Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE TRUE-BORN ENGLISHMAN: PART 2, by DANIEL DEFOE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE TRUE-BORN ENGLISHMAN: PART 2, by                 Poet Analysis    
First Line: The breed's describ'd: now, satyr, if you can
Last Line: Since for sir belzebuh they'd do the same.


THE Breed's describ'd: Now, Satyr, if you can,
Their Temper show, for Manners make the Man.
Fierce as the Britain, as the Roman Brave;
And less inclin'd to Conquer than to Save:
Eager to fight, and lavish of their Blood;
And equally of Fear and Forecast void.
The Pict has made 'em Sowre, the Dane Morose;
False from the Scot, and from the Norman worse.
What Honesty they have, the Saxon gave them,
And That, now they grow old, begins to leave them.
The Climate makes them Terrible and Bold;
And English Beef their Courage does uphold:
No Danger can their Daring Spirit pall,
Always provided that their Belly's full.

In close Intriegues their Faculty's but weak,
For gen'rally whate're they know, they speak:
And often their own Councils undermine
By their Infirmity, and not design.
From whence the Learned say it does proceed,
That English Treasons never can succeed:
For they're so open-hearted, you may know
Their own most secret Thoughts, and others too.

The Lab'ring Poor, in spight of Double Pay,
Are Sawcy, Mutinous, and Beggarly:
So lavish of their Money and their Time,
That want of Forecast is the Nation's Crime.
Good Drunken Company is their Delight;
And what they get by Day, they spend by Night.
Dull Thinking seldom does their Heads engage,
But Drink their Youth away, and hurry on Old Age.
Empty of all good Husbandry and Sense;
And void of Manners most, when void of Pence.
Their strong Aversion to Behaviour's such,
They always talk too little, or too much.
So dull, they never take the pains to think;
And seldom are good-natur'd, but in Drink.

In English Ale their dear Enjoyment lies,
For which they'll starve themselves and Families.
An Englishman will fairly drink as much
As will maintain Two Families of Dutch:
Subjecting all their Labours to the Pots;
The greatest Artists are the greatest Sots.

The Country Poor do by Example live;
The Gentry Lead them, and the Clergy drive:
What may we not from such Examples hope?
The Landlord is their God, the Priest their Pope.
A Drunken Clergy, and a Swearing Bench,
Has giv'n the Reformation such a Drench,
As wise men think there is some cause to doubt,
Will purge Good Manners and Religion out.

Nor do the Poor alone their Liquor prize,
The Sages join in this great Sacrifice.
The Learned Men who study Aristotle,
Correct him with an Explanation-Bottle;
Praise Epicurus rather than Lysander,
And Aristippus more than Alexander.
The Doctors too their Galen here resign,
And gen'rally prescribe Specifick Wine.
The Graduates Study's grown an easier Task,
While for the Uninal they toss the Flask.
The Surgeons Art grows plainer ev'ry Hour,
And Wine's the Balm which into Wounds they pour.

Poets long since Parnassus have forsaken,
And say the Ancient Bards were all mistaken.
Apollo's lately abdicate and fled,
And good King Bacchus reigneth in his stead:
He does the Chaos of the Head refine,
And Atom-Thoughts jump into Words by Wine:
The Inspiration's of a finer Nature;
As Wine must needs excel Parnassus Water.

Statesmen their weighty Politicks refine,
And Soldiers raise their Courages by Wine.
Coecilia gives her Choristers their Choice,
And lets them all drink Wine to clear the Voice.

Some think the Clergy first found out the way,
And Wine's the only Spirit by which they Pray.
But others less prophane than so, agree,
It clears the Lungs, and helps the Memory:
And therefore all of them Divinely think,
Instead of Study, 'tis as well to drink.

And here I wou'd be very glad to know,
Whether our Asgilites may drink or no.
Th' Enlight'ning Fumes of Wine would certainly
Assist them much when they begin to fly:
Or if a Fiery Chariot shou'd appear,
Inflam'd by Wine, they'd ha' the less to fear.

