Графични страници
PDF файл

Then let us stay and fight, and vote,
Till London is not worth a groat;

Oh 'tis a patient beast!

When we have gaul'd and tir'd the mule,
And can no longer have the rule,
We'll have the spoil at least.

To the Five Members of the Honourable




The humble Petition of the POETS.

AFTER fo many concurring petitions

From all ages and fexes, and all conditions, We come in the rear to present our follies To Pym, Stroude, Hafslerig, Hampden, and Holles. Though fet form of prayer be an abomination, Set forms of petitions find great approbation : Therefore, as others from th' bottom of their fouls, So we from the depth and bottom of our bowls, According unto the blefs'd form you have taught us, We thank you first for the ills you have brought us : For the good we receive we thank him that gave it, And you for the confidence only to crave it. Next in courfe, we complain of the great violation Of privilege (like the rest 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 purfuivants fees.
Next, that we only may lye by authority;
But in that alfo you have got the priority.
Next, an old cuftom, our fathers did name it
Poetical license, and always did claim it.
By this we have power to change age into youth,
Turn nonfenfe to fenfe, and falfhood to truth;
In brief, to make good whatsoever is faulty;
This art fome poet, or the devil has taught ye:
And this our property you have invaded,
And a privilege of both houses have made it.
But that trust above all in poets reposed,
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 presumption to write verses to you,
Who make better poems by far of the two?
For all thofe pretty knacks you compofe,
Alas, what are they but poems in profe?

And between those 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 feem to abhor it,
"T has done you good service, and thank Hell for it :


Although the old maxim remains ftill in force,
That a fanctify'd cause must have a fanctify'd course,
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.


Do you not know, not a fortnight ago,

How they bragg'd of a Western 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.

But now on which fide was this miracle try'd,

I hope we at last are even;

For Sir Ralph and his knaves are rifen from their graves, To cudgel the clowns of Devon.

And there Stamford came, for his honour was lame Of the gout three months together;

But it prov'd, when they fought, but a running gout, For his heels were lighter than ever.


For now he out-runs his arms and his guns,
And leaves all his money behind him ;
But they follow after; unless he takes water,
At Plymouth again they will find him.

What Reading hath cost, and Stamford hath loft,
Goes deep in the fequeftrations;

These wounds will not heal, with your new great feal,
Nor Jepfon's declarations.

Now, Peters and Cafe, in your prayer and grace,
Remember the new Thankfgiving;

Ifaac and his wife, now dig for your life,
Or fhortly you'll dig for your living.



heard of that Wonder, of the Lightning 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, stood the Conqueror's face, Which made it fhew much the better.

But now without lying, you may paint him flying,
At Bristol 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 fall a weeping,
Though his mouth utter'd lyes, truth fell from his
Which kept the Lord-mayor from fleeping.


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


« ПредишнаНапред »