human
Can you continue this poem for me?
  EDITED From MSS. and Rare Printed Originals
The following curious collection I have gathered together during
several years' reading in out-of-the-way corners. Manuscripts, in
When raging Love, with fierce assault,
Strikes at fair Beauties gate,
What army hath she to resist
And keepe her court and state?
She calleth first on Chastitie
To lende her help in time;
And Prudence no lesse summons shee
To meet her foe so trim.
And female Courage she alwaye
Doth bring unto the walle,
To blowe the trump in her dismaye,
Fearing her fort may falle.
On force of wordes she much relies
Her foe without to keepe,
And parleyeth with her two bright eyes
Yet natheless the more she strives,
The lesse she keepes him out,
For she hath traitors in her camp
That keepe her still in doubt.
The first and worst of these the Fleshe,
Then womans Vanitie
That still is caughte within the meshe
Of guilefull Flatterie.
These traitors ope the gate at length;
And in, with sword in hande,
Came raging Love, and all her strength
No longer can withstande.
Prudence and Chastitie both to
Submit unto the foe;
And female Courage nought can doe
But down her walls must goe.
She needes must yield her castle strong,
And Love triumphs once more;
Its onely what the boy hath done
A thousand times before.
None may resist his mightie power;
And though a boy, and blinde,
He knows to chase a happie hour
When maidens must be kinde.
My bonny lass! thine eye,
So sly,
Hath made me sorrow so.
Thy crimson cheeks, my dear!
So clear,
Have so much wrought my woe.
Thy pleasing smiles and grace,
Thy face,
Have ravished so my sprites,
That life is grown to nought
Through thought
Of love, which me affrights.
For fancy's flames of fire
Unto such furious power,
As but the tears I shed
Make dead,
The brands would me devour.
I should consume to nought
Through thought
Of thy fair shining eye,
Thy cheeks, thy pleasing smiles,
The wiles
That forced my heart to die,
Thy grace, thy face, the part
Stands gazing still to see
The wondrous gifts and power,
Each hour,
That hath bewitched me.
Leeving at large all fables vainly us'd,
all trifling toys that doe no truth import,
Lo, here how the end (at length), though long diffus'd,
unfoldeth plaine a rare and true report,
To glad those minds who seek their countries wealth
by proffer'd pains t'enlarge its happy health.
At Rome I was when Fox did there arrive;
therefore I may sufficiently express
What gallant joy his deedes did there revive
in the hearts of those which heard his valiantness.
And how the Pope did recompense his pains,
and letters gave to move his greater gains.
But yet I know that many doe misdoubt
that those his pains are fables, and untrue;
Not only I in this will bear him out,
but divers more that did his Patents view,
And unto those so boldly I dare say
that nought but truth John Fox cloth here bewray.
Besides, there's one was slave with him in thrall
lately return'd into our native land;
This witness can this matter perfect all:
what needeth more? for witness he may stand.
And thus I end, unfolding what I know;
the other man more larger proof can show.
"_Honos alit Artes_"
The above lines by Anthony Munday are omitted by Hakluyt in his
reprint of the captivity of John Fox in his "Principal English
Care for thy soule, as thing of greatest pryce!
Made to the ende to taste of power Divine,
Devoid of guilt, abhorryng sin and vice,
Apt by God's grace to virtue to incline;
Care for it soe, as by thy retchless traine
It bee not brought to taste eternall paine!
Care for thy corpse (body), but chiefely for soules sake,
Not of excess; sustainyng food is best
To vanquish pryde, but comely clothing take.
Seeke after skille; deepe ignorance detest;
Care so, I say, the flesh to feede and cloth,
That thou harm not thy soule and bodie both.
Care for the world, to doe thy bodie right;
Back not thy wytt to win by wicked wayes;
Seeke not t'oppress the weak by wrongfull might;
To pay thy due, doe banish all delayes;
Care to dispend accordyng to thy store,
And, in like sort, bee mindfull of the pore.
Care for thy soule, as for thy chiefest staye,
Care for thy bodie, for the soules avail;
Care for the world, for bodies helpe alwaye,
Care yett but soe as virtue may prevail;
Care in such sort, that thou be sure of this,
Care keepe the not from heaven and heavenlie blisse.
Faction, that ever dwells in Courte where witt excels,
Hath sett defiance;
Fortune and Love have sworne that they were never borne
Of one alliance.
Cupid, which doth aspire to be god of Desire,
Swears he "gives lawes;
That where his arrows hit, somejoy, some sorrow it:
Fortune no cause."
Fortune swears "weakest heartes," the bookes of Cupide's artes.
"Turn'd with her wheel,
Senselesse themselves shal prove. Venture hath place in love.
Aske them that feel!"
This discord it begot atheists, that honour not.
Nature thought good
Fortune shoud ever dwel in Court where wits excel;
Love keepe the wood.
Soe to the wood went I, with Love to live and dye;
Fortunes forlorne.
Experience of my youth made mee thinke humble Truth
In deserts borne.
My saint I keepe to mee, and Joan herself is free,
Joan fair and true!
Shee that doth onely move passions of love with Love.
Fortune! adieu!
