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Title: Selected Poems (1685-1700)

Author: John Tutchin

Editor: Spiro Peterson

Release date: December 25, 2011 [eBook #38407]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by David Starner, Dave Morgan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SELECTED POEMS (1685-1700) ***

The Augustan Reprint Society

JOHN TUTCHIN
SELECTED POEMS

(1685-1700)

INTRODUCTION
BY
SPIRO PETERSON

PUBLICATION NUMBER 110
WILLIAM ANDREWS CLARK MEMORIAL LIBRARY
University of California, Los Angeles
1964

GENERAL EDITORS

Earl R. Miner, University of California, Los Angeles

Maximillian E. Novak, University of California, Los Angeles

Lawrence Clark Powell, Wm. Andrews Clark Memorial Library

ADVISORY EDITORS

John Butt, University of Edinburgh

James L. Clifford, Columbia University

Ralph Cohen, University of California, Los Angeles

Vinton A. Dearing, University of California, Los Angeles

Arthur Friedman, University of Chicago

Louis A. Landa, Princeton University

Samuel H. Monk, University of Minnesota

Everett T. Moore, University of California, Los Angeles

James Sutherland, University College, London

H. T. Swedenberg, Jr., University of California, Los Angeles

CORRESPONDING SECRETARY

Edna C. Davis, Clark Memorial Library

INTRODUCTION

When John Tutchin died on September 23, 1707, he had already created the image of himself which Alexander Pope has transmitted to posterity. There, in Book II of The Dunciad (1728), the Whig journalist appears as one of two figures in a "shaggy Tap'stry":

Earless on high, stood un-abash'd Defoe,
And Tutchin flagrant from the scourge, below.

Pope, in his variorum notes on the passage, identified Tutchin as the "author of some vile verses, and of a weekly paper call'd the Observator," and revived the fiction of his sentence "to be whipp'd thro' several towns in the west of England, upon which he petition'd King James II. to be hanged." The "invective" against James II's memory, which Pope mentions, has now been identified in the Twickenham Edition as The British Muse: or Tyranny Expos'd (1701).[1] By 1728, this was all the reputation that remained for Mr. John Tutchin, Gentleman—irascible journalist, pamphleteer, and writer of verses.

The truth of the matter is that Pope was no more accurate about Tutchin's being whipped than about Defoe's losing his ears. From the sparse reliable information concerning Tutchin's early years, one consistent pattern emerges: he tended to depict himself as a hero and a martyr. Born in 1661 "a Freeman" of London, he was brought up in a family of scholarly nonconformist ministers probably on the Isle of Wight[2]. Even though an enemy claimed that he had been expelled from a school at Stepney for stealing (DNB), he received some education and travelled on the continent. In defending his skill with languages against Defoe, he once told how at his school, boys translated and capped verses, and how he travelled "from Leivarden in Friezland, thro' Holland and the Spanish Flanders."[3] Throughout his life, he proudly designated himself a gentleman: during his trial for libel in late June of 1704, he even escaped punishment by setting forth that he was a gentleman, and not a laborer as the indictment read.

In later life, he romanticized himself when young as the hero who fought in the Duke of Monmouth's rebellion, received the brutal "whipping sentence" from Lord Chief-Justice Jeffreys during "the bloody assezes" of 1685, petitioned James II for "the Favour of being hang'd" to avoid the sentence, and finally freed himself by paying so burdensome a bribe that he was reduced to poverty. All these claims were first made in "The Case, Trial, and Sentence of Mr. John Tutchin, and Several Others, in Dorchester, in the County of Dorset," which Tutchin added to the fifth edition of The Western Martyrology; or, the Bloody Assizes, published in 1705. As J. G. Muddiman demonstrated in 1929, most of these claims are outright fabrications. Tutchin was never indicted for high treason, he could never have been challenged by Jeffreys to cap verses, and he invented the petition to be hanged.[4] In The Observator (July 25-29, 1702), he honestly admitted that he was never tried in Devonshire, but claimed he did buy his liberty of James II; and in a later issue (Aug. 4-7, 1703) he challenged an enemy: "if he Pleases to give the World an Account, When, Where, and for What I was Whip'd thro' a Market-Town, he will inform Mankind of more than I or any Body else knows...." John Dunton believed in the whipping sentence; and Defoe, the story of the petition to be hanged. Throughout Tutchin's stormy career, his enemies made political capital of the flogging that never took place. He was probably twenty-four years old when, using the alias "Thomas Pitts," he was tried at Dorchester for "Spreading false news and fined five marks and sentenced to be whipped"—but he came down with smallpox and so was not whipped.[5] Lord Macaulay, who is incorrect on the facts taken from The Western Martyrology, certainly exaggerated in stating that Tutchin's temper was "exasperated to madness by what he had undergone."[6] That the Monmouth adventure and its aftermath mark a turning point in the young man's life, however, cannot doubted.

Tutchin may have fought with William III's army in Ireland as an officer.[7] After the Glorious Revolution and the establishment of William and Mary on the throne, Tutchin devoted himself to a succession of liberal causes. On the one hand, he persisted in identifying himself with the former commonwealth, the Monmouth cause, the Revolution, the reform movement especially in the theater, and Whig liberty. He became noted for tactless exposés of high-level misconduct in his pamphlets and in The Observator (Apr. 1, 1702-Sept. 23, 1707). His detractors frequently paired him with Defoe as a monster or a villain. Again and again, he made himself obnoxious to important personages such as the Earl of Albemarle or the Duke of Marlborough.[8] On the other hand, his hatred for tyranny propelled him frequently into such extremes as his disgraceful complicity in William Fuller's impostures. In the years 1700-1704, he was generally reputed to be "Secretary to the abominal Society of King-Killers"—the secret Calves-Head Club made up of dissenters who met on January 30th, the anniversary of the death of Charles I, to sing prophane anthems.[9]

Dunton generously summed up the widely varied causes of "the loyal and ingenious Tutchin (alias Master Observator); the bold Asserter of English Liberties; the scourge of the High-flyers; the Seaman's Advocate; the Detector of the Victualling-office; the scorn and terror of Fools and Knaves; the Nation's Argus, and the Queen's faithful Subject."[10] Even his death in Queen's Bench Prison, on September 23, 1707, was romanticized into another instance of martyrdom. "... he liv'd and dy'd," announced the Country-man of The Observator, "for the Service of his Country." Tutchin's followers dramatized his death as the result of a politically-inspired thrashing which "six ruffians" administered to him, in revenge for slanderous remarks made in The Observator against Vice-Admiral Sir Thomas Dilkes.[11] The "Pulchrum Est Pro Patria Mori" portrait, reprinted here as the frontispiece, was circulated to attest to Tutchin's political martyrdom. However, as the autopsy-report demonstrates and as Muddiman rightly concludes, "Tutchin really died from a specific disease and not from the thrashing undergone seven months before his death."[12]

The young man of twenty four who went off to join Monmouth's forces had already published, in 1685, Poems on Several Occasions. With a Pastoral. To Which is Added, A Discourse of Life. In the preface, writing like a fashionable man-about-town, Tutchin describes the lyrics, translations, and satires of this volume as "trifles" which he had let circulate and had now secured "by promising to Print them." The book shows the variety in poetic kinds that one would expect in a young writer who had been drinking deeply of Lord Rochester, Waller, Cowley, the Earl of Roscommon, Oldham, and Dryden. Juvenalian satires reminiscent of Oldham are neatly balanced by memorial verses to Oldham and Rochester, late metaphysical lyrics ("And why in red dost thou appear"), classical dialogues ("Cleopatra to Anthony"), translations of Horace, and the well-turned "autobiographical" couplets of "A Letter to A Friend." In its variety and themes, Poems on Several Occasions resembles Oldham's Works, which was published twice in 1684. Tutchin's "The Tory Catch," like Oldham's "A Dithyrambick. A Drunkard's Speech in a Mask," has a speaker who ironically brags of the social misconduct which the author satirizes. "A Letter to a Friend" is a skillfully exaggerated account of the attractions and dangers in rhyming. Although perhaps autobiographical in part, the poem also imitates the long-standing tradition derived from Horace's first Epistle of Book I, and revived most recently in Oldham's "A Letter from the Country to a Friend in Town."[13] Both "The Tory Catch" and "A Letter to a Friend" are reprinted here from Poems on Several Occasions.

