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Title: Selected Poems - (1685-1700)
Author: Tutchin, John
Language: English
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  Earl R. Miner, _University of California, Los Angeles_
  Maximillian E. Novak, _University of California, Los Angeles_
  Lawrence Clark Powell, _Wm. Andrews Clark Memorial Library_


  John Butt, _University of Edinburgh_
  James L. Clifford, _Columbia University_
  Ralph Cohen, _University of California, Los Angeles_
  Vinton A. Dearing, _University of California, Los Angeles_
  Arthur Friedman, _University of Chicago_
  Louis A. Landa, _Princeton University_
  Samuel H. Monk, _University of Minnesota_
  Everett T. Moore, _University of California, Los Angeles_
  James Sutherland, _University College, London_
  H. T. Swedenberg, Jr., _University of California, Los Angeles_


  Edna C. Davis, _Clark Memorial Library_


When John Tutchin died on September 23, 1707, he had already created
the image of himself which Alexander Pope has transmitted to posterity.
There, in Book II of _The Dunciad_ (1728), the Whig journalist appears
as one of two figures in a "shaggy Tap'stry":

  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 "author of some vile verses, and of a weekly paper call'd the
_Observator_," and revived the fiction of his sentence "to be whipp'd
thro' several towns in the west of _England_, upon which he petition'd
King _James_ II. to be hanged." The "invective" against James II's
memory, which Pope mentions, has now been identified in the Twickenham
Edition as _The British Muse: or Tyranny Expos'd_ (1701).[1] By 1728,
this was all the reputation that remained for Mr. John Tutchin,
Gentleman--irascible journalist, pamphleteer, and writer of verses.

The truth of the matter is that Pope was no more accurate about
Tutchin's being whipped than about Defoe's losing his ears. From the
sparse reliable information concerning Tutchin's early years, one
consistent pattern emerges: he tended to depict himself as a hero and a
martyr. Born in 1661 "a Freeman" of London, he was brought up in a
family of scholarly nonconformist ministers probably on the Isle of
Wight[2]. Even though an enemy claimed that he had been expelled from a
school at Stepney for stealing (_DNB_), he received some education and
travelled on the continent. In defending his skill with languages
against Defoe, he once told how at his school, boys translated and
capped verses, and how he travelled "from _Leivarden_ in _Friezland_,
thro' _Holland_ and the _Spanish Flanders_."[3] Throughout his life, he
proudly designated himself a gentleman: during his trial for libel in
late June of 1704, he even escaped punishment by setting forth that he
was a gentleman, and not a laborer as the indictment read.

In later life, he romanticized himself when young as the hero who fought
in the Duke of Monmouth's rebellion, received the brutal "whipping
sentence" from Lord Chief-Justice Jeffreys during "the bloody assezes"
of 1685, petitioned James II for "the Favour of being hang'd" to avoid
the sentence, and finally freed himself by paying so burdensome a bribe
that he was reduced to poverty. All these claims were first made in "The
Case, Trial, and Sentence of Mr. John Tutchin, and Several Others, in
Dorchester, in the County of Dorset," which Tutchin added to the fifth
edition of _The Western Martyrology; or, the Bloody Assizes_, published
in 1705. As J. G. Muddiman demonstrated in 1929, most of these claims
are outright fabrications. Tutchin was never indicted for high treason,
he could never have been challenged by Jeffreys to cap verses, and he
invented the petition to be hanged.[4] In _The Observator_ (July 25-29,
1702), he honestly admitted that he was never tried in Devonshire, but
claimed he did buy his liberty of James II; and in a later issue (Aug.
4-7, 1703) he challenged an enemy: "if he Pleases to give the World an
Account, _When_, _Where_, and for _What_ I was Whip'd thro' a
Market-Town, he will inform Mankind of more than I or any Body else
knows...." John Dunton believed in the whipping sentence; and Defoe, the
story of the petition to be hanged. Throughout Tutchin's stormy career,
his enemies made political capital of the flogging that never took
place. He was probably twenty-four years old when, using the alias
"Thomas Pitts," he was tried at Dorchester for "Spreading false news and
fined five marks and sentenced to be whipped"--but he came down with
smallpox and so was not whipped.[5] Lord Macaulay, who is incorrect on
the facts taken from _The Western Martyrology_, certainly exaggerated in
stating that Tutchin's temper was "exasperated to madness by what he had
undergone."[6] That the Monmouth adventure and its aftermath mark a
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.[7] After the Glorious Revolution and the establishment of
William and Mary on the throne, Tutchin devoted himself to a succession
of liberal causes. On the one hand, he persisted in identifying himself
with the former commonwealth, the Monmouth cause, the Revolution, the
reform movement especially in the theater, and Whig liberty. He became
noted for tactless exposés of high-level misconduct in his pamphlets and
in _The Observator_ (Apr. 1, 1702-Sept. 23, 1707). His detractors
frequently paired him with Defoe as a monster or a villain. Again and
again, he made himself obnoxious to important personages such as the
Earl of Albemarle or the Duke of Marlborough.[8] On the other hand, his
hatred for tyranny propelled him frequently into such extremes as his
disgraceful complicity in William Fuller's impostures. In the years
1700-1704, he was generally reputed to be "Secretary to the abominal
Society of King-Killers"--the secret Calves-Head Club made up of
dissenters who met on January 30th, the anniversary of the death of
Charles I, to sing prophane anthems.[9]