Even the gods themselves, as Mortals say,
Were they on Earth, wou'd be as drunk as they:
Nectar would be no more Celestial Drink,
They'd all take Wine, to teach them how to Think.
But English Drunkards, gods and men outdo,
Drink their Estates away, and Senses too.
Colon's in Debt, and if his Friends should fail
To help him out, must dye at last in Gaol:
His Wealthy Uncle sent a Hundred Nobles,
To pay his Trifles off, and rid him of his Troubles:
But Colon, like a True-Born Englishman,
Drank all the Money out in bright Champaign;
And Colon does in Custody remain.
Drunk'ness has been the Darling of the Realm,
E're since a Drunken Pilot had the Helm.

In their Religion they are so unev'n,
That each man goes his own By-way to Heav'n.
Tenacious of Mistakes to that degree,
That ev'ry man pursues it sep'rately,
And fancies none can find the Way but he:
So shy of one another they are grown,
As if they strove to get to Heav'n alone.
Rigid and Zealous, Positive and Grave,
And ev'ry Grace, but Charity, they have:
This makes them so Ill-natur'd and Uncivil,
That all men think an Englishman the Devil.

Surly to Strangers, Froward to their Friend;
Submit to Love with a reluctant Mind;
Resolv'd to be ungrateful and unkind.
If by Necessity reduc'd to ask,
The Giver has the difficultest Task:
For what's bestow'd they awkwardly receive,
And always Take less freely than they Give.
The Obligation is their highest Grief;
And never love, where they accept Relief.
So sullen in their Sorrows, that 'tis known,
They'll rather dye than their Afflictions own:
And if reliev'd, it is too often true,
That they'll abuse their Benefactors too:
For in Distress their Haughty Stomach's such,
They hate to see themselves oblig'd too much.
Seldom contented, often in the wrong;
Hard to be pleas'd at all, and never long.

If your Mistakes their Ill Opinion gain,
No merit can their Favour reobtain:
And if they're not Vindictive in their Fury,
'Tis their unconstant Temper does secure ye:
Their Brain 's so cool, their Passion seldom burns;
For all's condens'd before the Flame returns:
The Fermentation's of so weak a Matter,
The Humid damps the Fume, and runs it all to Water.
So tho the Inclination may be strong,
They're pleas'd by Fits, and never angry long.

Then if Good Nature shows some slender proof,
They never think they have Reward enough:
But like our Modern Quakers of the Town,
Expect your Manners, and return you none.

Friendship, th' abstracted Union of the Mind,
Which all men seek, but very few can find:
Of all the Nations in the Universe,
None talk on 't more, or understand it less:
For if it does their Property annoy,
Their Property their Friendship will destroy.

As you discourse them, you shall hear them tell
All things in which they think they do excel:
No Panegyrick needs their Praise record;
An Englishman ne're wants his own good word.
His first Discourses gen'rally appear
Prologu'd with his own wondrous Character:
When, to illustrate his own good Name,
He never fails his Neighbour to defame:
And yet he really designs no wrong;
His Malice goes no further than his Tongue.
But pleas'd to Tattle, he delights to Rail,
To satisfy the Lech'ry of a Tale.
His own dear Praises close the ample Speech,
Tells you how Wise he is; that is, how Rich:
For Wealth is Wisdom; he that's Rich is wise;
And all men Learned Poverty despise.
His Generosity comes next, and then
Concludes that he 's a True-Born Englishman;
And they, 'tis known, are Generous and Free,
Forgetting, and Forgiving Injury:
Which may be true, thus rightly understood,
Forgiving Ill Turns, and Forgetting Good.

Chearful in Labour when they've undertook it;
But out of Humour, when they're out of Pocket.
But if their Belly and their Pocket's full,
They may be Phlegmatick, but never Dull:
And if a Bottle does their Brains refine,
It makes their Wit as sparkling as their Wine.

As for the general Vices which we find
They're guilty of in common with Mankind,
Satyr, forbear, and silently endure;
We must conceal the Crimes we cannot cure.
Nor shall my Verse the brighter Sex defame;
For English Beauty will preserve her Name
Beyond dispute, Agreeable and Fair;
And Modester than other Nations are:
For where the Vice prevails, the great Temptation
Is want of Money, more than Inclination.
In general, this only is allow'd,
They're something Noisy, and a little Proud.

