacred Knife for Death make room, And turn their Bridal-Bed into a Tomb. Laſtly in Sport, and at your Leiſure ſlay Tame Aged Hereticks: 'Twill be rare play To Thaw their Frozen Blood, and make 'em feel The Brisk Devouring Fire, or Broaching Steel. O 'tis a Raviſhing Sound! More ſweet and Charming than the Voice of Fame, To hear th' Old Martyrs crackle in the Flame. Like Hills on Mountains pil'd, heap Perjury On Common Lies, and Old Hypocriſie; Let Faith be baniſh't, with it Nature too: Dull and Fantaſtick things, bid 'em adieu: Compaſſion's Cowardiſe, and o'erthrows that State, Which might ſubſiſt by Violence and hate: Patience is Dullneſs, Goodneſs, Lethargy, Mercy's a Pompous Name for Foolery: 'Tis juſt whatever hurts you to deſtroy; Beſides in Injury there's a Secret Joy. Well acted Fury is a generous Fire, And conquering Arms a Reverence inſpire: The Voice of Cannon beſt proclaims a King; The Law oth' Sword does the beſt Title bring; And hir'd Dragoons will better plead your Cauſe, Than if you brib'd an Oracle oth' Laws. The Jeſuits Glory now is paſt the Full, Prieſts in the Trade of ſinning are grown dull: And daily cancel all that Fame and Praiſe, Which their Illuſtrious Anceſtors did raiſe: 'Tis time the World out of its Sleep ſhould riſe, 'Tis time new flaming Orders to deviſe; Which may refine groſs ſin to ſuch a ſtrain, That Men may fear ſome Angels faln again, Struck from ſome Loftier Orb for their diſdain; And in the way to Hell by Heaven deſign'd To viſit Mortals, and blaſt Humane-kind. To Common Luſt and Murderbid Adieu; Such puny Toys Rome's Infant Greatneſs knew; Such Jewels in her Cradle ſhe did wear, Let now ſome Manly Wickedneſs appear. Invent new Tortures, ſuch as poynted Wheel, The gnawing Vulture, or Ignatian Steell Did ne're inflict, or a forc't Conſcience feel; Worſe than Domitian e're deſign'd to act, When with ſoft Words he did Mens Dooms protract, Or what is ſtill more cruel and unkind, Than Kings by their fair Edicts e're deſign'd. To this add things obſcene, and in one day More foul and brutal Scenes of Luſt diſplay, Than Prieſt or Bawd e're by Example taught, Than Popes by their Indulgences e're wrought Ithe' Three Hot Months, Or Nuns confin'd in their whole Life e're thought; Such as were never equal'd in Romance, Or form'd by A'ry Poet in a Trance: Such as great Jove could ne're act to the full, Ev'n when he turn'd himſelf into a Bull. Let no baſe cowardly diſaſter ſtain The matchleſs Triumphs of your ſinful Reign; Thoſe Heroes only do true Honour ſhare, That ſin without a Bluſh, without a Tear. Not all the Odours oth' Arabian Fields, Nor the choice Scents the Indian Climate yields, Nor luſcious Gales, nor balmy Springs that meet In Paradiſe, are ſo profuſely ſweet As groans of Hereticks, and the Nid'rous Flood That comes from ſtreams of their hot fuming Blood: Fill up ſome Hugonots Skull with Reeking Gore; And thus a Bleſſing on your Cauſe implore; Begin a Health; (no fitter Sacrament To back your Zeal and Villanous intent) To Lucifer; round let it freely go To all your Grim Confederates below: Thus ſtrengthen'd with an Oath, and fix'd with Zeal, Revenge in Privy Ambuſcade conceal No longer, but with proud advent'rous Force Great Britains Royal Officer unhorſe. Begin with him, who has your Councils Aw'd, Were he the Son of ſome bold Thundering God: 'Tis gallant Sport to hunt a Monarch down, And having