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Title: A Satyr Against Hypocrites
Author: Phillips, John
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.

*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "A Satyr Against Hypocrites" ***

                     The Augustan Reprint Society

                             JOHN PHILLIPS
                     _A Satyr Against Hypocrites_

                        With an Introduction by
                              Leon Howard

                         Publication Number 38

                              Los Angeles
                William Andrews Clark Memorial Library
                       University of California

                            GENERAL EDITORS

              H. RICHARD ARCHER, _Clark Memorial Library_

               RICHARD C. BOYS, _University of Michigan_

         RALPH COHEN, _University of California, Los Angeles_

      VINTON A. DEARING, _University of California, Los Angeles_

                           ASSISTANT EDITOR

               W. EARL BRITTON, _University of Michigan_

                           ADVISORY EDITORS

            EMMETT L. AVERY, _State College of Washington_

                   BENJAMIN BOYCE, _Duke University_

               LOUIS BREDVOLD, _University of Michigan_

           JOHN BUTT, _King’s College, University of Durham_

               JAMES L. CLIFFORD, _Columbia University_

               ARTHUR FRIEDMAN, _University of Chicago_

     EDWARD NILES HOOKER, _University of California, Los Angeles_

                LOUIS A. LANDA, _Princeton University_

               SAMUEL H. MONK, _University of Minnesota_

                EARNEST MOSSNER, _University of Texas_

            JAMES SUTHERLAND, _University College, London_

    H. T. SWEDENBERG, JR., _University of California, Los Angeles_

                        CORRESPONDING SECRETARY

                EDNA C. DAVIS, _Clark Memorial Library_


John Phillips’ anonymous poem, _A Satyr Against Hypocrites_, was
entered in the Stationers’ Register on March 14, 1654-55 as the work of
his brother Edward and the property of his publisher Nathaniel Brook,
and it was probably published on August 17 (David Masson, _The Life
of John Milton_ [London, 1877], V, 228n., cites the “Thomason copy”
as indicating the date of publication). Actually, two issues appeared
in 1655. One gave no indication of the publisher and is reproduced
here, as perhaps the rarest, from the copy in the William Andrews
Clark Memorial Library. The other was “Printed for N.B. at the Angel
in Corn-hill.” The 1655 text was reprinted in 1661 as _The Religion of
the Hypocritical Presbyterians in Meeter_, and a revised and enlarged
edition appeared in 1671 under the original title. It was this rather
than the original version which is known through the summary given by
William Godwin (_Lives of Edward and John Phillips_ [London, 1815],
pp. 49-51) and quoted by Masson as the most “exact description”
possible of the 1655 “performance” (_ibid._, V, 228). Other editions
have been recorded for 1674, 1677, 1680, 1689, and 1710, the last
being attributed to the author’s uncle, John Milton. Of these, the
editions which I have seen show only minor revisions of the 1671 text.
A holograph manuscript, preserved in the Bodleian Library, includes a
two-page dedication to the successful barrister John Churchill, but the
dedication was apparently never printed.

Neither the unpublished dedication nor the poem itself contains a clear
indication of the purpose or the direction of the satire. In pleading
her case for John Phillips’ authorship of the anonymous life of Milton,
Miss Helen Derbyshire (_The Early Lives of Milton_ [London, 1932], pp.
xxii-xxv) has taken issue with the common statement that it marked
Phillips’ departure from his uncle’s teachings and has described it as
a satire against the Presbyterians from an Independent position with
which Milton might well have sympathized. Yet the text hardly supports
these contentions. The Sunday service which Phillips burlesques shows
no signs of Presbyterian discipline. In fact, sectarianism is almost
at its worst in his picture of a congregation crying destruction
against Covenant-breakers, making grinning appeals for free grace, and
screaming for the Fifth Monarchy in a state of revelation-madness.
Furthermore, the Brother Elnathan who makes his appearance at the
dinner following the Wednesday service received his name in a Baptist
“Ducking-pond” rather than from the customary Presbyterian sprinkling.
There may be some significance, too, in the fact that the particularly
satiric reference to “the man midwife,” Dr. Peter Chamberlain, was to a
noted Independent.

On the other hand, the church specifically identified as the scene of
the weekday service was St. Mary’s Aldermanbury, and its minister was
the Reverend Edmund Calamy, whose inclinations were Presbyterian and
whose personally conducted fastday services were notoriously popular.
Although Calamy’s custom of preaching from the desk rather than from
the pulpit makes it unlikely that he was the minister satirized in the
early part of the poem, he would normally have been identified as the
object of Phillips’ most severe and scandalous attack; and the device
of having him refer to “the Laud” instead of the Lord may have had
reference to the rumors of early conformity which still haunted Calamy
despite his service to the Puritan cause as one of the Smectymnuans and
a member of the Westminster Assembly of Divines. There is no evidence,
however, that Presbyterianism as a particular nonconformist sect
stirred Phillips to any special antagonism.

In any case, it seems impossible to represent _A Satyr Against
Hypocrites_ seriously as a document of which John Milton would have
approved. If he could have tolerated the violation of the Scriptures
and the punning obscenity of his nephew’s introduction of the Prophet
Habakkuk into the poem, he might have felt a personal offense in the
use of such material for an attack upon the church in which he was
to register his espousal of the pure-minded Katharine Woodcock. At
best, Milton could have considered this first rhymed flowering of his
nephew’s satiric humor a pointless piece of scurrility which lacked
real wit, coherence, or character. If Phillips did not publish it in
open recalcitrance, he published it with less confidence in his uncle’s
sympathy than in his blindness and in the decent reluctance of friends
to disclose the extent of a young man’s departure from the paths of
good instruction.

The republication of _A Satyr Against Hypocrites_ as _The Religion
of the Hypocritical Presbyterians_, in 1661, was no more than an
attempt to attract new interest with a title which would appeal to
the post-Restoration tendency to condemn the strongest of the Puritan
sects. The incongruity between the new title and the old poem, though,
seems to have been more evident to the author than to later readers;
for in the 1671 edition he introduced a satire on the ceremony of
infant baptism which nullified the allusion to the “Ducking-pond” by
making the Sunday congregation, at least, clearly Presbyterian. The
other major revisions and additions were in the direction of greater
licentiousness and more frequent references to “the Laud.” The editions
of 1680 and 1689 (which are the only two later versions I have seen)
are based upon that of 1671 and contain only such minor changes
as might have been made by a printer alert to the possibility of
introducing new bawdy implications by the change of an occasional word
or letter.