An Englishman is gentlest in Command;
Obedience is a Stranger in the Land:
Hardly subjected to the Magistrate;
For Englishmen do all Subjection hate.
Humblest when Rich, but peevish when they're Poor;
And think whate're they have, they merit more.

Shamwhig pretends t' ha' serv'd the Government,
But baulk't of due Reward, turns Malecontent.
For English Christians always have regard
To future Recompences of Reward.
His forfeit Liberty they did restore,
And gave him Bread, which he had not before.
But True-Born English Shamwhig lets them know,
His Merit must not lye neglected so.
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.

In Bus'ness next some Friends of his employ'd him;
And there he prov'd that Fame had not bely'd him:
His Benefactors quickly he abus'd,
And falsly to the Government accus'd:
But they, defended by their Innocence,
Ruin'd the Traytor in their own Defence.

Thus kick'd about from Pillars unto Posts,
He whets his Pen against the Lord of Hosts:
Burlesques his God and King in Paltry Rhimes:
Against the Dutch turns Champion for the Times;
And Huffs the King, upon that very score,
On which he Panegyrick't him before.

Unhappy England, hast thou none but such,
To plead thy Scoundrel Cause against the Dutch?
This moves their Scorn, and not their Indignation;
He that Lampoons the Dutch, Burlesques the Nation.

The meanest English Plowman studies Law,
And keeps thereby the Magistrates in Awe:
Will boldly tell them what they ought to do,
And sometimes punish their Omissions too.

Their Liberty and Property's so dear,
They scorn their Laws or Governors to fear:
So bugbear'd with the Name of Slavery,
They can't submit to their own Liberty.
Restraint from Ill is Freedom to the Wise;
But Englishmen do all Restraint despise.
Slaves to the Liquor, Drudges to the Pots,
The Mob are Statesmen, and their Statesmen Sots.

Their Governors they count such dangerousthings,
That 'tis their custom to affront their Kings:
So jealous of the Power their Kings possess'd,
They suffer neither Power nor Kings to rest.
The Bad with Force they eagerly subdue;
The Good with constant Clamours they pursue:
And did King Jesus reign, they'd murmur too.
A discontented Nation, and by far
Harder to rule in Times of Peace than War:
Easily set together by the Ears,
And full of causeless Jealousies and Fears:
Apt to revolt, and willing to rebel,
And never are contented when they're well.
No Government cou'd ever please them long,
Cou'd tye their Hands, or rectify their Tongue.
In this to Ancient Israel well compar'd,
Eternal Murmurs are among them heard.

It was but lately that they were opprest,
Their Rights invaded, and their Laws supprest:
When nicely tender of their Liberty,
Lord! what a Noise they made of Slavery.
In daily Tumults show'd their Discontent;
Lampoon'd their King, and mock'd his Government.
And if in Arms they did not first appear,
'Twas want of Force, and not for want of Fear.
In humbler tone than English us'd to do,
At Foreign Hands for Foreign Aid they sue.

William the Great Successor of Nassau,
Their Prayers heard, and their Oppressions saw:
He saw and sav'd them: God and Him they prais'd;
to This their Thanks, to That their Trophies rais'd.
But glutted with their own Felicities,
They soon their New Deliverer despise;
Say all their Prayers back, their Joy disown,
Unsing their Thanks, and pull their Trophies down:
Their Harps of Praise are on the Willows hung;
For Englishmen are ne're contented long.

The Rev'rend Clergy too! and who'd ha' thought
That they who had such Non-Resistance taught,
Should e're to Arms against their Prince be brought?
Who up to Heav'n did Regal Pow'r advance;
Subjecting English Laws to Modes of France.
Twisting Religion so with Loyalty,
As one cou'd never live, and t' other dye.
And yet no sooner did their Prince design
Their Glebes and Perquisites to undermine,
But all their Passive Doctrines laid aside;
The Clergy their own Principles deny'd:
Unpreach'd their Non-Resisting Cant, and pray'd
To Heav'n for Help, and to the Dutch for Aid.
The Church chim'd all her Doctrines back again,
And Pulpit-Champions did the Cause maintain;
Flew in the face of all their former Zeal,
And Non-Resistance did at once repeal.