don't, to ſcramble for a Crown; Nor can your Wit invent a Nobler Game, To be the Baſis of your Riſing Fame: What Sniveling Diocleſian ne're cou'd do, Deſtroy your Enemies, and their Bibles too: Thus a new War 'gainſt Heav'n will be begun: What ſpite you ſhew this way, to Heav'n is done. Then quickly your Avenging Flames diſplay; And what at Sea you felt, with Intereſt re-pay. Then tho' Death Revel in a Thouſand Forms, In Scaffolds, Gibbets, Racks, Wheels, Fire and Storms; Tho' Myriads mount up to their Native Sky, Tho' King and Subject undiſtinguiſh't lye; Yet may you ſet, when Arm'd with Lawleſs Pow'r, The vaſt Expence of Blood on England's Score. Rebellion ſhall Eclipſe the Tyrant's ſhame, And Hereſie ſoften the lew'd Murderer's Name. Had Hell ungrateful been, you juſtly might Turn Tame and Canting Cowards out of Spight: But well, and to its coſt, the World does know, How much to our Dread Soveraign here you owe: By him your Riſing Glory firſt began, And o're the World in gay Proceſſion ran: By him the Lordly Boniface did prevail, And on his Succeſſours did Blood entail: By him th' Immortal Harry did advance, And lay the Model of Aſpiring France. By him poor Charles the boaſted Martyr, fell; And dyed deſervedly for acting well: The Fame of which ſhook the round Dusky Ball; And diſtant Nations trembled at his Fall. Thus Hell kept pace with your Ambitious Will, Bleſt all your Wiſhes with Succeſs; and ſtill For all paſt Service Gratitude does pay, But chides your late paſt Dullneſs and Delay. Therefore Redeem the Time, conſider well What you have loſt, how much you owe to Hell: Antaeus like you ſhould Misfortunes make Your Spoils; and from your Foils freſh Courage take: Valour 'twixt Two Extreams confin'd and pent, Swells like a Torrent ſtruggling for a vent. What, tho' repulſt by Men and Seas Unkind! The next Deciſion you may happier find; Ev'n Fate it felf ſoon varies with the Wind. You've loſt a Battle! So did Caeſar too: Let not ſuch trifling Thoughts your minds purſue: Remember what you've acted, what you've won; And ſcorn to be by one poor loſs undone. Think with what Awful Pride, and Brave Diſdain, You Rode before Triumphant on the Main: While England's Fortune to your Arms gave way, And Dutch, like filth, were ſhovel'd into th' Sea: Death flew about in black and hideous Forms; While Top-Maſts fell, like Oaks and Pines, in Storms: Engliſh at diſtance gaz'd, as Men do creep On Rocks, to view the Wonders of the deep: Let ſuch Incitements animate your Spleen; Let no vain Airy Terrour ſtep between, To cruſh Aſpiring Hope: Go on, and may Thoſe Stars, that Slaughter guide, point out your way. Old Time, methinks, ſtalks on with lazy feet; Methinks 'tis long before my Lords I meet With your grim Forces wall'd in glittering Arms, Stunning the Nations rounds with fierce Alarms: This do: Drive on unwilling Deſtiny; And to your Arms let Victory reply. Or, if you fail, may you full Vengeance ſhare: May thoſe Twine-Devils, Cruelty and Fear, Which once poſſeſt you, plague you every where. O that I were Omnipotent in Ill! Or that my Pow'er ran equal to my Will! I'de ſoon Anticipate the Worl'ds laſt Fire; At every blaſt whole Kingdoms ſhould expire: Born on the Wings of Pride I'de upwards fly, Pierce through the Clouds, thoſe Bubbles of the Sky; Hunt all the Guardian Spies from Sphear to Sphear, And the Black Daemon ſhould out-brave the Fair.