The Bodleian manuscript is an approximate but not a true copy of the
version which was first printed. A few lines appear in the published
poem which are not to be found in the manuscript, the printed marginal
annotations are fewer in number and considerably changed, and there
are some differences in the musical notation. Except for an indication
that the old Robin mentioned at the beginning of the poem was a
particular “fool well known in the city,” however, the manuscript
annotations are similar in character to those printed and add little to
the comprehensibility of the text. The author’s signed dedication to
Churchill shows an inclination (like that revealed in the concluding
lines of the published text) to justify his poem as a defense of true
religion against the sectaries whose words and actions brought it
into contempt; but _A Satyr Against Hypocrites_ appears to have been,
in reality, little more than the irresponsible outburst of a young
man of twenty-three who was tired of discipline, disappointed in his
expectations of political preferment, and angry at the sort of people
who had taken over the country but who seemed incapable of appreciating
his peculiar merits.

                                  Leon Howard
                                  University of California, Los Angeles


                           Juvenal. Sat. 1.

              _Si natura negat, facit indignatio versum._

                           Juvenal. Sat. 14.

                      ----_Velocius & citius nos_----
            _Corrumpunt vitiorum exempla domestica, magnis_
            _Cum subeant animos autoribus._

                      Printed in the Year, 1655.

                     _A Satyr against Hypocrites._

    Tedious have been our Fasts, and long our Prayers;
    To keep the Sabbath such have been our cares,
    That _Cisly_ durst not milk the gentle Malls,
    To the great dammage of my Lord Mayors Fooles,
    Which made the greazie Catchpoles sweare and curse
    The Holy-day for want o’th’ second course;
    And men have lost their Body’s new adorning
    Because their cloathes could not come home that morning.
    The sins of Parlament have long been bawl’d at,
    The vices of the City have been yawl’d at,
    Yet no amendment; Certainly, thought I,
    This is a Paradox beyond all cry.
    Why if you ask the people, very proudly
    They answer straight, That they are very godly.
    Nor could we lawfully suspect the Priest,
    Alas, for he cry’d out, _I bring you Christ_:
    And trul’ he spoke with so much confidence,
    That at that time it seem’d a good pretence:
    Then where’s the fault? thought I: Well, I must know;
    So putting on cleane cuffes, to Church I goe.
      Now ’gan the Bells to jangle in the Steeple,
    And in a row to Church went all the people.
    First came poore Matrons stuck with Lice like Cloves,
    Devoutly come to worship their white loaves,
    And may be smelt above a German mile.
    Well, let them goe to fume the Middle-Ile.
    But here’s the sight that doth men good to see’t,
    Grave Burghers, with their Posies, Sweet, sweet, sweet,
    With their fat Wives. Then comes old _Robin_ too,
    Who although write or reade he neither doe,
    Yet hath his Testament chain’d to his waste,
    And his blind zeale feels out the proofs as fast,
    And makes as greasie Dogs-ears as the best.
    A new shav’d Cobler follows him, as it hapt,
    With his young _Cake bread_ in his cloak close wrapt;
    Then panting comes his Wife from t’other end
    O’th’ Town to hear Our Father and see a friend;
    Then came the shops young Fore-man, ’tis presum’d,
    With hair rose water’d, and his gloves perfum’d,
    With his blew shoo-strings too, and besides that,
    A riband with a sentence in his hat.
    The Virgins too, the fair one, and the Gypsie,
    _Spectatum veniunt, veniunt spectentur ut ipsæ_.
    And now the silk’n Dames throng in, good store,
    And casting up their noses, to th’ pew dore
    They come, croud in, for though the pew be full
    They must and will have room, I, that they wull;
    Streight that she sits not uppermost distast
    One takes; ’Tis fine that I must be displac’d
    By you, she cries then, Good Mistris Gill Flurt;
    Gill Flurt, enrag’d cries t’other, Why ya dirt-
    -ie piece of Impudence, ye ill-bred Thief.
    I scorn your terms, good Mistris Thimble-mans wife.
    Marry come up, cries t’other, pray forbear,
    Surely your husband’s but a Scavenger,
    Cries t’other then, and what are you I pray?
    No Aldermans wife for all you are so gay.
    Is it not you that to all Christenings frisk it?
    And to save bread, most shamefully steal the bisket,
    At which the other mad beyond all law,
    Unsheaths her talons, and prepares to claw.
    And sure some gorgets had been torn that day,
    But that the Readers voice did part the fray.

      Now what a wardrobe could I put to view,
    The cloak-bag-breeches, and the sleek-stone shoe,
    The Gallimafry cloak that looks like nonsense,
    Now wide, now narrow, like his Master’s conscience:
    The grogram gown of such antiquity,
    That _Speed_ could never finde its pedigree;
    Fit to be doted on by Antiquary’s,
    Who hence may descant in their old Glossary’s,
    What kinde of fardingale fair _Helen_ wore,
    How wings in fashion came, because wings bore
    The Swan-transformed _Leda_ to _Jove_’s lap,
    Our Matrons hoping thence the same good hap;
    The pent-house bever, and calves-chaudron ruff,
    But of these frantick fashions now enough,
    For now there shall no more of them be said,
    Lest this my ware-house spoil the French-men’s trade.
      And now as if I were that wollen-spinster,
    That doth so gravely show you _Sarum_ Minster,
    He lead ye round the Church from pew to pew,
    And shew you what doth most deserve your view,
    There stood the Font, in times of Christianity,
    But now ’tis tak’n down, men call it Vanity;
                  [Sidenote: Ingredients that compound a Congregation.]
    There the Church-Wardens sit, hard by the dore,
    But know ye why they sit among the Poor?
    Because they love um well for love o’th’ box,
    Their money buys good beef, good wine, good smocks.
    There sits the Clerk, and there the reverend Reader,
    And there’s the Pulpit for the good flock-Feeder,
    Who in three lamentable dolefull ditty’s
    Unto their marriage-fees sing _Nunc dimittis_.
    Here sits a learned Justice, truly so
    Some people say, and some again say no,
    And yet methinks in this he seemeth wise
    To make _Stypone_ yeild him an excise,
    And though on Sundaies, Ale-houses must down,
    Yet wisely all the week lets them alone,
    For well his Worship knows that Ale-house sins
    Maintain himself in gloves, his wife in pins.
    There sits the Major, as fat as any bacon
    With eating custard, beef, and rumps of capon;
    And there his corpulent Brethren sit by,
    With faces representing gravity,
    Who having money, though they have no wit,
    They weare gold-chains, and here in green pews sit.
    There sit True-blew the honest Parish-masters,
    With Sattin Caps, and Ruffs, and Demi-casters,
    And faith that’s all; for they have no rich fansies,
    No Poets are, nor Authors of Romances.
    There sits a Lady fine, painted by Art,
    And there sits curious Mistris Fiddle-cum-fart:
    There sits a Chamber-maid upon a Hassock,
    Whom th’ Chaplain oft instructs without his Cassock:
    One more accustom’d unto Curtain-sins,
    Than to her thimble, or to handle pins.
    O what a glosse her forehead smooth adorns!
    Excelling _Phœbe_ with her silver horns.
    It tempts a man at first, yet strange to utter,
    When one comes neere, fogh gudds, it stinks of butter.
    Another tripping comes to her Mistris’s Pew,
    Where being arriv’d, she tryes if she can view
    Her young mans face, and straight heaves up her coats,
    That her sweet-heart may see her true-love knots.
    But having sate up late the night before
    To let the young-man in at the back-doore,
    She feeleth drowzinesse upon her creeping,
    Turnes downe one proofe, and then she falls a sleeping.
    Then fell her head one way, her book another,
    And surely she did dream by what we gather;
                        [Sidenote: Maids beware of sleeping at Church.]
    For long she had not slept, when a rude flea
    Upon her groyn sharply began to prey;
    Straight she (twixt sleep and waking) in great ire,
    As if sh’ad sitting been by th’ Kitchin fire,
    Pulls up her coats with both hands, smock and all,
    And with both hands to scratch and scrub doth fall.
    Truly the Priest, though some did, saw her not,
    For he was praying and his eyes were shut.
    Alas had he seen as much as a by-stander,
    Much more from’s Text it would have made him wander.