Disgrac'd, undone, forlorn, made Fortune's Sport,
Banish'd your Kingdom first, and then your Court;
Out of my Places turn'd, and out of Doors,
The scene of Laughter, and the common chats
On my past Grandeur and my Follies Think:
Would I had been the Brat of some mean Drab,
Whom Fear or Chance had caus'd to choak or stab,
Rather than be the Issue of a King,
And by him made so wretched, scorn'd a Thing.
How little cause has mankind to be proud
Have I abroad in Battels Honour won
To be at home dishonourably undone?
Mark'd with a Star and Garter, and made fine
With all those gaudy Trifles once call'd mine,
Your Hobby-Horses  and your Joys of State,
And now become the Object of your Hate;
I was your Darling, but against your Will,
And know that I will be the Peoples still;
And when you're dead, I and my Friends, the Rout,
Will with my Popish Uncle try a Bout,
And to my Troubles this one Comfort bring,
Next after you, by ------, I will be King.
Ungrateful Boy! I will not call thee Son,
Thou hast thyself unhappily undone;
And thy Complaints serve but to show thee more,
Resent it not, shake not thy addle Head,
And be no more by Clubs and Rascals led.
Have I made thee the Darling of my Joys,
The prettiest and the lustiest of my Boys?
Have I so oft sent thee with cost to France,
To take new Dresses up, and learn to dance?
Have I giv'n thee a Ribbon and a Star,
And sent thee like a Meteor to the War?
Have I done all that Royal Dad could do,
And do you threaten now to be untrue?
But say I did with thy fond Mother sport,
To the same kindness others had resort;
'Twas my good Nature, and I meant her Fame,
To shelter thee under my Royal Name.
Alas! I never got one Brat alone,
My Mistresses all are by each Fop well known,
And I still willing all their Brats to own.
I made thee once,'tis true, the Post of Grace,
And stuck upon thee every mighty Place,
Each glitt'ring Office, till thy heavy Brow
Grew dull with Honour, and my Pow'r low.
I spangled thee with Favours, hung thy Nose
With Rings of Gold and Pearl, till all grew Foes
By secret Envy at thy growing State:
I lost my safety when I made thee Great.
There's not the least Injustice to you shewn;
You must be ruin'd to secure my Throne.
Office is but a fickle Grace, the Badge
Bestow'd by fits, and snatch'd away in Rage;
And sure that Livery which I give my Slaves
I may take from 'em when my Portsmouth raves.
Then swallow this without Capitulation.
If you with feigned Wrongs still keep a Clutter,
And make the People for your Sake to mutter,
For my own Comfort, but your Trouble, know,
G------fish, I'll send you to the Shades below.
O Last and Bests of Scots! Who didst maintain
Thy Country's Freedom from a Foreign Reign,
New People fill the Land now thou art gone,
Scotland and thou did each in other live,
Thou wouldst not her, nor could she thee, survive.
Farewell! who living didst support the State,
And couldst not fall but with thy Country's Fate.
A certain Priest had hoarded up
A mass of secret Gold.
And where he might bestow it safe
He knew not to be bold.
At last it came into his Thought
To lock it in a Chest
Within the Chancel; and he wrote
Thereon, "_Hic Deus est_."
A merry Grig, whose greedy Mind
Did long for such a Prey,
That on the Casket lay,
Took out the Gold, and blotting out
The Priest's Inscript thereon,
Wrote, "_Resurrexit, non est hic_":
"Your God is rose and gone."
Ah! the shepherd's mournful fate!
When doom'd to love, and doom'd to languish,
To bear the scornful fair one's hate,
Nor dare disclose his anguish.
Yet eager looks, and dying sighs,
My secret soul discover,
While rapture trembling thro' my eyes
Reveals how much I love her.
The tender glance; the redd'ning cheek,
O'erspread with rising blushes,
A thousand various ways they speak
A thousand various wishes.
For, oh! that form so heavenly fair,
Those languid eyes so sweetly smiling,
That artless blush, and modest air,
So artfully beguiling! 
Thy every look and every grace
So charms whene'er I view thee,
Till death o'ertake me in the chase
Still will my hopes pursue thee;
Then when my tedious hours are past
Be this last blessing given,
Low at thy feet to breathe my last,
And die in sight of heaven.
The Husband's the Pilot, the Wife is the Ocean,
He always in danger, she always in motion;
And he that in Wedlock twice hazards his Carcase
Twice ventures the Drowning, and, Faith, that's a hard case.
Even at our Weapons the Females defeat us,
And Death, only Death, can sign our _Quietus_.
Not to tell you sad stories of Liberty lost,
Our Mirth is all pall'd, and our Measures all crost;
That Pagan Confinement, that damnable Station,
Sutes no other States or Degrees in the Nation.
The _Levite_ it keeps from Parochial Duty,
For who can at once mind Religion and Beauty?
The Rich it alarms with Expences and Trouble,
And a poor Beast, you know, can scarce carry double.
'Twas invented, they tell you, to keep us from falling;
Oh the Virtues and Graces of shrill Caterwauling!
How it palls in your Gain; but, pray, how do you know, Sir,
How often your Neighbour breaks in your Enclosure?
For this is the principal Comforts of Marriage,
You must eat tho' a hundred have spit in your Porridg.