Tutchin's first book shows two impulses: the awkwardly lyrical and the directly satiric. He feels compelled, in the Preface, to defend his choice of less serious subjects. His light poems do not, "in the least, detract from Virtue; since I have Read the Poems of Beza, Heinsius, our own Donne, &c." He promises to turn to "some Graver Subject." There are other equally significant comments in a Preface that reveals a great deal about changing literary taste. In "To the Memory of Mr. John Oldham," Tutchin curiously avoids the main subject of Dryden's finer elegy, namely, Oldham's achievement in rough satire. His praise is that "Crashaw and Cowley both did live in thee." However, in his "Satyr Against Vice" and "Satyr Against Whoring," Tutchin has already learned the art of declaiming, from the poet who has been called "the English Juvenal," John Oldham.

In the years between 1685 and 1707, Tutchin's separate poems were mainly occasional and satirical. Panegyric for William III dominates such an early piece as An Heroic Poem upon the Late Expedition of His Majesty (1689), and hatred for the Stuarts possesses a later poem like The British Muse: or Tyranny Expos'd (1701). In Civitas Militaris (1690) Tutchin engages in city politics. The elegy on the death of Queen Mary irritated Defoe enough to have "T——n" placed among the "Pindarick Legions" in The Pacificator (1700). Two poems, however,—The Earth-quake of Jamaica (1692) and Whitehall in Flames (1698)—differ from the others in that they are Cowleyan "Pindaricks" moralizing on disasters. The Earth-quake of Jamaica is reprinted here to illustrate Tutchin's descriptive talent. He starts with an actual event, the Jamaican disaster of June 7, 1692; and then, as the epigraph on the title page suggests, he presents a variation on Horace's rejection of "senseless Epicureanism," in Ode 34 of Book I. The Earth-quake of Jamaica may have been worked over longer than was customary. It was published shortly before December 10, the manuscript date on Narcissus Luttrell's copy now in the Houghton Library. Some six months earlier, in the late morning of June 7, the earthquake had erupted in Port Royal, the "boom" port on the south side of the island. In three schocks lasting less than three minutes, the famed capital of the buccaneers had fallen. News of the disaster did not reach London until August 9. The earthquake then became one of the most widely discussed events. The London Gazette ran stories on it, scientists like Sir Hans Sloane published eye-witness accounts in the Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society, the moralists declared God's wrath had come upon the wickedest place in Christendom, and "the actors of the drolls" in Southwark Fair even mockingly re-enacted the event until the Lord Mayor put a stop to the performances.[14]

If contemporary accounts of the Port Royal earthquake are compared with The Earth-quake of Jamaica, the reader becomes impressed by Tutchin's way of adapting the well-known details to a moral comment on life. His scenes are indeed graphic, but they do not have the immediacy of such eye-witness accounts as the following, preserved by Luttrell:

I cannot sufficiently represent the terrible circumstances that attended it; the earth swelled with a dismal humming noise, the houses fell, the earth opened in many places, the graves gave up some of their dead, the tomb stones ratled together; at last the earth sunk below the water, and the sea overwhelmed great numbers of people, whose shreiks and groanes made a lamentable eccho: the earth opened both behind and before me within 2 foot of my feet, and that place on which I stood trembled exceedingly; the water immediately boyled up upon the opening of the earth, but it pleased God to preserve me....[15]

Tutchin's aim is to compare vulnerable nature with vulnerable man: "Can humane Race / Stand on their / Legs when Nature Reels?" He sees in the disaster a challenge for English sinners to repent: the "Hurricane of Fate" wails on "murder'd Cornish." He had not yet forgotten the Monmouth adventure. For he alludes here to the act of Parliament passed in 1689 reversing the attainder of Henry Cornish, the alderman who had been brutally executed in 1685 for high treason through participating in the Rye House Plot and attaching himself to the Duke of Monmouth. For Tutchin, politics were always relevant.

Tutchin's true forte is not the descriptive poem, but satire. Poems published in the years 1696 to 1705—from A Pindarick Ode to The Tackers—exploit the satirical impulse that had been latent in Poems on Several Occasions. Increasingly he turns to general denunciation and thinly disguised lampoon. Of the two main Augustan traditions in satire—the "fine raillery" that Dryden perfected and the rough satire that reached back to Donne, Cleveland, and Oldham—Tutchin belongs to the latter. Defoe found him to be "so woundy touchy, and so willing to quarrel," and noted that "Want of Temper was his capital Error."[16] The specific circumstance that produced A Pindarick Ode, in the Praise of Folly and Knavery (1696), reprinted here, is generally said to be his dismissal from the victualling office because he failed to establish his case that the commissioners mismanaged public funds. Such corruption in the administration would soon transform a deep admiration for William III into the disenchantment of The Foreigners (1700). That Tutchin was uneasy in his effort to write satire in the mode of Dryden is suggested by his abandonment of irony after the first part of A Pindarick Ode. In his introductory verses, Benjamin Bridgwater accurately observes that Erasmus' Ironia no longer suffices:

This hard'ned Age do's rougher Means require,
We must be Cupp'd and Cauteriz'd with Fire.

Echoing Dryden's Mac Flecknoe, Tutchin invites Dullness and "Immortal Nonsence" to inspire his ironic praise of the folly and knavery that now ride roughshod over such traditional values as learning, love, wit, and patriotism. A few of the lines have the moving quality of Augustan satire at its best:

Did e'er the old or new Philosophy,
Make a Man splendid live, or wealthy die?

The irony of A Pindarick Ode does not adequately mask the denunciation. In Stanza X, it is even replaced by the antiquated Hero's diatribe against "our modern Knavish Arts"—never to return to the rest of the poem. Doubtless, the indictment of the "nefarious Brood at Home" that grows rich in wartime was the heart of the satire. Defoe hinted at this motive in the satirical vignette of Tutchin as Shamwhig, which appeared in the first edition of The True-Born Englishman (1700):

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.[17]

Tutchin's satire would be henceforth the rough variety. In The Foreigners he would also resort to fierce lampoons of William III's court favorites.

