When late Protectorship was Canon-Proof,
And _Cap-a-pe_ had seiz'd on _Whitehall_-Roof,
And next, on _Israelites_ durst look so big,
That _Tory-like_, it lov'd not much the _Whigg_:
A Poet there starts up, of wondrous Fame;
Whether _Scribe_ or _Pharisee_, his Race doth name,
Or more t'intrigue the Metaphor of Man,
Got on a Muse by _Father-Publican_:

For 'tis not harder much, if we tax Nature,
That Lines should give a Poet such a Feature;
Than that his Verse a _Hero_ should us show,

Produc'd by such a Feat, as famous too.
His Mingle such, what Man presumes to think,
But he can Figures daub with Pen and Ink.
A Grace our mighty _Nimrod_ late beheld,
When he within the Royal Palace dwell'd,
And saw 'twas of import if Lines could bring
His Greatness from _Usurper_, to be King:

Or varnish so his Praise, that little odds
Should seem 'twixt him, and such called Earthly Gods.
And tho no Wit can Royal Blood infuse,
No more than melt a Mother to a Muse:
Yet much a certain Poet undertook,
That Men and Manners deals in without-Book.
And might not more to Gospel-Truth belong,
Than he (if Christened) does by name of _John._
This Poet, who that time much squanderd thought,
Of which some might bring Coyn, whilst some none brought,
As Men that hold their Brains of powerful sense,
Will least on Poet's Tales bestow their pence,
Tho he such Dispensations to endear,
Had notch'd his Sconce just level with his Ear.
An Emblem in these days of much import,
When Crop-ear'd Wits had such a Modish Court.
Tho some from after-deeds much fear the Fate,
That such a Muse may for its Lugs create.
As Stars may without Pillories dispence,
To slit some Ears for Forgeries of sense,
Which Princes, Nobles, and the Fame of Men,
Sought to bespatter by a worthless Pen.
But leaving this to Circumstances fit,
With what thence spreads this Renegado-wit.
We'll tell you how his Court he now doth make, }
And what choice Things and Persons he doth take, }
That Lines for Guinnys might more liquorish speak. }
To heigten which we'll to his Muse advance,
Which late discover'd its _Judaick_ Trance:
Where _Absalon_'s in _English_ Colours di'd,
That in a Duke, a Traitor might be spi'd.
Or Heaven on him did Graces so bestow,
As only could confer their Pageant Show;
Giving his Glories no more fast Renown,
Than with more Honour to be taken down:
Like Victimes by some Sacrificers drest,
Must fall adorn'd, which then they pity least.
But fear not _Monmouth_, if a Libel's quill,
Would dregs of Venom on thy Vertue spill;
Since no desert so smoothly is convey'd,
As next it's Fame, no canker'd Patch is laid;
Thou didst no Honour seek, but what's thy due,
And such Heaven bids thee not relinquish too.
Whilst it's Impressions so oblig'd thy Task,
As leave from Earth thy Soul declin'd to ask.
If this thy Error were, what Influ'nce can
Excuse the Duty of more wilfull Man;
With such whose Figures shew that squinting Paint,
Whence peeps a Mungril _Babylonish Saint_.
Thy Soul's Religion's Prop, and Native Grace,
_Rome_, (fears its onsets) looking on the place;
What Altitude can more exalt thy Praise,
Tho best Devotion should thy Trophies raise,
And 'tis perhaps from thy Diviner Bliss,
That some may fear their Souls are seen amiss.
As what so high does Emulation mount,
As Greatness when surpass'd on Heaven's Account;
And if th' Ambition would in this excel,
'Twas but to be more great in doing well;
And must rebate the worst that Fates intend,
Whilst Heaven and _England_ is at once thy Friend.
This just _Encomium_, tho too brief it be
To represent thy least Epitome;
And but unto thy larger Figure joyn'd,
As small proportions are from great design'd;
Tho where a line one worth of thine can speak,
It does alone, a Poem's Greatness make;
Leaving this _Hero_ to his spotless Fame,
(As who besides this Wretch will it blaspheme)
Or in a Libels Allegorick Way,
Men falsely figur'd, to the world convey,
Libels the enormous Forgery of sense,
Stamp'd on the brow of human Impudence;
The blackest wound of Merit, and the Dart,
That secret Envy points against Desert.
The lust of Hatred pander'd to the Eye
T'allure the World's debauching by a Lie.
Th'rancrous Favourite's masquerading Guilt,
Imbitt'ring venom where he'd have it spilt.
The Courts depression in a fulsom Praise;
A Test it's _Ignoramus_ worst conveys,
A lump of Falshood's Malice does disperse,
Or Toad when crawling on the Feet of Verse.
Fame's impious Hireling and mean Reward,
The Knave that in his Lines turns up his Card,
Who, tho no Rabby, thought in Hebrew wit,
He forc'd Allusions can closly fit.
To _Jews_ or _English_, much unknown before,
He made a _Talmud_ on his Muses score;
Though hop'd few Criticks will its _Genius_ carp,
So purely Metaphors King _David_'s Harp,
And by a soft Encomium, near at hand,
Shews _Bathsheba_ Embrac'd throughout the Land.
But this Judaick Paraphrastick Sport
We'll leave unto the ridling Smile of Court.
Good Heav'n! What timeful Pains can Rhymers take,
When they'd for Crowds of Men much Pen-plot make?
Which long-Beak'd Tales and filch'd Allusions brings,
As much like Truth, as 'tis the Woodcock sings.
What else could move this Poet to purloin
So many _Jews_, to please the _English_ Swine?
Or was it that his Brains might next dispense
To adapt himself a Royal Evidence?
Or that he'd find for _Dugdale_'s Wash some Spell,
In stead of once more dipp'd in _Winifred_'s Well;
And ope his Budget, like _Pandora_'s Box,
Whence Overt-acts more _Protestants_ should Pox,
Which might the Joyner's Ghost provoke to rise,
And fright such Tales with other _Popish_ Lies?
But _Starr's_ or _Ignoramus_'s may not give
Those Swearers longer swinge by Oaths to live.
A Providence much _English_ Good protects,
And sends Testees to Trade for new Effects;
Which none of the Long-Robe, 'tis hop'd, can aid,
So well by Oaths the Devil's already paid;
And most suppose, if e're both Plots can die,