If at night you're inactive, or fail in performing,
Enter Thunder and Lightning, and Blood-shed, next Morning;
Lust's the Bone of your Shanks, O dear Mr. Horner:
This comes of your sinning with Crape in a Corner.
Then to make up the Breach all your Strength you must rally,
And labour and sweat like a Slave in a Gaily;
And still you must charge--O blessed Condition!--
Tho' you know, to your cost, you've no more Ammunition:
Till at last the poor fool of a mortified man
Is unable to make a poor Flash in the Pan.
Fire, Flood, and Female, begin with a letter,
But for all the World's not a Farthing the better.
Your Flood is soon gone, and your Fire you must humble,
If into Flames store of Water you tumble;
But to cure the damn'd Lust of your Wife's Titilation,
As well you may p---- out the last Conflagration.
And thus I have sent you my Thoughts of the matter;
You may judge as you please; I scorn for to flatter:
I could say much more, but here ends the Chapter.
Of all the Grain our Nation yields
There is a grain which, tho' 'tis common,
Its Worth till now was known to no Man.
Not _Ceres_ Sickle e're did crop
A Grain with Ears of greater hope:
And yet this Grain (as all must own)
To Grooms and Hostlers well is known,
And often has without disdain
In musty Barn and Manger lain,
As if it had been only good
But now by new-inspired Force,
It keeps alive both Man and Horse.
Then speak, my Muse, for now I guess
E'en what it is thou wouldst express:
That can pretend to do the Feat:
'Tis _Oates_, bare _Oates_, that is become
And therefore _Oates_ has well deserv'd
To be from musty Barn prefer'd,
And now in Royal Court preserv'd,
That like _Hesperian_ Fruit, _Oates_ may
Be watch'd and guarded Night and Day,
Which is but just retaliation
For having guarded a whole Nation.
Hence e'ery lofty Plant that stands
The Oak itself (which well we stile
Must strike and wave its lofty Head.
And now salute an Oaten Reed,
For surely Oates deserves to be
Exalted far 'bove any Tree.
Did worship Onions for their God,
And poor Peelgarlick was with them
Esteem'd beyond the richest Gem.
What would they then have done, think ye,
Had they but had such _Oates_ as we,
_Oates_ of such known Divinity?
Since then such good by _Oates_ we find,
Let _Oates_ at least be now enshrin'd;
Or in some sacred Press enclos'd,
Be only kept to be expos'd;
And all fond Relicks else shall be
Deem'd Objects of Idolatry.
Popelings may tell us how they saw
Their _Garnet_ pictur'd on a Straw.
'Twas a great Miracle, we know,
To see him drawn in little so:
But on an _Oaten_ stalk there is
A greater Miracle than this;
A Visage which, with comly Grace,
Did twenty _Garnets_ now outface:
Nay, to the Wonder to add more,
Declare unheard-of things before;
And thousand Myst'ries does unfold,
As plain as Oracles of old,
By which we steer Affairs of State,
And stave off _Britain's_ sullen Fate.
Let's then, in Honour of the Name
Of _OATES_, enact some Solemn Game,
Where Oaten Pipe shall us inspire
Beyond the charms of _Orpheus_ Lyre;
Stone, Stocks, and e'ery sensless thing
To _Oates_ shall dance, to _Oates_ shall sing,
Whilst Woods amaz'd to t'Ecchoes ring.
And that this Hero's Name may not,
When they are rotten, be forgot,
We'll hang Atchievments o'er their Dust,
A Debt we owe to Merits just
So if Deserts of _Oates_ we prize,
Let _Oates_ still hang before our Eyes,
Thereby to raise our contemplation,
_Oates_ being to this happy Nation
You Catholick States-men and Church-men, rejoyce,
And praise Heaven's Goodness with Heart and with Voice;
None greater on Earth or in Heaven than She,
Some say she's as good as the best of the Three.
Her miracles bold
Were famous of old,
But a Braver than this was never yet told;
'Tis pity that every good Catholick living
Had not heard on't before the last Day of Thanksgiving.
In _Lombardy-Land_ great _Modena's_ Duchess 
Was snatched from her Empire by Death's cruel clutches;
When to Heaven she came (for thither she went)
Each Angel received her with Joy and Content.
On her knees she fell down,
Before the bright Throne,
And begged that God's Mother would grant her one Boon:
Give _England_ a Son (at this Critical Point)
To put little _Orange's_ Nose out of Joynt.
As soon as our Lady had heard her Petition,
To _Gabriel_, the Angel, she strait gave Commission;
She pluck'd off her Smock from her _Shoulders Divine_,
And charg'd him to hasten to _England's_ fair Queen.
To give her the same,
And bid her for ever to praise my Great Name,
For I, in her favour, will work such a Wonder,
Shall keep the most Insolent Hereticks under.
"Tell _James_ (my best son) his part of the matter
Must be with this only to cover my daughter;
Let him put it upon her with's own Royal Hand,
Then let him go travel to visit the Land;
Shall come from above,
Though not as before, in form of a Dove;
Yet down He shall come in some likeness or other
(Perhaps like Count _Dada_), and make her a Mother."
The Message with Hearts full of Faith was receiv'd,
And the next news we heard was _Q. M._ conceiv'd;
You great ones Converted, poor cheated Dissenters,
Pray Heav'n to strengthen Her Majesties Placket,
For if this Trick fail, beware of your Jacket.
