human
Can you write me a poem about satire, john evelyn and william fuller?
assistant
Sure, here's a poem about satire, john evelyn and william fuller:
  Earless on high, stood un-abash'd Defoe,
And Tutchin flagrant from the scourge, below.
Pope, in his variorum notes on the passage, identified Tutchin as
The truth of the matter is that Pope was no more accurate about
turning point in the young man's life, however, cannot doubted.
Tutchin may have fought with William III's army in Ireland as an
officer. After the Glorious Revolution and the establishment of
I cannot sufficiently represent the terrible circumstances that
attended it; the earth swelled with a dismal humming noise, the
houses fell, the earth opened in many places, the graves gave up
some of their dead, the tomb stones ratled together; at last the
earth sunk below the water, and the sea overwhelmed great numbers
and that place on which I stood trembled exceedingly; the water
This hard'ned Age do's rougher Means require,
We must be _Cupp'd_ and _Cauteriz'd_ with _Fire_.
Did e'er the old or new Philosophy,
Make a Man splendid live, or wealthy die?
The irony of _A Pindarick Ode_ does not adequately mask the
As Proud as Poor, his Masters he'll defy;
And writes a _Piteous *Satyr_ upon Honesty.
Some think the Poem had been pretty good,
_If he the Subject had but understood_.
He got Five hundred Pence by this, and more,
_As sure as he had ne're a Groat before_.
Tutchin's satire would be henceforth the rough variety. In _The
Tutchin's "hatchet muse."
 _The Observator_, June 2-6, 1705. Tutchin stated, in _The Case,
 For the two Oldham pieces, see _Poems of John Oldham_, introd.
 _The Diary of John Evelyn_, ed. E. S. de Beer, 6 vols. (Oxford,
 _Mr. William Fuller's Letter to Mr. John Tutchin_ (1703), p. 7;
 "A Dialogue between a Dissenter and the Observator," in _A
To which is Added, A
_Black Raven_ in the _Poultry_, near the
_Old Jury_. MDCLXXXV.
A Friend of mine, and I did follow
A Cart and Six, with Brandy fraught;
We sate us down, and up did swallow
Each a Gallon at a draught:
The sober Sot can't drink with us,
May kiss coy Wine with _Tantalus_.
We did ramble to and fro;
'Till we cannot stand nor go;
One Leg by _Bacchus_ was quite lamed,
'Tother _Venus_ had defamed.
At the Tavern we did whisk it,
And full Pipes did empty drain:
We eat Pint-Pots instead of Bisket,
And piss'd 'em melted out again:
We beat the Vintner, kiss'd his Wife,
And kill'd three Drawers in the strife.
In the Street we found some Bullies,
And to make our valour known,
We call'd 'em Fops, and silly Cullies,
And knock'd the foremost of 'em down:
And with praise to end the Fray,
We, like good Souldiers, ran away.
To the Play-House we descended,
For to get a grain of Wit,
Our own with Wine was so defended.
We sate spuing in the Pit,
To see such sights whose only Trade is.
Thanks for your Praises! were they due, I wou'd
Pamper my self with Joy, and think 'em Good.
Loaden with Laurels for mine unknown Art,
You paint me Great, although beneath Desert.
But if _Macenas_ had a lasting Fame,
Because the best of Poets us'd his Name;
Then Merit justly may to me belong,
Because 'tis sung by your all-skilful Tongue.
Oft have I blam'd my Stars, that I should be
Plagu'd with this soft deluding _Poetry_:
This Charming _Mistress_ that has kept my Heart,
Quite from a Child, by her bewitching Art.
From her glad Fountain I can always find
A pleasing Philtre to make _Phillis_ kind:
For tell me that coy _Maid_ could ever be
Cruel, when urg'd by Charming _Poesie_?
_Verse_ is the _Poet's_ Beauty, Wealth and Wit;
And what soft _Virgin_ won't be won by it?
But, wearied with Delight, I always try
Against this Spell to find a Remedy.
By good _Divinity_ I think to find
But then, with Holy Flame, I strait do burn,
And all to _Hymns_, and _Sacred Anthems_ turn.
Nay, when the Night does waking Thoughts redress,
And Guardian Angels with our Souls converse,
To busie Mortals is the sleeping Time;
I dream and slumber all the Night in Rhyme.
Then puzling _Logick_ next I take in hand;
But this, Alas! can't _Poesie_ withstand.