Looking upon Father PETRE's Picture. BEhold True Petre here! that High-flown Saint Has ever been meer Maſquerade and Paint. Religion was his Pimp; The Name of Juſt Was Glorious Pandar to his Pride and Luſt: View well that Leer, which looks as if 'twere meant A Libel on Our King and Parliament. His Stormy Viſage, and Erected Head Look Fierce and Proud, like Cataline when Dead. There's more Confuſion in his Printed Looks, Than in all Bellarmine's Enchanting Books: Fate's Book can ſcarce more terrible appear To a departing Lover in deſpair, Than this to me, raw damps my Spirits ſeize; No Common Murderer's Ghoſt could ſo ſurprize. The very Picture like Meduſa's Head, Does with dire Horrour Tender Hearts invade; There's rank Confuſion in his very Shade. Vile Image of a Steel'd Apoſtate, Go, And ſink down to thy Brethren Shades below: For ſure thy meer Effigies ſhould be Sentenc't-for Witchcraft, burnt for Hereſie. Caligula did childiſhly complain That no Misfortunes dignifi'd his Reign: He fear'd calm times his Memory would blot; And his blurr'd Name would quickly be forgot. How bleſt had the Conceited Tyrant been, Had he but known thy Luſcious Arts of Sin? Had he like thee, with one Envenom'd Breath, Rais'd, and Entail'd ſtrange Famines, Storms, and Death? In vain wou'd Monarchs, like the Sun, diſperſe Their Vig'rous Warmth throughout the Univerſe, While Prieſts like a Black Cloud, or Northern Wind, Stifle thoſe Beams which are ſo warm and kind. How are the Mighty fall'n from their High Seat, And ſunk down from their Precipice of State? How ſoon are Kings to ſwift Deſtruction hurl'd? 'Tis Prieſts and Women that undoe the World.

Ecebolius Britannicus, OR, A Memento to the Jacobites of the Higher Order. YOU, whom Religion ſits ſo looſe about, That you want Charity to fill it out; You that can't ſwear (that might conſiſt with Love) Yet Curſe and Damn like the Great Lateran Jove; Remember him who lately ſeem'd to ſay, What is Religion but a Solemn Play? We do but Act a while, and then give o'er; And when we quit this Stage, we are no more. In vain Men hope th' Alyſs of Light to ſee, No Spirits wait in hollow Trees beneath, Nor is there any bellowing after Death, 'Tis all but vain and ſenſleſs Poetry: Death ſhuts the Comick Scene; when parted hence None ever cry'd, What am I, or from whence? No Daemons walk, no glaring Eye-balls rowl, But horrid ſtillneſs then invades the Soul. Great Souls diſcern not when the Leap's too wide; Heroes will ever be for changing Sides: And ſince Religion's vary like the Wind, Who would to one be curſedly confin'd? He that can ſervilely creep after one, Is ſafe, but ne'er ſhall reach Promotion. Sell Plays for Legends (that's the way to proſper) I'll part with Scenes for a more coſtly Shrine, Phillis for Bridget, or Saint Katherine, Bizarre and Eſcapade for Pater Noſter; My Maximin for Lewis; and I hope To find a New Almanzer in the Pope. Rome's Church, tho' once a Whore, now cannot be; She muſt be chaſt, becauſe ſhe's lov'd by me. How Dear is Mother-Church, how Charming Fair, To a Diſtreſſed Sinner in Deſpair? The World ſhall ſee I'll turn, becauſe I dare. As once Empedocles to get a Name, Wing'd with Ambition to be thought a God, O'er unfrequented Hills, and Peaks untrod, Paſs'd into ſcorching AEtna's Liquid Flame: So to be dubb'd a Saint, and fill a Story, From Fairy Lands, and dark Enchanted Iſle, From Mountains of the Moon, and Head of Nile Immortal Bays will paſs to Purgatory. 