Ye worthy Patriots, go on
To heal the Nation's Sores,
Find all Men's Faults out but your own,
Begin good Laws, but finish none,
And then shut up your Doors.
Fail not our Freedom to secure,
And all our Friends disband,
And send those Men to t'other Shore
Who were such Fools as to come o'er
To help this grateful Land.
And may the next that hears us pray,
And in Distress relieve us,
Go home like those without their Pay,
And with Contempt be sent away
For having once believ'd us.
And if the _French_ should e'er attempt
This Nation to invade,
May they be damn'd that list again,
But lead the fam'd Militia on,
To be like us betray'd.
As for the Crown you have bestow'd,
The meanest Prince in _Christendom_
Would never stir a Mile from home
To govern three such Nations.
The King himself, whom once you call'd
You in his first Request deny'd,
And then his Royal Patience try'd
With a canting sham Address.
Ye are the Men that to be chose
Wou'd be at no Expences,
Who love no Friends, nor fear no Foes,
Have ways and means that no Man knows
To mortify your Senses.
Ye are the Men that can condemn
By Laws made _ex post facto_,
Who can make Knaves of honest Men,
And married Women turn again
Go on to purify the Court,
And damn the Men of Places
Till decently you send them home,
And get your selves put in their room,
And then you'll change your Faces.
Go on for to establish Trade,
And mend our Navigation,
Let India invade,
And borrow on Funds will ne'er be paid,
'Tis you that calculate our Gold,
And with a senseless Tone,
Vote that you never understood,
That we might take them if we wou'd
Or let them all alone.
Your Missives you send round about
With Mr. _Speaker's_ Letter,
To fetch Folks in, and find Folks out,
Which Fools believe without dispute,
Because they know no better.
With borrow'd Ships, and hir'd Men,
The _Irish_ to reduce,
Who will be paid the Lord knows when;
'Tis hop'd whene'er you want again,
You'll think of that Abuse.
Ye laid sham Taxes on our Malt,
To wheedle Coxcombs in to lend;
And like true Cheats, you dropt that Fund,
And sunk them all altogether.
And now y'are piously enclin'd
The Needy to employ;
You'd better much your time bestow
To pay neglected Debts you owe,
Which makes them multiply.
Against Prophaneness you declar'd,
And then the Bill rejected;
And when the Arguments appear'd,
They were the worst that e'er were heard,
And best that we expected.
'Twas voted once that for the Sin
Of Whoring Men should die all;
But then it was wisely thought again.
The House would quickly grow so thin,
They durst not stand the Tryal.
King _Charles_ the Second knew your aim,
And Places gave, and Pensions;
And had King _William's_ Mony flown,
His Majesty would soon have known
But he has wisely given you up
To work your own desires,
And laying Arguments aside,
As things that have in vain been try'd,
To Fasting calls, and Prayers.
Your Hours are choicely employ'd,
And Deponents innumerable.
For shame leave this wicked Employment,
Reform both your Manners and Lives;
You were never sent out
To make such a Rout,
Go home, and look after your W----s.
A Butcher's Son's Judge Capital
Poor Protestants for to enthral,
And England to enslave, Sirs;
Lose both our Laws and Lives we must
When to do Justice we entrust
So known an arrant Knave, Sirs.
Some hungry Priests he did once fell,
With mighty Strokes sent them to Hell,
Sent presently away, Sirs;
Would you know why? The Reason's plain
They had no _English_ nor _French_ coin
To make a longer stay, Sirs.
The Pope to Purgatory sends
Who neither Money have nor Friends,
In this he's not alone, Sirs;
For our Judge to Mercy's no inclin'd,
'Less Gold change Conscience and his Mind,
You are infallibly gone, Sirs.
His Father once exempted was
Out of all Juries ; why? because
And why the Butcherly Son (forsooth)
Shou'd now be Jury and Judge both
Cannot be understood, Sirs.
The good Old Man with Knife and Knocks
Made harmless Sheep and stubborn Ox
But the brib'd Son, like greasie Oaph,
Kneels down and worships Golden Calf,
And so do's all the Jury.
Better thou'dst been at Father's Trade,
An honest Livelihood to have made,
In lamp'ring Bulls with Collars,
Than to thy Country prove unjust,
First sell, and then betray, thy Trust,
For so many hard Rix-Dollars.
Priest and Physician thou didst save
From Gallows, Fire, and from the Grave,
For which we can't endure thee;
The one can ne'er absolve thy Sins,
And th'other (tho' he now begins)
Of Knav'ry ne'er can cure thee.
But lest we all shou'd end his Life,
And with a keen-whet Chopping-Knife
In a Thousand pieces cleave him,
Let the Parliament first him undertake,
They'll make the Rascal stink at stake,
And so, like a Knave, let's leave him.
When B----t  perceiv'd the beautiful Dames,
Who flock'd to the Chapel of Holy St. _James_,
On their Lovers the kindest Looks did bestow,
And smil'd not on him while he bellow'd below,
To the Princess he went
With Pious intent
This dangerous Ill in the Church to prevent:
"O Madam!" quoth he, "our Religion is lost
If the Ladies thus ogle the Knights of the Toast.