      That’s call’d the Gallery, which (as you may see)
    Was trimm’d and gilt in the yeare Fifty three.
    Twas a zealous work, and done by two Church-wardens,
    Who for mis-reckoning hope to have their Pardons.
    There _Will_ writes Short-hand with a pen of brasse,
                                                   [Sidenote: Hang it.]
    Oh how he’s wonder’d at by many an asse
    That see him shake so fast his wartie fist,
    As if he’d write the Sermon ’fore the Priest
    Has spoke it; Then, O that I could (sayes one)
    Doe but as this man does, I’de give a crowne.
    Up goes another hand, up goe his eyes,
    And he, Gifts, Industrie, and Talents cryes.

      Thus are they plac’d at length: a tedious work.
    And now a bellowing noise went round the Kirk,
    From the low Font, up to the Golden Creed.
    (O happy they who now no eares doe need!)
    While these cough up their morning flegme, and those
    Doe trumpet forth the snivel of their nose;
    Straight then the Clerk began with potsheard voice
    To grope a tune, singing with wofull noise,
    Like a crackt Sans-bell jarring in the Steeple,
    _Tom Sternholds_ wretched Prick-song to the people:
    Who soon as he hath pac’d the first line through,
    Up steps _Chuck-farthing_ then, and he reads too:
    This is the womans boy that sits i’th’ Porch
    Till th’ Sexton comes, and brings her stoole to Church.
    Then out the people yaule an hundred parts,
    Some roare, some whine, some creak like wheels of Carts,
    Such Notes that _Gamut_ never yet did know,
    Nor numerous keys of Harpsicalls in a row
    Their Heights and Depths could ever comprehend,
    Now below double _Ae_ some descend.
    ’Bove _Ela_ squealing now ten notes some flie;
    Straight then as if they knew they were too high,
    With head-long haste downe staires againe they tumble;
    Discords and Concords O how thick they jumble!
    Like untam’d horses tearing with their throats
    One wretched stave into an hundred notes.
    Some lazie-throated fellowes thus did baule,
                                [Sidenote: _Robert Wisdome_’s delight.]
    They a i hin a moy a meat uh ga have
    a ha me uh a ha a gall a.
    And some out-run their words and thus they say,
    Too cruell for to think a hum a haw.]