2. But ha! What ſtrange new Project is here ſhewn, So long kept ſecret, and ſo lately known? As if our Old Plot modeſtly withdrew, And here in Private were brought forth anew. New Almanacks foretel ſome Change at hand, When Bear-skin'd Men in Floating Caſtles land; And all our hopes, like Old Mens Children, be Blaſted and wither'd in their Infancy. Parſons and Curates careleſs of their Charge, And ſafe in Holy Eaſe now live at large; Ʋnguarded leave their Poſts, away they flie: And all diſſolv'd in New Allegiance lie. The Prelates are protected by the Bar, Dull Heroes fatten ſtill with Spoils of War; Ah why ſhould a worſe Fortune be deſign'd For him that wrote the Panther and the Hind? Is this the State his Holineſs has giv'n? Is this our Cape of Hope, and promis'd Hav'n? This Province my Unhappy Change has got, This Portion is the loſing Converts Lot. This Region my falſe wandring ſteps have found, And Fortune flies me like Enchanted Ground. Beſt take th' occaſion, and this Clime forſake, While Time is given; Ho, Brother Teague awake, If thou art he; but ah! How ſunk in Tone? How chang'd from proud Bullero to O Hone? How faded all thy Lawrels are? I ſee My Fate too ſoon, and my own Change in thee. Into what wild Diſtraction am I brought? I'm loſt, and caught in my own Web of Thought: I burn, I'm all on fire, I more than burn: Stand off, I have not leiſure yet to turn. What have theſe Bears, theſe Boars, and Dirty Swine, Theſe Heretick Dogs, to do with me or mine? I'll ne'r repent of ſuch a Gallant Crime: When Wits are down, Dull Fops will watch their Time. Our Fame is huſh't, as Hope it ſelf lay dead, And Rome begins to Nod her Drooping Head: The little Teagues in Dreams their howls repeat, And weeping Lawrels with the Night-Dew ſweat: Panthers are now at reſt, but Fear denies Sleep to my Hind, and to her Poets Eyes.

The Grand Deciſion. To the Memory of CRANMER. WHEN Heav'n no longer could ſuſpend its hate, Stop its wing'd Vengeance, or adjourn our Fate; When Englands Sins t' a Monſtrous growth did ſwell, And we, the Darkeſt Nation next to Hell, Had Arm'd God's Wrath againſt our ſelves, and giv'n Proud and Inſulting Challenges to Heav'n: Then Mighty Cranmer, after Gods own Heart, Was ſingled out to act his Mournful part, With Sacred Blood Heav'ns Wrath to Countermand, And to Convert anew th' Apoſtate Land. Methinks I ſee th' Illuſtrious Criminal Hurried from Priſon to a Judgment-Hall, Where he met Devils in the ſhape of Men, And 'twas the Nobleſt Triumph he could gain; Heav'n had decreed that he ſhould downwards tend, And viſit Hell, before he could aſcend. Methinks I ſee the buſie Tempter ſtand, Crying, Hold back, Cranmer Hold back thy hand; While he urg'd on by Zeal, and Glorious ſhame, Plung'd his Immortal Hand into the Flame. The Blazing Pile could not his Soul affright, But Halo like did play before his ſight, And ſerv'd to light the Martyr on his way To Bleſſed Canaan, and Eternal-Day: So when God's Choſen Favourites were to go From Aegypt's Bondage, and a Land of Woe; Th' obſequious Waters did their rage ſuſpend, And tho' they ſeem'd to threaten, did befriend: As Adam's Fortunate Offence made way For a more Happy and Triumphant Day, So Cranmer by's Officious Erring-hand Brought Prouder Trophies to his Native Land, And conquer'd, though his Soul was at a ſtand: For tho' He gave back in a tempting hour, Yet ſoon he rallied with a vaſter Pow'r; And by his leading Arm the Lawrel won, Had he not err'd, how little had he done? Had Our Cauſe, back't but with an equal Pow'r, Been ballanc't in Uncertainty before; His Hand had turn'd the Scale of the Diſpute, This Act did all Rome's Myracles confute: By this alone it amply did appear, What Romiſh Rage can Act, what Fleſh inſpir'd can bear. Call't not his Death, but Coronation: 'Twas but the Earneſt of a Braver ſway, 'Twas not his Dying, but Aſcenſion-Day, The Stage ſeem'd not his Funeral Pile, but Throne: Brave to the laſt he fac't his Deſtiny, When it was ſomewhat more than Death to ſee. With bliſsful thoughts he did paſt Toyls recount, And ſeem'd Transfigur'd on the Fatal Mount: With Port Divine, and with Attoning Breath, He pardon'd, pray'd, and bleſt ith' hour of Death. He pray'd and upward look't to th' opening Skies; Then bleſt again with lifted Hands and Eyes, And as his Body Fell, his Soul did Riſe: It flew cloft upon the Wings oth' Wind, The Prophet upward ſoar'd, his Mantle fell behind.

