Englands Passing-Bell, Poems
foreign: OR, ENGLANDS Passing-Bell.
Psal. 80: 3.
Turn us O God to thee again,
For we too long have swerv'd:
Cause thou thy face on us to shine,
And we shall be preserv'd.
Quarles Eleg.
Offended Iustice often strikes by turns,
Edom beware, for thy next neighbour burns:
LONDON, Printed in the Year M. DC. LXXIX.
TO THE READER.
REader, perhaps my melancholly Quill
May dote; but let Melpom'ne weep her sill.
Bear with her weakness, grudg not at her Tears;
It springs not from her Envy, but her Fears:
She is no hired Naenia; her moans
Are like to purchase little else than stones.
Then give her leave to mourn upon these Rocks;
To ease her troubled heart to Stones and Stocks.
Her sad abodings do not imprecate:
But wish and warn thee to anticipate:
And if there may no loyal method be
Form'd to prevent thy hanging-Destinie
Immure thy soul within those gracious Arms,
That may protect thee from the Syrenes charms.
ENGLAND'S PASSING-BELL.
I Am no Prophet, no, nor Prophet's Son;
Yet dare pretend unto a Vision;
Pretend, say I? nay, 'tis no meer pretence,
Pretences do but juggle Conscience.
I pray for peace, yea, I could die for't too
A willing Sacrifice, if that would do.
But what I do foresee, I dare foretell,
God is now ringing ENGLANDS Passing-Bell,
The sound is in mine ears, the doleful Toul
Strikes strange amazement on my trembling Soul.
She gasps for breath, her Optick nerves are crackt.
Eyes sunk into their holes, her spirits rackt
On fatal Tenters, and her Pulses beat
To her oppressed soul a faint Retreat.
Alas the day! these threatning symptoms call
Her Friends to mind her of a Funeral.
O thou the God of life, commiserate
Thy foolish peoples self-undone estate!
Calm all these Paroxismes, and allay
Those mortal heats; so will I ever pray.
'Wake sottish Island! let thy ruins teach
Thy Sons and Daughters to bewail the Breach.
Where are thy Noahs, Daniels and Iobs?
Are these the men, that in their linsie Robes
Chant their Devotions? th' Angels of the Quire,
Whose very Noses threat their shirts with fire;
Whose Bacchanalian zeal's a flame they stole
Not from the Altar, but Maeonian coal.
Are these the men, that with their Pipes can do
The Counter-wonder on a Iericho?
Ah! poor bewitched Land! how long wilt be
Before thy banisht Wits return to thee?
The Cup is in thine hand, hath toucht thy lips;
Thou wring'st thy mouth at some distasteful sips:
Fain would'st thou plead, enough; ay, so would I,
Or drink it in thy stead, and for thee die.
But what e're be the hopes that buoy thy mind,
Unless I dream, the dreggs are yet behind.
On whose unhappy heads this Lot shall fall
God knows, the wrathful fate doth threaten all.
Let him that thinks he's with a Bargain blest,
Know, the last Nail may double all the rest.
There are some few within thee that begin
To smite the thigh, and to confess their sin.
Others that think it safer to compound,
To shark and shuffle while the Cup goes round.
But if I know ought of thy constitution,
Or of the Products of a Revolution,
Compose the present Frights, and 'twill appear
The Frogs now quasht will be as bold as e're.
These brows of brass, these iron sinews may
Shine like the gold, and bend like kneaded clay,
Whilst an hot Furnace, preaching to the sence,
Applys the terrour of a Providence;
But once withdraw the coals, and you may see
These Metals have not lost their Propertie.
But as for Ionas, who's now Tarsus bound,
Let him remember who a Ionas found.
Let Demas know too, that his present world
Will cheat his fond love, when he shall be hurl'd
By an Ejectment from that dear possession,
That lay in right of Heaven's Sequestration.
And Iudas may be sure, his treacherous Kiss
Shall be repay'd with lips as foul as his.
Haman must also know, the Gibbet's up;
Where Mordecai should dine, there he may sup.
'Twas not for lack of eyes the Iews were grown
So strangely blind, that nought but Babylon
Could make them see; nor is't for lack of eyes
I grope at noon, and fall, and cannot rise;
But 'tis this Babylon the Mystical
Hath blinded me; nay, which is worst of all,
She is my mated Incubus, and hence
I'm rid by her bewitching influence.
O pity me, all ye that ever saw
A Sampson snared by a Delilah!
Were Moses here, sure he would sigh with me
For their dear sakes; whose sin and slaverie
Was once like mine: Or could I but produce
A Ieremy, his eye should be the sluce
To weep me out a bitter Lamentation,
And to condole a bleeding dying Nation.
With tears of blood I could sit down and mourn
On my dear Children's most unhappy Urn▪
Thousands of sprightly youth, whose breasts and bones
Were richly fill'd, have breath'd their fruitless moans
Under that wrathful hand that did dispense
The bloody arrows of the Pestilence.