      Now what a whetstone was it to devotion
    To see the pace, the looks, and every motion
    O’th Sunday Levite when up stairs he march’t,
    And first beheld his little band stiff-starcht,
    Two caps he had, and turns up that within,
    You’d think he wore a black pot tipt with tin,
    His cuffs asham’d peept only out at ’s wrist
    For they saw whiter gloves upon his fist,
    Out comes his kerchief then which he unfolds
    As gravely as his Text, and fast he holds,
    In’s wrath-denouncing hand; then mark when he pray’d
    How he rear’d his reverend whites, and softly said
    A long _most Murcifull_, or _O Al_----
    Then out he whines the rest like a sad ditty,
    In a most dolefull _recitative style_,
    His buttocks keeping Crotchet-time the while;
    And as he slubbers ore his tedious story
    Makes it his chiefest aime his chiefest glory,
    T’ excell the City Dames in speaking fine,
    O for the drippings of an old Sir loyne,
    Instead of _Aron_’s ointment for his face,
    When he cries out for _greace_ instead of _grace_.
    Up stept another then, how sowre his face is!
    How grim he lookt, for he was one oth’ _Classis_,
    And here he cries, _Blood, blood, blood, destroy, O Lord!_
    _The Covenant-breaker with a two-edg’d sword._
    Now comes another, of another strain,
    And he of law and bondage doth complain:
    Then shewing his broad teeth, and grinning wide,
    Aloud, _Free grace, free grace, free grace_, he cry’d.
    Up went a Chaplain then, fixing his eye
    Devoutly on his Patron’s gallery,
    Who as duty bindes him, cause he eats their pyes,
    _God blesse my good Lord and my Lady_, cryes,
    _And’s hopefull Issue_. Then with count’nance sad,
    Up steps a man, stark revelation-mad,
    And he, _Cause us thy Saints, for thy dear sake_,
    _That We a bustle in the World may make_,
    _Thy enemies now rage_, and by and by
    He tears his throat for the _fifth Monarchy_.
    Another mounts his chin, East, West, North, South,
    Gaping to catch a blessing in his mouth,
    And saying, _Lord! We dare not ope our eyes_
    _Before thee_, winks for fear of telling lies.
      Mean while the vulgar frie sit still, admiring
                                         [Sidenote: Practice of Piety.]
    Their pious sentences, as all inspiring;
    At every period they sigh and grone,
    Though he speak sometimes sense, and sometimes none:
    Their zeal doth never let them minde that matter,
    It is enough to hear the Magpye chatter;
    They croud, they thrust, are crouded, and are thrusted,
    Their pews seem pasties, wherein they incrusted,
    Together bake and frie; O patience great!
    Yet they endure, though almost drown’d in sweat,
    Whose steaming vapours prove most singular
    To stew hard doctrines in, and to prepare
    Them, lest they should breed some ugly disease
    Being tak’n raw in queasie consciences.
    But further mark their great humility,
    Their tender love and mutual charity,
    The short man’s shoulder bore the tall man’s elbow,
    Nor he so much as call’d him Scurvy fellow,
    Wrath was forgot, all anger was forborn,
    Although his neighbour trod upon his corn;
    And in a word, all men were meek and humble,
    Nor dar’d the Sexton, though unfeed, to grumble;
    He honest man went with his neck a skew,
    Gingling his bunch of keys from pew to pew;
    Good man to ’s Market-day he bore no spleen,
    But wish’d the seven dayes had Sabbaths been;
    How he worships sattin, with what a Gospel-fear
    He admires the man that doth a bever wear,
    Room, room, bear leave, he cries, then not unwilling
    With a _Pater noster_ face receives the shilling.
      But what was more religious than to see
    The women in their strains of piety,
    Who like the Seraphins in various hews
    Adorn’d the Chancell and the highest pews.
    But now good middle-Ile-folks all give room,
                                                   [Sidenote: Hey-day!]
    See where the Mothers and the Daughters come!
    Behinde the Servants looking all like Martyrs
    With Bibles in plush jerkins and blew garters,
    The silver-inkhorn and the writing book,
    In which I wish no friend of mine to look.
    Now must we not forget the Children too,
    Who with their fore-tops gay stand up ith pew,
    Alas-a-day! for there is great contention
    To tie this lock who hath the best invention.
    Well, be good children, for the time shall come,
    When on the Pulpit-stairs ye shall have room,
    There to be asked many a Question deep,
    By th’ Parson, with his dinner, half a sleep.
      But now aloft the Preacher ’gan to thunder,
    When the poor women they sit trembling under,
                                            [Sidenote: _Jack-a-Dandy!_]
    And if he name _Gehenna_ or the Dragon,
    Their faith, alas! was little then to brag on;
    Or if he did relate, how little wit
    The foolish Virgins had, then doe they sit
    Weeping with watry-eyes, and making vows
    One to have Preachers alwaies in her house,
    To dine them well, and breakfast um with gelly’s
    And candles hot to warm their wambling belly’s,
    And if the cash where she could not unlock it
    Were close secur’d, to pick her husbands pocket:
    Another something a more thrifty sinner
    To invite the Parson twice a week to dinner;
    The other vowes a purple Pulpit-cloth
    With an embroider’d Cushion, being loth
    When the fierce Priest his Doctrine hard unbuckles,
    That in the passion he should hurt his knuckles:
      Nay, in the Church-yard too was no small throng,
    And on the window-barres in swarms they hung:
    Nay, I could see that many Short-hand wrote,
    Where listning well, I could not hear a jote;
    Friend, this is strange, quoth I, but he reply’d,
    _Alas! your ears are yet unsanctify’d._
      But Sermon’s done, and evening now approaches,
    The people walk, for none dare go in coaches;
    And as they go, God, Grace, and Ordinances,
                                        [Sidenote: To be heard of men.]
    Is all their chat, they seem in heav’nly trances;
    Thus they trim up their souls with holy words,
    Shaving off sin as men shave off their beards,
    To grow the faster; sins, they cry, are fancies,
    The Godly live above all Ordinances.
      Now they’re at home, and have their suppers eat,
    When _Thomas_, cries the Master, come repeat;
    And if the windows gaze upon the street,
    To sing a Psalm they hold it very meet.
    But would you know what a preposterous zeal
    They sing their Hymnes withall? then list’n well,
    The Boy begins, Hum, hum, hum, hum, hum, hum, hum, hum,
                      [Sidenote: To the Tune of _S. Margaret_s Chimes.]
    Hum, hum, hum, hum, _Thomas_ hum, hum,
    Did you enter down the ten yards of water’d-tabby to the
        Lady in _Covent garden_?
    Hum, hum, Yes Sir, hum, hum, hum, hum, hum, hum, hum, hum, hum.--
    Pray remember to receive the hundred pound in _Gracious-street_
        to morrow.--
    Hum hum hum.
    Hum hum hum hum _Mary_, hum hum hum hum,
    Anon forsooth.
    Pray remember to rise betimes to morrow morning, you
        know you have a great many cloathes to sope, hum hum,
        hum hum, hum hum, &c.
                             [Sidenote: Behold the zeal of the people.]
      But Sunday now good night, and now good morrow,
    To thee oh Covenant Wednesday full of sorrow,
    Alas! my Lady _Anne_ wont now be merry,
    She’s up betimes and gone to _Alderman-bury_,
    Truly ’twas a sad day, for every sinner
    Did feast a supper then, and not at dinner;
    Nor men not women wash their face to day,
    Put on their cloathes, and pisse, and so away;
    They throng to Church just as they sell their ware,
    In greasie hats, and old gowns worn thread-bare,
    Where, though th’ whole body suffered tedious pain,
    No member yet had more cause to complain
    Than the poor nose, when little to its ease,
    A Chandlers cloak perfum’d with candle-grease,
    Commixing sents with a Sope-boylers breeches,
    Did raise a stink beyond the skill of Witches.
    Now steams of Garlick through the nostrils passage
    Made thorough-faires, hell take their bold embassage,
    With these _mundungus_ and a breath that smells
    Like standing-pools in subterraneall cells,
    Compos’d Pomanders to out-stink the Devil,
    Yet strange to tell, they suffer’d all this evil,
    Nor to make water all the while would rise,
    The women sure had spunges ’twixt their thighs:
    To stir at this good time they thought was sin,
    So strictly their devotion kept them in.
      Now the Priest’s elbows doe the cushion knead,
    While to the people he his Text doth read,
    Beloved, I shall here crave leave to speak
    A word, he cries and winks, unto the weak,
    The words are these, _Make haste and doe not tarry_,
    _But unto_ Babylon _thy dinner carry_,
    _There doth young_ Daniel _want in the Den_,
    _Thrown among Lyons by hard-hearted men_.
    Here my Beloved, and then he reaches down
    His hand, as if he’d catch the Clerk by th’ crown.
    Not to explain this pretious Text amisse
    _Daniel_’s the _subject_, _Hunger_ th’ _object_ is,
    Which proves that _Daniel_ was subject to hunger,
    But that I mayn’t detain you any longer,
    My brethren all prick up your ears, and put on
    Your senses all, while I the words unbutton.
    _Make haste_, I say, _make haste and doe not tarry_,]
                                          [Sidenote: _The Exposition._]
    Why? my Beloved, these words great force doe carry.
    Au! ’tis a waundrous emphaticall speech,
    Some men Beloved, as if th’ had lead i’ their breech,
    Doe walk, and some (as snails) doe creep as fast:
    Truly, my Brethren, these men doe not make haste.
      But be ye quick, dear Sisters, be ye quick,
    And lest ye fall take hope, hope’s like a stick.
                               [Sidenote: 1 _Use._ Not like an anchor.]