TO AN Old Factious Miſer Who Wep't at the Loſs of A Bagg of GOLD. DOST thou, who can'ſt behold without a groan An Envy'd Nation, and a Shaken Throne, Afflicted Heroes, and a bleeding Main, At the poor Loſs of Puny Gold complain? For ſhame, thou vileſt of the Whining Herd! Thou Everlaſting Scandal to a Beard, Correct thy blubber'd Eyes, and ſob no more; What, doſt thou think to weep a Golden Show'r? Judas, who for a Bag his Lord betray'd, For loſs of it had not been thus diſmay'd: No Iriſh-man for puling fam'd e'er howl'd Over the Herſe of his Departed Gold. Thy Bags, which thou eſteem'ſt thy Sacred Shrine, Are not thy Goods, but a dull uſeleſs Mine; And he that of one part did thee beguile, No Robber was; 'twas not a Theft but Spoil: He only took from the Rich Maſſie Throng, What to the Publick did before belong. He only did redeem the Captive Store; Thou art the Thief; the Bag was ſtoln before. Take heed gray Crim'nal, and in time Repent: Think not to make thy Cheſt thy Monument. Thy Bags by Plunder and quaint Knav'ry gain'd, Should now to Pious Uſes be Reſtrain'd, Let thy poor Naked Friend thy Liv'ry wear, And feed not Lazarus with an Empty Pray'r. Part with thy Golden Gods, and give what's due To Caeſar, and the Starveling Vicar too. If thou canſt give thy Thoughts this Glorious Range, 'Twill not Commence a Loſs, but Wiſe Exchange. Ith' Rolls oth' Juſt thou ſhalt Recorded ſtand, And find a fair Eſtate ith' Promis'd Land. Of all th' Idolatries, by Heav'n accurs't, This creeping Zeal for Mammon is the worſt. They that have Worſhipt Malefactors Bones, Cats, Dogs, Leeks, Onyons, hallow'd Stocks and Stones; Still ſtrain'd their Worſhip and Affections higher; To a more Noble Object did Aſpire. 〈◊〉 Miſer has no taſte of things Divine; 〈◊〉 higheſt thoughts ſtill terminate in Coyn: Wealth 〈◊〉 Principle, not Property: 〈◊〉 ta •• is tender Conſcience do's annoy, A •• • ll his Chriſtian Liberty deſtroy. 〈…〉 his Temple where his Bags are laid; 〈…〉 his Altar, where his Vows are paid: • ne may but his Darling Idol ſerve, 〈…〉 ſuite flouriſh, and Three Kingdom ſtarve. 〈1 page duplicate〉〈1 page duplicate〉 He rowls in ſordid Mire like grunting Hog; He's Tyrant that would thus enſlave his Dog. He broods o'er Bags, ſits poring on his Pelf, Uſurps on Publick Juſtice, wrack's himſelf: Drudges and Toils; like a Thin Meager Hack, With a fierce Dunning Tradeſman on his back. With him compar'd a Monkey is diſcreet, And the Grave, Long-Ear'd, Solid Beaſt a Wit. With Eyes turn'd up t'wards Heav'n, th' unthinking Clod Kneels but in Sport, and Complements his God. With knackiſh Prayer he does the Poor undoe; So Cain could Sacrifice and Murder too. 'Twixt him and Fiend there is this odds alone, The one wears Fleſh and Blood, and t'other none. And ſure that Wretch too juſtly is undone, Tho' in the Name of God his Will may run, Who has no Mercy, at the laſt dark hour, Not one Attoning Item for the Poor.