_Barbara_, _Celarent_, I with Ease express,
And yoke rough _Ergo's_ into well-made _Verse_:
My Faithless Lover's _Syllogism_ tries;
I by stout _Logick_ find their _Fallacies_.
Then _Scheibler_, _Suarez_, _Bellarmine_ I get,
And sound the depth of _Metaphysick_ wit:
Streight, in a fret, I damn 'em all at once,
And vow they are as dull as _Zabarel_ or _Dunce_.
Credit me, _Sir_, no greater plague can be,
Than to be poison'd with mad _Poetrie_:
Like Pocky Letchers, who have got a Clap,
And paid the _Doctor_ for the dear mishap;
But newly eased of their nausceous pain,
Return unto their wanton Sin again.
So Poets be they plague'd with naughty Verse,
They never value good nor bad success:
Or be they trebly damn'd, they will prefer
Their next vile scribling to the _Theater_.
Well might the Audience, with their hisses, damn
The Bawdy Sot that late wrote _Limberham_:
But yet you see, the Stage he will command,
And hold the Laurel in's polluted Hand.
In slothful ease, a while I took delight,
And thought all Poets mad that us'd to write.
So long I kept from Verse, I thought I'd lost
My Versing Vein, and of my Fortune boast:
But having tryal made, I quickly found
My store renew'd, in numbers strong and sound
With ease my happy fancies come and go,
As Rivulets do from _Parnassus_ flow.
Then finding that in vain I long had try'd
The _Poet_ from the _Tutchin_ to divide;
I charming _Poesie_ make my delight,
And propagate the humor still to Write.
Our new Divines do alter not one jot,
From what their Tribe in older times have wrot;
Except, like _Parker_, to have something new,
They broach new Doctrines, either false or true:
_A Publick Conscience_, which for nought does pass,
But proves the Writer is a publick Ass;
Who the new Philosophick world have told,
Have for a new but varnish'd o're the old.
But all Poetick Phancy can't draw dry,
Th' unfathom'd Wells of deepest Poesie.
The _Bifront Hill_ is always stout and strong;
The _Muses_ still are handsome, always young.
The clearest streams of Chrystal _Helicon_
Do o're the Pebles in sweet Rhymings run.
Why then should you, _Dear Sir_, (that have pretence
To the extreamest bounds of Wit and Sense)
Lay by your Quills and hold your Tune-ful Tongue,
While all the witty want your pleasing Song?
Once more renew those Lays that gave delight,
That chear the Day, and glad the gloomy Night:
May with your dying breath your Verses end;
Thus prays your constant, and
_Your truest Friend_,
Describ'd in a
Igni corusco nubila dividens
Plerumq; per purum tonantes
Egit Equos volucremq; currum,
Quo bruta Tellus & vaga flumina,
Quo Styx, & invisi horrida Taenari
Sedes, Atlanteusq; finis
Concutitur. Valet ima summis
Printed, and are to be sold by _R. Baldwin_, near the
Describ'd in a POEM.
Well may our Lives bear an uncertain date;
Disturb'd with Maladies within,
Without by cross Events of Fate,
The worst of Plagues on Mortals wait,
If our ancient Mother Earth,
Who gave us all untimely Birth,
Such strong Hysterick Passion feels;
If Orbs are from their Axles torn,
And Mountains into Valleys worn,
All in a moments space,
Can humane Race
Stand on their Legs when Nature Reels?
Unhappy Man! in all things cross'd,
On every giddy Wave of Fortune toss'd;
The only thing that aims at Sway,
And yet capricious Fate must still Obey;
O're scorching Mountains, and o're desart Sands,
Laden with Gold, when homeward bound,
Is in one vast impetuous Billow drown'd:
Or if he reaches to the Shoar,
And there unlades his Oar,
Builds Towns and Houses which may last and stand,
Thinking no Wealth so sure as firm Land;
Yet Fate the Animal does still pursue;
This slides from underneath his Feet, and leaves him too.
Environ'd with Ten Thousand Fears we live,
For Fate do's seldom a just warning give;
Quicker than Thought its dire Resolves are made,
And swift as Lightning flies,
Around the vast extended Skies:
All things are by its Bolts in vast Confusion laid.