    _To Babylon_] Ah _Babylon_! that word’s a weighty one,
    Truly ’twas a great City, and a mighty one.
    Which as the learned _Rider_ well records,
                                            [Sidenote: Babel battered.]
    _Semiramis_ did build with brick and bords.
    Wicked _Semiramis_, Oh how I stretch!
    My spirit is mightily provok’d against that wretch.
    Lustfull _Semiramis_, for well I wist
    Thou wert the mother of proud Antichrist.
    Nay, like to _Levi_ and _Simeon_ from antiquity,
    The Pope and thee were sisters in iniquity.
    Strumpet _Semiramis_, like her was _non_,
    For she built _Babylon_, Ah! she built _Babylon_.

      But, Brethren, be ye good as she was evil,
                                                   [Sidenote: 2 _Use._]
    Must ye needs go because she’s gone to the Devil?
    _Thy dinner carry._] Here may we look upon
    A childe of God in great affliction:
    Why what does he’ aile? Alas! he wanteth meat,
    Now what (Beloved) was sent him for to eat?
    Truly a small matter; one a dish of pottage.
    But pray what pottage? Such as a small cottage
    Afforded onely to the Countrey swains,
    From whence, though not a man the place explains,
    ’Tis guess’d that neither Christmas pottage ’twas,
    Nor white-broth, nor cap’n-broth, good for sick maws,
    Nor milk-porrage, or thick pease-porrage either,
    Nor was it mutton-broth, nor veal-broth neither,
    But sure some homely stuff crum’d with brown-bread,
    And thus was _Daniel_, good _Daniel_ fed.
    Truly, this was but homely fare you’l say,
                             [Sidenote: Would he have been so content?]
    Yet _Daniel_, good _Daniel_ was content that day:
    And though there could be thought on nothing cheaper,
    Yet fed as well on’t as he had been a reaper.
                                                   [Sidenote: 3 _Use._]
      Better eat any thing than not at all,
    Fasting, Beloved, why? ’tis prejudiciall
    To the weak Saints, Beloved ’tis a sin,
                                           [Sidenote: Several Reasons.]
    And thus to prove the same I will begin:
    Hunger, Beloved, why? this hunger mauls,
    Au! tis a great mauler, it breaks stone-walls,
    Now my Beloved, to break stone-walls you know,
    Why ’tis flat felony, and there’s great woe
    Follows that sin, besides ’tis a great schisme,
    ’Tis ceremonious, ’tis Pagan Judisme.
    Judisme! why beloved, have you ere been
                                 [Sidenote: Description of Antichrist.]
    Where the black Dog of _New-gate_ you have seen?
    Hair’d like a Turk, with eyes like Antichrist,
    He doth and hath ye Brethren long entic’t.
    Claws like a star-chamber bishop, black as hell,
    And doubtlesse he was one of those that fell.
    Judisme I say is uglier than this dog:
    Truly _& cætera’s_ not so foul a hog.
    _Thrown among Lyons by hard hearted men_,]
    Here _Daniel_ is the Church, the _world_’s the Den.
    By Lyons are meant Monarchs, Kings of Nations,
    Those worse than heathenish abominations:
    Truly dear friends, these Kings and Governours,
    These Byshops too, nay all superiour powers,
    Why they are Lyons, Locusts, Whales, I Whales, beloved,
    Off goes our ears if once their wrath be moved;
    But woe unto you Kings! woe to you Princes!
    ’Tis fifty and four, now Antichrist, so saies
    My book, must reign three daies, and three half daies,
    Why that is three years and a half beloved.
    Or else as many precious men have proved
    One thousand two hundred and threescore daies,
    Why now the time’s almost expir’d, time staies
    For no man; friends then Antichrist shall fall,
    Then down with _Rome_, with _Babel_, down with all,
    Down with the Devil, the Pope, the Emperour,
    With Cardinals, and the King of _Spaine_’s great power;
                                    [Sidenote: And hey then up goe we.]
    They’l muster up, but I can tell you where,
    At _Armageddon_, there, Beloved, there,
    Fall on, fall on, kill, kill, alow, alow,
    Kill _Amaleck_, and Turk, kill _Gog_ and _Magog_ too.
    But who deare friends fed _Daniel_ thus forsak’n
    Truly (but there’s one sleeps, a would do well to awak’n.)
    As ’tis in th’ English his name ends in Ock
    And so his name is called _Habacuck_.

