A SATIRE AGAINST SEDITION.
Per Graium populosæ mediæque per Elidris urbem.
Ibat ovans, Divumque sibi poscebat honorem.
Q all our antic sights and pageantry,
Which English ideots run in crowds to see,
The Polish Medal bears the prize alone;
A monster, more the fav'rite of the Town
Than either fairs or threatres yet have shown.
Never did Art so well with Nature strive,
Nor ever idol seem so much alive;
So like the man; so golden to the sight,.
So base within; so counterfeit and light;
One side is fill'd with title and with face;
And, lest the King should want a regal place,
On the reverse, a tow'r the town surveys,
O'er which our mounting sun his beams displays.
The word, pronounc'd aloud by shrieval voice,
Latamur, which, in Polish, is Rejoice.
The day, month, year, to the great act are join'd;
And a new canting holiday design'd.
Five days he sat, for every cast and look;
Four more than God to finish Adam took :
But who can tell what essence angels are, 20
Or how long Heav'n was making Lucifer?
O could the style that copy'd ev'ry grace,
And plough'd such furrows for an eunuch face,
Could it have form'd his ever-changing will,
The various piece had tir'd the graver's skill!
A martial hero, first, with early care,
Blown, like a pigmy by the winds, to war;
A beardless chief, a rebel ere a man;
So young his hatred to his prince began,
Next this, (how wildly will ambition steer!) 30
A vermin, wriggling in th' usurper's ear.
Bart'ring his venal wit for sums of gold,
He cast himself into the saint-like mould;
Groan'd, sigh'd, and pray'd, while godliness was
The loudest bagpipe of the squeaking train. [gain,
But, as 'tis hard to cheat a juggler's eyes,
His open lewdness he could ne'er disguise.
There split the saint; for hypocritic zeal
Allows no sins but those it can conceal.
Whoring to scandal gives too large a scope: 40
Saints must not trade; but they may interlope.
Th' ungodly principle was all the same,
But a gross cheat betrays his partner's game.
Besides, their pace was formal, grave, and slack ;
His nimble wit outran the heavy pack:
Yet still he found his fortune at a stay,
Whole droves of blockheads choaking up his way:
They took, but not rewarded, his advice;
Villain and wit exact a double price.
Pow'r was his aim; but thrown from that pretence,
The wretch turn'd loyal in his own defence,
And malice reconcil'd him to his prince.
Him, in the anguish of his soul, he serv'd,
Rewarded faster still than he deserv'd.
Behold him now exalted into trust,
His counsels oft convenient, seldom just.
E'en in the most sincere advice he gave,
He had a grudging still to be a knave.
The frauds he learnt in his fanatic years,
Made him uneasy in his lawful gears:
At best, as little honest as he could,
And, like white witches, mischieviously good.
To his first bias, longingly, he leans.
And rather would be great by wicked means.
Thus, fram'd for ill, he loos'd our triple hold,
Advice unsafe, precipitous, and bold :
From hence those tears, that Ilium of our woe:
Who helps a pow'rful friend, fore-arms a foe.
What wonder if the waves prevail so far,
When he cut down the banks that made the bar? 70
Seas follow but their nature, to invade ;
But he by art our native strength betray'd.
So Samson to his foe his force confest,
And, to be shorn, lay slumb'ring on her breast.
Bat, when this fatal counsel, (a) found too late,
Expos'd its author to the public hate;
(a) The Editor would read, Counsel, fatal found too late.
When his just sov'reign, by no impious way,
Could be seduc'd to arbitrary sway;
Forsaken of that hope, he shifts his sail,
Drives down the current, with a pop❜lar gale, 80
And shews the fiend confess'd, without a veil.
He preaches to the crowd,' that' pow'r is lent,
But not convey'd, to kingly government:
That claims successive bear no binding force;
That coronation-oaths are things of course:
Maintains the multitude can never err,'
And sets the people in the Papal chair.
The reason's obvious; Int'rest never lies;
The most have, still, their int'rest in their
eyes;
The pow'r is always theirs; and pow'ris ever wise.
Almighty crowd! thou shorten'st all dispute, 91
Pow'r is thy essence, wit thy attribute;
Nor faith, nor reason make thee at a stay,
Thou leap'st o'er all eternal truths in thy Pindaric
Athens, no doubt, did righteously decide, [way!
When Phocion and when Socrates were try'd;
As righteously they did those dooms repent;
Still they were wise whatever way they went;
Crowds err not, though to both extremes they run,
To kill the father and recall the son.
100
Some think the fools were most, as times vent then,
But now the world's o'erstock'd with prudent men.
The common cry is e'en Religion's test;
The Turk's is, at Constantinople, best;
Idols, in India; Popery, at Rome;
And our own worship only true at home
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