THE TRUE Chriſtian Philoſopher. To My Much Honoured Friend, W. B. Eſquire. I. WHile War and Rumours thro' the World do blow, And Om'nous Clouds on Common Brows do ſit; How Happy in a Gay Retirement you, Bleſt with Philoſophy and Sacred Wit? II. You ſeem to ſtand above the Shock of Time; Wiſdom from you do's unaffected flow: Your Speech is like our Poet's Hill Sublime, Or Sweet and Pleaſant like the Plains below. III. While th' Univerſe groans, in you, methinks, I ſee All Elements Calm, and Nature's ſelf at Reſt: In your fair Boſom the Lov'd Graces play, The Syrens ſing, and Halcyons build their Neſt. IV. In you Socratick Wiſdom do's ſurvive, And flow with purer percolated ſtreams; The Sages of Old Rome and Athens live, And Antient Lights ſhine with United Beams. V. With Innocence Arm'd the Globe you boldly tread, And thro' a boiſt'sous World ſecurely ſteer: While meaner Mortals by low Maxims led, Are toſt betwixt Alternate Hope and Fear. VI. So trim Mock-Warriours trip away, and run, When Sawcy Danger bids 'em ſtand their ground; The buſie Trumpet, and impert'nent Gun, With rude, unmannerly Noiſe their Spirits wound. VII. But Englands Heroe fortunately lives; The grimmeſt proſpect Fame or Conqueſt yields; Thro' ſparkling Deaths, and ſplendid Wounds he drives, Secure as Caeſar in Pharſalian Fields. VIII. Great Souls are ſtill reſign'd, ſerene, and gay; Each place to them a ſweet Arcadia proves, And he that ne'er from Virtue's Path do's ſtray, Walks in Elizian Fields, and Golden Groves. IX. Tho' plac't on Aetna's Top, or in the Vale Of ſcorch't Veſuvius, he'll a ſhelter find; No Storms without his Gallant Mind Aſſail, While in his Breaſt the Seaſon's fair and kind.

The Refuge. To The Honourable, Sir R. F. Baronet. TO you, kind Sir, this bold Addreſs is due, Who are my Worthy Friend, and Patron too: For he's my gen'rous Friend, my Patron kind, That gives me Knowledge to enrich my Mind. I've found, I'd almoſt ſaid in you alone, A Varro and Mecaenas both in one. In you the Court and Academy joyn, The Chriſtian and Philoſopher Combine: The Favours which you willingly diſplay Exact more thanks than I have pow'r to na • Each Ornament I view, each moving Grace Is a vaſt Theme, and would Engroſs my Praiſe. In vain do Mortals wantonly Aſpire, When the beſt thing ith' World is to retire In vain on Greatneſs their Devotion fix, And think to fly to Heav'n with Coach and Six: Unhappy, while they lay down reſtleſs Head On a ſoft Pillow in a gilded Bed; And want thoſe peaceful ſlumbers which careſs The Peaſant's Soul, and lull his Thoughts with eaſe: The Prophet ſlep't, and din'd in greater State, When his kind Angel did upon him wait Under a Tree, and bid him riſe and eat. There's a more cheap Compendious way to Bliſs; A ſafe and brighter path to happineſs: Friendſhip to true Aſpiring Souls is giv'n, As the beſt Emblem of the Joys of Heav'n. The choiceſt Wits, that Antient Rome e'er bred, Ne'r car'd on lofty