Sure death had never such a Table spread
In any age, for ought we hear or read.
How greedily he fed on rich and poor,
As though he never meant to feast it more!
Wit, wealth, or beauty, honour, sex or age,
Made no distinction in his mortal rage.
O cruel death! could not thy heart relent
At those dear Infants that thy fury rent
From tender mother's breasts! Could not their groans
Have pierc'd thy heart, that might have pierced stones?
Heaps upon heaps of choicest friends I saw;
Our Glory's now become our Golgotha.
Could not the Ancients venerable Hairs,
(The silver Symbole of their age and cares)
Have aw'd thy bold attempt? or pleaded pity,
Who were the Eyes and Pillars of the City.
Nor could thy sacrilegious hands forbear
To rob our Churches of their Common-Prayer.
Th' affrighted Levite durst not for his head,
Appear between the Living and the Dead.
On him (poor Soul!) thou charged'st the extent
Of his own Law, of five miles Banishment.
O King of terrours great! how could'st thou quell
The sacred vertue of his powerful spell,
Against thy sudden stroak? or who should care
For his forsaken Flock, whose Fleece they are?
Now was not this enough? but must it be
But the Praeludium to thy Tragedy?
Whence is't, thou wert in combination found
With Mars and Neptune, for a vantage ground?
What! had poor Mortals over-matcht thee? or
Hadst thou a Fit to hear the Cannons roar?
To toss their shatter'd bones, and serve them in,
As carved Messes, unto Triton's shrine?
Or was't to prove how far thy pow'r would do,
To feast not only Worms, but Fishes too?
Was ever blood so prodigally spent?
Whole Hecatombs seem'd little to present.
Neptune himself could not but blush to see
Thy greedy Altar's Anthropophagie.
Did not the Passing-Bell go sad enough?
That Cannons hellish mouths must speak how rough
And grim a Ghost thou art? for this, will I
Ne're hope to bribe thee when I come to die.
O Death! what is my sin, that still I hear
Those ruthful sighings to torment my ear?
Behold the Fatherless and Widows eyes,
The woful Relicts of thy Sacrifice.
Would God, say they, our dearest blood had run
In those dear veins, from which our blood begun;
Then had we been as happy as the dead,
And ne're have pin'd for lack of daily bread.
Ah me! methink with grief and shame I see
The hostile rage of the proud enemy
Insulting on our shores, who durst not peep,
Had they not found us in so dead a sleep.
Then might Philistims with advantage come,
When Sampson's shorn, and lull'd with Opium.
Oh! then who could but rent his heart to see
Our Glory led into captivity?
Those floating Eulwarks, and of Royal race,
The envy of the world, that ne're gave place
To a superiour, nor could e're be mated
By those of whom they were both fear'd and hated;
That like a thunder, brake the thickest clouds
Of bold assaults, and scatter'd all the crouds
Of martial force, that could command their way,
And dash their foes like pots of glass or clay.
With what reproach and ignominious boasts
Led they their captive prey to foreign coasts!
Then farewell Royal Charles! yet this shall be
Our joy and triumph still, that here is He
By whose great name th'rt call'd; let Shadows go,
(The substance being come) sith't must be so.
Might here my sorrows end, I'd ne're lament
As one undone; but ah! my Fate is bent
To rack my guilty bones, and to devise
New methods, that her fury may comprize
All the sad stories of the Ages past,
As though this scene were to us both the last.
From Plague and Sword, my mournful eyes I roul
On that amazing mirrour, which my soul
So trembles to behold; my Strength, my Crown,
My Hope, my Magazeen, which now was grown
From Troy novant, to Troy le grand, is now
My Troy l'extinct; thus must the mighty bow
When God will humble them, and lick the dust
When once he smites; for sure this God is just.
But Oh! th' unhappy day that dawn'd in Flames,
Flames that contemned all the floods of Thames.
What! could no Engins art nor power prevail?
Were Samson's Foxes turned tayl to tayl?
'Twas some strange God, no doubt, that should require
So chargeable an Offering made by fire.
London and Sodom may sit down together,
And now condole the Ashes of each other.
For sin they perisht both, and both by Fire,
But here's the odds; Efficients did conspire
In different methods; that from Heaven came,
This from beneath: a black and hellish flame,
A spark of Faux's Cell, infernal coals
Matur'd for service in some Stygian holes.
How did the hungry flames devour their prey!
And lick up stones like straw! and force their way
Through all obstructions, Nature, Art, or Might
Had rais'd to check their desolating flight!
With what stupendious terrour did they roul
From street to street, disdaining all controul!
As though the lungs of wide-mouth'd Aeolus
Had been in sacred Oath to drive them thus!
What horrour, think you, what distractions then
Seiz'd on the heart of our poor Citizen!