Dunton generously summed up the widely varied causes of "the loyal and
ingenious _Tutchin_ (alias _Master Observator_); the bold Asserter of
English Liberties; the scourge of the High-flyers; the Seaman's
Advocate; the Detector of the Victualling-office; the scorn and terror
of Fools and Knaves; the Nation's _Argus_, and the Queen's faithful
Subject."[10] Even his death in Queen's Bench Prison, on September 23,
1707, was romanticized into another instance of martyrdom. "... _he
liv'd and dy'd_," announced the Country-man of _The Observator_, "_for
the Service of his Country_." Tutchin's followers dramatized his death
as the result of a politically-inspired thrashing which "six ruffians"
administered to him, in revenge for slanderous remarks made in _The
Observator_ against Vice-Admiral Sir Thomas Dilkes.[11] The "_Pulchrum
Est Pro Patria Mori_" portrait, reprinted here as the frontispiece, was
circulated to attest to Tutchin's political martyrdom. However, as the
autopsy-report demonstrates and as Muddiman rightly concludes, "Tutchin
really died from a specific disease and not from the thrashing undergone
seven months before his death."[12]

The young man of twenty four who went off to join Monmouth's forces had
already published, in 1685, _Poems on Several Occasions. With a
Pastoral. To Which is Added, A Discourse of Life_. In the preface,
writing like a fashionable man-about-town, Tutchin describes the lyrics,
translations, and satires of this volume as "trifles" which he had let
circulate and had now secured "by promising to Print them." The book
shows the variety in poetic kinds that one would expect in a young
writer who had been drinking deeply of Lord Rochester, Waller, Cowley,
the Earl of Roscommon, Oldham, and Dryden. Juvenalian satires
reminiscent of Oldham are neatly balanced by memorial verses to Oldham
and Rochester, late metaphysical lyrics ("And why in red dost thou
appear"), classical dialogues ("Cleopatra to Anthony"), translations of
Horace, and the well-turned "autobiographical" couplets of "A Letter to
A Friend." In its variety and themes, _Poems on Several Occasions_
resembles Oldham's _Works_, which was published twice in 1684. Tutchin's
"The Tory Catch," like Oldham's "A Dithyrambick. A Drunkard's Speech in
a Mask," has a speaker who ironically brags of the social misconduct
which the author satirizes. "A Letter to a Friend" is a skillfully
exaggerated account of the attractions and dangers in rhyming. Although
perhaps autobiographical in part, the poem also imitates the
long-standing tradition derived from Horace's first Epistle of Book I,
and revived most recently in Oldham's "A Letter from the Country to a
Friend in Town."[13] Both "The Tory Catch" and "A Letter to a Friend"
are reprinted here from _Poems on Several Occasions_.