In the rash of satires that followed The Foreigners and The True-Born Englishman, the anonymous author of The Fable of the Cuckoo (1701) pointed to the common tradition shared by both poems. For he attacked Defoe's "hatchet muse" as having been inspired by such "Modern Sharpers of the Town" as Tutchin and "Old[ha]m the Bell-weather of Tory Faction," who first horned Defoe's satire, "And ever since perverted all good Nature." Advertised in The Flying Post for July 31-Aug. 1, 1700, The Foreigners was published shortly thereafter by the ardent Whig Anne Baldwin. The "vile abhor'd Pamphlet, in very ill Verse, written by one Mr. Tutchin, and call'd The Foreigners"—Defoe recalled years later in An Appeal to Honour and Justice (1715)—filled him "with a kind of Rage." Tutchin's irascible temper had again taken hold. Scurrilously, he assailed foreigners in high office, especially William III's Dutch favorites, for their monopolizing preferments and usurping command, under such transparent aliases as "Bentir" for William Bentinck, first Earl of Portland, and "Keppech" for Arnold Joost van Keppel, first Earl of Albemarle. The manner was Dryden's in Absalom and Achitophel; the venom was Tutchin's own. Official reaction to The Foreigners came quickly. The untrustworthy William Fuller spread the gossip that Tutchin fled from his Majesty's messengers, and found refuge "in a blind Ale-house, at the Windmill, by Mr. Bowyers, at Camberwel." On August 10th, he was taken "into custody of a messenger"; and at the grand inquest for the city of London, held on August 28th, there was presented "a Poem called The Foreigners."[18] A mystery envelops the rest of the legal proceedings. There may even be some truth in the allegation that the parry would long since have "ruffled" Tutchin, except that he pleased them with his "railing at King William's Friends sometimes."[19] The Foreigners also aroused such ephemeral rejoinders as The Reverse: or, the Tables Turn'd and The Nations: An Answer to the Foreigners. both published in 1700. Finally, in January of 1701, there was published a satire of more lasting worth, Defoe's The True-Born Englishman. Side by side, in Poems on Affairs of State (1703), were reprinted The Foreigners and The True-Born Englishman among verses "Written by the Greatest Wits of this Age."[20] Altogether, the two satirists had three poems apiece in the volume. One of Tutchin's poems, "The Tribe of Levi" (1691), was anonymously reprinted; the other two, The Foreigners and The British Muse, were identified as "by Mr. T——n." These were the achievements of Tutchin's "hatchet muse."

The poems are reprinted from copies in libraries of the U.S. and Great Britain. I am obligated to The Houghton Library for Poems on Several Occasions and The Earth-quake of Jamaica, to Yale University Library for The Foreigners, and to the British Museum for A Pindarick Ode, in the Praise of Folly and Knavery. For permission to reproduce the "Pulchrum Est Pro Patria Mori" portrait of John Tutchin as the frontispiece, I wish to express my thanks to the Trustees of the British Museum.

Spiro Peterson
Miami University
Oxford, Ohio

NOTES TO THE INTRODUCTION

[1] The Dunciad, ed. James Sutherland (The Twickenham Edition, Methuen & Co., Ltd., 1943), pp. 115-18.

[2] Tutchin's birth-year is variously given. The Van der Gucht engraving and the authentic Elegy of Tutchin's death state that he died "Aged 44"; but the mock Elegy, falsely claiming to be "Written by the Author of the Review," gives his age to be 47. In The Observator (Oct. 20-23, 1703), Tutchin implied that he was "Born some years after the Restoration of King Charles the 2d." His certificate of marriage to Elizabeth Hicks on Sept. 30, 1686 places his age then at twenty-five, and supports the birth-year 1661, as given in the DNB. See also The Observator, May 17-20, 1704; July 8-12, 1704; and July 24-28, 1703. One of Tutchin's enemies charged that he was born in the north of England (An Account of the Birth, Education, Life and Conversation of ... the Observator, 1705); and another, that his father was "a Scot, canting Presbyterian Sot" (The Picture of the Observator, 1704).

[3] The Observator, June 2-6, 1705. Tutchin stated, in The Case, Trial, and Sentence, that Judge Jeffreys had "a true Account" of his activities in Holland. See J. G. Muddiman, ed., The Bloody Assizes (Toronto, [1929]), p. 137.

[4] Muddiman, pp. 136-37. The Case, Trial, and Sentence is reprinted as a true record in T. B. Howell's A Complete Collection of State Trials (London, 1812), XIV, 1195-200, but as a highly questionable document in Muddiman, pp. 137-46.

[5] Muddiman, p. 219.

[6] The History of England, ed. C. H. Firth (London, 1914), II, 639. Insofar as the DNB article on Tutchin relies on Macaulay, it is erroneous.

[7] Shortly after Tutchin's death, the Country-man of The Observator lauded his beloved master as "an Officer in the Army," and addressed him "Captain Tutchin," as did the mock Elegy and the friendly Dunton.

[8] Narcissus Luttrell, A Brief Historical Relation of State Affairs (Oxford, 1857), V, 257; Manuscripts of the Marquis of Bath (H.M.C., London, 1904), I, 105-06.

[9] The authorship of the Calves-Head anthems is assigned to Tutchin in The Reverse: or, the Tables Turn'd (1700), p. 7, and to both Tutchin and Benjamin Bridgwater in The Examination, Tryal, and Condemnation of Rebellion Observator (1703), p. 17. See also Howard William Troyer, Ned Ward of Grubstreet (Harvard University Press, 1946), pp. 110, 117.

[10] The Life and Errors of John Dunton (London, 1818), I, 356.

[11] See The Observator, Jan. 4-8, 1707, and "Postscript"; Jan. 12-15, 1707; and Sept. 20-24, 1707.

[12] Pp. 12-13. See also The Observator, Sept. 27-Oct. 1, 1707, and William Bragg Ewald, Rogues, Royalty, and Reporters (Boston, [1954]), p. 14.

[13] For the two Oldham pieces, see Poems of John Oldham, introd. Bonamy Dobrée (Southern Illinois University Press, [c. 1960]) pp. 50-54, 72-79.

[14] The Diary of John Evelyn, ed. E. S. de Beer, 6 vols. (Oxford, 1955), V, 115; Luttrell, II, 565; W. Adolphe Roberts, Jamaica: the Portrait of an Island (New York, [c. 1955]), pp. 44-45; and Mary Manning Carley, Jamaica: the Old and the New (London, [c. 1963]), pp. 34-36, 157-58.

[15] Luttrell's entry for Aug. 13, 1692 (II, 539).

[16] Review, IV (Sept. 7, 1706) and IV (Nov. 20, 1707).

[17] Defoe's gloss on "Piteous Satyr" is "Satyr in Praise of Folly and Knavery." (The True-Born Englishman, 1700, p. 37.) Since he regards this as the title of the "Satyr upon Honesty," Defoe may be confusing A Pindarick Ode with Tutchin's next satire, A Search after Honesty (1697).

[18] Mr. William Fuller's Letter to Mr. John Tutchin (1703), p. 7; Luttrell, V, 676, 683; The Proceedings of the King's Commission of the Peace, and Oyer and Terminer and Goal Delivery of Newgate ... the 28th, 29th, 30th and 31st Days of August 1700.

[19] "A Dialogue between a Dissenter and the Observator," in A Collection of the Writings of the Author of the True-Born Englishman (1703), p. 227.

[20] II, 1-6, 7-46.

John Tutchin Mr. John Tutchin

Dy'd Septber 23d 1707. Aged 44.

POEMS

ON

Several Occasions.

WITH A

PASTORAL

To which is Added, A

DISCOURSE

OF

LIFE

By JOHN TUTCHIN.

LONDON,

Printed by J. L. for Jonathan Greenwood, at the
Black Raven in the Poultry, near the
Old Jury. MDCLXXXV.

THE

Tory Catch.

I.

A Friend of mine, and I did follow
A Cart and Six, with Brandy fraught;
We sate us down, and up did swallow
Each a Gallon at a draught:
The sober Sot can't drink with us,
May kiss coy Wine with Tantalus.

II.

With Musick fit for Serenading,
We did ramble to and fro;
Then to Drink and Masquerading,
'Till we cannot stand nor go;
One Leg by Bacchus was quite lamed,
'Tother Venus had defamed.

III.

At the Tavern we did whisk it,
And full Pipes did empty drain:
We eat Pint-Pots instead of Bisket,
And piss'd 'em melted out again:
We beat the Vintner, kiss'd his Wife,
And kill'd three Drawers in the strife.

IV.

In the Street we found some Bullies,
And to make our valour known,
We call'd 'em Fops, and silly Cullies,
And knock'd the foremost of 'em down:
And with praise to end the Fray,
We, like good Souldiers, ran away.

V.

