As rigid husbands jealous are,
When they believe their wives too fair.
His English ftreams fo pure did flow,
As all that faw and tafted know.
But for his Latin vein, fo clear,
Strong, full, and high it doth appear,
That were immortal Virgil here,
Him, for his judge, he would not fear;
Of that great portraiture, so true
A copy, pencil never drew.

My Mule her fong had ended here,
But both their Genii ftraight appear,
Joy and amazement her did ftrike,
Two twins fhe never faw fo like.
'Twas taught by wife Pythagoras,

One foul might through more bodies pass.
Seeing fuch tranfmigration there,
She thought it not a fable here.
Such a refemblance of all parts,
Life, death, age, fortune, nature, arts;
Then lights her torch at theirs, to tell,
And fhew the world this parallel:
Fixt and contemplative their looks,
Still turning over Nature's books:
Their works chafe, moral, and divine,
Where profit and delight combine;
They, gilding dirt, in noble verfe
Ruftic philofophy rehearse.

When heroes, gods, or god-like kings,
They praife, on their exalted wings
To the celeftial orbs they climb,
And with th' harmonious fpheres keep time:
Nor did their actions fall behind
Their words, but with like candour shin'd;
Each drew fair characters, yet none
Of these they feign'd, excels their own.
Both by two generous princes lov'd,
Who knew, and judg'd what they approv'd.
Yet having each the fame defire,
Both from the busy throng retire.
'Their bodies, to their minds refign'd,
Car'd not to propagate their kind:
Yet though both fell before their hour,
Time on their offspring hath no power,
Nor fire nor fate their bays fhall blaft,
Nor death's dark veil their day o'ercast.

You fee the king embraces Thofe counfels he approv'd before: Nor doth he promife, which is more, That we shall have their places.

Did I for this bring in the Scot?. (For 'tis no fecret now) the plot

Was Saye's and mine together:

Did I for this return again,
And spend a winter there in vain,

Once more t' invite them hither.? Though more our money than our caufe Their brotherly afliftance draws,

My labour was not loft.

At my return I brought you thence
Neceffity, their ftrong pretence,

And thefe fhall quit the cost.

Did I for this my country bring
To help their knight against their king,
And raife the first fedition?
Though I the bufinefs did decline,
Yet I contriv'd the whole defign,

And fent them their petition.

So many nights spent in the city
In that Invifible Committee,

The wheel that governs all.
From thence the change in church and state,
And all the mifchief bears the date

From Haberdashers' Hall.

Did we force Ireland to defpair,
Upon the king to caft the war,

To make the world abhor him,
Because the rebels us'd his name?
Though we ourselves can do the fame,
While both alike were for him.

Then the fame fire we kindled here
With what was given to quench it there,
And wifely loft that nation:

To do as crafty beggars use,
To maim themselves, thereby t' abuse
The fimple man's compaffion.
Have I fo often past between
Windfor and Westminster, unseen,
And did myself divide:
To keep his excellence in awe,
And give the parliament the law?
For they knew none befide.
Did I for this take pains to teach
Our zealous ignorants to preach,

And did their lungs infpire;
Gave them their texts, fhew'd them their parts,
And taught thein all their little arts,

To fling abroad the fire?

Sometimes to beg, fometimes to threaten,
And fay the cavaliers are beaten,

To ftroke the people's ears;
Then straight when victory grows cheap,
And will no more advance the heap,
To raise the price of fears.

And now the books, and now the bells,
And now our act the preacher tells,

To edify the people;

All our divinity is news,
And we have made of equal ufe
The pulpit and the steeple.
And fhall we kindle all this flame
Only to put it out again,

And muft we now give o'er,
And only end where we begun?
In vain this milchief we have done,
If we can do no more.

If men in peace can have their right,
Where's the neceffity to fight,

That breaks both law and oath? They'll fay they fight not for the caufe, Nor to defend the king and laws,

But us against them both.