Tutchin's first book shows two impulses: the awkwardly lyrical and the
directly satiric. He feels compelled, in the Preface, to defend his
choice of less serious subjects. His light poems do not, "in the least,
detract from _Virtue_; since I have Read the _Poems_ of _Beza_,
_Heinsius_, our own _Donne_, _&c._" He promises to turn to "some Graver
Subject." There are other equally significant comments in a Preface that
reveals a great deal about changing literary taste. In "To the Memory of
Mr. John Oldham," Tutchin curiously avoids the main subject of Dryden's
finer elegy, namely, Oldham's achievement in rough satire. His praise is
that "_Crashaw_ and _Cowley_ both did live in thee." However, in his
"Satyr Against Vice" and "Satyr Against Whoring," Tutchin has already
learned the art of declaiming, from the poet who has been called "the
English Juvenal," John Oldham.

In the years between 1685 and 1707, Tutchin's separate poems were mainly
occasional and satirical. Panegyric for William III dominates such an
early piece as _An Heroic Poem upon the Late Expedition of His Majesty_
(1689), and hatred for the Stuarts possesses a later poem like _The
British Muse: or Tyranny Expos'd_ (1701). In _Civitas Militaris_ (1690)
Tutchin engages in city politics. The elegy on the death of Queen Mary
irritated Defoe enough to have "_T----n_" placed among the "Pindarick
Legions" in _The Pacificator_ (1700). Two poems, however,--_The
Earth-quake of Jamaica_ (1692) and _Whitehall in Flames_ (1698)--differ
from the others in that they are Cowleyan "Pindaricks" moralizing on
disasters. _The Earth-quake of Jamaica_ is reprinted here to illustrate
Tutchin's descriptive talent. He starts with an actual event, the
Jamaican disaster of June 7, 1692; and then, as the epigraph on the
title page suggests, he presents a variation on Horace's rejection of
"senseless Epicureanism," in Ode 34 of Book I. _The Earth-quake of
Jamaica_ may have been worked over longer than was customary. It was
published shortly before December 10, the manuscript date on Narcissus
Luttrell's copy now in the Houghton Library. Some six months earlier, in
the late morning of June 7, the earthquake had erupted in Port Royal,
the "boom" port on the south side of the island. In three schocks
lasting less than three minutes, the famed capital of the buccaneers had
fallen. News of the disaster did not reach London until August 9. The
earthquake then became one of the most widely discussed events. The
_London Gazette_ ran stories on it, scientists like Sir Hans Sloane
published eye-witness accounts in the _Philosophical Transactions_ of
the Royal Society, the moralists declared God's wrath had come upon the
wickedest place in Christendom, and "the actors of the drolls" in
Southwark Fair even mockingly re-enacted the event until the Lord Mayor
put a stop to the performances.[14]

If contemporary accounts of the Port Royal earthquake are compared with
_The Earth-quake of Jamaica_, the reader becomes impressed by Tutchin's
way of adapting the well-known details to a moral comment on life. His
scenes are indeed graphic, but they do not have the immediacy of such
eye-witness accounts as the following, preserved by Luttrell:

    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
    of people, whose shreiks and groanes made a lamentable eccho: the
    earth opened both behind and before me within 2 foot of my feet,
    and that place on which I stood trembled exceedingly; the water
    immediately boyled up upon the opening of the earth, but it pleased
    God to preserve me....[15]

Tutchin's aim is to compare vulnerable nature with vulnerable man: "Can
humane Race / Stand on their / Legs when Nature Reels?" He sees in the
disaster a challenge for English sinners to repent: the "Hurricane of
Fate" wails on "murder'd _Cornish_." He had not yet forgotten the
Monmouth adventure. For he alludes here to the act of Parliament passed
in 1689 reversing the attainder of Henry Cornish, the alderman who had
been brutally executed in 1685 for high treason through participating in
the Rye House Plot and attaching himself to the Duke of Monmouth. For
Tutchin, politics were always relevant.