To the Play-House we descended,
For to get a grain of Wit,
Our own with Wine was so defended.
We sate spuing in the Pit,
'Mongst Drunken Lords and Whoring Ladies,
To see such sights whose only Trade is.

A

LETTER

TO A

FRIEND.

Thanks for your Praises! were they due, I wou'd
Pamper my self with Joy, and think 'em Good.
Loaden with Laurels for mine unknown Art,
You paint me Great, although beneath Desert.
But if Macenas had a lasting Fame,
Because the best of Poets us'd his Name;
Then Merit justly may to me belong,
Because 'tis sung by your all-skilful Tongue.
Oft have I blam'd my Stars, that I should be
Plagu'd with this soft deluding Poetry:
This Charming Mistress that has kept my Heart,
Quite from a Child, by her bewitching Art.
From her glad Fountain I can always find
A pleasing Philtre to make Phillis kind:
For tell me that coy Maid could ever be
Cruel, when urg'd by Charming Poesie?
Verse is the Poet's Beauty, Wealth and Wit;
And what soft Virgin won't be won by it?
But, wearied with Delight, I always try
Against this Spell to find a Remedy.
By good Divinity I think to find
A Soveraign Remedy for Soul and Mind:
But then, with Holy Flame, I strait do burn,
And all to Hymns, and Sacred Anthems turn.
Nay, when the Night does waking Thoughts redress,
And Guardian Angels with our Souls converse,
To busie Mortals is the sleeping Time;
I dream and slumber all the Night in Rhyme.
Then puzling Logick next I take in hand;
But this, Alas! can't Poesie withstand.
Barbara, Celarent, I with Ease express,
And yoke rough Ergo's into well-made Verse:
My Faithless Lover's Syllogism tries;
I by stout Logick find their Fallacies.
Then Scheibler, Suarez, Bellarmine I get,
And sound the depth of Metaphysick wit:
Streight, in a fret, I damn 'em all at once,
And vow they are as dull as Zabarel or Dunce.
Credit me, Sir, no greater plague can be,
Than to be poison'd with mad Poetrie:
Like Pocky Letchers, who have got a Clap,
And paid the Doctor for the dear mishap;
But newly eased of their nausceous pain,
Return unto their wanton Sin again.
So Poets be they plague'd with naughty Verse,
They never value good nor bad success:
Or be they trebly damn'd, they will prefer
Their next vile scribling to the Theater.
Well might the Audience, with their hisses, damn
The Bawdy Sot that late wrote Limberham:
But yet you see, the Stage he will command,
And hold the Laurel in's polluted Hand.
In slothful ease, a while I took delight,
And thought all Poets mad that us'd to write.
So long I kept from Verse, I thought I'd lost
My Versing Vein, and of my Fortune boast:
But having tryal made, I quickly found
My store renew'd, in numbers strong and sound
With ease my happy fancies come and go,
As Rivulets do from Parnassus flow.
Then finding that in vain I long had try'd
The Poet from the Tutchin to divide;
I charming Poesie make my delight,
And propagate the humor still to Write.
Our new Divines do alter not one jot,
From what their Tribe in older times have wrot;
Except, like Parker, to have something new,
They broach new Doctrines, either false or true:
A Publick Conscience, which for nought does pass,
But proves the Writer is a publick Ass;
Who the new Philosophick world have told,
Have for a new but varnish'd o're the old.
But all Poetick Phancy can't draw dry,
Th' unfathom'd Wells of deepest Poesie.
The Bifront Hill is always stout and strong;
The Muses still are handsome, always young.
The clearest streams of Chrystal Helicon
Do o're the Pebles in sweet Rhymings run.
Why then should you, Dear Sir, (that have pretence
To the extreamest bounds of Wit and Sense)
Lay by your Quills and hold your Tune-ful Tongue,
While all the witty want your pleasing Song?
Once more renew those Lays that gave delight,
That chear the Day, and glad the gloomy Night:
May with your dying breath your Verses end;
Thus prays your constant, and

Your truest Friend,

J. T.

THE

EARTH-QUAKE

OF

JAMAICA,

Describ'd in a

Pindarick Poem.

By Mr. TUTCHIN.

——namq; Diespiter
Igni corusco nubila dividens
Plerumq; per purum tonantes
Egit Equos volucremq; currum,
Quo bruta Tellus & vaga flumina,
Quo Styx, & invisi horrida Tænari
Sedes, Atlanteusq; finis
Concutitur. Valet ima summis
Mutare,——

Horat. lib. I. Ode 34.

L O N D O N,

Printed, and are to be sold by R. Baldwin, near the
Oxford-Arms in Warwick-lane, 1692.

THE

Earthquake of Jamaica

Describ'd in a POEM.

I.

Well may our Lives bear an uncertain date;
Disturb'd with Maladies within,
Without by cross Events of Fate,
The worst of Plagues on Mortals wait,
Pride, Ignorance and Sin.
If our ancient Mother Earth,
Who gave us all untimely Birth,
Such strong Hysterick Passion feels;
If Orbs are from their Axles torn,
And Mountains into Valleys worn,
All in a moments space,
Can humane Race
Stand on their Legs when Nature Reels?
Unhappy Man! in all things cross'd,
On every giddy Wave of Fortune toss'd;
The only thing that aims at Sway,
And yet capricious Fate must still Obey;
Travels for Wealth to Foreign Lands,
O're scorching Mountains, and o're desart Sands,
Laden with Gold, when homeward bound,
Is in one vast impetuous Billow drown'd:
Or if he reaches to the Shoar,
And there unlades his Oar,
Builds Towns and Houses which may last and stand,
Thinking no Wealth so sure as firm Land;
Yet Fate the Animal does still pursue;
This slides from underneath his Feet, and leaves him too.

II.

Environ'd with Ten Thousand Fears we live,
For Fate do's seldom a just warning give;
Quicker than Thought its dire Resolves are made,
And swift as Lightning flies,
Around the vast extended Skies:
All things are by its Bolts in vast Confusion laid.
Sometimes a Flaming Comet does appear,
Whose very Visage does pronounce,
Decay of Kingdoms, and the Fall of Crowns,
Intestine War, or Pestilential Year;
Sometimes a Hurricane of Fate,
Does on some great Mans Exit wait,
A murder'd Cornish, or some Hercules,
When from their Trunks Almighty Jove,
Who breaks with Thunder weighty Clouds above,
To Honour these
Large Pines and Oaks does Lop,
And in a Whirlwind lays 'em upon Oeta's Top.
E're this vast Orb shall unto Chaos turn,
And with Consuming Flames shall burn,
An Angel Trumpeter shall come,
Whose Noise shall shake the Massie Ground,
In one short moment shall express,
His Notes to the whole Universe;
The very Dead shall hear his Sound,
And from their Graves repair,
To the impartial Bar,
Those that have been in the deep Ocean drown'd,
Shall at his Call come to receive their Doom.

III.

But here, alas! no Omens fly,
No secret Whisper of their Destiny
Was heard; none cou'd divine
When Fate wou'd spring the Mine:
Safe and secure the Mortals go,
Not dreaming of a Hell below;
In the dark Caverns of the gloomy Earth,
Where suffocating Sulphur has its Birth,
And sparkling Nitre's made,
Where Vulcan and his Cyclops prove;
The Thunderbolts they make for Jove;
Here Æolus his Winds has laid,
Here is his Windy Palace, here 'tis said
His Race of little puffing Gods are bred,
Which serve for Bellows to blow up the Flame,
The dire ingredients are in order plac'd,
Which must anon lay Towns and Cities waste.
Strait the black Engineer of Heaven came,
His Match a Sun-beam was,
He swift as Time unto the Train did pass,
It soon took Fire; The Fire and Winds contend,
But both concur the Vaulted Earth to rend;
It upwards rose, and then it downwards fell,
Aiming at Heaven, it sunk to Hell:
The Neighb'ring Seas now own no more,
The sturdy Bulwarks of the Shoar,
The gaping Earth and greedy Sea,
Are both contending for the Prey;
Those whom the rav'nous Earth had ta'ne,
Into her Bowels back again
Are wash't from thence by the insulting Main.