"Your Highness observes how I labour and sweat
Their Affections to raise, and new Flames to beget;
And sure when I preach all the World, will agree
assistant
Sure, a continuation for this poem could be:
  That their Ears and their Eyes should be pointed on me:
But now I can't find
One Beauty so kind
As my Parts to regard, or my Presence to mind;
Nay, I scarce have a sight of any one Face
But those of old _Oxford_ and ugly Arglas.
"These sorrowful Matrons, with Hearts full of Truth,
Repent for the manifold Sins of their Youth:
The rest with their Tattle my Harmony spoil;
Their Minds entertain
With thoughts so profane
'Tis a mercy to find that at Church they contain;
Ev'n Hen--ham's  Shapes their weak Fancies intice,
And rather than me they will ogle the Vice. 
"These Practices, Madam, my Preaching disgrace;
Shall Laymen enjoy the just Rights of my Place?
Then all may lament my Condition for hard,
To thresh in the Pulpit without a Reward.
Then pray condescend
Such Disorders to end,
And from their ripe Vineyards such Labourers send;
Or build up the Seats, that the Beauties may see
The Face of no brawny Pretender but me."
The Princess, by rude Importunities press'd,
Tho' she laugh'd at his Reasons, allow'd his request;
And now _Britain's_ Nymphs in a Protestant Reign
Are locked up at Pray'rs like the Virgins in Spain,
And all are undone
As sure as a Gun:
Whenever a Woman is kept like a Nun;
If any kind Man from Bondage will save her,
The Lass in Gratitude grants him the Favour.
Oh, say! what is that thing call'd _light_,
Which I can ne'er enjoy?
What is the blessing of the sight?
Oh, tell your poor blind boy.
You talk of wondrous things you see;
You say the sun shines bright;
I feel his warmth, but how can he
E'er make it day or night?
My day or night myself I make,
Whene'er I sleep or play;
And could I always keep awake,
It would be always day.
With heavy sighs, I often hear
You mourn my hopeless woe;
But sure with patience I may bear
A loss I do not know.
Then let not what I cannot have
My peace of mind destroy;
While thus I sing, I am a king,
Although a poor blind boy.
I will sing in the Praise, if you'll lend but an Ear,
Of the first Royal Regiment, but don't think I jeer
If I vow and protest they are as brave Men and Willing,
As ever old _Rome_ bred, or new _Iniskilling_.
Oh, had you but seen them March with that _Decorum_
That no _Roman_ Triumph could e're go before 'em,
Some smoking, some whistling, all meaning no harm,
Like _Yorkshire_ Attornies coming up to a Term,
You'd ha' swore Knight and Squires, Prigs, Cuckolds, and Pandors.
Whose Warriers who thorow all Dangers durst go.
Most bravely despising Blood, Battle, and Foe,
Were mounted on Steeds the last Lord Mayor's Day,
'Twas that very day their high Prowess was shown,
In guarding the King thro' the Fire-works o' th' Town;
Tho' Sparks were unhors'd and their lac'd Coats were spoil'd,
They dreaded no Squibs of Men, Women, or Child.
The Cornet whose nose, though it spoke him no _Roman_,
Was mounted that day on a Horse that feared no man,
No Wounds, for all o're his Trappings so sumptuous
He had ty'd Squibs and Crackers; 'twas mighty presumptuous.
For note his Design; faith, 'tis worth your admiring:
'Twas to let the Queen se how his Horse could stand firing,
Not wisely consid'ring her Majesty's marry'd,
And he had been hang'd if the Queen had miscarry'd.
All Hearts true as Steel, but of all brave Fellows
Th'Attorney for my money who was so zealous,
He went for the Lease of his own House from Home,
To make a new covering for the Troop's Kettle drum.
The Lieutenant being thrown by his Jennet,
His Son in Law fancying some Treachery in it,
Gave the Oaths to the Horse, which the Beast took, they say,
But swore by the Lord they went down like chopt hay.
He the Nag of an _Irish_ Papist did buy,
So doubting his Courage and his Loyalty,
He taught him to eat with his Oats Gunpowdero,
And prance to the Tune of Lilly-bolero. 
The Tub-preaching Saint was so furious a Blade,
In Jack-boots both Day and Night preacht, slept, and pray'd;
To call them to prayers he need no Saint's Bell,
For gingling his Spurs chim'd them all in as well.
A noble stout Scrivener that now shall be nameless,
That in Day of Battle he might be found blameless,
A War-horse of Wood from _Duck Carver_ buys,
To learn with more safety the Horse Exercise.
With one eye on's Honour, the other on's Gain,
He fixes a Desk on _Bucephalus_ Main,
That so by that means he his Prancer bestriding,
Might practise at once both his Writing and Riding.
But, oh, the sad news which their Joy now confounds,
To _Ireland_, their own, like the last Trumpet sounds;
Lord! Lord! how this sets them a Waiting Petitions,
And thinking of nothing but Terms and Conditions.
Oh, who will March for me? speak any that dare,
A Horse and an Hundred Pounds for him, that's fair;
Dear Courtiers, excuse me from Teagland and Slaughter,
And take which you please, _Sir_, my Wife or my Daughter."