Sometimes a Flaming Comet does appear,
Whose very Visage does pronounce,
Does on some great Mans Exit wait,
A murder'd _Cornish_, or some _Hercules_,
When from their Trunks Almighty _Jove_,
Who breaks with Thunder weighty Clouds above,
To Honour these
Large Pines and Oaks does Lop,
And in a Whirlwind lays 'em upon _Oeta_'s Top.
E're this vast Orb shall unto Chaos turn,
And with Consuming Flames shall burn,
An Angel Trumpeter shall come,
Whose Noise shall shake the Massie Ground,
In one short moment shall express,
His Notes to the whole Universe;
The very Dead shall hear his Sound,
And from their Graves repair,
To the impartial Bar,
Those that have been in the deep Ocean drown'd,
Shall at his Call come to receive their Doom.
But here, alas! no Omens fly,
No secret Whisper of their Destiny
Was heard; none cou'd divine
When Fate wou'd spring the Mine:
Safe and secure the Mortals go,
Not dreaming of a Hell below;
In the dark Caverns of the gloomy Earth,
Where suffocating Sulphur has its Birth,
And sparkling Nitre's made,
Where _Vulcan_ and his _Cyclops_ prove;
The Thunderbolts they make for _Jove_;
Here _AEolus_ his Winds has laid,
Here is his Windy Palace, here 'tis said
His Race of little puffing Gods are bred,
Which serve for Bellows to blow up the Flame,
The dire ingredients are in order plac'd,
Which must anon lay Towns and Cities waste.
Strait the black Engineer of Heaven came,
His Match a Sun-beam was,
He swift as Time unto the Train did pass,
It soon took Fire; The Fire and Winds contend,
But both concur the Vaulted Earth to rend;
It upwards rose, and then it downwards fell,
Aiming at Heaven, it sunk to Hell:
The Neighb'ring Seas now own no more,
The sturdy Bulwarks of the Shoar,
The gaping Earth and greedy Sea,
Are both contending for the Prey;
Those whom the rav'nous Earth had ta'ne,
Into her Bowels back again
Are wash't from thence by the insulting Main.
The Old and Young receive alike their Doom,
Are buried in one Grave;
For Fate allows 'em all one Common Tomb.
Lose all their Reason in the great Surprise.
They know not where to go,
And yet they dare not stay,
There's Fire and Smoak below,
And the Earth gaping to receive the Prey:
If to the Houses Top they Crawl,
These tumble too, and downwards fall:
And if they fly into the Street,
There grizly Death they meet;
All in a hurry dye away,
The wicked had not time to pray.
The Soldier once cou'd teach grim Death to kill,
In vain is all his Skill,
In vain he brandisheth his Steel:
No more the Art of War must teach,
But lyes Fates Trophy underneath the Breach:
The good Companions now no more Carouse,
They share the Fate of the declining House,
Healths to their Friends their Bumpers Crown'd:
But while they put the Glasses round,
Death steps between the Cup and lip,
Nor would it let 'em take one parting Sip.
The Mine is sprung, and a large Breach is made,
Whereat strong Troops of Warring Seas invade;
These overflow;
Where Houses stood and Grass did grow,
All sorts of Fish resort:
They had Dominions large enough before,
But now unbounded by the Shoar,
They o're the Tops of Houses sport.
The Watry Fry their Legions do extend,
And for the new slain Prey contend;
Within the Houses now they roam,
Into their Foe, the very Kitchen, come.
One does the Chimney-hearth assail,
Another slaps the Kettle with his slimy Tail.
No Image there of Death is seen,
No Cook-maid does obstruct their Sway,
They have entirely got the day.
Those who have once devour'd been
Thus Fate decides, and steps between,
And sometimes gives the Slave the Victors meed.
The Beauteous Virgins whom the Gods might love,
Cou'd not the Curse of Heav'n remove;
Their goodness might for Crimes Atone,
Inexorable Death spares none.
Their tender Flesh lately so plump and good,
Is now made Fishes and Sea-monsters Food;
In vain they cry,
Heav'n is grown Deaf, and no Petition hears,
Their Sighs are answer'd like their Lovers Pray'rs,
They in the Universal Ruin lye.
Nor is inexorable Fate content
To ruine one poor Town alone;
More Mischief by the Blow is done:
Death's on a farther Message sent.
When Fate a Garrison does Sack,
The very Suburbs do partake
Its Forces draw
To every Mountain, Field and Wood,
Worse than the weak Assaults of Steel,
Its Instruments of Death all places feel.