Tutchin's true forte is not the descriptive poem, but satire. Poems
published in the years 1696 to 1705--from _A Pindarick Ode_ to _The
Tackers_--exploit the satirical impulse that had been latent in _Poems
on Several Occasions_. Increasingly he turns to general denunciation and
thinly disguised lampoon. Of the two main Augustan traditions in
satire--the "fine raillery" that Dryden perfected and the rough satire
that reached back to Donne, Cleveland, and Oldham--Tutchin belongs to
the latter. Defoe found him to be "so woundy touchy, and so willing to
quarrel," and noted that "Want of Temper was his capital Error."[16] The
specific circumstance that produced _A Pindarick Ode, in the Praise of
Folly and Knavery_ (1696), reprinted here, is generally said to be his
dismissal from the victualling office because he failed to establish his
case that the commissioners mismanaged public funds. Such corruption in
the administration would soon transform a deep admiration for William
III into the disenchantment of _The Foreigners_ (1700). That Tutchin was
uneasy in his effort to write satire in the mode of Dryden is suggested
by his abandonment of irony after the first part of _A Pindarick Ode_.
In his introductory verses, Benjamin Bridgwater accurately observes that
Erasmus' _Ironia_ no longer suffices:

  This hard'ned Age do's rougher Means require,
  We must be _Cupp'd_ and _Cauteriz'd_ with _Fire_.

Echoing Dryden's _Mac Flecknoe_, Tutchin invites Dullness and "Immortal
_Nonsence_" to inspire his ironic praise of the folly and knavery that
now ride roughshod over such traditional values as learning, love, wit,
and patriotism. A few of the lines have the moving quality of Augustan
satire at its best:

  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
denunciation. In Stanza X, it is even replaced by the antiquated Hero's
diatribe against "our modern Knavish Arts"--never to return to the rest
of the poem. Doubtless, the indictment of the "nefarious Brood at Home"
that grows rich in wartime was the heart of the satire. Defoe hinted at
this motive in the satirical vignette of Tutchin as Shamwhig, which
appeared in the first edition of _The True-Born Englishman_ (1700):

  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_.[17]

Tutchin's satire would be henceforth the rough variety. In _The
Foreigners_ he would also resort to fierce lampoons of William III's
court favorites.

In the rash of satires that followed _The Foreigners_ and _The True-Born
Englishman_, the anonymous author of _The Fable of the Cuckoo_ (1701)
pointed to the common tradition shared by both poems. For he attacked
Defoe's "hatchet muse" as having been inspired by such "Modern Sharpers
of the Town" as Tutchin and "Old[ha]m the Bell-weather of Tory Faction,"
who first horned Defoe's satire, "And ever since perverted all good
Nature." Advertised in _The Flying Post_ for July 31-Aug. 1, 1700, _The
Foreigners_ was published shortly thereafter by the ardent Whig Anne
Baldwin. The "vile abhor'd Pamphlet, in very ill Verse, written by one
_Mr. Tutchin_, and call'd _The Foreigners_"--Defoe recalled years later
in _An Appeal to Honour and Justice_ (1715)--filled him "with a kind of
Rage." Tutchin's irascible temper had again taken hold. Scurrilously, he
assailed foreigners in high office, especially William III's Dutch
favorites, for their monopolizing preferments and usurping command,
under such transparent aliases as "Bentir" for William Bentinck, first
Earl of Portland, and "Keppech" for Arnold Joost van Keppel, first Earl
of Albemarle. The manner was Dryden's in _Absalom and Achitophel_; the
venom was Tutchin's own. Official reaction to _The Foreigners_ came
quickly. The untrustworthy William Fuller spread the gossip that Tutchin
fled from his Majesty's messengers, and found refuge "in a blind
Ale-house, at the Windmill, by Mr. Bowyers, at Camberwel." On August
10th, he was taken "into custody of a messenger"; and at the grand
inquest for the city of London, held on August 28th, there was presented
"a Poem called _The Foreigners_."[18] A mystery envelops the rest of the
legal proceedings. There may even be some truth in the allegation that
the parry would long since have "ruffled" Tutchin, except that he
pleased them with his "railing at King _William's_ Friends
sometimes."[19] _The Foreigners_ also aroused such ephemeral rejoinders
as _The Reverse: or, the Tables Turn'd_ and _The Nations: An Answer to
the Foreigners_. both published in 1700. Finally, in January of 1701,
there was published a satire of more lasting worth, Defoe's _The
True-Born Englishman_. Side by side, in _Poems on Affairs of State_
(1703), were reprinted _The Foreigners_ and _The True-Born Englishman_
among verses "_Written by the Greatest Wits of this Age_."[20]
Altogether, the two satirists had three poems apiece in the volume. One
of Tutchin's poems, "The Tribe of Levi" (1691), was anonymously
reprinted; the other two, _The Foreigners_ and _The British Muse_, were
identified as "by Mr. _T----n_." These were the achievements of
Tutchin's "hatchet muse."