The Rabbies say it would be too prolix,
To tye Religion up to Politicks:
The Church's Safety is Suprema Lex.
And so by a new Figure of their own,
Do all their former Doctrines disown.
As Laws Post Facto in the Parliament,
In urgent Cases have obtain'd Assent;
But are as dangerous Presidents laid by;
Made lawful only by Necessity.

The Rev'rend Fathers then in Arms appear,
And Men of God became the Men of War.
The Nation, fir'd by them, to Arms apply;
Assault their Antichristian Monarchy;
To their due Channel all our Laws restore,
And made things what they shou'd ha' been before.
But when they came to Fill the Vacant Throne,
And the Pale Priests look'd back on what they had done;
How English Liberty began to thrive,
And Church-of-England Loyalty out-live:
How all their Persecuting Days were done,
And their Deliv'rer plac'd upon the Throne:
The Priests, as Priests are wont to do, turn'd Tail;
They're Englishmen, and Nature will prevail.
Now they deplore the Ruins they ha' made,
And Murmur for the Master they Betray'd.
Excuse those Crimes they cou'd not make him mend;
And suffer for the Cause they can't defend.
Pretend they'd not ha' carry'd things so high;
And Proto-Martyrs make for Popery.

Had the Prince done as they design'd the thing,
Ha' set the Clergy up to rule the King;
Taken a Donative for coming hither,
And so ha' left their King and them together,
We had say they been now a happy Nation.
No doubt we had seen a Blessed Reformation:
For Wise Men say 't's as dangerous a thing,
A Ruling Priesthood, as a Priest-rid King.
And of all Plagues with which Mankind are curst,
Ecclesiastick Tyranny's the worst.

If all our former Grievances were feign'd,
King James has been abus'd, and we trepann'd;
Bugbear'd with Popery and Power Despotick,
Tyrannick Government, and Leagues Exotick:
The Revolution's a Phanatick Plot,
W. ..... a Tyrant, S ..... a Sot:
A Factious Army and a Poyson'd Nation,
Unjustly forc'd King James's Abdication.

But if he did the Subjects Rights invade,
Then he was punish'd only, not betray'd:
And punishing of Kings is no such Crime,
But Englishmen ha' done it many a time.

When Kings the Sword of Justice first lay down,
They are no Kings, though they possess the Crown.
Titles are Shadows, Crowns are empty things,
The Good of Subjects is the End of Kings;
To guide in War, and to protect in Peace:
Where Tyrants once commence, the Kings do cease:

For Arbitrary Power's so strange a thing,
It makes the Tyrant, and unmakes the King.
If Kings by Foreign Priests and Armies reign,
And Lawless Power against their Oaths maintain,
Then Subjects must ha' reason to complain.
If Oaths must bind us when our Kings do ill;
To call in foreign Aid is to rebel.
By Force to circumscribe our Lawful Prince,
Is wilful Treason in the largest sense:
And they who once rebel, most certainly
Their God, and King, and former Oaths defy.
If we allow no Male-Administration
Could cancel the Allegiance of the Nation;
Let all our Learned Sons of Levi try,
This Eccles'astick Riddle to unty:
How they could make a Step to Call the Prince,
And yet pretend to Oaths and Innocence.

By th' first Address they made beyond the Seas,
They're perjur'd in the most intense Degrees;
And without Scruple for the time to come,
May swear to all the Kings in Christendom.
And truly did our Kings consider all,
They'd never let the Clergy swear at all:
Their Politick Allegiance they'd refuse;
For Whores and Priests do never want excuse.

But if the Mutual Contract was dissolv'd,
The Doubt's explain'd, the Difficulty solv'd:
That Kings, when they descend to Tyranny,
Dissolve the Bond, and leave the Subject free.
The Government's ungirt when Justice dies,
And Constitutions are Non-Entities.
The Nation's all a Mob, there's no such thing
As Lords or Commons, Parliament or King.
A great promiscuous Crowd the Hydra lies,
Till Laws revive, and mutual Contract ties:
A Chaos free to chuse for their own share,
What Case of Government they please to wear:
If to a King they do the Reins commit,
All men are bound in Conscience to submit:
But then that King must by his Oath assent
To Postulata's of the Government;
Which if he breaks, he cuts off the Entail,
And Power retreats to its Original.