They undiscover'd, like fell Poison kill,
Its Warriours fierce,
The Earth, the Air, and Men do pierce;
And mounted, fight upon the winged Winds.
Here a great Mountain in a Valley's thrown,
And there a Valley to a Mountain grown.
The very Breath of an incensed God,
Makes even proud _Olympus_ Nod.
Chang'd is the Beauty of the fruitful Isle,
And its fair Woods lopp'd for its Funeral Pile.
The moving Earth forms it self in Waves,
And Curls its Surface like the Rowling Seas;
Whilst Man (that little thing) so vainly Raves,
Nothing but Heaven can its own Wrath appease.
But Fate at length thought fit to leave its Toil,
And greedy Death was glutted with the Spoil.
As weary Soldiers having try'd their Steel,
Half drown'd with Blood, do then desist to kill.
More Ruin wou'd a second Deluge make,
Blot out the Name of the unhappy Isle.
It fares with her as when in Martial Field,
Resolv'd and Brave, and loath to yield,
Two num'rous Armies do contend,
And with repeated Shouts the Air do Rend.
Whilst the affrighted Earth does shake,
Some large Battalions are entirely lost,
And Warring Squadrons from the mighty Host:
Here by a Shot does fall
And near to him,
Another loses but a Limb.
And all the rest do's but prolong its date,
'Till injur'd Heav'n finds,
Its Bolts a Terror strike on humane Minds;
Sure we may hope the Sinners there Repent,
Since it has made their lewdest Priest Relent.
Pindarick ODE,
Printed and Sold by _E. W._ near _Stationers-Hall_.
My humble Muse no Hero Sings,
The great _Maria_ now no more,
In Sable Lines she does deplore;
Of mighty _William_'s growing fame,
At present must forget the name,
Yet she affects something that is sublime,
And would in _Dytherambick_ strain              }
Attempt to rise, and now disdain                }
He that's afraid to fall, shou'd ne'r pretend to climb.
Let others boast of potent Wit,
And Summon in the awful _Nine_,
With all their Aids of Fancy, Humor, Sence,
Fair polish'd Learning, Eloquence,
And call their gawdy works Divine:
Hov'ring above my Head let _dullness_ sit,
The only God that's worshipp'd by the Age;
Immortal _Nonsence_ guide my Pen,
Must warp, before my nobler fire
To their regardless Tombs retire.
Thus Arm'd, with Nonsence, I'll engage
And their Pedantick fooleries,
Show the misguided World the Cheat,
And let _Man_ know that _Nonsence_ makes him Great.
Almighty _Folly_! How shall I thy praise
To Human Understandings raise?
What shall I do
Thy worth to shew?
The Glorious Sun, that rules the Day,
Gives vital warmth and life by ev'ry Ray.
His Blessings he in common grants,
To Hemlock as to nobler Plants;
Thy Virtue thou dost circumscribe,
And dost dispence
Thy influence,
Thou Wealth and Honour dost bestow
On thy triumphant _Fools_,
Whilst abject Sence do's barefoot go;
So weak's the Learning of the noisie Schools.
Tell me, ye Learned Sots! who spend your time
In reading Books,
With thoughtful Heads and meagre Looks,
To Learnings Pinacle, who climb
Through the wild Briers of _Philosophy_,
The Thorns of harsh _Philology_,
The dirty Road where _Aristotle_ went
Encumber'd with a thousand _terms_
Not by any fancy fathomable,
Bringing distracted Minds to harms;
The rankest _Hellebore_ cannot prevent.
Tell me, I say, ye Learn'd Sots!
Make a Man splendid live, or wealthy die?
Tho' you may think your Notions truer,
They'll ne'r advance your Lotts,
A _Fool_! Heav'ns bless the charming Name,
So much admir'd in Ages past,
As long as this, and all the World shall last,
A _Fool_! what mighty wonders has he wrought?
What mighty Actions done?
Obey'd by all, controul'd by none;
Even _Love_ its self is to its Footstool brought.
For t'other day, I met amidst the Throng
A Lady wealthy, beautiful and young;
_Madam_, said I, I wish you double Joy,
Of a ripe Husband and a budding Boy,
And with my self a sight of him you Wed,        }
The happy Part'ner of your Bridal Bed.          }
Sir, she reply'd, I him in Wedlock had;         }
Pointing unto an Image by her side,
An odder Figure no Man e'r espy'd,
Long was his Chin, and carotty his Beard,
His Eyes sunk in, and high his Nose was rear'd,
A nauseous ugliness possess'd the Tool,
And scarce had Wit enough to be a Fool:
Bless me (thought I) if Fools such fortune get,
Then who (the Devil) wou'd be plagu'd with wit.