What bitter cries, complaints and lamentations!
While some bewail their own loss, some the Nations!
Some die for very grief, and others curse
The late indulgence of a faithful Nurse.
Alas! no tongue nor pen can e're express
The Hurries, Hazards, and the sad distress.
Was ever grief like mine! Deeps call to Deeps:
And what one Judgment spares, the second sweeps.
This Scald, I doubt, I shall bear in my face
Unto my grave, with grief and sore disgrace.
And now, if Plague and Sword, and Fire wont do
To melt the heart, and let the captive go;
I dread the thoughts of some impendent scourge,☞
More like to be a Poyson than a Purge.
Good God! avert whatever it may be;
Avenge not on us our Iniquitie.
Sin has gone big; but ah! we knew it not:
She's now in Travel, and her reckonings out;
The fore springs come, which threatens what may be
The Birth, if God permit Deliverie.
Lord strangle thou the Monster in the womb,
And let the Mothers bowels be its Tomb.
But if my wandring Muse should chance to fly
Within the compass of that Royal eye,
Whose very Aspect gives her life or death,
And for whose sake this Die she ventureth;
She will confess 'tis bold to soar so high,
To trip on Crowns; the beams of Majesty
May shine too hot for such Icarian wings,
And melt the Copper of her feeble strings.
She has no wanton nor prestigious Lyricks
To fawn on Kings with flattering Panegyricks.
But her true loyal heart she'l ne're betray,
Though she can't vent it in the Courtiers way.
Nor will she e're bethink her sworn Allegiance,
Or boggle at her duty of obedience;
Although the Persians have contriv'd their snare,
And made it criminal if found at Prayer.
Pardon, dread Sov'raign, if some rambling fit
Transport her honest zeal, and so commit
A sin Poetical; Her Pegasus
Is Saddle-gall'd, and therefore hobbles thus.
She gads eccentrick; hence it is she hovers
On every Pinacle that hope discovers;
Under these gracious wings my Dove may find
Protection, if propitiously inclin'd.
I hate those Tongues, whose morsels make them loyal,
To serve their Int'rest on the Favour Royal.
I only wish their Lips may never shew
Those bloody Teeth that just within them grow.
Nor that those Hooded Moths may ever sit
So near the Crown as to dishonour it.
I'le ever pray the King may know his Friends,
And fully understand his Flatterers ends.
The Kingdom groans, although her King be come!
Why! what's the matter? sure he's welcome home.
Alas! she's sick, and of some strange disease,
Which neither Kings nor Parliaments can ease,
Until that God, whom th' Athiest doth contemn,
Do purge the Blood of our Ierusalem.
I'le say no more here, but God save the King,
From whom, or whatsoe're may mischief bring!
And what if I let loose my scribling Fancy,
To give a piece of her poor Chronomancie
Unto her Honourable Senate, who
If God incline their hearts, great things may do.
O Sirs! ye are our wise Physicians, and
Ye have the sickest Nation now in hand
That e're had men: The first step to a cure
Is to know the cause of what we do endure.
The cause is complicated both in Civil
And Spiritual respects; a twisted evil,
Deep Labyrinths we're in; our strong foundations
Do shake and tremble; dismal Desolations
Seem to attend us: Lord! avert this cup,
And let thy bloody En'mies drink it up.
Ye're our Physicians, Sirs! Oh! cast the state
Of your sick Patient, and prevent that Fate
Her Enemies threaten, and her fears suggest,
And all Posterities shall call you blest.
O cast abroad your wise and prudent eyes,
And pity, pity England's miseries.
Let not the Canaanite reproach and laugh
To see us breaking of that Golden staff
On our own Shoulders, which might else have been
Our Rod to rule, and reins to hold them in.
Our costly Pills indeed have purg'd the Purse,
But our disease is growing worse and worse.
Poor England's hour is come! a Trinitie
Of wrestling Int'rests in her bowels lye.
Two Opposites might happy Union know,
If well concenter'd in some Tertio.
Three Contradictories will never be
Espoused in a fair consistencie.
Those that consult the peace and good of State,
I think (as case stands) must accommmodate.
Sirs! pity those poor hearts that cannot see
With any other eyes than those that be
Their own; some squeamish stomacks turn at Cheese,
Which I won't give for all our Coquus Fees.
Were all confin'd to one Dish, and no other,
You'd poyson me with what you feed my brother.
When you can pare all Bodies to one stature,
And club the Elements into one nature,
And make all faces of the same complexion,
(which will scarce be ev'n at the Resurrection)
Then may you find all Consciences agreed
In nice Punctilio's, and our judgments freed
From quaint Idea's, which not understood,
Have bred us this dissenting Brotherhood.
Religion is that Primum Mobile
Of States and Kingdoms, yea, their Int'rests be
Mov'd in their Politick Circungyrations,
Upon this golden Pole, the soul of Nations.