IV.

The Old and Young receive alike their Doom,
The Cowards and the Brave,
Are buried in one Grave;
For Fate allows 'em all one Common Tomb.
The Aged and the Wise
Lose all their Reason in the great Surprise.
They know not where to go,
And yet they dare not stay,
There's Fire and Smoak below,
And the Earth gaping to receive the Prey:
If to the Houses Top they Crawl,
These tumble too, and downwards fall:
And if they fly into the Street,
There grizly Death they meet;
All in a hurry dye away,
The wicked had not time to pray.
The Soldier once cou'd teach grim Death to kill,
In vain is all his Skill,
In vain he brandisheth his Steel:
No more the Art of War must teach,
But lyes Fates Trophy underneath the Breach:
The good Companions now no more Carouse,
They share the Fate of the declining House,
Healths to their Friends their Bumpers Crown'd:
But while they put the Glasses round,
Death steps between the Cup and lip,
Nor would it let 'em take one parting Sip.

V.

The Mine is sprung, and a large Breach is made,
Whereat strong Troops of Warring Seas invade;
These overflow;
Where Houses stood and Grass did grow,
All sorts of Fish resort:
They had Dominions large enough before,
But now unbounded by the Shoar,
They o're the Tops of Houses sport.
The Watry Fry their Legions do extend,
And for the new slain Prey contend;
Within the Houses now they roam,
Into their Foe, the very Kitchen, come.
One does the Chimney-hearth assail,
Another slaps the Kettle with his slimy Tail.
No Image there of Death is seen,
No Cook-maid does obstruct their Sway,
They have entirely got the day.
Those who have once devour'd been
By Mankind, now on Man do Feed:
Thus Fate decides, and steps between,
And sometimes gives the Slave the Victors meed.
The Beauteous Virgins whom the Gods might love,
Cou'd not the Curse of Heav'n remove;
Their goodness might for Crimes Atone,
Inexorable Death spares none.
Their tender Flesh lately so plump and good,
Is now made Fishes and Sea-monsters Food;
In vain they cry,
Heav'n is grown Deaf, and no Petition hears,
Their Sighs are answer'd like their Lovers Pray'rs,
They in the Universal Ruin lye.

VI.

Nor is inexorable Fate content
To ruine one poor Town alone;
More Mischief by the Blow is done:
Death's on a farther Message sent.
When Fate a Garrison does Sack,
The very Suburbs do partake
Of Martial Law,
Its Forces draw
To every Mountain, Field and Wood,
They Ravage all the Neighbourhood.
Worse than the weak Assaults of Steel,
Its Instruments of Death all places feel.
They undiscover'd, like fell Poison kill,
Its Warriours fierce,
The Earth, the Air, and Men do pierce;
And mounted, fight upon the winged Winds.
Here a great Mountain in a Valley's thrown,
And there a Valley to a Mountain grown.
The very Breath of an incensed God,
Makes even proud Olympus Nod.
Chang'd is the Beauty of the fruitful Isle,
And its fair Woods lopp'd for its Funeral Pile.
The moving Earth forms it self in Waves,
And Curls its Surface like the Rowling Seas;
Whilst Man (that little thing) so vainly Raves,
Nothing but Heaven can its own Wrath appease.

VII.

But Fate at length thought fit to leave its Toil,
And greedy Death was glutted with the Spoil.
As weary Soldiers having try'd their Steel,
Half drown'd with Blood, do then desist to kill.
More Ruin wou'd a second Deluge make,
Blot out the Name of the unhappy Isle.
It fares with her as when in Martial Field,
Resolv'd and Brave, and loath to yield,
Two num'rous Armies do contend,
And with repeated Shouts the Air do Rend.
Whilst the affrighted Earth does shake,
Some large Battalions are entirely lost,
And Warring Squadrons from the mighty Host:
Here by a Shot does fall
Some Potent General;
And near to him,
Another loses but a Limb.
Part of the Island was a Prey to Fate,
And all the rest do's but prolong its date,
'Till injur'd Heav'n finds,
Its Bolts a Terror strike on humane Minds;
Sure we may hope the Sinners there Repent,
Since it has made their lewdest Priest Relent.

F I N I S.

A

Pindarick ODE,

IN THE

PRAISE

OF

Folly and Knavery.

By Mr. TUTCHIN.

L O N D O N,
Printed and Sold by E. W. near Stationers-Hall.
1696. Price 6d.

A

Pindarick ODE

In the Praise of

Folly and Knavery.

I.

My humble Muse no Hero Sings,
Nor Acts, nor Funerals of Kings:
The great Maria now no more,
In Sable Lines she does deplore;
Of mighty William's growing fame,
At present must forget the name,
Yet she affects something that is sublime,
And would in Dytherambick strain }
Attempt to rise, and now disdain
The Shrubs and Furzes of the Plain:
He that's afraid to fall, shou'd ne'r pretend to climb.

II.

Let others boast of potent Wit,
And Summon in the awful Nine,
With all their Aids of Fancy, Humor, Sence,
Fair polish'd Learning, Eloquence,
And call their gawdy works Divine:
Hov'ring above my Head let dullness sit,
The only God that's worshipp'd by the Age;
Immortal Nonsence guide my Pen,
The Fames of Shakespear and of Ben,
Must warp, before my nobler fire
To their regardless Tombs retire.
Thus Arm'd, with Nonsence, I'll engage
Both Universities,
And their Pedantick fooleries,
Show the misguided World the Cheat,
And let Man know that Nonsence makes him Great.

III.

Almighty Folly! How shall I thy praise
To Human Understandings raise?
What shall I do
Thy worth to shew?
The Glorious Sun, that rules the Day,
Gives vital warmth and life by ev'ry Ray.
His Blessings he in common grants,
To Hemlock as to nobler Plants;
Thy Virtue thou dost circumscribe,
And dost dispence
Thy influence,
But to the Darlings of thy Tribe,
Thou Wealth and Honour dost bestow
On thy triumphant Fools,
Whilst abject Sence do's barefoot go;
So weak's the Learning of the noisie Schools.

IV.

Tell me, ye Learned Sots! who spend your time
In reading Books,
With thoughtful Heads and meagre Looks,
To Learnings Pinacle, who climb
Through the wild Briers of Philosophy,
The Thorns of harsh Philology,
The dirty Road where Aristotle went
Encumber'd with a thousand terms
Uncouth, Unintelligible,
Not by any fancy fathomable,
Bringing distracted Minds to harms;
The rankest Hellebore cannot prevent.
Tell me, I say, ye Learn'd Sots!
Did e'r the old or new Philosophy,
Make a Man splendid live, or wealthy die?
Tho' you may think your Notions truer,
They'll ne'r advance your Lotts,
To the Estate of Wise Sir Jonathan the Brewer.

V.

A Fool! Heav'ns bless the charming Name,
So much admir'd in Ages past,
As long as this, and all the World shall last,
Shall be the Subject of Triumphing Fame.
A Fool! what mighty wonders has he wrought?
What mighty Actions done?
Obey'd by all, controul'd by none;
Even Love its self is to its Footstool brought.
For t'other day, I met amidst the Throng
A Lady wealthy, beautiful and young;
Madam, said I, I wish you double Joy,
Of a ripe Husband and a budding Boy,
And with my self a sight of him you Wed, }
The happy Part'ner of your Bridal Bed.
Sir, she reply'd, I him in Wedlock had;
Pointing unto an Image by her side,
An odder Figure no Man e'r espy'd,
Long was his Chin, and carotty his Beard,
His Eyes sunk in, and high his Nose was rear'd,
A nauseous ugliness possess'd the Tool,
And scarce had Wit enough to be a Fool:
Bless me (thought I) if Fools such fortune get,
Then who (the Devil) wou'd be plagu'd with wit.