      But in th’ originall it ends in Ock
                                [Sidenote: The Doctrine of Generation.]
    For that deare sisters calls him have-a-Cock.
    And truly I suppose I need not feare
    But that there are many have a cocks here:
    The Laud increase the number of have a cocks,
    Truly false Prophets will arise in flocks;
    But as a farding candle shut up quite
    In a dark Lanthorn never giveth light;
    Ev’n such are they. Ay but my brethren deare
                            [Sidenote: For Ministers may be Cuckholds.]
    I am no such Lanthorn, for my horns are cleare.
    But I shall now conclude this glorious truth
    With an exhortation to old men and youth:
                                      [Sidenote: _Use of Exhortation._]
    Be sure to feed young _Daniel_, that’s to say
    Feed all your Ministers that Preach and pray.
                                               [Sidenote: _Motives_ 1.]
    First, of all cause ’tis good, I speak that know so,
                                                         [Sidenote: 4.]
    Fourthly, cause ’tis no evill for to doe so.
                                                         [Sidenote: 3.]
    Thirdly, because ’tis very good, and twelfthly
                                                        [Sidenote: 12.]
    Cause there’s nought better, unlesse I my selfe lye.
    But now he smells the pyes begin to reak,
                       [Sidenote: Hunger a great enemy to Gospel duty.]
    His teeth water, and he can no longer speak:
    And now it will not be amiss to tell ye
    How he was troubled with a woman’s belly;
                                        [Sidenote: A crop-sick Sister.]
    For she was full of caudle and devotion,
    Which in her stomach raised a commotion,
    For the hot vapours much did damnifie,
    The woman went to walk in Finsbury:
    So though a while she was sustain’d with ginger,
    Yet at the length a cruel paine did twinge her;
    And like as marble sweats before a shower,
    So did she sweate, and sweating forth did poure
    Her mornings draught of Sugar sops and Saffron
    Into her sighing neighbours cambrick apron.
    At which a Lard she cry’d full sad to see
    The foule mishap, yet sufferd patiently:
    How doe you then she cry’d? I’me glad ’tis up:
    Ah sick, sick, sick; cryes one, oh for a cup
    Of my mint water that’s at home.
    As patt as might be, then the Parson cry’d,
    ’Tis good; one holds her head, let’t come let’t come.
    Still crying; just i’th’ nick, the Priest reply’d,
    Yea like a streame you ought to let it flow,
    And then she reach’d and once more let it goe.
    Streight an old woman with a brace of chins,
    A bunch of keys, and cushion for her pins,
    Seeing in earnest, the good woman lack it
                             [Sidenote: A very great Creature-comfort.]
    Drawes a strong water bottle from her placket;
    Well heated with her flesh, she take’s a sup,
    Then gives the sick, and bids her drink it up.
                          [Sidenote: A great crie, and a little wooll.]
    But all in vain, her eyes begin to rowle,
    She sighs, and all cry out, alas poore soule!
    One then doth pinch her cheek, one pulls her nose
    Some blest the opportunity that were her foes,
    And they reveng’d themselves upon her face,
    S. _Dunstans_ Divell was ne’re in such a case.
    Now Priest say what thou wilt, for here’s a chat
    Begun of this great Empirick, and that
    Renowned Doctor, what cures they have done:
    I like not _Mayern_, he speaks French sayes one.
    Oh sayes another, though the man be big,
    For my part, I know none like Dr. _Trig_.
    Nay, hold you there sayes t’other, on my life
    There’s none like _Chamberlain_ the man midwife.
    Then in a heap, their own receipts they muster
    To make this gelly, how to make that plaster,
    Which when she heares, but that now fainting lay,
    Up starteth she, and talkes as fast as they.
    But they that did not mind this dolefull passion
    Followed their businesse on another fashion,
    For all did write, the Elder and the Novice,
    Me thought the Church look’t like the six Clerks office.
      But _Sermon’s_ done, and all the folks as fast
    As they can trudge, to Supper now make haste:
    Downe comes the Priest, when a grave Brother meets him,
    And putting off his narrow-brimm’d hat, thus greets him:
    Deare Sir, my Wife and I doe you invite
                                     [Sidenote: A great sign of grace.]
    O’ th’ Creature with us to partake this night:
    And now suppose what I prepare to tell ye,
    The City-dame, whose faith is in the belly
    Of her cramm’d Priest, had all her cares in order,
    That _Gracious-street_, or _Cheapside_ can afford her.
      Loe first a Pudding! truly ’t had more Reasons
                                              [Sidenote: Bill of fare.]
    Than forty Sermons shew at forty seasons.
    Then a Sur-loyne came in, as hot as fire,
    Yet not so hot as was the Priests desire.
    Next came a shoulder of Mutton rosted raw,
    To be as utterly abolishe as the Law.
    The next in order was a Capon plump,
    With an Use of Consolation in his rump.
    Then came a Turky cold, which in its life
    Had a fine taile, just like the Citizens wife.
    But now by’r leave, and worship too, for hark ye,
    Here comes the Venson put in Paste by _Starky_:
    Which once set downe, there at the little hole
    Immediately in whips the Parsons soule.
    He saw his Stomacks anchor, and believ’d
    That now his belly should not be deceiv’d.
    How he leanes ore the cheere toward his first mover!
    While his hot zeale doth make his mouth run over.
    This Pastie had Brethren too, like to the Mayor,
    Three Christmas, or Minc’d pies, all very faire.
    Methought they had this Motto _Though they flirt us_,
    _And preach us down, Sub pondere crescit virtus._
    Apple tarts, Fooles, and strong cheese to keep downe
    The steaming vapours from the Parsons crown.
    Canary too, and Claret eke also,
    Which made the tips of their eares and noses glow.
      Up now they rise, and walk to their severall chairs,
    When loe, the Priest uncovers both his eares.

                                         [Sidenote: Grace before meat.]
      Most gracious Shepherd of the Brethren all,
    Thou saidst that we should eate, before the Fall;
    Then was the world but simple, for they knew
    Not either how to bake, or how to brew.
    But happily we fell, and then the Vine
    Did _Noah_ plant, and all the Priests drank wine.
    Truly we cannot but rejoyce to see
    Thy gifts dispenc’d with such equality.
    To us th’ast given wide throats, and teeth to eate;
    To the women, knowledge how to dress our meat.
    Make us devoutly constant in thy cup,
    And grant us strength when we shall cease to sup,
    To beare away thy creatures on our feet,
    And not be seen to tumble in the street.
    We are thy sheep, O let us feed, feed on,
    Till we become as fat as any Brawne.
    Then let’s fall to, and eate up all the cheer;
    Straight _So be it_ he cryes, and calls for beer.