Lord! so co-ordinate each gliding Sphere,
As that their motions may not interfere.
Two parallel lines are never like to greet,
Till Capricorn with sultry Cancer meet.
If each would stoop to other, you might see
Our Tabernacl's handsome Canopie.
Our First is up; where are the Builders now?
Come! shut the Roof, and let the Rafters bow.
Is it impossible such storms should rise
From Hell or Rome, as may convince our eyes?
Our Walls will tumble if they want a Cover;
Why! 'tis but mud, though it be varnisht over.
All ope' at top? nay, ev'ry Thief may enter,
And scale our naked Walls; who's mad to venture
His Life and Fortunes on such Guards, and let
His Iewels hazard such a Cabinet?
Well! in this naked case, I'le pray, I'le sing
To him that is both Walls and Covering.
Alas! poor London! who can see thine Ashes,
And not sit down and score those angry lashes
Thy righteous Judg hath in just wrath inflicted
For that whereof thou hadst been long convicted?
Thy Prophets were not dumb, but thou wert deaf:
They warn'd in season; but thy unbelief
Was warning-proof: like knotty crooked wood,
They rul'd and hew'd thee for a common good,
Until their hearts did ake, and arms did tire;
At last thou art condemned to the Fire.
Thou could'st out-face the frowns of Pestilence.
Daring provoked Justice to commence
In hotter Plagues: That Cup is fill'd thee now,
That hath abasht thy proud and shameless brow▪
Old Sodom was in our young London found,
Yea, more than Sodom did in her abound,
And now if any will of London hear,
To Sodom he may go, and find her there.
In thee was found the blood of Martyrs, yea,
The murder'd blood of Royal Majesty.
Oaths, Drunk'ness, Lust, and ravenous Oppression,
Pride and Deceit, the spots of high Profession.
In thee was found the woman Iezebel,
With those infernal Locusts that compell
Her Proselytes to commit Fornication;
Which were sad Omens of thy Desolation.
And now, my Daughter, may we come to treat
With that poor Rag that's left? or art too great
Yet to incline thy stubborn ear? Remember
In Sixty-six thou hadst a hot September.
He that thy Remnant, like a smoaking Brand,
Then snatcht out of the fire, with the same hand
Can crush what he hath sav'd; nay, look thou to it,
Lest perad venture he indeed may do it.
True Penitentials might have prevented
That fearful breach that's now in vain lamented.
The Buckets of thine eyes had checkt the Flames,
If well appli'd, 'fore all the Pow'rs of Thames.
But Epimetheus doth but aggravate
And rake the wound▪ by being wise too late.
Yet for the future, if thou wilt be wise,
And re-espoused, thus I do advise.
Thine Ashes steept in penitent tears may
Make thee a Lie to wash thy shame away.
Thou hast been in the smoak, (and wash thou must);
Both in the smoak of Fire, and smoak of Lust.
Wash therefore, make thee clean, and thou shalt be
As in the days of thy Virginity.
Thy Bricks are fallen, wilt thou change them for
The Hewen Stone? and turn the Sycomore
Into the Cedar? yea, and be it so!
And let thine Ashes to a Phoenix grow!
But yet I doubt, thy pregnant hopes may prove
A Babel's project, unless God above
Unite thy Languages, and undertake
Both to begin, and a full end to make:
Be both thy Builder, and thy Corner-stone,
And raise thee in a Modell of his own.
Lord! rear thy London's Walls, and purge her blood,
And let her know thou hast chastiz'd for good.
Make her thy Sion, thine Emanuel's Land,
And let her Ruins be under thine hand.
The World is God's great Wheel, his Providence
The hand that turns it; its intelligence,
The Wheel's in motion; but the rising side
Will still pursue their chase, till they bestride
The whole Circumference; and then beginning
To take their turn again they fall a whining;
Complain of Envy, Pride, Revenge, Oppression,
Which just before was but their own ambition.
Rebeccah's Twins! we catch each others heel,
And ne're observe the Dog that's in the wheel.
Lord! shall we e're have wit enough to know
To poise our selves in Aequilibrio?
Sure God hath set his Ministers for Lights
In a blind, giddy world; the Rechabites
Of an apostate age; but sure I am,
There are too many of the seed of Cham,
Yet can Canonical Adoption lurch,
And so are naturaliz'd Sons of the Church.
The Clergy's Gods inheritance; but these
Are Pliny's Insects, Worms that spoil the Bees,
Those sweet industrious creatures; Aesop's Dogs,
That starve the Ox, but will not touch the Hogs,
Whose blushing Carbuncles, and purple faces,
Are no Crown Iewels, nor the Churches Graces.
Will a debauched Clergy e're invest
Your Cause with an applauded Interest
In sober minds? Will a sulphureous zeal,
In things confest indifferent, ever heal
Our dismal breaches? or what! do you hope
To make us your Peace-offring to the Pope?