This Doctrine has the Sanction of Assent,
From Nature's Universal Parliament.
The Voice of Nations, and the Course of Things,
Allow that Laws superior are to Kings.
None but Delinquents would have Justice cease,
Knaves rail at Laws, as Soldiers rail at Peace:
For Justice is the End of Government,
As Reason is the Test of Argument.

No man was ever yet so void of Sense,
As to debate the Right of Self-Defence;
A Principle so grafted in the Mind,
With Nature born, and does like Nature bind:
Twisted with Reason, and with Nature too;
As neither one nor t' other can undo.

Nor can this Right be less when National;
Reason which governs one, should govern all.
Whate're the Dialect of Courts may tell,
He that his Right demands, can ne're rebel.
Which Right, if 'tis by Governors deny'd,
May be procur'd by Force, or Foreign Aid.
For Tyranny's a Nation's Term for Grief;
As Folks cry Fire, to hasten in Relief.
And when the hated word is heard about,
All men shou'd come to help the People out.

Thus England groan'd, Britannia's Voice was heard;
And Great Nassau to rescue her, appear'd:
Call'd by the Universal Voice of Fate;
God and the Peoples Legal Magistrate.
Ye Heav'ns regard! Almighty Jove look down,
And view thy Injur'd Monarch on the Throne.
On their Ungrateful Heads due Vengeance take,
Who sought his Aid, and then his part forsake.
Witness, ye Powers! it was Our Call alone,
Which now our Pride makes us asham'd to own.
Britannia's Troubles fetch'd him from afar,
To court the dreadful Casualties of War:
But where Requital never can be made,
Acknowlegment's a Tribute seldom paid.

He dwelt in Bright Maria's Circling Arms,
Defended by the Magick of her Charms,
From Foreign Fears, and from Domestick Harms.
Ambition found no Fuel for her Fire,
He had what God cou'd give, or Man desire.
Till Pity rowz'd him from his soft Repose,
His Life to unseen Hazards to expose:
Till Pity mov'd him in our Cause t' appear;
Pity! that Word which now we hate to hear.
But English Gratitude is always such,
To hate the Hand which does oblige too much.

Britannia's Cries gave Birth to his Intent,
And hardly gain'd his unforeseen Assent:
His boding Thoughts foretold him he should find
The People Fickle, Selfish, and Unkind.
Which Thought did to his Royal Heart appear
More dreadful than the Dangers of the War:
For nothing grates a Generous Mind so soon,
As base Returns for hearty Service done.

Satyr be silent, awfully prepare
Britannia's Song, and William's Praise to hear.
Stand by, and let her chearfully rehearse
Her Grateful Vows in her Immortal Verse.
Loud Fame's Eternal Trumpet let her sound;
Listen ye distant Poles, and endless Round.
May the strong Blast the welcome News convey
As far as Sound can reach, or Spirit fly.
To Neighb'ring Worlds, if such there be, relate
Our Hero's Fame, for theirs to imitate.
To distant Worlds of Spirits let her rehearse:
For Spirits without the helps of Voice converse.
May Angels hear the gladsome News on high,
Mixt with their everlasting Symphony.
And Hell it self stand in suspence to know
Whether it be the Fatal Blast, or no.

BRITANNIA.

The Fame of Virtue 'tis for which I sound,
And Heroes with Immortal Triumphs crown'd.
Fame built on solid Virtue swifter flies,
Than Morning Light can spread my Eastern Skies.
The gath'ring Air returns the doubling Sound,
And lowd repeating Thunders force it round:
Ecchoes return from Caverns of the Deep:
Old Chaos dreams on 't in Eternal Sleep.
Time hands it forward to its latest Urn,
From whence it never, never shall return,
Nothing is heard so far, or lasts so long;
'Tis heard by ev'ry Ear, and spoke by ev'ry Tongue.