Or eat up one anothers Perjury,
'Twou'd _Pluto_ strangely pose to find a Third,
Sould he in his a _Popish_ Legion Lard.
A Policy some Poems much embrace,
As is discern'd in _Shaftsbury_'s Great Case;
Where Verse so vile an Obloquy betray,
As for a Statist-_Jew_ they'd him convey.
Tho hard it is to understand what Spell
Can conjure up in him _Achitophel_,
Or tax this Peer with an Abused Sense
Of his so deep and apt Intelligence:
A Promptitude by which the Nation's shown
To be in Thought concurrent with his own.
_Shaftsbury_! A Soul that Nature did impart
To raise her Wonder in a Brain and Heart;
Or that in him produc'd, the World might know,
She others did with drooping Thought bestow.
As in Mans most perspicuous Soul, we find
The nearest Draught of her Internal Mind,
Tho it appears her highest Act of State,
When Human Conducts she does most compleat,
And place them so, for Mankinds good, that they
Are fit to Guide, where others miss their Way;
It being in Worldly Politiques less Great
To be a Law-maker, than Preserve a State.
In Publick Dangers Laws are unsecure,
As strongest Anchors can't all Winds endure;
Though 'tis in Exigents the wisest Ease
To know who best can ply when Storms encrease;
Whilst other Prospects, by mistaking Fate,
Through wrong Preventions, more its Bad dilate.
Whence some their Counter-Politicks extend,
To ruine such can Evils best amend.
A Thwarting _Genius_, which our Nation more
Than all its head-strong Evils does deplore;
And shews what violent Movements such inform,
That where a Calm should be, they force a Storm;
As if their Safety chiefly they must prize
In being rid of Men esteem'd more Wise.
To this Great, Little Man, we'll T'other joyn,
Held Sufferers by one Tripartite Design.
As from a Cubick Power, or Three-fold Might,
Roots much expand, as Authors prove aright;
But of such Managements we'll little say,
Or shamm'd Intrigues, for Fame left to convey;
Which may by peeping through a Gown-mans Sleeve,
Tell such grave Tales, Men cannot well believe:
With what for Plots and Trials has been done,
As ****s depos'd, before away they run;
All which was well discern'd by numerous Sense,
Before the Doctors py'd Intelligence,
Who, with some Motley Lawyers, took much care
To gain the _Caput_ of this Knowing Peer;
When after so much Noise, and nothing prov'd,
Heaven thank'd, to Freedom he's at last remov'd,
Leaving a Low-Bridge _Cerberus_ to try
In what Clerks Pate his monstrous Fee does lie;
Or by the help of _Tory-Roger_ tell
How Sacred Gain-Prerogativ'd should spell.
But these are Thoughts may fit some Pensive Skulls,
Or Men concern'd to bait their several Bulls;
Whilst on this Peer we must some Lines bestow,
Tho more he merits than best Verse can show:
Great in his Name, but greater in his Parts,
Judgment sublim'd, with all its strong Deserts;
A Sense above Occasions quick surprize,
That he no Study needs to make him Wise,
Or labour'd Thoughts, that trains of Sinews knit,
His Judgment always twin'd unto his Wit;
That from his clear Discussions Men may know
He does to wonder other Brains out-do.
Whilst they for Notions search they can't compact,
His _Genius_ fitly stands prepar'd to act.
Admir'd of Man, that in thy Sense alone
So ready dost exalt high Reason's Throne;
That Men abate Resentments to expect
Thou mayst rise Greater, having past Neglect.
A Sacred Method Kings receive from Heaven,
That still does Cherish, when it has Forgiven;
Which from our Princes Soul so largely flows,
That Mercy's Channel with his Greatness goes.
No Arbitrary Whispers him can guide
To swell his Rule beyond its genuine Tide:
Whilst other Kings their rugged Scepters see
Eclips'd in his more soft Felicity;
Whose Goodness can all Stress of State remove,
So fitly own'd the Subjects Fear and Love.
My Verse might here discharge its hasty Flight, }
As Pencils that attempt Immortal Heighth }
Droop in the Colours should convey its Light, }
Did not this Poet's Lines upon me call
For some Reflexions on a Lower Fall;
Where he by Rhyming, a _Judaick_ Sham,
Obtrudes for _Israelites_ some Seeds of _Cham_.
And this Inspexion needs no further go
Than where his Pen does most Indulgent show:
And 'tis no wonder if his _Types_ of Sense
Should stroke such _Figures_ as give down their Pence;
A Crime for which some Poets Lines so stretch,
As on themselves they Metaphor _Jack Ketch_.
Tho small the Varnish is to Humane Name,
Where Cogging Measures rob the truth of Fame.
And more to do his skew'd _Encomiums_ right,
Some Persons speak by him their motly Sight:
Or much like _Hudibras_, on Wits pretence,
Some Lines for Rhyme, and some to gingle Sense.
Who else would _Adriel_, _Jotham_, _Hushai_, fit,
With loathed _Amiell_, for a Court of Wit?
For, as Men Squares of Circles hardly find,
Some think these Measures are as odly joyn'd.
What else could _Adriell_'s sharpness more abuse,
Than headlong dubb'd, to own himself a Muse,
Unless to spread Poetick Honours so
As should a Muse give each St. _George_'s Show?
A Mode of Glory might _Parnassus_ fit,
Tho our Sage Prince knows few he'd Knight for Wit.
And thus this Freak is left upon the File,
Or as 'tis written in this Poet's Stile.
Next, as in Course, to _Jotham_ we'll descend,
Thoughtful it seems which Side he'll next befriend,
As thinking Brains can caper to and fro,
Before they jump into the Box they'd go.
And 'tis a moody Age, as many guess,
When some with busie Fears still forward press;
As 'tis Ambitions oft-deluding Cheat
To tempt Mens aims, secureless of defeat.
_Hushai_ the Compass of th'_Exchequer_ guides,
Propense enough unto the North besides:
As what can steady Stations more allure,
Than such, a Princely Bed does first secure?
Whose Part none are so ignorant to ask,
And does no less employ his Ends and Task.
But quitting these, we must for Prospect pass
To gaping _Amiell_, as reflects our Glass.
The _Him_ indeed of his own *Western Dome,