Some feign'd themselves lame, some feign'd themselves clapt,
At last finding all themselves by themselves trapt,
The King most unanimously they addrest,
And told him the Truth, 'twas all but a Jest.
"A Jest," quoth the King, and with that the King smil'd,
"Come, it ne're shall be said such a Jest shall be spoil'd;
Therefore I dismiss you. in Peace all depart,
For it was more your Goodness than my Desert."
Thus happily freed from the dreadful Vexation
Of being Defenders of this, or that Nation,
They kist Royal Fist, and were drunk all for Joy,
And broke all their swords, and cry'd _Vive le Roy_.
A mighty great Fleet--the like was ne'er seen
Design'd the Destruction of _France_, to have been,
_Which nobody can deny_, etc.
The Fleet was composed of _English_ and _Dutch_;
For Men and for Guns there was never seen such,
Nor so little done when expected so much,
One hundred Ships which we Capital call,
With Frigots and Tenders, and Yatchts that were small,
Went out, and did little or nothing at all,
Had they chanc'd to have met with the _French_ Fleet, oh, then,
As they beat 'em last year, so they'd beat 'em again,
Six thousand great Guns and seventy-eight more,
As good and as great as ever did roar;
It had been the same thing had they all been ashore,
But T----  now must command them no more;
We try'd of what Mettle he was made of before;
For a Bullet perhaps from the loud Cannons Breech,
Which makes no distinction betwixt poor and rich,
His fine self and his Fleet to the Sea to expose,
But he'll have a care how he meets with his Foes,
Which either might serve by Land or by Water,
But of what they have done we have heard no great matter,
In the month of _May_ last they sail'd on the Main,
And now in _September_ they come back again
With the loss of some ships, but in Battle none slain,
"En redit Hastingus, pocatis regibus Indi,
Anglorum et posito nomine, et imperio,
Ecce silet vulpes, annosaque fabula Burki,
Faucibus haret, eheu, Dic, age, dic Sheridan."
From Eastern climes, lo, Hastings! late return'd,
His struggles ended, and his fame well earn'd,
Illustrious Stateman!  to a distant age
Thy name shall live and grace th'historic page;
There licens'd falsehoods  shall no more prevail,
Nor Dodsley publish  Edmund's annual tale.
When France, exulting, deem'd our ruin near,
And Hyder's progress struck each Chief with fear;
When hostile nations press'd in league combin'd,
Collected, firm, and dauntless was thy mind;
Inspir'd by Hastings, Coote : the seasons brav'd,
Embark'd his succours, and a kingdom sav'd.
Goddard  at his command our standard bore
Through lands to England's sons unknown before;
While Popham's victories rais'd our country's fame
And fix'd in realms remote the British name.
The sued-for peace  to Gualior's fall is due.
And Gualior's capture long was Hastings' view.
History shall tell how clos'd the scene of blood,
When to a world oppos'd Britannia stood;
No conquest Gallia claims on India's coast,
No splendid triumphs can the Belgian boast,
For millions wasted,  and a navy lost.
The keen Maratta and the fierce Mysore
Their league dissolve, and give the contest o'er;
And peace restor'd, e'en party owns, tho' late, 
That Hastings' firmness has preserv'd the State.
Succeeding ages this great truth shall know,
A truth recorded by a generous foe, 
That England's genius, in a luckless hour
For Gallic schemes, gave Hastings Sov'reign pow'r.
Hastings, previous to Mr. Fox's bringing in his India Bill.]
French European regiment, and much of the success of that day is
services.]
For ease the harass'd seaman prays,
When Equinoctial tempests raise
The Cape's surrounding wave;
When hanging o'er the reef, he hears
The cracking mast, and sees or fears,
Beneath, his wat'ry grave.
For ease the slow _Maratta_ spoils,
And hardier _Sic_ erratic toils,
While both their ease forego;
For ease, which neither gold can buy,
Nor robes, nor gems, which oft belie,
The cover'd heart bestow;
For neither gold nor gems combin'd
Can heal the soul, or suffering mind;
Lo! where their owner lies,
Perch'd on his couch Distemper breathes,
And Care like smoke, in turbid wreathes,
Round the gay cieling flies.
He who enjoys, nor covets more,
The lands his father held before,
Is of true bliss possess'd:
Let but his mind unfetter'd tread
Far as the paths of knowledge lead,
And wise as well as blest.
No fears his peace of mind annoy
Lest printed lies his fame destroy,
Which labour'd years have won,
Nor pack'd committees break his rest,
Nor avarice sends him forth in quest
Of climes beneath the sun.
Short is our span; then why engage
In schemes, for which man's transient age
Was ne'er by Fate designed?
Why slight the gifts of Nature's hand?
What wanderer from his native land
E'er left himself behind?
The restless thought, and wayward will,
And discontent attend him still,
Nor quit him while he lives;
At sea care follows in the wind,
At land it mounts the pad behind,
Or with the postboy drives.
He would happy live to-day
Must laugh the present ills away,
Nor think of woes to come,
For come they will or soon or late,
Since mix'd at best is man's estate,
By Heaven's eternal doom.
To ripen'd age Clive liv'd renown'd,
With lacks enrich'd, with honours crown'd,
His valour's well-earn'd meed;
Too long, alas! he lived to hate
His envied lot, and died  too late,
From life's oppression freed.