Either the cause at first was ill,

Or being good, it is fo ftill;

And thence they will infer,
That either now or at the first
They were deceiv'd; or, which is worst,
That we ourselves may err.

But plague and famine will come in,
For they and we are near of kin,

And cannot go afunder:

But while the wicked ftarve, indeed
The faints have ready at their need
God's providence, and plunder.

Princes we are if we prevail,
And gallant villains if we fail :

When to our fame 'tis told,
It will not be our least of praife,
Since a new flate we could not raife,
To have deftroy'd the old.

Then let us stay and fight, and vote,
Till London is not worth a groat;
Oh 'tis a patient beast!

When we have gall'd and tir'd the mule,
And can no longer have the rule,

We'll have the fpoil at least.

TO THE

FIVE MEMBERS OF THE HONOURABLE

HOUSE OF COMMONS,

THE HUMBLE PETITION OF THE POETS.

AFTER fo many concurring petitions

Next in course, we complain of the great violation
Of privilege (like the reft of our nation)
But 'tis none of yours of which we have spoken,
Which never had being until they were broken;
But ours is a privilege ancient and native,
Hangs not on an ordinance, or power legislative.
And firft, 'tis to speak whatever we please,
Without fear of a prison or pursuivants fees.
Next, that we only may lye by authority;
But in that also you have got the priority.
Next, an old cuftom, our fathers did name it
Poetical licenfe, and always did claim it.
By this we have power to change age into youth,
Turn nonfenfe to fenfe, and falfehood to truth;
In brief, to make good whatfoever is faulty;
This art fome poet, or the devil has taught ye:
And this our property you have invaded,
And a privilege of both houfes have made it.
But that trust above all in poets repofed,
That kings by them only are made and depofed,
This though you cannot do, yet you are willing:
But when we undertake depofing or killing,
They're tyrants and monsters; and yet then the
poet

Takes full revenge on the villains that do it:
And when we refume a fceptre or crown,
We are modeft, and feek not to make it our own.
But is't not prefumption to write verfes to you,
Who make better porms by far of the two?
For all those pretty knacks you compofe,
Alas, what are they but poems in profe?
And between thofe and ours there's no difference,
But that yours want the rhyme, the wit, and the
fenfe :

But for lying (the most noble part of a poet)
You have it abundantly, and yourselves know it;
And though you are modeft and seem to abhor it,
'T has done you good fervice, and thank Hell

for it:

Although the old maxim remains still in force, That a fanctify'd cause must have a fanctify'd courfe,

If poverty be a part of our trade,

So far the whole kingdom poets you have made,
Nay even fo far as undoing will do it,

You have made King Charles himself a poet :
But provoke not his Mufe, for all the world knows,
Already you have had too much of his profe.

How they bragg'd of a Wefiern Wonder? When a hundred and ten flew five thousand

men,

With the help of lightning and thunder?

There Hopton was flain, again and again,
Or elfe my author did lye;
With a new Thanksgiving, for the dead who are
living,

To God, and his fervant Chidleigh.

and Thunder,

Which made the lye fo much the louder :
Now lift to another, that miracle's brother,
Which was done with a firkin of Powder.

O what a damp it ftruck through the camp!
But as for honeft Sir Ralph,

It blew him to the Vies, without beard or eyes,
But at least three heads and a half.

When out came the book, which the News-monger took

From the Preaching Ladies letter,

Where in the first place, ftood the Conqueror's face,

Which made it fhew much the better.

But now without lying, you may paint him flying,
At Briftol they fay you may find him,
Great William the Con, fo faft he did run,
That he left half his name behind him.

And now came the poft, fave all that was loft,
But alas, we are past deceiving

By a trick fo ftale, or elfe fuch a tale
Might amount to a new Thanksgiving.

This made Mr. Cafe, with a pitiful face,
In the pulpit to fail a weeping.
Though his mouth utter'd lyes, truth fell from

his eyes,

Which kept the Lord-mayor from deeping.

VOL. II.

