I was a Woman of egregious Fame,
And like you too I gloried in my Shame,
Edward my Lord was, and Jane Shoar my Name,
I liv'd in Splendor and enjoy'd Delights,
Feafted all Day, and in Love's lufcious Rites,
Between a Monarch's Arms wore out the Nights,
But when at laft my happy Monarch dy'd,
I loft my Riches, Pleafures, and my Pride,
And all that e'er was fweet or good befide.
Alas, remember what of me became,
My Honor ftain'd, and black was all my Fame,
Scorn of the People, to my felf a Shame.
A Wretch I grew, wifh'd I were never born,
Poor and contemn'd, and every Rafcal's Scorn,
Unpity'd died, moft wretched and forlorn.
But happy had I been had this been all,
Or if that I had had no farther Fall,
But Hell on my Mifdeeds aloud did call.
Tormented in the Flames of Hell below,
No Eafe from Torment, Pain, and endless Woe,
For Pleasures paft, my scorched Soul doth know.
Short were my Pleasures while I lived here,
And those were also mixt with Grief and Fear,
But Pain Eternal's in the lower Sphere.
You two great Women, great in Luft and Sin,
Repent, repent, and to reform begin,
For your Reward you Hell at laft will win,
Rivals look on me, and contend no more,
What you are now I once was long before,
Yet I am damn'd altho a Royal Whore,
A Satyr against Perfecution, 1682.
OW eafy 'tis to fail with Wind and Tide! Small Force will ferve upon the stronger fide; Power ferves for Law, the Wrong too oft's made
(Right; And they are damn'd, who againft Power dare fight. Wit rides triumphant, in Power's Chariot born, And depreft Oppofites beholds with Scorn. This well the Author of the Medal knew, When Oliver he for an Hero drew,
He then fwam with the Tide; appear'd a Saint,
Garnish'd the Devil with Poetick Paint.
When the Tide turn'd, then ftrait about he veers,
And for the stronger fide he ftill appears.
Then in Heroicks courts the Great and High,
And at th' Oppreft he lets his Satyrs fly.
But he who ftems the Tide, if ground he gains,
Each stroke he makes must be with wondrous Pains:
If he bears up against the Current still,
He fhews at least he has fome Art and Skill,
When againft Tide, VVind, Billows he does strive,
And comes at last unto the shore alive.
Huzza my Friends, let us our way pursue,
And try what our Poetick Arms can do.
This latter Age with VVonders does abound,
Our Prince of Peets has a Medal found,
From whence his pregnant Fancy rears a Piece,
Efteem'd to equal thofe of Rome and Greece.
With piercing Eyes he does the Medal view,
And there he finds, as he has told to you,
The Hag Sedition, to the Life difplay'd,
Under a Statefman's Gown, fancy'd or made,
That is all one, he doth it fo apply,
At it th' Artillery of his Wit lets fly;
Lets go his Satyr at the Medal strait,
Worries the Whigs, and doth Sedition bait.
Let him go on, the Whigs the Hag forfake;
Her Cause they never yet would undertake,
But laugh to fee the Poet's fond Mistake.
But we will turn the Medal; there we fee
Another Hag, I think as bad as fhe:
If I am not mistaken 'tis the fame,
Christians of old did Perfecution name:
That's ftill her Name, tho now grown old and wife,
She has new Names, as well as new Disguife.
Let then his Satyr with Sedition fight,
And ours the whilst shall Perfecution bite:
Two Hags they are, who Parties feem to make;
'Tis time for Satyrs them to undertake.
See her true Badg, a Prifon or the Tower;
For Perfecution ever fides with Power.
Our Satyr dares not worry thofe he fhou'd,
But there are fome felt, heard, and understood;
Who Subftantives of Power ftand alone,
And by all feeing Men are too well known;
What Steps they tread,and whither 'tis they drive,
What Measures take,and by what Arts they thrive.
But were thefe little Tyrants underfoot,
How bravely o'er them could our Satyr ftrut!
What Characters, and justly, could he give,
Of Men who scarcely do deserve to live!
Yet these are they fome Flatterers can court,
Who now are Perfecution's great Support.
We on the Medal fee the fatal Tower;
Truth must be filent, for we know their Power:
Whilft they, without controul, can fhew their hate,
And whom they please with grinning Satyrs bait.
This puts our Satyr into fume and chafe;
He could bite forely could he do it safe.
Since against fuch he dares not spend his Breath,
Th' Hag Perfecution he will bait to death.
Old as the World almoft, as old as Cain,
For by this Hag was Righteous Abel flain;
In Tyrants Courts the ever doth abide,
Accompanied with Power, with Luft and Pride.
What the has done is to the World well known:
She always made the best of Men to groan,
Her bloody Arts are register'd of old,
And all her cruel Policies are told.
All that is past our Mufe fhall let alone,
Pafs Foreign, and speak only of our own;
Our own dear ugly Hag, who now has Power,
To fend to Tyburn, Newgate, or the Tower.
If Power be in the Multitude, not few,
They fhew that they have Faith and Reason too,
Leap not their Bounds, nor do their Power betray,
Since they to Laws and Government obey.
If other Power they exercife, 'tis Force,
Or Rage, that seen in a wild headstrong Horse,
The more he's fpur'd or rein'd, the more doth
(bound,
And leaves not, till the Rider's on the ground.
But far it seems from our Almighty Croud,
To boast their Strength, or be of Power proud;
Their Power they of old had fruitless try'd,
And therefore now take Reason for their Guide.
Nay, Faith they have in their own juster Cause,
In their dread Sovereign, and his righteous Laws;
This makes them thus fubmit, all Power lay by,
For Right, for Law, for Peace they only cry.
For this, by fome, they are accounted Fools;
So generous Horfes are mistook for Mules;
And fome Court Jockies mount them in their Pride,
And with a Satyr's Heel-fpurg all their Hide;
Dull Affes they fuppofe the People are,
Made for their Burdens, and not fit for War.
All with the forewind of Religion fail, It to all Parties is the Common Stale. I know you'l grant the Devil is no Fool, He can difguife in Surplice, Cloak, or Cowl; But ftill he may be known without dispute, By Perfecution; 'tis his Cloven Foot. Let him be Chriftian, Pagan, Turk, or Jew, Pretends religious Zeal, it can't be true, If 't Perfecution raises, or maintains, Or makes a Market of ungodly Gains. When Rome had Power here, and fat inchair'd, How cruel and how bloody fhe appear'd! Our Church-Diffenters then did feel the fame, Their Bodies ferv'd for Fuel to the Flame: And can this Church now, got into the Chair, A cruel Tyrant like to Rome appear? For bare Opinion do their Brothers harm, Plague and imprison, 'cause they can't conform? But ftay, our Church has Law upon its fide, And fo had Rome, that cannot be deny'd. And if thefe Jebu's, who fo fiercely drive, In their finifter Arts proceed and thrive, We foon shall see our Church receive its doom, And feel again the Tyranny of Rome. To bar Succeffion is th' ungodly Sin, So often broke, so often piec'd ag'in: O may it here in England never cease, Could we but hope it would fecure our Peace! But Men with different Thoughts poffeffed are, We dread th Effects of a new Civil War. We dread Rome's Yoke, to us 'tis hateful grown, And Rome will feem a Monster in our Throne.
How rarely will a Cope the Throne bedeck? A Bishop's Head fet on a Prince's Neck? Th' inherent Right lies in the Sovereign's Sway, But then the Monarch muft Rome's Laws obey.
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