To me with readiness he did repair;

Exprefs'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 abufe,

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

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

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

And where wit's lufty, fhining god
Keeps his choice feraglio.

So whilft our fortune fmiles, our thoughts afpire,
Pleasure and fame's our business, and desire,
Then, too, if we find

A promptnefs in the mind,

The Muse 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, flippery 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.

D

O how

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, (said he) the valued prize;
Thy fulfome Muse behold, be happy, and be wise.
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 verfe

In which he wrote his Sodom Farce;

A wretch whom old diseases did fo bite,

That he writ bawdry fure in spite,
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 spends his days,

And for old fhoes and scraps 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' fcandal, and the Mufes' fhame, A beast of monftrous guife, and Libel was his name. But let me pause, for 'twill ask time to tell. How he was born, how bred and where, and where he now does dwell.

IX.

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

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

Under a defert wood,

Which no man own'd, but all wild beasts 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 mifchiefs ftudy'd, difcords did devife. Sh' appeared humble, but it was her pride: Slow in her fpeech, in femblance fanctify'd. Still when the spoke she meant another way;

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

Her hellish charms had all a holy dress,

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 eafily 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 herfelf, 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,
Old Presbyter Rebellion was his name:

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

So will be ever, and was call'd (bless 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 ftretch'd his conquering hand:

Till in th' untrodden streets unwholfome grafs Grew of great ftalk, 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 strangled dog,

In rottenness had long unbury'd laid,

And the cold foil productive måde.

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..
Diftractions and diftrufts then did amongst us rise,
When, in her pious old disguise,

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

The fons of Old Rebellion straight she summon'd all;

Straight they were ready at her call :

D 3

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