The poems are reprinted from copies in libraries of the U.S. and Great
Britain. I am obligated to The Houghton Library for _Poems on Several
Occasions_ and _The Earth-quake of Jamaica_, to Yale University Library
for _The Foreigners_, and to the British Museum for _A Pindarick Ode,
in the Praise of Folly and Knavery_. For permission to reproduce
the "_Pulchrum Est Pro Patria Mori_" portrait of John Tutchin as the
frontispiece, I wish to express my thanks to the Trustees of the British

                                                      Spiro Peterson
                                                      Miami University
                                                      Oxford, Ohio


[1] _The Dunciad_, ed. James Sutherland (The Twickenham Edition, Methuen
& Co., Ltd., 1943), pp. 115-18.

[2] Tutchin's birth-year is variously given. The Van der Gucht engraving
and the authentic _Elegy_ of Tutchin's death state that he died "Aged
44"; but the mock _Elegy_, falsely claiming to be "Written by the Author
of the Review," gives his age to be 47. In _The Observator_ (Oct. 20-23,
1703), Tutchin implied that he was "Born some years after the
Restoration of King _Charles_ the 2d." His certificate of marriage to
Elizabeth Hicks on Sept. 30, 1686 places his age then at twenty-five,
and supports the birth-year 1661, as given in the _DNB_. See also _The
Observator_, May 17-20, 1704; July 8-12, 1704; and July 24-28, 1703. One
of Tutchin's enemies charged that he was born in the north of England
(_An Account of the Birth, Education, Life and Conversation of ... the
Observator_, 1705); and another, that his father was "a Scot, canting
Presbyterian Sot" (_The Picture of the Observator_, 1704).

[3] _The Observator_, June 2-6, 1705. Tutchin stated, in _The Case,
Trial, and Sentence_, that Judge Jeffreys had "a true Account" of his
activities in Holland. See J. G. Muddiman, ed., _The Bloody Assizes_
(Toronto, [1929]), p. 137.

[4] Muddiman, pp. 136-37. _The Case, Trial, and Sentence_ is reprinted
as a true record in T. B. Howell's _A Complete Collection of State
Trials_ (London, 1812), XIV, 1195-200, but as a highly questionable
document in Muddiman, pp. 137-46.

[5] Muddiman, p. 219.

[6] _The History of England_, ed. C. H. Firth (London, 1914), II, 639.
Insofar as the _DNB_ article on Tutchin relies on Macaulay, it is

[7] Shortly after Tutchin's death, the Country-man of _The Observator_
lauded his beloved master as "an Officer in the Army," and addressed him
"Captain Tutchin," as did the mock _Elegy_ and the friendly Dunton.

[8] Narcissus Luttrell, _A Brief Historical Relation of State Affairs_
(Oxford, 1857), V, 257; _Manuscripts of the Marquis of Bath_ (H.M.C.,
London, 1904), I, 105-06.

[9] The authorship of the Calves-Head anthems is assigned to Tutchin in
_The Reverse: or, the Tables Turn'd_ (1700), p. 7, and to both Tutchin
and Benjamin Bridgwater in _The Examination, Tryal, and Condemnation of
Rebellion Observator_ (1703), p. 17. See also Howard William Troyer,
_Ned Ward of Grubstreet_ (Harvard University Press, 1946), pp. 110, 117.

[10] _The Life and Errors of John Dunton_ (London, 1818), I, 356.

[11] See _The Observator_, Jan. 4-8, 1707, and "Postscript"; Jan. 12-15,
1707; and Sept. 20-24, 1707.

[12] Pp. 12-13. See also _The Observator_, Sept. 27-Oct. 1, 1707, and
William Bragg Ewald, _Rogues, Royalty, and Reporters_ (Boston, [1954]),
p. 14.