But I have better thoughts; yet pray take heed
Lest you and we both offer'd be indeed.
While we contend for shadows, there are those
That will their greedy clutches interpose,
And seize that Morsel, which preserv'd, might be
The Medium of our Correspondencie.
What! are we Artick and Antartick? must
The Mother separate the Babes she nurst?
Did one womb bare us? and what! are we now
No nearer kin at all, than I, and thou?
Sirs! is't not bold enough to set your Post
By Gods? to introduce a ragged Host
Of Ceremonies, borrowed of that Groom,
(For the most part) that keeps his Stall at Rome?
But would you back to Egypt shuffle too,
In hopes to feast it on their flesh-pots? you
May chance to change your wood for worser Timber;
Nay, there's a Red Sea too, as I remember,
'Twixt us and them, where Pharoah and his Host
Were buri'd once: although his restless Ghost
Still haunt our shores, and with his Magick strive
To serve his Capias on's, Dead or alive.
Are Egypt's Leeks such Dishes! let me tell ye,
Their Tale of Bricks may chance to fill your belly!
Sirs! you that bear so stiff from Scylla, may
In a Charibdis cast your selves away.
'Twill vex you sure (yet help it while you can)
When you are plac't behind the Veteran.
Turn Capuchins then, if your guts will bear it;
Though you have won it, let your Lord-Danes wear it.
Your Rubrick, Articles, and Canon-Law,
You may set back with the Apocrypha.
Some Mendicancy of unbounded Order
May be your Monitor, and my Recorder.
Nay, were it not for our Faith's Great Defender,
Whose prudent jealousie hath been so tender
In this important case, they'd run us down☜
E're this, (for ought I know) Miter and Crown.
This piece of Logick I can't understand,
No Bishop, if no ceremony; and
No King, if there no Lordly Bishop be;
I must confess they'r Parables to me.
Nay, in the fancy of my jealous Reason
Its consequence speaks little less than Treason.
But be it so, I never will impeach you,
Nor yet presume for 'tis in vain) to teach you
what's the conclusion of your Syllogism
(If I might urge this piece of Catechism)
But this? no ceremony, then no King;
And what's a ceremony but a thing
So adiaph'rous, that his Lordship may
Pro libitu, impose or throw away?
This Papal Oracle in its Essaies
Was practically known in Becket's daies.
And is the Crown then but a ceremony?
Will you believe St. Thomas and his Chrony
Who had near prov'd it once? shall th' Scepter be
But a poor Pinacle of a Bishops See?
I dread those Politicks that do advise
To perch the Miter on State-dignities!
Nay, let the Crosiers staff and Lawn-sleeves lye
Some Orbs beneath the Sphere of Majesty.
And may I now presume to speak a word
To those my Brethren, that are thus abhor'd?
Ye are the Salt, Sirs! that hath lost its savour
With men, at least, and therefore lost their favour.
But like unsav'ury Salt, though ye are cast,
It may be 'tis their mouths are out of taste.
If so, they may come or't, when they have try'd
That cellar which they have so magnify'd.
For my part, I think yours to be the cheaper,
And far the better too, for the House-keeper.
But sith 'tis so, that out at doors you must,
And trampl'd on be, both by Law and Lust,
I hope you will not murmur, but reflect,
And own that Hand, that doth these Heels direct.
Although your eager spirits have been fed
On those crude humours that the times have bred,
Which have dissolv'd your sweet consistencies
Into that brine, which now leaks at your eyes:
Yet when this brine is boil'd and scum'd, who knows
How the good Steward may of it dispose?
Rome! Rome! thine Hour is coming though't be long;
Thy Mattens sung, turn to thy Even song.
Thou struggl'st hard to grasp within thy wings
The Churches Dowry, and the Crowns of Kings;
To brood those Chickens thou didst never hatch,
That so thou maist thy prey at pleasure catch.
Thou crouchest low a Favourite to be,
And boastest highly of thy loyalty.
But yet these Visards thou dissemblest with,
Are cut one inch too short to hide thy teeth.
We can't forget thy love in Eighty-eight,
When thy kind Visit cast us on that streight.
The poor Waldenses, and cold Piedmont
Have felt thy mercy, with sharp Comments on't.
Let Ireland's Tears, and England's long experience
Produce their Records of thy vow'd Allegiance.
Thy Sacrifices in Queen Maries daies;
Thy faith and service prov'd so many waies
To her Successors; Faux's Loyalty
In that unparallel'd Conspiracy;
Thy secret Hit at our late Soveraign's Head,
Which at one blow struck his three Kingdoms dead;
The dismal ashes of our City Royal;
All these bespeak thee trusty, kind, and loyal.
But hark! in London's dust these coals that rest☞
May sindg thy Plumes, and chance to fire thy Nest.
Muntzer no doubt had play'd the man, if we
Had better fee'd his sacred Fealty.