                                 [Sidenote: Much good may doe you Sir.]
      Now then, like _Scanderbeg_ he falls to work,
    And hews the Pudding as he hew’d the Turk.
    How he plough’d up the Beefe like Forrest-land,
    And fum’d, because the bones his wrath withstand?
    Upon the Mutton he fell not like a Lamb,
    But rather like a Wolfe he tore the same.
    At first a Sister helpt him, but this Elfe sir,
    Wearying her out, she cryes, _Pray help your self sir!_
    Upon the Pasty though he fell anon,
    As if ’t had been the walls of _Babylon_.
    Like a Cathedrall downe he throwes that stuffe,
    _Why, Sisters_, saith he, _I am pepper-proofe_.
    Then down he powres the Claret, and down again,
    And _would the French King were a Puritan_
    He cryes: swills up the Sack, and I’le be sworn
                                    [Sidenote: Christian forgivenesse.]
    Quoth he, _Spaine’s_ King is not the _Popes_ tenth horne.
    By this his tearing hunger doth abate,
                                       [Sidenote: No Grace after meat.]
    And on the second course they ’gan to prate.
    Then quoth _Priscilla_, Oh my brother deare:
    Truly y’are welcome to this homely cheare,
    And therefore eate, good brother, eate your fill,
    Alas for _Daniel_, my heart aketh still.
    Then quoth the Priest, _Sister be of good heart_;
    But she reply’d _good brother eate some Tart_.
    _Rebecca_ then a member of the ’lection
    Began to talk of brotherly affection;
    For this, said she; as I have heard the wise
    Discourse, consisteth much in exercise.
    Yet I was foolish, and would oft resist,
    But you had more grace, Brother, than to desist.
    Streight he reply’d, there is a time for all things,
    There is a time for great things and for small things,
    There’s a time to eate, and drink, and reformation,
    A time to empty, and for procreation.
    Therefore deare Sister let us take our time,
    There’s reason for’t, I never car’d for Rhyme.
    Then truly answer’d she, tis a good motion,
    And I embrace it with a warme devotion.
                                [Sidenote: Nothing beyond ingratitude.]
    Why you know Brother you did never prove
    That I was ere ingratefull for your love,
    But sometimes Angels did attend your Purse,
    At other times you know I did you nurse,
    With many a secret dish of lusty meat,
    And presently we went and did the feat.
    Truly quoth _Dorcas_ then, I saw a Vision,
    That we should have our foes in great derision.
    Quoth _Martha_ straight (and then she shook the crums
    From off her apron white, and pickt her gums)
    So I doe hope, for so our Brother said;
    O what a heavenly piece of work he made!
    But I am ign’rant, and my memory short,
    I shall forget, were I to be hang’d for’t.
    Then quoth the Priest, The cheere that here we see,
    Is but an Emblem of Mortality.
    The Oxe is strong, and glories in his strength,
    Yet him the Butcher knocks down, and at length
    We eate him up. A Turkie’s very gay,
    Like worldly people clad in fine array;
    Yet on the Spit it looks most piteous,
    And we devoure it, as the wormes eate us.
      Then full of sawce and zeale up steps _Elnathan_,
    [This was his name now, once he had another,
    Untill the Ducking-pond made him a Brother]
    A Deacon, and a Buffeter of Sathan.
                                 [Sidenote: A man may love his brother]
    Truly, quoth he, I know a Brother deare,
    Would gladly pick the bones of what’s left here.
    Nay he would gladly pick your pockets too
    Of a small two-pence, or a groat, or so,
    The sorry remnants of a broken shilling;
    Therefore I pray you friends be not unwilling.
    But as for me, tis more than I doe need,
    To be charitable both in word and deed;
    For as to us, the holy Scriptures say,
                                                        [Sidenote: but]
    _The Deacons must receive, the Lay-men pay._
    Why Heathen folks that doe in Taverns stray,
    Will never let their friends the reckning pay.
    And therefore poure your charity into the bason,
    Brethren and Sisters eke, your coats have lace on.
    Why Brethren in the Lord, what need you care
    For six pence? we’ll one houre enhance our ware.
    Your six pence comes againe, nay there comes more;
    Thus Charity’s th’ encreaser of your store.
    Truly well spoke, then cry’d the Master-feaster,
    Since you say so, here, you shall have my tester:
    But for the women, they gave more liberally,
    For they were sure to whom they gave, and why:
                                  [Sidenote: Not better than himselfe.]
      Then did _Elnathan_ blinke, for he knew well
    What he might give, and what he might conceale.
    But now the Parson could no longer stay,
    ’Tis time to kiss, he cryes and so away.
    At which the sisters, once th’ alarum tak’n,
    Made such a din as would have serv’d to wak’n
    A snoring brother, when he sleeps at Church;
    With bagg and baggage then they gan to march;
    And tickled with the thoughts of their delight,
    One sister to the other bids Good night.
    Good night quoth _Dorcas_ to _Priscilla_, she,
    Good night deare sister _Dorcas_ unto thee.
    In these goodly good nights much time was spent,
    And was it not a holy complement?
    At length in steps the Parson, on his breast
                                         [Sidenote: Christian Liberty.]
    Laying his hand. A happy night of rest
    Reward thy labours sister: yet ere we part,
    Feel in my lips the passion of my heart.
    To another straight he turn’d his face, and kist her,
    And then he cryes, _All peace be with thee Sister_.
    To another in a godly tune he whines,
                      [Sidenote: Nere a profane kisse among all these.]
    Deare Sister from thy lip Ile take my tines.
    With that he kist, and whispers in her eare,
    The time when it should be, and the place where.
    Thus they all part, the Parson followes close,
    For well the Parson knoweth where he goes.
      This seem’d a golden time, the fall of sin,
    You’d think the thousand years did now begin,
    When Satan chain’d below should cease to roare,
    Nor durst the wicked as they wont before
    Come to the Church for pastime, nor durst laugh
    To heare the non-plust Doctor faigne a cough.
    The Devill himselfe, alas! now durst not stand
    Within the switching of the Sextons wand,
    For so a while the Priests did him pursue,
    That he was faine to keep the Sabbath too,
    Lest being taken in the Elders lure,
    He should have paid his crown unto the poore;
    And lest he should like a deceiver come
    ’Twixt the two Sundays _inter stitium_,
    They stuft up Lecturers with texts and straw,
    On working-dayes to keep the Devill in awe.
    But strange to thinke, for all this solemn meeknesse,
    At length the Devill appeared in his likenesse,
    While these deceits did but supply the wants
    Of broken unthrifts, and of thread-bare Saints.
      Oh what will men not dare, if thus they dare
    Be impudent to Heaven, and play with Prayer!
    Play with that feare, with that religious awe
    Which keeps men free, and yet is mans great law:
    What can they but the worst of Atheists be,
    Who while they word it ’gainst impiety,
    Affront the throne of God with their false deeds,
    Alas, this wonder in the Atheist breeds.
    Are these the men that would the Age reforme,
    That Down with Superstition cry, and swarme
    This painted Glass, that Sculpture to deface,
    But worship pride, and avarice in their place.
    Religion they bawle out; yet know not what
    Religion is, unlesse it be to prate.
    Meeknesse they preach, but study to controule;
    Mony they’d have, when they cry out the soule.
    And angry, will not have Our Father said,
    ’Cause it prayes not enough for daily bread.
    They meet in private, and cry Persecution,
    When Faction is their end, and State-confusion,
    These are the men that plague and over-run
    Like Goths and Vandalls all Religion.
    Every _Mechanick_ either wanting stock
    Or wit to keep his trade must have a flock.
    The Spirit, cryes he, moveth me unto it,
    And what the Spirit bids, must I not do it?
    But having profited more than his flock by teaching,
    And stept into authority by preaching
    For a lay Office, leaves the Spirits motion
    And straight retreateth from his first devotion.
    But this he does in want, give him preferment,
    Off goes his gowne, God’s call is no determent.
    Vaine foolish people, how are ye deceiv’d?
    How many severall sorts have ye receiv’d
    Of things call’d truths, upon your backs lay’d on
    Like saddles for themselves to ride upon?
    They rid amaine, and hell and _Satan_ drove,
    While every Priest for his own profit strove.
    Can they the age thus torture with their lyes,
    Low’d bellowing to the world Impieties,
    Black as their coates, and such a silent feare
    Lock up the lips of men, and charme the eare?
    Had that same holy Israelite bin dumb,
    That fatall day of old had never come
    To _Baals_ Tribe, and thrice unhappy age
    While zeale and piety like mask’d in rage
    And vulgar ignorance. How we doe wonder
    Once hearing, that the heavens were fir’d to thunder
    Against assailing Gyants, surely men,
    Men thought could not presume such violence then:
    But ’twas no Fable, or if then it were,
    Behold a sort of bolder mortals here,
    Those undermining shifts of knavish folly,
    Using alike to God and men most holy;
    Infidels who now seem to have found out
    A suttler way to bring their ends about.
    Against the Deity then op’nly to fight
    By smooth insinuation and by flight:
    They close with God, seem to obey his Lawes,
    They cry alowd for him and for his cause.
    But while they doe their strict injunctions preach,
    Deny in actions what their words doe teach.
      _O what will men not dare, if thus they dare_
      _Be impudent with Heaven, and play with Prayer!_
    Yet if they can no better teach than thus,
    Would they would onely teach themselves, not us:
    So while they still on empty out-sides dwell,
    They may perhaps be choakt with husk and shell:
    While those, who can their follies well refute,
    By a true knowledge, doe obtaine the fruit.