My Hero, with the Sails of Honour furl'd,
Rises like the Great Genius of the World.
By Fate and Fame wisely prepar'd to be
The Soul of War, and Life of Victory.
He spreads the Wings of Virtue on the Throne,
And ev'ry Wind of Glory fans them on.
Immortal Trophies dwell upon his Brow,
Fresh as the Garlands he has worn but now.

By different Steps the high Ascent he gains,
And differently that high Ascent maintains.
Princes for Pride and Lust of Rule make War,
And struggle for the Name of Conqueror.
Some fight for Fame, and some for Victory.
He Fights to Save, and Conquers to set Free.

Then seek no Phrase his Titles to conceal,
And hide with Words what Actions must reveal.
No Parallel from Hebrew Stories take,
Of God-like Kings my Similies to make:
No borrow'd Names conceal my living Theam;
But Names and Things directly I proclaim.
'Tis honest Merit does his Glory raise;
Whom that exalts, let no man fear to praise.
Of such a Subject no man need be shy;
Virtue's above the Reach of Flattery.
He needs no Character but his own Fame,
Nor any flattering Titles, but his Name.

William 's the Name that's spoke by ev'ry Tongue:
William 's the Darling Subject of my Song.
Listen ye Virgins to the Charming Sound,
And in Eternal Dances hand it round:
Your early Offerings to this Altar bring;
Make him at once a Lover and a King.
May he submit to none but to your Arms;
Nor ever be subdu'd, but by your Charms.
May your soft Thoughts for him be all sublime;
And ev'ry tender Vow be made for him.
May he be first in ev'ry Morning-Thought,
And Heav'n ne're hear a Pray'r where he's left out.
May ev'ry Omen, ev'ry boding Dream,
Be Fortunate by mentioning his Name.
May this one Charm Infernal Powers affright,
And guard you from the Terrors of the Night.
May ev'ry chearful Glass as it goes down
To William's Health, be Cordials to your own.
Let ev'ry Song be Chorust with his Name.
And Musick pay her Tribute to his Fame.
Let ev'ry Poet tune his Artful Verse,
And in Immortal Strains his Deeds rehearse.
And may Apollo never more inspire
The Disobedient Bard with his Seraphick Fire.
May all my Sons their grateful Homage pay;
His Praises sing, and for his Safety pray.

Satyr return to our Unthankful Isle,
Secur'd by Heav'n's Regard, and William's Toil.
To both Ungrateful, and to both Untrue;
Rebels to God, and to Good Nature too.

If e're this Nation be distress'd again,
To whomsoe're they cry, they'll cry in vain.
To Heav'n they cannot have the face to look;
Or if they should, it would but Heav'n provoke.
To hope for Help from Man would be too much;
Mankind would always tell'em of the Dutch:
How they came here our Freedoms to maintain,
Were Paid, and Curs'd, and Hurry'd home again.
How by their Aid we first dissolv'd our Fears,
And then our Helpers damn'd for Foreigners.
'Tis not our English Temper to do better;
For Englishmen think ev'ry man their Debtor.

'Tis worth observing, that we ne're complain'd
Of Foreigners, nor of the Wealth they gain'd,
Till all their Services were at an End.
Wise Men affirm it is the English way,
Never to Grumble till they come to Pay;
And then they always think their Temper's such,
The Work too little, and the Pay too much.

As frighted Patients, when they want a Cure,
Bid any Price, and any Pain endure:
But when the Doctor's Remedies appear,
The Cure's too Easy, and the Price too Dear.

Great Portland ne're was banter'd, when he strove
For Us his Master's kindest Thoughts to move.
We ne're lampoon'd his Conduct, when employ'd
King James's Secret Councils to divide:
Then we caress'd him as the only Man,
Which could the Doubtful Oracle explain:
The only Hushai able to repell
The Dark Designs of our Achitophel.
Compar'd his Master's Courage to his Sense;
The Ablest Statesman, and the Bravest Prince.
On his Wise Conduct we depended much,
And lik'd him ne're the worse for being Dutch.
Nor was he valued more than he deserv'd;
Freely he ventur'd, faithfully he serv'd.
In all King William's Dangers he has shar'd;
In England's Quarrels always he appear'd:
The Revolution first, and then the Boyne;
In Both his Counsels and his Conduct shine.
His Martial Valour Flanders will confess;
And France Regrets his Managing the Peace.
Faithful to England's Interest and her King:
The greatest Reason of our Murmuring.
Ten Years in English Service he appear'd,
And gain'd his Master's and the World's Regard:
But 'tis not England's Custom to Reward.
The Wars are over, England needs him not;
Now he's a Dutchman, and the Lord knows what.

