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'er they have, they merit

more.

The meanest English ploughman studies law, And keeps thereby the magistrates in awe; Will boldly tell them what they ought to do, And sometimes punish their omission 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.

The rev'rend clergy too! and who'd have] thought

That they who had such non-resistance taught, Should e'er to arms against their prince be brought?

Who up to heaven did regal pow'r advance;
Subjecting English laws to modes of France.
Twisting religion so with loyalty,

As one could never live, and t'other die.
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 principies denied:
Unpreach'd their non-resisting cant, and pray'd
To heaven for help, and to the Dutch for aid.
The church chimed all their 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 Rabbis say it would be too prolix,
To tie religion up to politics:
The church's safety is suprema lex.
And so, by a new figure of their own,
Their former doctrines all at once disown.
As laws post facto in the parliament,
In urgent cases have obtain'd assent;
But are as dangerous precedents laid by;
Made lawful only by necessity.

}

And suffer for the cause they can't defend.
Pretend they'd not have carried things so high;
And proto-martyrs make for popery.
Had the prince done as they design'd the thing,
Have set the clergy up to rule the king;
Taken a donative for coming hither,
And so have left their king and them together,
We had, say they, been now a happy nation.
No doubt we'd seen a blessed reformation:
For wise men say 'tis as dang'rous a thing,
A ruling priesthood, as a priest-rid king.
And of all plagues with which mankind are
curst,

Ecclesiastic tyranny's the worst.

If all our former grievances were feign'd, King James has been abused, and we trepan'd; Bugbear'd with popery and power despotic, Tyrannic government, and leagues exotic:

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 have 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 Levy try,
This eccles'astic riddle to untie:
How they could make a step to call the prince,
And yet pretend to oaths and innocence.

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.

By th' first address they made beyond the

seas,

They're perjured 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 politic allegiance they'd refuse;

For whores and priests will never want excuse.

But if the mutual contract was dissolved, The doubts explain'd, the difficulty solved: 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 nonentities.

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 choose 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 postulatas 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.

Thus England cried, Britannia's voice was heard,

And great Nassau to rescue her appear'd:
Call'd by the universal voice of fate;
God and the people's legal magistrate.
Ye heav'ns regard! Almighty Jove, look down,
And view thy injured monarch on the throne.
On their ungrateful heads due vengeance take,
Who sought his aid, and then his side forsake.
Witness, ye powers! it was our call alone,
Which now our pride makes us ashamed to own.
Britannia's troubles fetch'd her from afar,
To court the dreadful casualties of war:
But where requital never can be made,
Acknowledgment's a tribute seldom paid.

He dwelt in bright Maria's circling arms,
Defended by the magic of her charms,
From foreign fears, and from domestic harms.
Ambition found no fuel for her fire,

He had what God could give, or man desire.
Till pity roused him from his soft repose :
His life to unseen hazards to expose;
Till pity moved 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.

Satire be silent, awfully prepare, Britannia's song and William's praise to hear. Stand by, and let her cheerfully 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,
Mix'd with their everlasting symphony.
And hell itself stand in suspense 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 loud repeating thunders force it round: Echoes 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 tongue.

My hero, with the sails of honour furl'd, Rises like the great genius of the world. By fate and fame wisely prepared to be The soul of war, and life of victory.

Let ev'ry song be chorus'd with his name, And music 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 seraphic fire. May all my sons their grateful homage pay; His praises sing, and for his safety pray.

Satire return to our unthankful isle, Secured by heaven's regard, and William's toil. To both ungrateful and to both untrue; Rebels to God, and to good-nature too.

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 won but now.

By different steps the high assent he gains, And differently that high assent 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 similes to make: No borrow'd names conceal my living theme; But names and things directly I proclaim. His 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 off'rings to this altar bring; Make him at once a lover and a king. May he subunit to none but to your arms; Nor ever be subdued 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,

'Tis worth observing, that we ne'er 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'er was banter'd when he strove

For us his master's kindest thoughts to move.
We ne'er lampoon'd his conduct when employ'd
King James's secret counsels to divide :
Then we caress'd him as the only man,
Which could the doubtful oracle explain:
The only Hushai able to repel

The dark designs of our Achitophel.
Compared his master's courage, to his sense;
The ablest statesman, and the bravest prince.
Ten years in English service he appear'd,
And gain'd his master's and the world's re-
gard:

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.