Our happy War, with its triumphant feats;
Our lingring Treaties, and undoing cheats;
Our beggar'd subject, yet indebted Prince,
Are of your loyal hearts clear evidence.
Whole Volumes here each word doth comprehend;
More I could say too, had I time to spend.
England's a Vine, a sowre and barren one;
Her Judgments come, God seems to cut her down.
Had I a Stentor's lungs, I'd stretch them here,
To rouze those stupified souls, that fear
But what they feel, whose Dreams are sweeter to 'um
Than Life or Gospel, till their Dreams undo 'um.
We have undone our selves; I'le say no more,
For 'tis not words that will our Paths restore.
'Tis sport enough for Gath and Askelon,
To see our emulous zeal to carry on
Their grand designs, and with what art we spin
Our selves a Halter to be hanged in.
What! hath their Curfue ring'd us all to bed?
Shall they that strike us thus, next strike us dead?
Good God! what ails us? are we all run mad?
Is there no sober party to be had?
O bring us so far to our selves, as we
May once devolve the care and cure on thee!
Nay, may a Bethlem bring us to our wits,
To Bethlem let us go to cure these Fits.
But let it not (as some would have it) be☜
The Bethlem we were in 'bout Forty-three.
I am for peace, let false and bloody minds
Be Cyrus-like, rewarded in their kinds▪
But I'm condemn'd, it's like, by good and bad;
My Muse is peevish, froward, bold and mad.
'Tis true, she's apt to speak her fears, but so
As she may timely caution Friend and Foe.
Let none be grieved at her sad Presages,
Or think her melancholly spirit rages.
When times of laughter come, she'l laugh with you;
And when you sing, she'l strike in consort too▪
But oh! let not her counsel be her crime,
Though it may seem to you born out of time.
We know who 'twas that breath'd on Israel's bones,
He that can form him children out of stones.
He that sav'd Peter on the raging Seas
Will save his Church too, when and how he please.
Then be content, let Faith and Patience be
Your Life, your Refuge, and your Victorie.
The RIDDLE.
THere was a Man, (l've heard my Grandsire say)
That had two Sons that in his bosom lay:
The first was Bat, a sober loving youth,
But through much weakness, very slow of growth;
The other Ned a lusty jocund child,
But that he prov'd extreamly high and wild
These grew together; Ned was Father's Boy;
Who knew it well, and therefore did imploy
His wits and interest against his Brother
To get his Birth-right: yea, sware to his Mother
To be his Guardian, and as tender of him
As she could be, who did so dearly love him.
So 'twas agree'd through much ado; but Ned
Grew proud and high, which great Dissentions bred.
In short, the House fell into such a flame
Of strife between the Master and the Dame,
That all the Neighbourhood began to ring;
Some wept to hear it, other some did sing.
Among the rest there was one neighbour Cross,
Who's alway wont to gain by others loss.
This Cross (they say) had an old servant been
Unto the House these Children lived in,
But justly long before had been cashier'd
For sev'ral urgent causes that appear'd.
This Villain, seeing these broils thus begun,
Hopes now to reel the yarn that he had spun▪
VVorks with both Parties, but at such a distance,
That neither was the neer for his assistance:
How e're it was, at length 'twas thus agreed;
Ned must away, and so the House be freed.
Then Cross with Bat and's Mother would collogue;
But they defie him for an arrant Rogue.
Some say, Had it not been for such as he,
These sparks had never fir'd the Family.
Few of his Neighbours have a good word for him;
No more but Ned swears that he doth abhor him▪
Thus scann'd on all hands, he must hide his face,
And act his part by those that are in place;
And so he did, until the House did grow
Too hot for Father, Ned, and Mother too.
Thus Bat is left alone, shakes every limb,
For fear of what was now attending him.
By secret Packets then he did implore
His Father's powerful presence, to restore
His dving hopes: The Father mounts his steed,
His wings are impt with pity, joy, and sheed.
But with the Father home comes busling Ned,
Calls all his own, his Mother being dead.
(Though Bat were promis'd, Ned should never more
Presume to set his foot within the door.)
Bat over-joy'd to see his Father come,
Rings out the Bells to bid him welcome home.
Ned makes some offers to capitulate;
Being forc'd thereto, but after some debate,
The bus'ness comes to this, poor Bat must be
What Ned will have him, nay, for ought I see
He'd rather that he might not be at all,
Poor love, you'l say, and but this brother all.
The Father being griev'd to see this strife
Between his Children, looks him out a Wife
To rule the stubborn lads; the Mother law
Takes Bat in hand, and swears she'l whip him raw.
The Bed's prepar'd, where both these Boy's must lye,
To lull them into Uniformity.
Ned leaps in first, and with him Spot his Cur,
He puts off ne're a Rag, Cloak, Boots, nor Spur.