FIRST YEAR (1946-47)

Numbers 1-6 out of print.

SECOND YEAR (1947-1948)

7. John Gay’s _The Present State of Wit_ (1711); and a section on Wit
from _The English Theophrastus_ (1702).

8. Rapin’s _De Carmine Pastorali_, translated by Creech (1684).

9. T. Hanmer’s (?) _Some Remarks on the Tragedy of Hamlet_ (1736).

10. Corbyn Morris’ _Essay towards Fixing the True Standards of Wit,
etc._ (1744).

11. Thomas Purney’s _Discourse on the Pastoral_ (1717).

12. Essays on the Stage, selected, with an Introduction by Joseph Wood

THIRD YEAR (1948-1949)

13. Sir John Falstaff (pseud.), _The Theatre_ (1720).

14. Edward Moore’s _The Gamester_ (1753).

15. John Oldmixon’s _Reflections on Dr. Swift’s Letter to Harley_
(1712); and Arthur Mainwaring’s _The British Academy_ (1712).

16. Nevil Payne’s _Fatal Jealousy_ (1673).

17. Nicholas Rowe’s _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).

FOURTH YEAR (1949-1950)

19. Susanna Centlivre’s _The Busie Body_ (1709).

20. Lewis Theobold’s _Preface to The Works of Shakespeare_ (1734).

21. _Critical Remarks on Sir Charles Grandison, Clarissa, and Pamela_

22. Samuel Johnson’s _The Vanity of Human Wishes_ (1749) and Two
_Rambler_ papers (1750).

23. John Dryden’s _His Majesties Declaration Defended_ (1681).

24. Pierre Nicole’s _An Essay on True and Apparent Beauty in Which from
Settled Principles is Rendered the Grounds for Choosing and Rejecting
Epigrams_, translated by J. V. Cunningham.

FIFTH YEAR (1950-51)

25. Thomas Baker’s _The Fine Lady’s Airs_ (1709).

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

27. Frances Reynolds’ _An Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Taste,
and of the Origin of Our Ideas of Beauty, etc._ (1785).

28. John Evelyn’s _An Apologie for the Royal Party_ (1659); and _A
Panegyric to Charles the Second_ (1661).

29. Daniel Defoe’s _A Vindication of the Press_ (1718).

30. Essays on Taste from John Gilbert Cooper’s _Letters Concerning
Taste_, 3rd edition (1757), & John Armstrong’s _Miscellanies_ (1770).

SIXTH YEAR (1951-1952)

31. Thomas Gray’s _An Elegy Wrote in a Country Church Yard_ (1751); and
_The Eton College Manuscript_.

32. Prefaces to Fiction; Georges de Scudéry’s Preface to _Ibrahim_
(1674), etc.

33. Henry Gally’s _A Critical Essay_ on Characteristic-Writings (1725).

34. Thomas Tyers’ _A Biographical Sketch of Dr. Samuel Johnson_ (1785).

35. James Boswell, Andrew Erskine, and George Dempster. _Critical
Strictures on the New Tragedy of Elvira, Written by Mr. David Malloch_

36. Joseph Harris’s _The City Bride_ (1696).

37. Thomas Morrison’s _A Pindarick Ode on Painting_ (1767).

   William Andrews Clark Memorial Library: University of California


                           _General Editors_

    William Andrews Clark Memorial Library

  R. C. BOYS
    University of Michigan

    University of California, Los Angeles

    University of California, Los Angeles

The society exists to make available inexpensive reprints (usually
facsimile reproductions) of rare seventeenth and eighteenth century
works. The editorial policy of the Society continues unchanged. As in
the past, the editors welcome suggestions concerning publications. All
income of the Society is devoted to defraying cost of publication and

All 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 18, California.
Correspondence concerning editorial matters may be addressed to any of
the general editors. The membership fee is $3.00 a year for subscribers
in the United States and Canada and 15/- for subscribers in Great
Britain and Europe. British and European subscribers should address B.
H. Blackwell, Broad Street, Oxford, England.

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              Publications for the sixth year [1951-1952]

  (At least six items, most of them from the following list, will be

THOMAS GRAY: _An Elegy Wrote in a Country Church Yard_ (1751).
Introduction by George Sherburn.

Strictures on the New Tragedy of Elvira_ (1763). Introduction by
Frederick A. Pottle.

_An Essay on the New Species of Writing Founded by Mr. Fielding_
(1751). Introduction by James A. Work.

HENRY GALLY: _A Critical Essay on Characteristic Writing_ (1725).
Introduction by Alexander Chorney.

[JOHN PHILLIPS]: _Satyr Against Hypocrits_ (1655). Introduction by Leon

_Prefaces to Fiction_. Selected and with an Introduction by Benjamin

THOMAS TYERS: _A Biographical Sketch of Dr. Samuel Johnson_ ([1785]).
Introduction by Gerald Dennis Meyer.

Publications for the first five years (with the exception of NOS. 1-4,
which are out of print) are available at the rate of $3.00 a year.
Prices for individual numbers may be obtained by writing to the Society.

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                 Make check or money order payable to

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