Now fhut up fhops, and fpend your last drops,
For the laws not your caufe, you that loath 'em,
Left Effex should start, and play the second part
Of the worshipful Sir John Hotham.

NEWS FROM COLCHESTER,

OR,

A PROPER NEW BALLAD

OF CERTAIN CARNAL PASSAGES BETWIXT A QUAKER AND A COLT, AT HORSLY, NEAR COLCHESTER, IN ESSEX.

To the tune of "Tom of Bedlam.”

ALL in the land of Effex,

Near Colchester the zealous,
On the fide of a bank,

Was play'd fuch a prank,

As would make a stone-horse jealous.

Help Woodcock, Fox, and Naylor,
For brother Green's a ftallion:
Now alas what hope

Of converting the Pope,
When a Quaker turns Italian?

Even to our whole profeffion
A fcandal 'twill be counted,

When 'tis talk'd with disdain,
Amongst the profane,

How brother Green was mounted.

And in the good time of Christmas, Which though our faints have damn'd all, Yet when did they hear

That a damn'd cavalier

E'er play'd fuch a Christmas gambol!

Had thy flesh, O Green, been pamper'd
With any cates unhallow'd,

Hadft thou fweetned thy gums
With pottage of plums,

Or profane minc'd pye hadft fwallow'd:

Roll'd up in wanton fwine's flesh,
The fiend might have crept into thee;
Then fullness of gut

Might have caus'd thee to rut,
And the devil have fo rid through thee.

But, alas! he had been feafted
With a fpiritual collation,

By our frugal mayor,
Who can dine on a prayer,
And fup on an exhortation.

'Twas mere impulfe of fpirit,
Though he us'd the weapon carnal:
Filly fcal, quoth he,

My bride thou shalt be:
And how this is lawful, learn all,

Hh

For if no refpect of perfons
Be due 'mongst sons of Adam,

In a large extent,

Thereby may be meant

That a Mare's as good as a Madam.

Then without more ceremony,
Not bonnet vail'd, nor kifs'd her,
But took her by force,
For better for worse,
And us'd her like a fifter.
Now when in fuch a faddle
A faint will needs be riding,
Though we dare not say
'Tis a falling away,

May there not be fome back-fliding?

No furely, quoth James Naylor,
'Twas but an infurrection

Of the carnal part,
For a Quaker in heart
Can never lofe perfection.

For (as our mafters teach us)
The intent being well directed,
Though the devil trepan
The Adamical man,
The faint ftands uninfected.

But, alas! a Pagan jury
Ne'er judges what's intended;
Then fay what we can,
Brother Green's outward man

I fear will be fufpended.
And our adopted fifter
Will find no better quarter,
But when him we enrol
For a Saint, Filly Foal
Shall pafs herself for a Martyr.
Rome, that spiritual Sodom,
No longer is thy debtor,
O Colchester, now
Who's Sodom but thou,
Even according to the Letter?

Hath fuffer'd, than Acteon from his hounds;
Which first their brains, and then their belly fed,
And from their excrements new poets bred.
But now thy Mufe enraged, from her urn
Like ghofts of murder'd bodies does return
T'accufe the murderers, to right the stage,
And undeceive the long-abufed age,

Which cafts thy praife on them, to whom thy wit
Gives not more gold than they give dross to it:
Who, not content like felons to purloin,

Add treafon to it, and debafe the coin.

But whither am I ftray'd? I need not raise
Trophies to thee from other mens dispraise ;
Nor is thy fame on leffer ruins built,
Nor need thy jufter title the foul guilt

Of caftern kings, who, to fecure their reign,
Must have their brothers, fons, and kindred slain.
Then was wit's empire at the fatal height,
When labouring and finking with its weight,
From thence a thousand leffer poets fprung,
Like petty princes from the fall of Rome;
When Jonfon, Shakespeare, and thyself did fit,
And fway'd in the triumvirate of wit-
Yet what from Jonfon's oil and fweat did flow,
Or what more eafy nature did bestow
On Shakespeare's gentler Mufe, in thee full