Poor Bat would fain lye down too by his Brother:
He shuts in one foot now, and then the other;
Intreats for room, but Ned begins to thunder,
That if he would lye there, he must lye under.
Hard terms, you'l say, but melancholly Bat
(Had that been all) would scarce have stuck at that,
But through disorders and excess in drink,
(Which was his life) his very skin did stink;
His clothes were all with mire and vomit drest,
That Bat crys out, Sure Ned! th'hast foul'd thy Nest.
Is this the fashion thou intend'st to lye?
Thy Dog may like it well, but so can't I.
But weeps, and bids Good night, and looks about
For some dark corner, where to cry it out.
But Ned's offended thus to hear him roar,
And bid's his Mother turn him out at door.
Now Bat must wander; yet I've heard him say,
That while he lives he'l do no worse than pray
For Father, Mother, and for Ned, all three,
And for the rest of his dear Family.
Where's Cross this while? has he been idle? no:
He hands his fails as every wind doth blow.
When Ned was come, thought he, There's none that can
Be so well spar▪d, to be his Gentleman
As I; by this, and one trick more, I know
I shall be chosen for his Bed fellow;
Then Art shall fail me, if it be not sed,
In few days more, Cross is as good as Ned.
And to this end, he first accuses Bat
Of Frenzv, Murder, Theft, and who knows what!
Which Ned lik'd well; on whose report it was
(Some say) that Bat's Ejectment came to pass.
Howe're it was, it seems that Ned and Cross
Were well enough agreed, though 'twere too gross
To hold an open correspondencie
Which might to their Designes destructive be.
These Tragedies premis'd, Cross thinks he may
Begin to scrape, and make some fresh Essay
To prove his loyalty; but some cry out,
Nay, he's a Thief; others reply, no doubt
But we may trust him now; he has been try'd,
'Tis Bat's the greater Thief, Cross is be-ly'd.
But most affirm, that Bat's the honest man;
And Cross's cringing is but to trepan.
These were shrewd rubs, at last, in the smooth Run
Of Cross's hopes; but what is thus begun
Can't linger now, for when the Ulcer's gone
Unto a rotten Suppuration,
It struggles hard for vent, and so did this,
Resolving to attempt it, Hit or miss.
First, he engag'd th' unhappy Family
In an unlucky brawl, with two or three
Of their malignant Neighbours; some say 'twas
The Ghost of an old grudg reviv'd, a mass
Of scurrilous reproaches, and such things
As soon produc'd these bloody Quarrellings;
But that which did these furious feuds advance
(Most say) was claim to an Inheritance.
However 'twere, Cross serves his Interests here;
Nay, boasts it too, that he had brew'd the Beer
Wherewith he hop▪d shortly to entertain
Such other Friends as once came out of Spain.
Most of the Family were griev'd to see
This cursed Villain's pride and treachery▪
It were too sad and tedious to tell
All those defeats and mischiefs that befell
This poor divided House, how Mogonde swagger'd.
And sharkt and robb'd, till both were almost beggar'd;
The Stables plunder'd, and the Garners fir'd
By such Accomplices as Cross had hir'd.
And is't not strange, that such a Rogue as he
Should thus bewitch so brave a Family!
Well! Ned may know, if ever he be wise,
What clouds they are that thus be-night his eyes.
The Bill of Request.
THere is a Woman (Sir) and she a Friend
That lyes in Travell, and is like to end
Her own life and her Babes at once; her case
Is often spread before the Throne of Grace;
Her Midwives also have almost undone her,
And left her worse than when they first began her▪
'Twill cost her bitter Throws (poor Heart) I doubt,
If ever she have strength to weather't out.
Your Prayers are desir'd for such an one,
That you would mind her case before the Throne.
Pray give this Bill to one that is devout
Among the Priests, if you can find him out.
ROMANZI.
'TWas when the Heaven's winged Charioteer
Was swiftly racing in his high carier
Through Cancer's hot Ascendent, whose fierce beams
Exhal'd from parched Earth those sweating steams
Which left her surface, (like a Niobe
Bak't to a crust) curst with an Atrophie.
And when, besides the Torrid Influence
Of Aestive Rays, the dire malevolence
Of three Coelestial Heroes did conspire
In their Trine-aspect, to incense the fire.
That I descending from the lofty brow
Of a steep Hill, where just beneath did grow
A shady Grove, which the fair Dryades
Had lately chosen for their Chap'l of ease;
And fast by, Neptune comb'd his powder'd Locks
In the course teeth of sharp and craggy Rocks.
I heard (methought) the sighs of deep despair
From off the Grove, refract the gentle air.
At these strange Eccho's being mov'd, I stood
Amuz'd a while, at length drew to the Wood;
Where the first words that met my ear, were these,
After a sigh: Ay! they do what they please!
Would ever men, that were not worse than mad,
(Yea, mauger all those cautions we have had)
Have done as we have done? but 'tis too late,
Now that the steed is gone, to shut the Gate.
