To me with readiness he did repair;
Express'd much tender chearfulness, to find
Experience had restor'd him to my mind;

And loyally did to me show,

How much himself he did abuse,

Who credited a flattering, false, destructive, treacherous
Mufe.

I afk'd the caufes why. He faid,
'Twas never known a Mufe e'er staid

When Fortune filed; for Fortune is a bawd
To all the Nine that on Parnaffus dwell,
Where those so fam'd delightful fountains fwell
Of poetry, which there does ever flow;

And where wit's lufty, shining god

Keeps his choice feraglio.

So whilft our fortune fmiles, our thoughts afpire, Pleafure and fame's our bufinefs, and defire, Then, too, if we find

A promptnefs in the mind,

The Mufe is always ready, always kind.
But if th' old harlot, Fortune, once denies

Her favour, all our pleasure and rich fancy dies, And then th' young, slippery jilt, the Mufe, too from us flies.

VIII.

To the whole tale I gave attention due ;
And as right fearch into myself I made,
I found all he had faid

Was very honest, very true.

O how I hugg'd my welcome friend!

And much my Mufe I could not discommend! For I ne'er liv'd in Fortune's grace,

She always turn'd her back, and fled from me apace, And never once vouchfaf'd to let me fee her face. Then, to confirm me more,

He drew the veil of dotage from my eyes :

See here, my fon, (faid he) the valued prize ; Thy fulfome Mufe behold, be happy, and be wife. I look d, and faw the rampant, tawdry quean, With a more horrid train

Than ever yet to fatire lent a tale,

Or haunted Chloris in the mall.

The firft was he who ftunk of that rank verse

}

In which he wrote his Sodom Farce;

A wretch whom old diseases did fo bite,

That he writ bawdry fure in fpite,
To ruin and difgrace it quite.

Philofophers of old did fo exprefs
Their art, and fhew'd it in their naftiness.

}

Next him appear'd that blundering fot,
Who a late Seffion of the Poets wrote.
Nature has mark'd him for a heavy fool;

By's flat broad face you'll know the owl.
The other birds have hooted him from light;
Much buffeting has made him love the night,
And only in the dark he strays;

Still wretch enough to live, with worse fools fpends his days,

And for old fhoes and fcraps repeats dull plays.

Then

Then next there follow'd, to make up the throng,
Lord Lampoon and Monfieur Song,

Who fought her love, and promis'd for't
To make her famous at the court.
The City Poet too was there,

In a black fatin `cap and his own hair,

And begg'd that he might have the honour
To beget a pageant on her

For the city's next lord-mayor.
Her favours fhe to none deny'd:

They took her all by turns afide.

Till at the laft up in the rear there came The Poets' scandal, and the Mufes' fhame, A beast of monftrous guife, and Libel was his name. But let me paufe, for 'twill afk time to tell

How he was born, how bred and where, and where he now does d'well.

IX.

He paus'd, and thus renew'd his tale.
Down in an obfcure vale,

'Midft fogs and fens, whence mists and vapours rise, Where never fun was feen by eyes,

Under a defert wood,

Which no man own'd, but all wild beafts were bred, And kept their horrid dens, by prey far forag'd fed, An ill-pil'd cottage stood,

Built of men's bones flaughter'd in civil war,
By magic art brought thither from afar,

There liv'd a widow'd witch,

That us'd to mumble curfes eve and morn,

Like one whom wants and care had worn; Meagre her looks, and funk her eyes, Yet mischiefs ftudy'd, difcords did devise. Sh' appeared humble, but it was her pride : Slow in her fpeech, in semblance fanctify'd. Still when the fpoke fhe meant another way;

And when fhe curs'd, fhe feem'd to pray.

Her hellish charms had all a holy drefs,

And bore the name of godliness,

All her familiars feem'd the fons of Peace.
Honest habits they all wore,

In outward fhow moft lamb-like and divine :
But inward of all vices they had store,
Greedy as wolves, and fenfual too as fwine.
Like her, the facred fcriptures they had all by heart,
Moft cafily could quote, and turn to any part,
Backward repeat it all, as witches their prayers do,
And, for their turn, interpret backward too.
Idolatry with her was held impure,

Because, befides herself, no idol fhe 'd endure. Though not to paint, she'd arts to change the face, And alter it in heavenly fashion.

Lewd whining the defin'd a mark of grace,
And making ugly faces was mortification.

Her late dead pander was of well-known fame,
Oid Prefbyter Rebellion was his name:

She a fworn foe to king, his peace, and laws,

So will be ever, and was call'd (blefs us!) the good old

caufe.

X.

A time there was (a fad one too)

When all things wore the face of woe,

When many horrors rag'd in this our land,
And a destroying angel was fent down,

To fcourge the pride of this rebellious town.

He came, and o'er all Britain stretch'd his conquering hand:

Till in th' untrodden streets unwholfome grafs

Grew of great stalk, its colour grofs,

And melancholic poisonous green;

Like those coarse fickly weeds on an old dunghill seen, Where fome murrain-murther'd hog, Poifon'd cat, or ftrangled dog,

In rottennefs had long unbury'd laid,

And the cold foil productive made.

Birds of ill omen hover'd in the air,
And by their cries bade us for graves prepare ;
And, as our destiny they seem'd t' unfold,
Dropt dead of the fame fate they had foretold.
That dire commiffion ended, down there came
Another angel with a fword of flame:

Defolation foon he made,

And our new Sodom low in afhes laid.
Distractions and distrusts then did amongst us rife,
When, in her pious old difguife,

This witch with all her mifchief-making train
Began to fhew herself again.

The fons of Old Rebellion ftraight the fummon'd all;

Straight they were ready at her call :

D 3

Once