The Pageant pomp attends the show,
When the great God of _Dullness_ does in triumph go,
How splendid and how great
His num'rous Train of Blockheads do appear?
That governs all above,
Is but a puny to this Mighty God,
The blustring God of War,
Who with one Nod
Makes the Earth tremble from afar,
Guarded with puissant Champions stern and bold
That breath Destruction, talk of bloody Jars,
Have nought but ragged Cloaths to keep off cold,
And tatter'd Ensigns relicks of the Wars.
The God of _Dullness_ mounted on his Throne
Of fix'd stupidity,
Prostrate his num'rous Subjects tumble down,
They pay obeisance to their gloomy God,
And at his Nod
They act, they move,
They hate, they love,
They bless, they curse, they swear,
For they his Creatures are,
He amply does his Benefits afford,
For each confirmed Blockhead is a Lord.
Then talk no more of Parts and Sence,
For Riches ne'r attend the Wise,
Have you to dullness no pretence,
You shall to Grandeur never rise;
He with a gloomy mien Divinely dull,
Whose very aspect tells the World he is a Fool,
Whose thicker Skull
Is proof against each storm of Fate,
Is Born for Glory, and he shall be Great.
Who 'ere wou'd rise,
Or great Preferment get,
Must nere pretend to Wit,
Or be that monstrous, ill shap'd Man call'd Wise;
He must not boast
Of Learning's Value, or its cost;
But, if he wou'd Preferment have,
He must be much a _Fool_, or much a _Knave_.
A _Knave_! the finer Creature far,
Tho' of the foolish Race of _Issachar_.
As the unwieldy _Bear_ among her young
Deform'd, and shapeless Cubs,
Finds one more strong,
Active and sprightly than the rest:
Him she transforms and rubs,
And licks into a better shape the Beast.
Thus do's the gloomy God of Folly do,
With the insipid Race:
He do's his num'rous Offspring call,            }
He handles one and feels his Skull;             }
If it be thick, he says, Be thou a Fool.        }
Another, if about his Face
He spies a roguish Mein, a cunning Look;
If there appears
The hopes of Falshood in his tender Years,
Good signs of Perjury
And hardn'd Villany;
This for his secret Councils he do's save,
Lays on his Paw, and bids him, Be a _Knave_.
A _Knave_! the elder brother to the _Fool_:
His vast Dominions are no less
Than the whole Universe:
The Lands are bounded by the Sea:
The Seas the sturdy Rocks obey:
The Storms do know the Limits of their Rule:
Neither the Land nor Sea this Hero bind,
But unconfin'd
O're both he finds a way,
O're both he bears Imperial sway:
That ruines Kingdoms to be Great.
The fawning, flattring Fop, who creeps
Just like a Spaniel at your Heels,
To some illustrious Knave, who sweeps
Away a Kingdoms Wealth at once,
And with the Publick Coin his Treasure fills;
For Kingdoms work t'enrich the _Knave_ and _Dunce_.
Honesty's a Garb we're mock'd in,
Men have no regard to Works.
Substantial Knavery is a Vertue will
Your Coffers fill;
And Altars raise,
Unto your Praise.
Be but a Knave, you'll keep the World in awe,
And fear no Law;
Where all Men do amiss.
But here methinks an antiquated _Hero_ starts,
Surpris'd at my Discourse;
He starts and boggles like a Horse,
And damns our modern Knavish Arts.
Vain _Youth_, he says misguided by a _Knave_,
By some dull Blockhead tempted from thy rest;
The worldly Grandeur thou dost vainly crave,
Is nought but Noise and Foolishness at best.
What Man wou'd quit his Sense,
Or, the wise Dictates of right Reason's Rule,
In vain pretence
To be a rich, a gawdy _Fool_?
Or, quit his Honesty, so much despis'd,
And basely condescend,
To every little Knavish End;
Run headlong into every Cheat,
Attempt each Villany to make him Great.
Believe me Youth, (be better now advis'd)
Thy early Vertues will thy Temples spread,    }
With lasting Lawrels 'round thy Head.       }
Shall flourish when the Wearers dead.         }
I who have always honest been, though poor,
In whom the utmost signs of Age appears,
And sink beneath the Burthen of my Years,
Cou'd never yet adore
A Knave or Blockhead, were he ne'er so Great;
Or, be like to them, to purchase an Estate.