[13] For the two Oldham pieces, see _Poems of John Oldham_, introd.
Bonamy Dobrée (Southern Illinois University Press, [c. 1960]) pp. 50-54,

[14] _The Diary of John Evelyn_, ed. E. S. de Beer, 6 vols. (Oxford,
1955), V, 115; Luttrell, II, 565; W. Adolphe Roberts, _Jamaica: the
Portrait of an Island_ (New York, [c. 1955]), pp. 44-45; and Mary
Manning Carley, _Jamaica: the Old and the New_ (London, [c. 1963]), pp.
34-36, 157-58.

[15] Luttrell's entry for Aug. 13, 1692 (II, 539).

[16] _Review_, IV (Sept. 7, 1706) and IV (Nov. 20, 1707).

[17] Defoe's gloss on "_Piteous Satyr_" is "Satyr in Praise of Folly and
Knavery." (_The True-Born Englishman_, 1700, p. 37.) Since he regards
this as the title of the "_Satyr_ upon _Honesty_," Defoe may be
confusing _A Pindarick Ode_ with Tutchin's next satire, _A Search after
Honesty_ (1697).

[18] _Mr. William Fuller's Letter to Mr. John Tutchin_ (1703), p. 7;
Luttrell, V, 676, 683; _The Proceedings of the King's Commission of the
Peace, and Oyer and Terminer and Goal Delivery of Newgate ... the 28th,
29th, 30th and 31st Days of August 1700_.

[19] "A Dialogue between a Dissenter and the Observator," in _A
Collection of the Writings of the Author of the True-Born Englishman_
(1703), p. 227.

[20] II, 1-6, 7-46.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: Mr. JOHN TUTCHIN

_Dy'd Septber 23d 1707. Aged 44._]

       *       *       *       *       *



Several Occasions.



To which is Added, A






Printed by J. L. for _Jonathan Greenwood_, at the

_Black Raven_ in the _Poultry_, near the

_Old Jury_. MDCLXXXV.


Tory Catch.


  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_.


  With Musick fit for Serenading,
  We did ramble to and fro;
  Then to Drink and Masquerading,
  '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,
  'Mongst Drunken Lords and Whoring Ladies,
  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
  A Soveraign Remedy for Soul and Mind:
  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_,
                                                             _J. T._

       *       *       *       *       *





Describ'd in a

Pindarick Poem.


  _----namq; Diespiter
  Igni corusco nubila dividens
    Plerumq; per purum tonantes
      Egit Equos volucremq; currum,
  Quo bruta Tellus & vaga flumina,
  Quo Styx, & invisi horrida Tænari
      Sedes, Atlanteusq; finis
        Concutitur. Valet ima summis

                  Horat. lib. I. Ode 34.


Printed, and are to be sold by _R. Baldwin_, near the

_Oxford-Arms_ in _Warwick-lane_, 1692.


Earthquake of Jamaica

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,
      Pride, Ignorance and Sin.
    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;
      Travels for Wealth to Foreign Lands,
    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,
    Decay of Kingdoms, and the Fall of Crowns,
    Intestine War, or Pestilential Year;
      Sometimes a Hurricane of Fate,
      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 _Æolus_ 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,
      The Cowards and the Brave,
      Are buried in one Grave;
  For Fate allows 'em all one Common Tomb.
      The Aged and the Wise
  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
      By Mankind, now on Man do Feed:
      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
      Of Martial Law,
      Its Forces draw
  To every Mountain, Field and Wood,
  They Ravage all the Neighbourhood.
  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
        Some Potent General;
          And near to him,
      Another loses but a Limb.
  Part of the Island was a Prey to Fate,
  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,




Folly and Knavery.



Printed and Sold by _E. W._ near _Stationers-Hall_.

1696. Price 6_d._


Pindarick ODE

In the Praise of

Folly and Knavery.