Schonbergh, the Ablest Soldier of his Age,
With Great Nassau did in our Cause engage:
Both join'd for England's Rescue and Defence;
The Greatest Captain, and the Greatest Prince.
With what Applause his Stories did we tell?
Stories which Europe's Volumes largely swell.
We counted him an Army in our Aid:
Where he commanded, no man was afraid.
His Actions with a constant Conquest shine,
From Villa-Vitiosa to the Rhine.
France, Flanders, Germany, his Fame confess;
And all the World was fond of him, but Us.
Our Turn first serv'd, we grudg'd him the Command.
Witness the Grateful Temper of the Land.

We blame the K . . . that he relies too much
On Strangers, Germans, Hugonots, and Dutch;
And seldom does his great Affairs of State,
To English Counsellors communicate.
The Fact might very well be answered thus;
He has so often been betray'd by us,
He must have been a Madman to rely
On English G ....... ns Fidelity.
For laying other Arguments aside,
This Thought might mortify our English Pride,
That Foreigners have faithfully obey'd him,
And none but Englishmen have e're betray'd him.
They have our Ships and Merchants bought and sold,
And barter'd English Blood for Foreign Gold.
First to the French they sold our Turky-Fleet,
And Injur'd Talmarsh next at Camaret.
The King himself is shelter'd from their Snares,
Not by his Merit, but the Crown he wears.
Experience tells us 'tis the English way,
Their Benefactors always to betray.

And lest Examples should be too remote,
A Modern Magistrate of Famous Note,
Shall give you his own History by Rote.
I'll make it out, deny it he that can,
His Worship is a True-born Englishman,
In all the Latitude that Empty Word
By Modern Acceptation's understood.
The Parish-Books his Great Descent record,
And now he hopes e're long to be a Lord.
And truly as things go, it wou'd be pity
But such as he bore Office in the City:
While Robb'ry for Burnt-Offering he Brings,
And gives to God what he has stole from Kings:
Great Monuments of Charity he raises,
And good St. Magnus whistles out his Praises.
To City-Gaols he grants a Jubilee,
And hires Huzza's from his own Mobile.

Lately he wore the Golden Chain and Gown,
With which Equipt he thus harangu'd the Town.

Sir C . . . . . s D . . . . . b's Fine Speech, &c.

WIth Clouted Iron Shooes and Sheepskin Breeches,
More Rags than Manners, and more Dirt than Riches:
From driving Cows and Calves to Layton-Market,
While of my Greatness there appear'd no Spark yet,
Behold I come, to let you see the Pride
With which Exalted Beggars always ride.

Born to the Needful Labours of the Plow,
The Cart-Whip grace't me as the Chain does now.
Nature and Fate in doubt what course to take,
Whether I shou'd a Lord or Plough-Boy make;
Kindly at last resolv'd they wou'd promote me,
And first a Knave, and then a Knight they vote me.
What Fate appointed, Nature did prepare,
And furnish'd me with an exceeding Care.
To fit me for what they design'd to have me;
And ev'ry Gift but Honesty they gave me.

And thus Equipt, to this Proud Town I came,
In quest of Bread, and not in quest of Fame.
Blind to my future Fate, an humble Boy,
Free from the Guilt and Glory I enjoy.
The Hopes which my Ambition entertain'd,
Were in the Name of Foot-Boy all contain'd.
The Greatest Heights from Small Beginnings rise;
The Gods were Great on Earth, before they reach'd the Skies.

B . . . well, the Generous Temper of whose Mind,
Was always to be bountiful inclin'd:
Whether by his Ill Fate or Fancy led,
First took me up, and furnish'd me with Bread.
The little Services he put me to,
Seem'd Labours rather than were truly so.
But always my Advancement he design'd;
For 'twas his very Nature to be kind.
Large was his Soul, his Temper ever Free;
The best of Masters and of Men to me.
And I who was before decreed by Fate,
To be made Infamous as well as Great,
With an obsequious Diligence obey'd him,
Till trusted with his All, and then betray'd him.