Pinnacles to tread: But with Romantick Scenes of Grandeur tir'd, Or elſe with pure Philoſophy inſpir'd, Forſook the Banquets oth' Imperial Court, (Where Fortune's Golden Minions did reſort) And ſought for Refuge in ſome Countrey Town, Where they might call their Time and Friends their own: A Friend with his gay Looks, and kind Embrace, Gilds ev'ry Walk, and Conſecrates each Place: A Chearful Friend that knows no horrid Crimes, Is a Deliv'rer in the worſt of Times: His Mouth's an Oracle can Doubts appeaſe, His Tongue's all Harmony, his Looks all Peace. In gloomy Daies; when in our Breaſts the Sky Looks foul; when Vapours crowd and upward fly: When Spirits in diſorder'd meaſures rowl, And ev'ry Thought ſhoots Poyſon through the Soul: Our groaning ſad Companions that condole, Appear like Ghoſts, and ſeem to ſhreik and howl; But a dear chearful Friend ſoon drives away Black forms, and buſie Spectrums of the day; Or, like an Angel, do's the Pain allay. One touch from his ſoft charitable hand Strikes Joy: Each glance a Care can countermand: His Words are Balm, his Smiles a Cordial prove, And Wit and Mirth th' incumbent ill remove. Each bliſsful Minute do's freſh Sweets diſplay; Care fly •• , like Time, inſenſibly away: Raw Damps, Cold Shades, and Peſtilential Air Depart, and the whole Man looks bright and fair. I'd rather ſit with Friend without controul, Than live a ſoftly, tame, obſequious Tool At Great Man's Ellbow, with a ſtrait-lac't Soul; Viſit that Houſe, where Wit or Love prevails, Than view Loretto's Shrines, or proud Verſails. Or were I Monk; your Friendſhip to partake, I'd quit my Cell, and Sweeteſt Nuns forſake. 'Tis pleaſant too, when Friend is gone, to fly To th' Sacred Muſes, and Philoſophy. With theſe Wiſe Seneca made ſome amends, When baniſh't, and ſequeſter'd from his Friends: And Caeſar took a Muſe, 'midſt Civil Broils, To eaſe his Labours, and divert his Toils. One Happy Thought a brighter Treaſure Coyns, Than what is gain'd by ſtrength of Lungs, or Loins: One 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉 all ſenſual Toies excels, While the fluſh't Soul with laſting Rapture ſwells: An Ode of Horace, Rapin, Caſimere, Tranſcends the ſofteſt Ayres that charm the Ear. Sweet Virgil! Thy bleſt Fate I'd rather chooſe, Thy Sacred Walks, and thy Immortal Muſe; Than proudly climb the much fam'd Emperour's Seat; 'Twas thy brave Pen that made Auguſtus Great. With thee and Plato I've been pleas'd abroad, At Home, Alone, and in a Senſleſs Crowd: I've ſupp'd with thee, when at a Great Man's Feaſt, Where 'twas a breach of Law to vent one Jeſt. In Bed I've been with thy Fair Dido bleſt, And in the dark by Anna too careſs't. There are more ſprightly, and enticing Charm • In Ovid's Poeſie, than Corinna's Arms: The Sweet-Tongu'd Sidney's Wit did far excell All the fam'd Wealth oth' Land wherein he fell. One Golden Leaf of Cowley writ with Art and Flame Out-weighs a Miſer's Store, or Bank of Amſterdam.