    My humble Muse no Hero Sings,
    Nor Acts, nor Funerals of Kings:
    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                }
    The Shrubs and Furzes of the Plain:             }
  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,
    The Fames of _Shakespear_ and of _Ben_,
    Must warp, before my nobler fire
    To their regardless Tombs retire.
    Thus Arm'd, with Nonsence, I'll engage
      Both _Universities_,
    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,
      But to the Darlings of thy Tribe,
        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_
        Uncouth, Unintelligible,
        Not by any fancy fathomable,
      Bringing distracted Minds to harms;
    The rankest _Hellebore_ cannot prevent.
      Tell me, I say, ye Learn'd Sots!
    Did e'r the old or new Philosophy,
    Make a Man splendid live, or wealthy die?
  Tho' you may think your Notions truer,
      They'll ne'r advance your Lotts,
  To the Estate of Wise Sir _Jonathan_ the Brewer.


      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,
    Shall be the Subject of Triumphing Fame.
  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.


  View but the Realms of _Nonsence_, see the State,
      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?
      Almighty _Jove_,
      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
      Beneath a Canopy
      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:
      His gay Attendants are the Cheat,
      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,
      Only wore by _Jews_ and _Turks_.
    Merit is a Popish Doctrine;
      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;
        For no Transgression is,
        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,
      Like _Anchorets_ in Cells,
  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
      The Good, the Just, the Brave,
      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.
      As if the Just, the Brave, the Good,
      Were but a _Bridge_ of Wood
    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;
      _In vain_, says he, _we've fought_----
        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
    The Snowy _Alps_ and _Pyrenean_ Hills,
  Where Death the Land with vast Destruction fills,
      'Mongst Warriors, who
  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
      Embarrass his Affairs,
      Prolong the Wars,
    Only t' enrich his Enemies,
  Weaken his Government, and his Allies.


  'Tis strange a Prince, shou'd ere a _Fool_ preferr,
        To be an Officer!
  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.
      But to set Centry at the Door,                }
      A Patriot or a Senator,                       }
      Philosopher or Orator,                        }
    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.
        Thus Princes Bastardize
      Their Countries Sons Legitimate,
      And give the fair Estate
      Unto a Spurious Brood,
    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,
      Painted Babies, Tinsel Creatures,
      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
      Unto a _Hobby-Horse_?
    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,
        Add Glory to her Name;
    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.
          Our Mother Earth,
        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.


       *       *       *       *       *







Printed for _A. Baldwin_ in _Warwicklane_,


The Foreigners.

  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.
  What dastard Souls do _Jewish_ Nobles wear!
  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,
  And what he got the _Jewish_ Nation lost:
  By lavish Grants whole Provinces he gains,
  Made forfeit by the _Jewish_ Peoples Pains;
  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
  To be the Birth-right of the _Jewish_ Seed.
  How ill do's _Bentir_ in the Head appear          }
  Of Warriours, who do _Jewish_ Ensigns bear?       }
  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
  In using both the Pickax and the Spade.
  But in what Field have we a Conquest wrought?
  In Ten Years War what Battel have we fought?

    If we a Foreign Slave may use in War,
  Yet why in Council should that Slave appear?
  If we with _Jewish_ Treasure make him great,
  Must it be done to undermine the State?
  Where are the Antient Sages of Renown?            }
  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,
  Under the Conduct of our _Jewish_ Knaves.
  Our _Hebrew_'s murder'd in their hoarser Throats;
  How ill their Tongues agree with _Jewish Notes_!
  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,
  To canton out the _Jewish_ Nation's Land;
  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
  Of _Keppech_ the Imperious Chit of State,
  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,
  And _Jewish_ Nobles on his Fortunes wait:
  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?
  Ye _Jewish_ Nobles, boast no more your Race,
  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,
  And let them know what _Jewish_ Nobles are.


       *       *       *       *       *



University of California, Los Angeles



     16. Nevil Payne, _Fatal Jealousy_ (1673).

     17. Nicholas Rowe, _Some Account of the Life of Mr. William
     Shakespeare_ (1709).

     18. "Of Genius," in _The Occasional Paper_, Vol. III, No. 10
     (1719); and Aaron Hill's Preface to _The Creation_ (1720).