Poor thredbare _Vertue_ ne'er admir'd in Court,
But seeks its Refuge in an honest Mind,
There it securely dwells,
Where no Ambition nor wild Lust resorts:
To love our Country is indeed our Pride;
We glory in an honest Action done;
When the Reward is laid aside
The Glory and the Action is our own,
We seldom find
Have their Reward
From Princes they did save
From dire Destruction, or a poisoning Foe;
They let them go
Contemn'd, disdain'd; and most regard
Those Villians sought their overthrow.
To waft to great Preferments o'er,
Those, who were our foes before,
And then be tumbl'd down like useless Logs,
While those, who just pass'd o'er,
And the obliging Bridge shou'd thank,
Do scornfully stand grinning on the Bank,
To see the venerable Ruines float
Adrift upon the Stream,
Contemn'd by them,
Who give the Childrens Bread unto the Dogs;
But at this Word
He fiercely look'd, and then he grasp'd his Sword.
Pity it is, he said, this Sword of mine,
Of late so gloriously did shine,
In Foreign Fields 'midst Show'rs of Blood,
With which I've cut my Passage through
Where Death the Land with vast Destruction fills,
Venture their Lives for their dear Countries good,
Should now be laid aside
'Mongst Rubbish Iron old,
From reaking Blood scarce cold;
Or else converted to a _Knife_,
For some damn'd Villain first to cut
A Princes Bread, and next his Throat:
In vain we venture to preserve his Life,
In vain to Foreign Fields we come,
In vain to Foreign Force alli'd,
If a nefarious Brood at Home
Only t' enrich his Enemies,
'Tis strange a Prince, shou'd ere a _Fool_ preferr,
A _Knave_ may serve an unjust Government,
But ne'er prevent
Those Mischiefs may attend the just:
For who would trust
A Villain may be bought by Gold,
Unless design'd on purpose to be sold?
If Princes wou'd use _Fools_ as Shop-men do
Their Signs or Boards of show,
To tell the passers by there's better stuff
Within, 'tis rational enough.
To tell the Passers by their is within,
A _Merry Andrew_ to be seen,
Is very much ridiculous,
Tho' to our grief we often find it thus.
And give the fair Estate
That ne'er did good;
The honest Work, the _Knave_ enjoys the Prize.
A Government adorn'd with Fools,
Empty Trifles, useless Tools,
Looks like a Toy-Shop gloriously bedeckt
With gawdy gewgaws, Childrens play things,
Wooden Folk, with Human features,
Made just for show, and no advantage brings,
And prove of no effect.
It dwindles to a _Raree-Show_,
In which no Man must act a Part
But the dull _Blockhead_ and the _Beau_,
The huffing _Fop_ without a Heart;
What Wise Man would a Journey take
On a dull Steed has broke his Back?
Or have recourse
Those act by such wise Rules,
Who prop Just Princes by a Tyrant's Tools.
Surely the Genius of a fruitful Isle
Is either lost,
Or what is worst,
Murder'd by those who shou'd support her Fame,
The Heavens themselves have cast an angry look,
Seldom the Glorious Sun does shine
But Veils its face Divine.
_Jove_ does misguide the Seasons every Year;
Nought can we read in Nature's Book,
To reap her Fruits scarce worth our while.
From whose unhappy Womb,
We Mortals come,
Ne'er shows a Glorious Birth,
But proves abortive as our Actions are;
Nought have we left but hope,
Just like the Blind at Noon we grope:
The number of our Sins we must fulfil,
And if we're sav'd, it is against our will.
Long time had _Israel_ been disus'd from Rest,
Long had they been by Tyrants sore opprest;
Kings of all sorts they ignorantly crav'd,
And grew more stupid as they were enslav'd;
Yet want of Grace they impiously disown'd,
And still like Slaves beneath the Burden groan'd:
With languid Eyes their Race of Kings they view,
The Bad too many, and the Good too few;
Some rob'd their Houses, and destroy'd their Lives,
Ravish'd their Daughters, and debauch'd their Wives;
Prophan'd the Altars with polluted Loves,
And worship'd Idols in the Woods and Groves.
To Foreign Nations next they have recourse;
Striving to mend, they made their State much worse.