VI.

View but the Realms of Nonsence, see the State,
The Pageant pomp attends the show,
When the great God of Dullness does in triumph go,
How splendid and how great
His num'rous Train of Blockheads do appear?
Almighty Jove,
That governs all above,
Is but a puny to this Mighty God,
The blustring God of War,
Who with one Nod
Makes the Earth tremble from afar,
Guarded with puissant Champions stern and bold
That breath Destruction, talk of bloody Jars,
Have nought but ragged Cloaths to keep off cold,
And tatter'd Ensigns relicks of the Wars.
The God of Dullness mounted on his Throne
Beneath a Canopy
Of fix'd stupidity,
Prostrate his num'rous Subjects tumble down,
They pay obeisance to their gloomy God,
And at his Nod
They act, they move,
They hate, they love,
They bless, they curse, they swear,
For they his Creatures are,
He amply does his Benefits afford,
For each confirmed Blockhead is a Lord.

VII.

Then talk no more of Parts and Sence,
For Riches ne'r attend the Wise,
Have you to dullness no pretence,
You shall to Grandeur never rise;
He with a gloomy mien Divinely dull,
Whose very aspect tells the World he is a Fool,
Whose thicker Skull
Is proof against each storm of Fate,
Is Born for Glory, and he shall be Great.
Who 'ere wou'd rise,
Or great Preferment get,
Must nere pretend to Wit,
Or be that monstrous, ill shap'd Man call'd Wise;
He must not boast
Of Learning's Value, or its cost;
But, if he wou'd Preferment have,
He must be much a Fool, or much a Knave.

VIII.

A Knave! the finer Creature far,
Tho' of the foolish Race of Issachar.
As the unwieldy Bear among her young
Deform'd, and shapeless Cubs,
Finds one more strong,
Active and sprightly than the rest:
Him she transforms and rubs,
And licks into a better shape the Beast.
Thus do's the gloomy God of Folly do,
With the insipid Race:
He do's his num'rous Offspring call, }
He handles one and feels his Skull;
If it be thick, he says, Be thou a Fool.
Another, if about his Face
He spies a roguish Mein, a cunning Look;
If there appears
The hopes of Falshood in his tender Years,
Good signs of Perjury
And hardn'd Villany;
This for his secret Councils he do's save,
Lays on his Paw, and bids him, Be a Knave.

IX.

A Knave! the elder brother to the Fool:
His vast Dominions are no less
Than the whole Universe:
The Lands are bounded by the Sea:
The Seas the sturdy Rocks obey:
The Storms do know the Limits of their Rule:
Neither the Land nor Sea this Hero bind,
But unconfin'd
O're both he finds a way,
O're both he bears Imperial sway:
His gay Attendants are the Cheat,
That ruines Kingdoms to be Great.
The fawning, flattring Fop, who creeps
Just like a Spaniel at your Heels,
To some illustrious Knave, who sweeps
Away a Kingdoms Wealth at once,
And with the Publick Coin his Treasure fills;
For Kingdoms work t'enrich the Knave and Dunce.

X.

Honesty's a Garb we're mock'd in,
Only wore by Jews and Turks.
Merit is a Popish Doctrine;
Men have no regard to Works.
Substantial Knavery is a Vertue will
Your Coffers fill;
And Altars raise,
Unto your Praise.
Be but a Knave, you'll keep the World in awe,
And fear no Law;
For no Transgression is,
Where all Men do amiss.
But here methinks an antiquated Hero starts,
Surpris'd at my Discourse;
He starts and boggles like a Horse,
And damns our modern Knavish Arts.

XI.

Vain Youth, he says misguided by a Knave,
By some dull Blockhead tempted from thy rest;
The worldly Grandeur thou dost vainly crave,
Is nought but Noise and Foolishness at best.
What Man wou'd quit his Sense,
Or, the wise Dictates of right Reason's Rule,
In vain pretence
To be a rich, a gawdy Fool?
Or, quit his Honesty, so much despis'd,
And basely condescend,
To every little Knavish End;
Run headlong into every Cheat,
Attempt each Villany to make him Great.
Believe me Youth, (be better now advis'd)
Thy early Vertues will thy Temples spread, }
With lasting Lawrels 'round thy Head.
Shall flourish when the Wearers dead.
I who have always honest been, though poor,
In whom the utmost signs of Age appears,
And sink beneath the Burthen of my Years,
Cou'd never yet adore
A Knave or Blockhead, were he ne'er so Great;
Or, be like to them, to purchase an Estate.

XII.

Poor thredbare Vertue ne'er admir'd in Court,
But seeks its Refuge in an honest Mind,
There it securely dwells,
Like Anchorets in Cells,
Where no Ambition nor wild Lust resorts:
To love our Country is indeed our Pride;
We glory in an honest Action done;
When the Reward is laid aside
The Glory and the Action is our own,
We seldom find
The Good, the Just, the Brave,
Have their Reward
From Princes they did save
From dire Destruction, or a poisoning Foe;
They let them go
Contemn'd, disdain'd; and most regard
Those Villians sought their overthrow.
As if the Just, the Brave, the Good,
Were but a Bridge of Wood
To waft to great Preferments o'er,
Those, who were our foes before,
And then be tumbl'd down like useless Logs,
While those, who just pass'd o'er,
And the obliging Bridge shou'd thank,
Do scornfully stand grinning on the Bank,
To see the venerable Ruines float
Adrift upon the Stream,
Contemn'd by them,
Who give the Childrens Bread unto the Dogs;
In vain, says he, we've fought——
But at this Word
He fiercely look'd, and then he grasp'd his Sword.

XIII.

Pity it is, he said, this Sword of mine,
Of late so gloriously did shine,
In Foreign Fields 'midst Show'rs of Blood,
With which I've cut my Passage through
The Snowy Alps and Pyrenean Hills,
Where Death the Land with vast Destruction fills,
'Mongst Warriors, who
Venture their Lives for their dear Countries good,
Should now be laid aside
'Mongst Rubbish Iron old,
From reaking Blood scarce cold;
Or else converted to a Knife,
For some damn'd Villain first to cut
A Princes Bread, and next his Throat:
In vain we venture to preserve his Life,
In vain to Foreign Fields we come,
In vain to Foreign Force alli'd,
If a nefarious Brood at Home
Embarrass his Affairs,
Prolong the Wars,
Only t' enrich his Enemies,
Weaken his Government, and his Allies.

XIV.

'Tis strange a Prince, shou'd ere a Fool preferr,
To be an Officer!
A Knave may serve an unjust Government,
But ne'er prevent
Those Mischiefs may attend the just:
For who would trust
A Villain may be bought by Gold,
Unless design'd on purpose to be sold?
If Princes wou'd use Fools as Shop-men do
Their Signs or Boards of show,
To tell the passers by there's better stuff
Within, 'tis rational enough.
But to set Centry at the Door, }
A Patriot or a Senator,
Philosopher or Orator,
To tell the Passers by their is within,
A Merry Andrew to be seen,
Is very much ridiculous,
Tho' to our grief we often find it thus.
Thus Princes Bastardize
Their Countries Sons Legitimate,
And give the fair Estate
Unto a Spurious Brood,
That ne'er did good;
The honest Work, the Knave enjoys the Prize.

XV.