An early death was Elliott's  doom;
I saw his opening virtues bloom,
And manly sense unfold,
Too soon to fade! I bade the stone
Record his name 'midst Hordes unknown,
Unknowing what it told.
To thee, perhaps, the fates may give--
I wish they may--in health to live,
Herds, flocks, and fruitful fields,
Thy vacant hours in mirth to shine;
With these, the muse already thine
Her present bounties yields.
For me, O Shore! I only claim
To merit, not to seek for fame,
The good and just to please,
A state above the fear of want,
Domestic love, Heaven's choicest grant,
Health, leisure, peace, and ease.
Gunge, or Elliott's Town.]
Here lies poor Johnson. Reader, have a care,
Tread lightly, lest you rouse a sleeping bear:
Religious, moral, generous, and humane
He was, but self-sufficient, rude, and vain;
Ill-bred and overbearing in dispute,
A scholar and a Christian--yet a brute.
Would you know all his wisdom and his folly,
His actions, sayings, mirth, and melancholy?
Boswell and Thrale, retailers of his wit,
Will tell you how he wrote, and talked, and cough'd, and spit.
Whilst all with sighs their way pursue
From Chatsworth's blest abode,
My mind still fires, my Lord, at you,
And thus bursts out in ode.
Forgive my phrenzy, good Lord John,
For passion's my Apollo:
Sweet Hebe says, when sense is gone,
That nonsense needs must follow.
Like Indian knife, or Highland sword,
Your words have hewn and hack'd me;
Whilst Quin, a rebel to his lord,
Like his own Falstaff back'd me.
In vain I bounce, and fume, and fret,
Swear Shakespeare is divine;
Fitzherbert  can a while forget
His pains to laugh at mine.
My honest zeal deride;
Nay, Hubert's melancholy face
Smirks on your Lordship's side.
With passion, zeal, and punch misled,
Why goad me on to strife?
Why send me to a restless bed
And disappointed wife?
This my reward! and this from you!
Is't thus you Bowman  treat,
Who eats more toads than _you know who_
Each night did strawberries eat?
Did I not mount the dun-drawn chaise,
And sweat for many a mile?
And gave his Grace's skill much praise,
_Grinning a ghastly smile!_
Did I not elsewhere risk my bones,
My Lord-Duke's freaks took pride in?
Did I not trot down hills of Stones,
And call it pleasant riding?
Did I not all your feats proclaim,
Nor once from duty shrink?
In flattery I sunk my fame,
A Bowman e'en in drink.
Did I not oft my conscience force,
Against its dictates swear?
Have I not prais'd Lord Georg's horse?
Nay, e'en your Lordship's mare?
Did I not oft, in rain and wind,
O'er hills, thro' vallies roam,
When wiser folk would lag behind,
And Spaniels staid at home?
Have I not with your natives fed,
The worst of all my labours;
And ventur'd both my ears and head
Amongst your scalping neighbours?
Not Quin's more blest with Calipee,
Fitzherbert in his puns,
Lord John in contradicting me,
Lord Frederick with his nuns,
Than I am blest in Shakespear's muse!
Each drop within my standish,
Each drop of blood for him I'll lose,
As firm as any Ca'ndish.
As Whig you gain the world's applause,
For once a Tory shine,
A Tory once in Shakespeare's cause,
And feel his right divine!
Attack my wife, my patent tear,
Do deeds without a name!
Burn, kill, or ravish, Lord! but spare,
Oh, spare my Shakespeare's fame!
Did not Dean Barker  wisely preach,
Opinion may be sin?
Did not his sermon wisely teach
To cleanse ourselves within?
From infidelity awake!
Oh, melt your heart of stone;
Conceal your errors for my sake,
Or mend them for your own.
Come, keen _Iambicks_, with your Badgers' Feet,
And Badger-like bite till your Teeth do meet;
With all the Scorpions that should whip this Age.
But that there's Charm in Verse, I would not quote
The Name of Scot without an Antidote,
Unless my Head were red, that I might brew
Invention there that might be Poison too.
Were I a drowzy Judge, whose dismal Note
Disgorges Halters, as a Juggler's Throat
Does Ribbons; could I in Sir _Empyrick's_ Tone
Speak Pills in Phrase, and quack Destruction;
Or roar like _Marshal_, that _Geneva_ Bull,
Hell and Damnation a Pulpit full:
Yet to express a _Scot_, to play that Prize,
Not all those Mouth-Granadoes can suffice.
Before a _Scot_ can properly be curst,
I must, like Hocus, swallow Daggers first.
_Scots_ are like Witches; do but whet your Pen,
Scratch till the Blood comes, they'll not hurt you then.
Now as the Martyrs were compell'd to take
The Shapes of Beasts, like Hypocrites at Stake,
I'll bait my _Scot_ so, yet not cheat your Eyes;
A Scot within a Beast is no Disguise.
No more let Ireland brag her harmless Nation
Fosters no Venom since that _Scots'_ Plantation;
Nor can our Feign'd Antiquity obtain,
Since they came in England has Wolves again.