     22. Samuel Johnson, _The Vanity of Human Wishes_ (1749) and two
     _Rambler_ papers (1750).

     23. John Dryden, _His Majesties Declaration Defended_ (1681).


     26. Charles Macklin, _The Man of the World_ (1792).


     31. Thomas Gray, _An Elegy Wrote in a Country Churchyard_ (1751);
     and _The Eton College Manuscript_.


     41. Bernard Mandeville, _A Letter to Dion_ (1732).


     49. Two St. Cecilia's Day Sermons (1696, 1697).

     52. Pappity Stampoy, _A Collection of Scotch Proverbs_ (1663).


     75. John Joyne, _A Journal_ (1679).

     76. André Dacier, _Preface to Aristotle's Art of Poetry_ (1705).


     80. [P. Whalley], _An Essay on the Manner of Writing History_

     83. _Sawney and Colley_ (1742) and other Pope Pamphlets.

     84. Richard Savage, _An Author to be lett_ (1729).


     85-6. _Essays on the Theatre from Eighteenth-Century Periodicals._

     90. Henry Needier, _Works_ (1728).


     93. John Norris, _Cursory Reflections Upon a Book Call'd, An Essay
     Concerning Human Understanding_ (1690).

     94. An. Collins, _Divine Songs and Meditacions_ (1653).

     95. _An Essay on the New Species of Writing Founded by Mr.
     Fielding_ (1751).

     96. _Hanoverian Ballads._


     97. Myles Davies, Selections from _Athenae Britannicae_

     98. _Select Hymns Taken Out of Mr. Herbert's Temple_ (1697).

     99. Thomas Augustine Arne, _Artaxerxes_ (1761).

     100. Simon Patrick, _A Brief Account of the New Sect of Latitude
     Men_ (1662).

     101-2. Richard Hurd, _Letters on Chivalry and Romance_ (1762).


     103. Samuel Richardson, _Clarissa_: Preface, Hints of Prefaces,
     and Postscript.

     104. Thomas D'Urfey, _Wonders in the Sun, or, the Kingdom of the
     Birds_ (1706).

     105. Bernard Mandeville, _An Enquiry into the Causes of the
     Frequent Executions at Tyburn_ (1725).

     106. Daniel Defoe, _A Brief History of the Poor Palatine Refugees_

     107-8. John Oldmixon, _An Essay on Criticism_ (1728).

William Andrews Clark Memorial Library: University of California,
Los Angeles



    University of California, Los Angeles

    University of California, Los Angeles

    Wm. Andrews Clark Memorial Library

  _Corresponding Secretary:_
    Mrs. Edna C. Davis, Wm. Andrews Clark Memorial Library

The Society's purpose is to publish reprints (usually facsimile
reproductions) of rare seventeenth and eighteenth century works. All
income of the Society is devoted to defraying costs of publication and

Correspondence concerning subscriptions in the United States and Canada
should be addressed to the William Andrews Clark Memorial Library, 2205
West Adams Boulevard, Los Angeles, California. Correspondence concerning
editorial matters may be addressed to any of the general editors. The
membership fee is $5.00 a year for subscribers in the United States and
Canada and 30/- for subscribers in Great Britain and Europe. British and
European subscribers should address B. H. Blackwell, Broad Street,
Oxford, England. Copies of back issues in print may be obtained from the
Corresponding Secretary.


  JOHN TUTCHIN, _Selected Poems_ (1685-1700). Introduction by Spiro

  SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE, _An Essay upon the Original and Nature of
    Government_ (1680). Introduction by Robert C. Steensma.

  T. R., _An Essay Concerning Critical and Curious Learning_ (1698).
    Introduction by Curt A. Zimansky.

  ANONYMOUS, _Political Justice. A Poem_ (1736). Introduction by
    Burton R. Pollin and John W. Wilkes.

  _Two Poems Against Pope_: LEONARD WELSTED, _One Epistle to Mr. A.
    Pope_ (1730); ANONYMOUS, _The Blatant Beast_ (1740). Introduction
    by Joseph V. Guerinot.

  ROBERT DODSLEY, _An Essay on Fable_ (1764). Introduction by Jeanne
    K. Welcher and Richard Dircks.


William Andrews Clark Memorial Library


Make check or money order payable to THE REGENTS OF THE UNIVERSITY OF

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