So near his praiseful Poet Sense may come:
For *_Amiell_, _Amiell_, who cannot endite

Of his _Thin_ Value won't disdain to write?
The very _Him_ with Gown and Mace did rule
The _Sanedrim_, when guided by a Fool.
The _Him_ that did both Sense and Reason shift,
That he to gainful Place himself might lift.
The very _Him_ that did adjust the Seed
Of such as did their Votes for Money breed.
The Mighty _Him_ that frothy Notions vents,
In hope to turn them into Presidents.
The _Him_ of _Hims_, although in Judgment small,
That fain would be the biggest at _Whitehall_.
The He that does for Justice Coin postpone,
As on Account may be hereafter shown.
If this plain _English_ be, 'tis far from Trick,
Though some Lines gall, where others fawning lick;
Which fits thy Poet, _Amiell_, for thy Smiles,
If once more paid to blaze thy hated Toils.
Of Things and Persons might be added more,
Without Intelligence from Forreign Shore,
Or what Designs Ambassadors contrive,
Or how the Faithless _French_ their Compass guide:
But Lines the busie World too much supply,
Besides th'Effects of evil Poetry,
Which much to _Tory_-Writers some ascribe,
Though hop'd no Furies of the _Whiggish_ Tribe
Will on their Backs such Lines or Shapes convey,
To burn with Pope, on Great _November_'s Day.