Nature her self does _Scotch_-men Beasts confess,
Making their Country such a Wilderness;
A Land that brings in Question and Suspence
God's Omnipresence but that _Charles_ came thence,
But that _Montrose_ and _Crawford's_ Royal Band
Aton'd their Sin, and Christened half the Land.
Nor is it all the Nation has these Spots,
There is a Church as well as Kirk of Scots,
As in a Picture where the Squinting Paint
Shews Fiend on this Side and on that Side Saint;
He that Saw Hell in's Melancholy Dream,
And in the Twilight of his Fancy's Theme,
Scar'd from his Sins, repented in a Fright,
Had he view'd Scotland had turn'd Proselyte.
A Land where one may pray with curst Intent;
Oh, may they never suffer Banishment!
Had _Cain_ been _Scot_, God would have chant'd his   Doom,
Not forc'd him wander, but confin'd him home.
Hence 'tis they live as Rovers, and defie
This or that Place, Rags of Geography.
They're Citizens o' th' World, they're all in all;
_Scotland's_ a Nation Epidemical.
And yet they ramble not to learn the Mode,
How to be drest, or how to lisp abroad;
To return knowing in the Spanish Shrug,
Or which of the _Dutch_ States a double Jug
Resembles most in Belly or in Beard;
The Card by which the Mariners are Steer'd.
No! The Scots-Errant fight, and fight to eat;
Their Ostrich Stomachs make their Swords their Meat.
Nature with _Scots_ as Tooth-drawers has dealt,
Who use to string their Teeth upon their Belt.
Not Gold, nor Acts of Grace, 'tis Steel must tame
The Stubborn _Scot_: A Prince that would reclaim
Rebels by yielding does like him. or worse,
Who saddled his own Back to shame his Horse.
Was it for this you left your leaner Soil,
Lord! what a Goodly Thing is want of Shirts!
How a _Scotch_ Stomach and no Meat converts!
They wanted Food and Raiment, so they took
Religion for their Seamstress and their Cook.
Unmask them well; their Honours and Estate,
As well as Conscience, are Sophisticate.
Shrive but their Titles, and their Money poise;
A Laird and Twenty Pence, pronounc'd with Noise,
When constru'd, but for a plain Yeoman go,
And a good sober Two-pence, and well so.
Hence then,'you Proud Imposters, get you gone,
Able to bring the Gibbet in Disgrace.
Hyperbolus by suffering did traduce
The Ostracism, and sham'd it out of Use.
The _Indian_ that Heaven did forswear
Because he heard some _Spaniards_ were there.
Had he but known what _Scots_ in Hell had been,
He would, Erasmus-like, have hung between.
My Muse has done. A voider for the Nonce;
I wrong the Devil should I pick the Bones.
That Dish is his, for when the _Scots_ decease,
Hell, like their Nation, feeds on Barnacles.
A _Scot_, when from the Gallows-Tree got loose,
Drops into _Stix_, and turns a _Soland_ Goose. 
Ye sons of France, awake to glory;
Hark! hark! what myriads bid you rise!
Your children, wives, and grandsires hoary,
Behold their tears, and hear their cries!
Shall hateful tyrants, mischief breeding,
With hireling hosts, a ruffian band,
Affright and desolate the land,
While Peace and Liberty lie bleeding?
To arms, to arms, ye brave,
Th'avenging sword unsheath;
March on, march on, all hearts resolv'd
On victory or death.
Now, now, the dang'rous storm is rolling
Which treach'rous kings, confederate, raise;
The dogs of war, let loose, are howling,
And, lo! our fields and cities blaze;
And shall we basely view the ruin,
While lawless force, with guilty stride,
Spreads desolation far and wide,
With crimes and blood his hands embruing?
To arms, ye brave, etc.
With luxury and pride surrounded,
The vile insatiate despots dare,
Their thirst of power and gold unbounded,
To mete and vend the light and air.
Like beasts of burden would they load us,
Like gods, would bid their slaves adore;
But man is man, and who is more?
Then shall they longer lash and goad us?
To arms, ye brave, etc.
O Liberty! can man resign thee,
Once having felt thy gen'rous flame?
Can dungeons, bolts, and bars confine thee,
Or whips thy noble spirit tame?
Too long the world has wept, bewailing
That falsehood's dagger tyrants wield;
But freedom is our sword and shield,
And all their arts are unavailing.
To arms, ye brave, etc.
Bow the head, thou lily fair,
Bow the head in mournful guise;
Sickly turn thy shining white,
Bend thy stalk, and never rise.
Shed thy leaves, thou lovely rose,
Shed thy leaves, so sweet and gay;
Spread them wide on the cold earth,
Quickly let them fade away.
Fragrant woodbine, all untwine,
All untwine from yonder bower;
Drag thy branches on the ground,
Stain with dust each tender flower,
For, woe is me! the gentle knot
That did in willing durance bind
My happy soul to hers for life
By cruel death is now untwined.
Her head, with dim, half-closed eyes,
Is bowed upon her breast of snow;
And cold and faded are those cheeks
That wont with cheerful red to glow.
Mute, mute, is that harmonious voice
That wont to breathe the sounds of love,
And lifeless are those beauteous limbs
That with such ease and grace did move.
And I, of all my bliss bereft.
Lonely and sad must ever moan,
Dead to each joy the world can give,
Alive to memory alone.