To whom reply'd another, with an Oath,
Nay now, no doubt, but we shall thrive forsooth▪
Our En'mies we have thrice quite overthrown,
And forc't their mourning Widows to atone
Our Grace and Favour; men could ne're have done
More bravely, and have won what we have won.
Old Noll the Tyrant would have gnasht to see
The rich successes of his Enemy
In his old Field, recounting what it cost him,
Yo do what we have done; yea, what it lost him
In not improving what his Tyrannie
Had gain'd, when he had brought them on the knee.
But what! we could not chuse but prosper thus,
While God and man did so encourage us.
Indeed the Oracle spake plain, methought,
But that we deem'd it as a thing of nought,
An accident in London's first Oblation,
Whose Gifts and whose Devotions acceptation
Was witnessed by fire; I think she may
Expound the Omen now without a Key.
Provisions we had store, but wisely cookt;
Great wages too, but that tis most on't bookt.
Such care our Commissaries had, it's sed
Our very Powder-casks were ballasted.
In short, most honestly 'twas rigg'd and man'd,
Like to go through what e're we took in hand.
Well, well, Marinus! said the other, you
Can jest it out, as you are wont to do.
Iest! said Marinus, could I get my Pay,
It were a jest indeed, the merriest day
That I, or my poor wife and babes have seen
Since the first hour that we divorc't have been.
I would redeem their Pledg, and set them free
From thy contentious, Parish-charitie.
The other griev'd to hear this well known story,
Breaks this Discourse: Where's then, says he, the glory
Of your great Victories? The glory, said Marinus;
Nay, you may see, when those that undermine us
Have done their shuffle and begin to cut,
Into whose hands the Master-Trumps are shut.
There's nothing vext me more than this, that we
Must thus adventure Life and Liberty
To take a Prize, which then must be conducted
By us their Convoys, as they were instructed.
—Take you Monsieurs! must our Vict'ry make
Courtiers of you, and us slaves for your sake?
Is this the way to raise our Countrey credit?
And to eternalize his fame that did it!
Hold! said the other, now you seem to rage;
Passion can hardly keep due Equipage.
Passion! quoth he, I take him for an Ass,
Or for an Angel, that in such a case
Can rule his Passions; but I'le say no more,
Sith I can't say but what was known before.
The other whom by his discourse I take
To be a Country-man, reply did make:
It is observ'd, said he, though but by few,
We never thriv'd since that Black Bartholomew;
Then pluckt we out our Eyes, and thought to see
By a Canonical Ophthalmistry.
But now we'r into Ditch, who ever't were
That led us thus: but hark methink I hear
The Pixie laugh; but we shall cry (I doubt,
Or something worse) before we scramble out.
Ho! said Marinus, if it be but so,
Turn something in and out, and that will do.
Turn something in and out! said th' other, ay,
Were that but done, we might hit out the way.
But how shall this be done? Be done? said he,
Why! 'tis half done already! Out there be
Coats turn'd enough; might they again turn In
Body and sleeve, our hopes might here begin.
What hath this beetle brow'd suspicion spy'd
In them or theirs, it's still so evil ey'd?
Since that most black and dreadful day of Bats,
That pip't our Fathers off to bring these Rats?
That's not the business, said the Country-man,
There's still a jealous head, though nothing can
Be prov'd; I doubt, from that kind Principle,
On which Cain on his righteous Brother fell:
They must be Lords, and rule like Kings; but not
By Canon Law, but by their Cannon-shot.
But what! let these alone, a few years more
May this mad Priesthood to their wits restore.
But there's a cloud which hath been gathering
About these six years; if it chance to wring
It self upon our shores, our case may be
The parallel of a sad Germanie.
Besides those home-bred vipers which we hug
In our own breasts, where they have drawn the Dug
So dry, that now they draw our very blood:
And here's the curse; it is not understood.
Not that we do bethink our Sov'raign Lord
The utmost that our Lands or Lives afford.
But when our Plough-shares must perverted be
Into Stilletoes for an Enemie:
This makes me fret, and wish my limber goad
(In a just call) might do as Shamgar's did.
Our Senators (they say) are in a maze;
They stare on us, and we on them do gaze.
But 'tis no wonder; 'twas once so with Saul;
We fight with God, and therefore needs must fall.
Our Foes are greedy, early, strong and wise,
They're on their way, e're we can find our Eyes.
Our Eyes are lockt up in a Pix (they say)
Where 'twill be hard to get without the Key.
Lord help us! Sir our Story's like to be
Our poor Posterities dismal Tragedy▪
Thus we sit here, and in complaining spend
Our wretched Hours and Thoughts, and to what
END?
The ECCHO.Eccho. Weep. Rome. Ay.
THine House is foul; Lord, wilt thou sweep?
We weep; Lord sweep; But with what Broom?
Fast then, and throw the Shrub away.