Schonberg, 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.

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 cheerful glass, as it goes down,
To William's health, be cordials to your own.

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 served, we grudged him the command.

Witness the grateful temper of the land!

We blame the king that he relies too much
On strangers, Germans, Huguenots, and Dutch;
And seldom would his great affairs of state,
To English councillors communicate.
The fact might very well be answer'd thus;
He has so often been betray'd by us,
He must have been a madman to rely
On English gentlemen's fidelity.
For laying other arguments aside,
This thought might mortify our English pride,
That foreigners have faithfully obey'd him,
And none but English have e'er 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 Turkey fleet,
And injured 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 ere long to be a lord.
And truly, as things go, it would be pity
But such as he should represent 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 huzzas for his own mobilee.

Lately he wore the golden chain and gown, With which equipp'd, he thus harangued the

town.

HIS FINE SPEECH, ETC.

With clouted iron shoes, and sheep-skin breeches,

More rags than manners, and more dirt than riches,

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 equipp'd, to this proud town I came, In quest of bread, and not in quest of fame. Blind to my future fate, a 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.

Backwell, the generous temper of whose mind
Was always to be bountiful inclined:
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 bred, begin

To hiss at that hand first which took them in.
With eager treach'ry I his fall pursued,
And my first trophies were ingratitude.

Ingratitude, 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 should not be forgiv'n
On earth, although perhaps it may in heav'n.

Thus my first benefactor I o'erthrew ; And how should I be to a second true? The public 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 have been whipp'd and sent to school, Than sell a Saviour: had I been at hand,

Behold I come, to let you see the pride
With which exalted beggars always ride.

Born to the needful labours of the plough,
The cart-whip graced me, as the chain does now.
Nature and fate, in doubt which course to take,
Whether I should a lord or plough-boy make,
Kindly at last resolved they would promote me,
And first a knave, and then a knight, they vote

me.

What fate appointed, nature did prepare,

I would have made the eager Jews have 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 traitor of some quality,

Yet Ziba might have been inform'd by me: Had I been there he ne'er had been content With half th' estate, nor half the government.

In our late revolution 'twas thought strange, That I, of all mankind, should 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'er was lost, yet never could 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 forgery my hand I bent, Not doubting I could gull the government; But there was ruffled by the parliament. And if I 'scaped the 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, Managed the matter with such art and skill, As saved his hero, and threw out the bill.

And now I'm graced 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 myself.

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,

The Devil.

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'nt I a magistrate for reformation?
For this my praise is sung by ev'ry bard,
For which Bridewell would be a just reward.
In print my panegyrics fill the street,
And hired gaol-birds their huzzas repeat.
Some charities, contrived to make a show,
Have taught the needy rabble to do so;
Whose empty noise is a mechanic fame,
Since for Sir Beelzebub they'd do the same.

THE CONCLUSION.

Then let us boast of ancestors no more, Or deeds of heroes done in days of yore, In latent records of the ages past, Behind the rear of time, in long oblivion placed. For if our virtues must in lines descend, The merit with the families would end: And intermixtures would most fatal grow; For vice would be hereditary too; The tainted blood would of necessity, In voluntary wickedness convey.

Vice, like ill-nature, for an age or two, May seem a generation to pursue : But virtue seldom does regard the breed: Fools do the wise, and wise men fools succeed. What is't to us, what ancestors we had? If good, what better? or what worse, if bad? Examples are for imitation set,

Yet all men follow virtue with regret.

Could but our ancestors retrieve their fate, And see their offspring thus degenerate; How we contend for birth and names unknown, And build on their past actions, not our own; They'd cancel records, and their tombs deface, And openly disown the vile degenerate race: For fame of families is all a cheat, 'Tis personal virtue only makes us great.