THE Comical Cabal; OR, Humours of the Mobile. To the Truly Honourable and Ingenious Sir P. D. Baronet. — Hanc etiam, Mecaenas, aſpice partem. Virg. BEfore th' All-ſeeing Sun did rule the Day, Black Night with Pomp of Horrour did diſplay Her gloomy Wings, and cover'd all the Globe; The World was then one Univerſal Mob. Hail more than Princely Mob! whoſe Antient ſway Do's only to Eternity give way: Hail thou, who do'ſt derive thy Pedigree From a dark Line, and ſtrange Antiquity From Mighty Nothing, and Immortal Anarchy. And here, behold, Mankind ith' Lump appears A Gratious, Awful Rout of Thundring Seers, Stanch Pedlars, Damning Porters, and their Peers. Slaves, that are acted by the Pow'r of Words, And ſwallow Notions down, as Daws do Curds. Their Peace of Soul conſiſts in want of thinking, Their Wiſdom's ſhewn in ſolemn Nod, and winking; In waggiſh Leer, and a Judicious Shrugg; You'd think they went to School to honeſt Pug: Have you not ſeen, at Chriſtmas-Carnaval, Some Countrey Coridons, in a 'Squire's Great Hall, Look ſhamefac't for a while, then duck and bow In Civil, Surly Faſhion all arow? And all for Maſter 'Squire: As Dancing Mare Shews Tricks and Poſtures for the King at Fair. But when at length the jolly 'Squire puts on, Salutes with Gentleman each Nodding Clown, And cry's, what's in the Houſe is all your own: Soon Noddles rais'd with Healthing and Alarms, Their Souls and Bodies both are up in Arms; Prepar'd to fight, and weild a Club or Fiſt 'Gainſt any thing call'd Whore, or Antichriſt; Juſt ſo ſtrong pretious Nonſenſe will prevail, If you do but infuſe't inſtead of Ale; Blind Zeal will ſoon Intoxicate, and Steer Their Souls like Chriſtmas, or Election-Beer; The one a Kingdom fires, as t'other Town, or Shire. What is their Rage, whoſe Love's a dang'rous thing? Their kind Embraces look like Duelling: With Civil ſhake oth' hand they'll pinch and ſqueeze; And almoſt ſmother when they mean to kiſs; Kick backwards when they think to Congee low, And break your Shins in making of a Bow: Like Cats, which Scratch and Mawl, e'vn while they move To kindeſt Eſſays of Entrancing Love. Speak ſome Athenian Sage; inſtruct my Mind, And tell me what new Politick Charm can bind Our ſlipp'ry Mob: When Bedlam Wights, and a Prophetick Crew (What can't a Rabble joyn'd with Providence do?) Do Stare and Damn in Conſcientious fit, And, like mad Dog, all that oppoſe 'em bite: What bars of Art or Reaſon can oppoſe The ſinewy force of ſuch enlighten'd Foes, When Zeal with brawny Arms and Shoulders joyns And Conſcience mingles with the ſtrength of Loins? Bright Lances are but Toies, where they Engage; And, like Waves 'gainſt a Rock, but loſe their Rage: Stones, Poliſh't Timber, Adamantine Wall, The Weeping Marble, Brazen Pillars, all Submit; and ſcatter Ruine where they fall. True the poor Slaves, like the firſt Matter, ſtill Are equally diſpos'd to Good or Ill; At moſt 'tis but Chance-Medley, if they kill. Like Stone in Sling they're under a Command, Meer Implements in Polititians Hand: And if they're rightly ſet, or let alone; Like other parts of the Creation, In peaceful Order undiſturb'd they move, Like Sun, and Stars, or Elements above. But if they're jog'd from their alotted place, Where Nature fixt this dull and heavy Race; You may as ſoon, when 'tis on Wing recall A flying Dart, or a Laplanders Ball. Do but buoy up their Souls, fram'd to obey With Dreams and Fictions of Original ſway; They're proud as Welchman on St. David's day: With Eye-brows they'll the Government run down, And with grave Folly dictate to the Throne. With Finger thruſt forth wiſely they'll Diſpute, And by the dint of Back and Arms Confute; Put Caſes in moſt wond'rous ſolemn way, Like little Jerry Blackacre ith' Play. And tho' they ſcarce can ſpell Poor Robin's Jeſts, Are far above a Stateſman or a Prieſt. A General Council ſits within their Skulls; And the leaſt words they ſpeak are Oracles, As firm as Fate, or any Papal Bulls. They drive and hurry on like Phaeton When he did mount the Charriot of the Sun: That which before did ſerve for uſe, do's harm; Thoſe flames now burn, which did refreſh and warm: That Wind which gently fann'd, now loud do's blow, Swell big, and ſoon do's to a Tempeſt grow. Thoſe Waves which were confin'd, now know no ſhore; 'Gainſt King, Church, State they daſh with law leſs pow'r And fright Mankind with their unbounded rore.

FINIS.