All his past Kindnesses I trampled on,
Ruin'd his Fortunes to erect my own.
So Vipers in the Bosom bread, begin
To hiss at that Hand first which took them in.
With eager Treach'ry I his Fall pursu'd,
And my first Trophies were Ingratitude.

Ingratitude's the worst of Human Guilt,
The basest Action Mankind can commit;
Which like the Sin against the Holy Ghost,
Has least of Honour, and of Guilt the most.
Distinguish'd from all other Crimes by this,
That 'tis a Crime which no man will confess.
That Sin alone, which shou'd not be forgiv'n
On Earth, altho perhaps it may in Heav'n.

Thus my first Benefactor I o'rethrew;
And how shou'd I be to a second true?
The Publick Trust came next into my Care,
And I to use them scurvily prepare:
My Needy Sov'reign Lord I play'd upon,
And Lent him many a Thousand of his own;
For which, great Int'rests I took care to charge,
And so my Ill-got Wealth became so large.

My Predecessor Judas was a Fool,
Fitter to ha' been whipt, and sent to School,
Than Sell a Saviour: Had I been at hand,
His Master had not been so cheap Trepann'd;
I wou'd ha' made the eager Jews ha' found,
For Thirty Pieces, Thirty thousand Pound.

My Cousin Ziba, of Immortal Fame,
(Ziba and I shall never want a Name:)
First-born of Treason, nobly did advance
His Master's Fall, for his Inheritance.
By whose keen Arts old David first began
To break his Sacred Oath to Jonathan:
The Good Old King, 'tis thought, was very loth
To break his Word, and therefore broke his Oath.
Ziba's a Traytor of some Quality,
Yet Ziba might ha' been inform'd by me:
Had I been there, he ne're had been content
With half th' Estate, nor half the Government.

In our late Revolution 'twas thought strange,
That I of all mankind shou'd like the Change:
But they who wonder'd at it, never knew,
That in it I did my Old Game pursue:
Nor had they heard of Twenty thousand Pound,
Which ne're was lost, yet never cou'd be found.

Thus all things in their turn to Sale I bring,
God and my Master first, and then the King:
Till by successful Villanies made bold,
I thought to turn the Nation into Gold;
And so to Forg . . y my Hand I bent,
Not doubting I could gull the Government;
But there was ruffl'd by the Parliament.
And if I 'scap'd th' Unhappy Tree to climb,
'Twas want of Law, and not for want of Crime.

But my Old Friend, who printed in my Face
A needful Competence of English Brass,
Having more business yet for me to do,
And loth to lose his Trusty Servant so,
Manag'd the matter with such Art and Skill,
As sav'd his Hero, and threw out the B . . 1.

And now I'm grac'd with unexpected Honours,
For which I'll certainly abuse the Donors:
Knighted, and made a Tribune of the People,
Whose Laws and Properties I'm like to keep well:
The Custos Rotulorum of the City,
And Captain of the Guards of their Banditti.
Surrounded by my Catchpoles, I declare
Against the Needy Debtor open War.
I hang poor Thieves for stealing of your Pelf,
And suffer none to rob you, but my self.

The King commanded me to help Reform ye,
And how I'll do 't, Miss . . . . . shall inform ye.
I keep the best Seraglio in the Nation,
And hope in time to bring it into Fashion.
No Brimstone-Whore need fear the Lash from me,
That part I'll leave to Brother Jeffery.
Our Gallants need not go abroad to Rome,
I'll keep a Whoring Jubilee at home.
Whoring's the Darling of my Inclination;
A'n't I a Magistrate for Reformation?
For this my Praise is sung by ev'ry Bard,
For which Bridewell wou'd be a just Reward.
In Print my Panegyricks fill the Street,
And hir'd Gaol-birds their Huzza's repeat.
Some Charities contriv'd to make a show,
Have taught the Needy Rabble to do so:
Whose empty Noise is a Mechanick Fame,
Since for Sir Belzebuh they'd do the same.





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