They first from _Hebron_ all their Plagues did bring,
Cramm'd in the Single Person of a King;
From whose base Loins ten thousand Evils flow,
Which by Succession they must undergo.
Yet sense of Native Freedom still remains,
They fret and grumble underneath their Chains;
Incens'd, enrag'd, their Passion do's arise,
Till at his Palace-Gate their Monarch dies.
This Glorious Feat was by the Fathers done,
Whose Children next depos'd his Tyrant Son,
Made him, like _Cain_, a murd'rous Wanderer,
Both of his Crimes, and of his Fortunes share.
But still resolv'd to split on Foreign Shelves,
Rather than venture once to trust Themselves,
To Foreign Courts and Councils do resort,
To find a King their Freedoms to support:
Of one for mighty Actions fam'd they're told,
Profoundly wise, and desperately bold,
Skilful in War, Successful still in Fight,
Had vanquish'd Hosts, and Armies put to flight;
And when the Storms of War and Battels cease,
Knew well to steer the Ship of State in Peace.
Him they approve, approaching to their sight;
Lov'd by the Gods, of Mankind the Delight.
The numerous Tribes resort to see him land,
Cover the Beach, and blacken all the Strand;
With loud Huzza's they welcome him on shore,
And for their Blessing do the Gods implore.
The Sanhedrim conven'd, at length debate
The sad Condition of their drooping State,
And Sinking Church, just ready now to drown;
And with one Shout they do the Hero crown.
Ah Happy _Israel_! had there never come
Into his Councils crafty Knaves at home,
In combination with a Foreign Brood,
Sworn Foes to _Israel_'s Rights and _Israel_'s Good;
Who impiously foment Intestine Jars,
Exhaust our Treasure, and prolong our Wars;
Make _Israel_'s People to themselves a prey,
Mislead their King, and steal his Heart away:
United Intrests thus they do divide,
The State declines by Avarice and Pride;
Like Beasts of Prey they ravage all the Land,
Acquire Preferments, and usurp Command:
The Foreign Inmates the Housekeepers spoil,
And drain the Moisture of our fruitful Soil.
If to our Monarch there are Honours due,
Yet what with _Gibeonites_ have we to do?
When Foreign States employ 'em for their Food,
To draw their Water, and to hew their Wood.
What Mushroom Honours dos our Soil afford!
One day a Begger, and the next a Lord.
The Commons such Affronts would never bear.
Let no Historian the sad Stories tell
Of thy base Sons, Oh servile _Israel_!
But thou, my Muse, more generous and brave,
Shalt their black Crimes from dark oblivion save;
To future Ages shalt their Sins disclose,
And brand with Infamy thy Nation's Foes.
A Country lies, due East from _Judah_'s Shoar,
Where stormy Winds and noisy Billows roar;
A Land much differing from all other Soils,
Forc'd from the Sea, and buttress'd up with Piles.
No marble Quarrys bind the spungy Ground,
But Loads of Sand and Cockle-shells are found:
Its Natives void of Honesty and Grace,
A Boorish, rude, and an inhumane Race;
From Nature's Excrement their Life is drawn,
Are born in Bogs, and nourish'd up from Spawn.
Their hard-smoak'd Beef is their continual Meat,
Which they with Rusk, their luscious Manna, eat;
Such Food with their chill stomachs best agrees,
They sing _Hosannah_ to a Mare's-milk Cheese.
To supplicate no God, their Lips will move,
Who speaks in Thunder like Almighty _Jove_,
But watry Deities they do invoke,
Who from the Marshes most Divinely croak.
Their Land, as if asham'd their Crimes to see,
Dives down beneath the surface of the Sea.
_Neptune_, the God who do's the Seas command,
Ne'er stands on Tip-toe to descry their Land;
But seated on a Billow of the Sea,
With Ease their humble Marshes do's survey.
These are the Vermin do our State molest;
Eclipse our Glory, and disturb our Rest.
_BENTIR_ in the Inglorious Roll the first,
_Bentir_ to this and future Ages curst,
Of mean Descent, yet insolently proud,
Shun'd by the Great, and hated by the Crowd;
Who neither Blood nor Parentage can boast,
By lavish Grants whole Provinces he gains,
Till angry Sanhedrims such Grants resume,
And from the Peacock take each borrow'd Plume.
Why should the _Gibeonites_ our Land engross,
And aggrandize their Fortunes with our loss?