A Government adorn'd with Fools,
Empty Trifles, useless Tools,
Looks like a Toy-Shop gloriously bedeckt
With gawdy gewgaws, Childrens play things,
Painted Babies, Tinsel Creatures,
Wooden Folk, with Human features,
Made just for show, and no advantage brings,
And prove of no effect.
It dwindles to a Raree-Show,
In which no Man must act a Part
But the dull Blockhead and the Beau,
The huffing Fop without a Heart;
What Wise Man would a Journey take
On a dull Steed has broke his Back?
Or have recourse
Unto a Hobby-Horse?
Those act by such wise Rules,
Who prop Just Princes by a Tyrant's Tools.

XVI.

Surely the Genius of a fruitful Isle
Is either lost,
Or what is worst,
Murder'd by those who shou'd support her Fame,
Add Glory to her Name;
The Heavens themselves have cast an angry look,
Seldom the Glorious Sun does shine
But Veils its face Divine.
Jove does misguide the Seasons every Year;
Nought can we read in Nature's Book,
To reap her Fruits scarce worth our while.
Our Mother Earth,
From whose unhappy Womb,
We Mortals come,
Ne'er shows a Glorious Birth,
But proves abortive as our Actions are;
Nought have we left but hope,
Just like the Blind at Noon we grope:
The number of our Sins we must fulfil,
And if we're sav'd, it is against our will.

F I N I S.

THE

FOREIGNERS.

A

P O E M.

P A R T   I.

L O N D O N,
Printed for A. Baldwin in Warwicklane,
MDCC.

The Foreigners.

Long time had Israel been disus'd from Rest,
Long had they been by Tyrants sore opprest;
Kings of all sorts they ignorantly crav'd,
And grew more stupid as they were enslav'd;
Yet want of Grace they impiously disown'd,
And still like Slaves beneath the Burden groan'd:
With languid Eyes their Race of Kings they view,
The Bad too many, and the Good too few;
Some rob'd their Houses, and destroy'd their Lives,
Ravish'd their Daughters, and debauch'd their Wives;
Prophan'd the Altars with polluted Loves,
And worship'd Idols in the Woods and Groves.

To Foreign Nations next they have recourse;
Striving to mend, they made their State much worse.
They first from Hebron all their Plagues did bring,
Cramm'd in the Single Person of a King;
From whose base Loins ten thousand Evils flow,
Which by Succession they must undergo.
Yet sense of Native Freedom still remains,
They fret and grumble underneath their Chains;
Incens'd, enrag'd, their Passion do's arise,
Till at his Palace-Gate their Monarch dies.
This Glorious Feat was by the Fathers done,
Whose Children next depos'd his Tyrant Son,
Made him, like Cain, a murd'rous Wanderer,
Both of his Crimes, and of his Fortunes share.

But still resolv'd to split on Foreign Shelves,
Rather than venture once to trust Themselves,
To Foreign Courts and Councils do resort,
To find a King their Freedoms to support:
Of one for mighty Actions fam'd they're told,
Profoundly wise, and desperately bold,
Skilful in War, Successful still in Fight,
Had vanquish'd Hosts, and Armies put to flight;
And when the Storms of War and Battels cease,
Knew well to steer the Ship of State in Peace.
Him they approve, approaching to their sight;
Lov'd by the Gods, of Mankind the Delight.
The numerous Tribes resort to see him land,
Cover the Beach, and blacken all the Strand;
With loud Huzza's they welcome him on shore,
And for their Blessing do the Gods implore.

The Sanhedrim conven'd, at length debate
The sad Condition of their drooping State,
And Sinking Church, just ready now to drown;
And with one Shout they do the Hero crown.

Ah Happy Israel! had there never come
Into his Councils crafty Knaves at home,
In combination with a Foreign Brood,
Sworn Foes to Israel's Rights and Israel's Good;
Who impiously foment Intestine Jars,
Exhaust our Treasure, and prolong our Wars;
Make Israel's People to themselves a prey,
Mislead their King, and steal his Heart away:
United Intrests thus they do divide,
The State declines by Avarice and Pride;
Like Beasts of Prey they ravage all the Land,
Acquire Preferments, and usurp Command:
The Foreign Inmates the Housekeepers spoil,
And drain the Moisture of our fruitful Soil.
If to our Monarch there are Honours due,
Yet what with Gibeonites have we to do?
When Foreign States employ 'em for their Food,
To draw their Water, and to hew their Wood.
What Mushroom Honours dos our Soil afford!
One day a Begger, and the next a Lord.
What dastard Souls do Jewish Nobles wear!
The Commons such Affronts would never bear.
Let no Historian the sad Stories tell
Of thy base Sons, Oh servile Israel!
But thou, my Muse, more generous and brave,
Shalt their black Crimes from dark oblivion save;
To future Ages shalt their Sins disclose,
And brand with Infamy thy Nation's Foes.

A Country lies, due East from Judah's Shoar,
Where stormy Winds and noisy Billows roar;
A Land much differing from all other Soils,
Forc'd from the Sea, and buttress'd up with Piles.
No marble Quarrys bind the spungy Ground,
But Loads of Sand and Cockle-shells are found:
Its Natives void of Honesty and Grace,
A Boorish, rude, and an inhumane Race;
From Nature's Excrement their Life is drawn,
Are born in Bogs, and nourish'd up from Spawn.
Their hard-smoak'd Beef is their continual Meat,
Which they with Rusk, their luscious Manna, eat;
Such Food with their chill stomachs best agrees,
They sing Hosannah to a Mare's-milk Cheese.
To supplicate no God, their Lips will move,
Who speaks in Thunder like Almighty Jove,
But watry Deities they do invoke,
Who from the Marshes most Divinely croak.
Their Land, as if asham'd their Crimes to see,
Dives down beneath the surface of the Sea.
Neptune, the God who do's the Seas command,
Ne'er stands on Tip-toe to descry their Land;
But seated on a Billow of the Sea,
With Ease their humble Marshes do's survey.
These are the Vermin do our State molest;
Eclipse our Glory, and disturb our Rest.

BENTIR in the Inglorious Roll the first,
Bentir to this and future Ages curst,
Of mean Descent, yet insolently proud,
Shun'd by the Great, and hated by the Crowd;
Who neither Blood nor Parentage can boast,
And what he got the Jewish Nation lost:
By lavish Grants whole Provinces he gains,
Made forfeit by the Jewish Peoples Pains;
Till angry Sanhedrims such Grants resume,
And from the Peacock take each borrow'd Plume.
Why should the Gibeonites our Land engross,
And aggrandize their Fortunes with our loss?
Let them in foreign States proudly command,
They have no Portion in the Promis'd Land,
Which immemorially has been decreed
To be the Birth-right of the Jewish Seed.
How ill do's Bentir in the Head appear }
Of Warriours, who do Jewish Ensigns bear?
By such we're grown e'en Scandalous in War.
Our Fathers Trophies wore, and oft could tell
How by their Swords the mighty Thousands fell;
What mighty Deeds our Grandfathers had done,
What Battels fought, what Wreaths of Honour won:
Thro the extended Orb they purchas'd Fame,
The Nations trembling at their Awful Name:
Such wondrous Heroes our Fore-fathers were,
When we, base Souls! but Pigmies are in War:
By Foreign Chieftains we improve in Skill;
We learn how to intrench, not how to kill:
For all our Charge are good Proficients made
In using both the Pickax and the Spade.
But in what Field have we a Conquest wrought?
In Ten Years War what Battel have we fought?

If we a Foreign Slave may use in War,
Yet why in Council should that Slave appear?
If we with Jewish Treasure make him great,
Must it be done to undermine the State?
Where are the Antient Sages of Renown? }
No Magi left, fit to advise the Crown?
Must we by Foreign Councils be undone?
Unhappy Israel, who such Measures takes,
And seeks for Statesmen in the Bogs and Lakes;
Who speak the Language of most abject Slaves,
Under the Conduct of our Jewish Knaves.
Our Hebrew's murder'd in their hoarser Throats;
How ill their Tongues agree with Jewish Notes!
Their untun'd Prattle do's our Sense confound,
Which in our Princely Palaces do's sound;
The self-same Language the old Serpent spoke,
When misbelieving Eve the Apple took:
Of our first Mother why are we asham'd,
When by the self-same Rhetorick we are damn'd?