Let them in foreign States proudly command,
They have no Portion in the Promis'd Land,
Which immemorially has been decreed
How ill do's _Bentir_ in the Head appear          }
By such we're grown e'en Scandalous in War.       }
Our Fathers Trophies wore, and oft could tell
How by their Swords the mighty Thousands fell;
What mighty Deeds our Grandfathers had done,
What Battels fought, what Wreaths of Honour won:
Thro the extended Orb they purchas'd Fame,
The Nations trembling at their Awful Name:
Such wondrous Heroes our Fore-fathers were,
When we, base Souls! but Pigmies are in War:
By Foreign Chieftains we improve in Skill;
We learn how to intrench, not how to kill:
For all our Charge are good Proficients made
But in what Field have we a Conquest wrought?
In Ten Years War what Battel have we fought?
Yet why in Council should that Slave appear?
Must it be done to undermine the State?
No _Magi_ left, fit to advise the Crown?          }
Must we by Foreign Councils be undone?            }
Unhappy _Israel_, who such Measures takes,
And seeks for Statesmen in the Bogs and Lakes;
Who speak the Language of most abject Slaves,
Our _Hebrew_'s murder'd in their hoarser Throats;
Their untun'd Prattle do's our Sense confound,
Which in our Princely Palaces do's sound;
The self-same Language the old Serpent spoke,
When misbelieving _Eve_ the Apple took:
Of our first Mother why are we asham'd,
When by the self-same Rhetorick we are damn'd?
But _Bentir_, not Content with such Command,
He do's extend to Other Coasts his Pride,
And other Kingdoms into Parts divide:
Unhappy _Hiram_! dismal is thy Song;
Tho born to Empire, thou art ever young!
Ever in Nonage, canst no Right transfer:
But who made _Bentir_ thy Executor?
What mighty Power do's _Israel_'s Land afford?    }
What Power has made the famous _Bentir_ Lord?     }
The Peoples Voice, and _Sanhedrim_'s Accord.      }
Are not the Rights of People still the same?
Did they e'er differ in or Place or Name?
Have not Mankind on equal Terms still stood,
Without Distinction, since the mighty Flood?
And have not _Hiram_'s Subjects a free Choice
To chuse a King by their united Voice?
If _Israel_'s People cou'd a Monarch chuse,
A living King at the same time refuse;
That _Hiram_'s People, shall it e'er be said,
Have not the Right of Choice when he is dead?
When no Successor to the Crown's in sight,
The Crown is certainly the Peoples Right.
If Kings are made the People to enthral,
We had much better have no King at all:
But Kings, appointed for the Common Good,
Always as Guardians to their People stood.
And Heaven allows the People sure a Power
To chuse such Kings as shall not them devour:
They know full well what best will serve themselves,
How to avoid the dang'rous Rocks and Shelves.
Unthinking _Israel_! Ah henceforth beware
How you entrust this faithless Wanderer!
He who another Kingdom can divide,                }
May set your Constitution soon aside,             }
And o'er your Liberties in Triumph ride.          }
Support your Rightful Monarch and his Crown,
But pull this proud, this croaking Mortal down.
Proceed, my Muse; the Story next relate
Mounted to Grandeur by the usual Course
Of Whoring, Pimping, or a Crime that's worse;
Of Foreign Birth, and undescended too,
Yet he, like _Bentir_, mighty Feats can do.
He robs our Treasure, to augment his State,
Our ravish'd Honours on his Shoulder wears,
And Titles from our Antient Rolls he tears.
Was e'er a prudent People thus befool'd,
By upstart Foreigners thus basely gull'd?
Or sacred Badges did your Fathers grace!
In vain is Blood, or Parentages, when
Ribbons and Garters can ennoble Men.
To Chivalry you need have no recourse,
The gawdy Trappings make the Ass a Horse.
No more, no more your Antient Honours own,
By slavish _Gibeonites_ you are outdone:
Or else your Antient Courage reassume,
And to assert your Honours once presume;
From off their Heads your ravish'd Lawrels tear,
The Society's purpose is to publish reprints (usually facsimile
JOHN TUTCHIN, _Selected Poems_ (1685-1700). Introduction by Spiro
SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE, _An Essay upon the Original and Nature of
ANONYMOUS, _Political Justice. A Poem_ (1736). Introduction by
_Two Poems Against Pope_: LEONARD WELSTED, _One Epistle to Mr. A.