But Bentir, not Content with such Command,
To canton out the Jewish Nation's Land;
He do's extend to Other Coasts his Pride,
And other Kingdoms into Parts divide:
Unhappy Hiram! dismal is thy Song;
Tho born to Empire, thou art ever young!
Ever in Nonage, canst no Right transfer:
But who made Bentir thy Executor?
What mighty Power do's Israel's Land afford? }
What Power has made the famous Bentir Lord?
The Peoples Voice, and Sanhedrim's Accord.
Are not the Rights of People still the same?
Did they e'er differ in or Place or Name?
Have not Mankind on equal Terms still stood,
Without Distinction, since the mighty Flood?
And have not Hiram's Subjects a free Choice
To chuse a King by their united Voice?
If Israel's People cou'd a Monarch chuse,
A living King at the same time refuse;
That Hiram's People, shall it e'er be said,
Have not the Right of Choice when he is dead?
When no Successor to the Crown's in sight,
The Crown is certainly the Peoples Right.
If Kings are made the People to enthral,
We had much better have no King at all:
But Kings, appointed for the Common Good,
Always as Guardians to their People stood.
And Heaven allows the People sure a Power
To chuse such Kings as shall not them devour:
They know full well what best will serve themselves,
How to avoid the dang'rous Rocks and Shelves.

Unthinking Israel! Ah henceforth beware
How you entrust this faithless Wanderer!
He who another Kingdom can divide, }
May set your Constitution soon aside,
And o'er your Liberties in Triumph ride.
Support your Rightful Monarch and his Crown,
But pull this proud, this croaking Mortal down.

Proceed, my Muse; the Story next relate
Of Keppech the Imperious Chit of State,
Mounted to Grandeur by the usual Course
Of Whoring, Pimping, or a Crime that's worse;
Of Foreign Birth, and undescended too,
Yet he, like Bentir, mighty Feats can do.
He robs our Treasure, to augment his State,
And Jewish Nobles on his Fortunes wait:
Our ravish'd Honours on his Shoulder wears,
And Titles from our Antient Rolls he tears.
Was e'er a prudent People thus befool'd,
By upstart Foreigners thus basely gull'd?
Ye Jewish Nobles, boast no more your Race,
Or sacred Badges did your Fathers grace!
In vain is Blood, or Parentages, when
Ribbons and Garters can ennoble Men.
To Chivalry you need have no recourse,
The gawdy Trappings make the Ass a Horse.
No more, no more your Antient Honours own,
By slavish Gibeonites you are outdone:
Or else your Antient Courage reassume,
And to assert your Honours once presume;
From off their Heads your ravish'd Lawrels tear,
And let them know what Jewish Nobles are.

T H E   E N D.

The Augustan Reprint
Society

WILLIAM ANDREWS CLARK MEMORIAL LIBRARY
University of California, Los Angeles

PUBLICATIONS IN PRINT

1948-1949

16. Nevil Payne, Fatal Jealousy (1673).

17. Nicholas Rowe, Some Account of the Life of Mr. William Shakespeare (1709).

18. "Of Genius," in The Occasional Paper, Vol. III, No. 10 (1719); and Aaron Hill's Preface to The Creation (1720).

1949-1950

22. Samuel Johnson, The Vanity of Human Wishes (1749) and two Rambler papers (1750).

23. John Dryden, His Majesties Declaration Defended (1681).

1950-1951

26. Charles Macklin, The Man of the World (1792).

1951-52

31. Thomas Gray, An Elegy Wrote in a Country Churchyard (1751); and The Eton College Manuscript.

1952-1953

41. Bernard Mandeville, A Letter to Dion (1732).

1954-1955

49. Two St. Cecilia's Day Sermons (1696, 1697).

52. Pappity Stampoy, A Collection of Scotch Proverbs (1663).

1958-1959

75. John Joyne, A Journal (1679).

76. André Dacier, Preface to Aristotle's Art of Poetry (1705).

1959-1960

80. [P. Whalley], An Essay on the Manner of Writing History (1746).

83. Sawney and Colley (1742) and other Pope Pamphlets.

84. Richard Savage, An Author to be lett (1729).

1960-1961

85-6. Essays on the Theatre from Eighteenth-Century Periodicals.

90. Henry Needier, Works (1728).

1961-1962

93. John Norris, Cursory Reflections Upon a Book Call'd, An Essay Concerning Human Understanding (1690).

94. An. Collins, Divine Songs and Meditacions (1653).

95. An Essay on the New Species of Writing Founded by Mr. Fielding (1751).

96. Hanoverian Ballads.

1962-1963

97. Myles Davies, Selections from Athenae Britannicae (1716-1719).

98. Select Hymns Taken Out of Mr. Herbert's Temple (1697).

99. Thomas Augustine Arne, Artaxerxes (1761).

100. Simon Patrick, A Brief Account of the New Sect of Latitude Men (1662).

101-2. Richard Hurd, Letters on Chivalry and Romance (1762).

1963-1964

103. Samuel Richardson, Clarissa: Preface, Hints of Prefaces, and Postscript.

104. Thomas D'Urfey, Wonders in the Sun, or, the Kingdom of the Birds (1706).

105. Bernard Mandeville, An Enquiry into the Causes of the Frequent Executions at Tyburn (1725).

106. Daniel Defoe, A Brief History of the Poor Palatine Refugees (1709).

107-8. John Oldmixon, An Essay on Criticism (1728).

William Andrews Clark Memorial Library: University of California, Los Angeles

The Augustan Reprint Society

GENERAL EDITORS

Earl Miner | Maximillian E. Novak
    University of California, Los Angeles |     University of California, Los Angeles
Lawrence Clark Powell            
                Wm. Andrews Clark Memorial Library

Corresponding Secretary: Mrs. Edna C. Davis, Wm. Andrews Clark Memorial Library

The Society's purpose is to publish reprints (usually facsimile reproductions) of rare seventeenth and eighteenth century works. All income of the Society is devoted to defraying costs of publication and mailing.

Correspondence concerning subscriptions in the United States and Canada should be addressed to the William Andrews Clark Memorial Library, 2205 West Adams Boulevard, Los Angeles, California. Correspondence concerning editorial matters may be addressed to any of the general editors. The membership fee is $5.00 a year for subscribers in the United States and Canada and 30/- for subscribers in Great Britain and Europe. British and European subscribers should address B. H. Blackwell, Broad Street, Oxford, England. Copies of back issues in print may be obtained from the Corresponding Secretary.

PUBLICATIONS FOR 1964-1965

John Tutchin, Selected Poems (1685-1700). Introduction by Spiro Peterson.

Sir William Temple, An Essay upon the Original and Nature of Government (1680). Introduction by Robert C. Steensma.

T. R., An Essay Concerning Critical and Curious Learning (1698). Introduction by Curt A. Zimansky.

Anonymous, Political Justice. A Poem (1736). Introduction by Burton R. Pollin and John W. Wilkes.

Two Poems Against Pope: Leonard Welsted, One Epistle to Mr. A. Pope (1730); Anonymous, The Blatant Beast (1740). Introduction by Joseph V. Guerinot.

Robert Dodsley, An Essay on Fable (1764). Introduction by Jeanne K. Welcher and Richard Dircks.

THE AUGUSTAN REPRINT SOCIETY

William Andrews Clark Memorial Library
2905 WEST ADAMS BOULEVARD, LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA 90018
Make check or money order payable to The Regents of the University of California.

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