Classic Poem

Our Prologue-Wit grows flat, the Nap's worn off;
And howsoe're we turn, and trim the Stuff,
The Gloss is gone, that look'd at first so gaudy;
'Tis now no Jest to hear young Girls talk Baudy
But Plots and Parties give new matter birth,
And State-Distractions serve you here for mirth.
At England 's cost Poets now purchase Fame,
While factious Heats destroy us without Shame,
These wanton Nero 's fiddle to the Flame.
The Stage, like old Rump-Pulpits, is become
The Scene of News, a furious Party's Drum:
Here Poets beat their brains for Volunteers,
And take fast hold of Asses by their Ears:
Their gingling Rhime for Reason here you swallow;
Like Orpheus Musick which makes Beasts to follow.
What an enlightning Grace is want of Bread?
How can it change a Libeller's Heart, and clear a Laureat's Head!
 Open his Eyes till the mad Prophet see
Plots working in a future Power to be.
Traitors unform'd to 's Second Sight are clear;
And Squadrons here, and Squadrons there appear;
Rebellion is the Burden of the Seer .
To Bays in Vision were of late reveal'd
Whigg Armies, that at Knightsbridg lay conceal'd .
And though no mortal Eye could see't before,
The Battaile was just entring at the Door!
A dangerous Association —sign'd by None!
The Joyner's Plot to seize the King alone!
Stephen with Colledge made his Dire Compact;
The watchful Irish took 'em in the Fact——
Of riding arm'd: O Traitorous Overt -Act!
With each of 'em an ancient Pistol sided,
Against the Statute in that Case provided.
But why was such a Host of Swearers prest?
Their Succour was ill Husbandry at best
Bayes's crown'd Muse by Sovereign Right of Satyr,
Without Desert can dubb a Man a Traitor;
And Tories, without troubling Law or Reason,
By loyal Instinct can find Plots and Treason.
But here's our Comfort; tho they never scan
The Merits of the Cause, but of the Man,
Our gracious Statesmen vow not to forsake
Law—that is made by Judges whom they make.
Behind the Curtain, by Court-Wires, with ease
They turn those plyant Puppets as they please;
With frequent Parliaments our hopes they feed,
Such shall be sure to meet——but when there's Need;
When a sick State, and sinking Church call for 'em,
Then 'tis our Tories most of all abhor 'em:
Then Pray'r, that Christian Weapon of Defence,
Gratefull to Heaven, at Court is an Offence,
If it dare speak th' untamper'd Nation's Sence.
Nay, Paper's Tumult, when our Senate's cease,
And some Mens Names alone can break the Peace;
Petitioning disturbs the Kingdom's Quiet,
As choosing honest Sheriffs makes a Ryott.
To punish Rascals, and bring France to Reason,
Is to be hot, and press things out of Season;
And to damn Popery, is Irish Treason.
To love the King, and Knaves about him hate,
Is a Fanatick Plot against the State:
To Skreen his Person from a Popish Gun,
Has all the Mischief in't of Forty One .
To save our Faith, and keep our Freedom's Charter,
Is once again to make a Royal Martyr.
This Logick is of Tories deep inditing,
The very best they have—but Oaths and Fighting.
Let 'em then chime it on, if 'twill oblige ye,
And Roger vapour o'er us in Effigie .
Let 'em in Ballads give their Folly vent,
And sing up Nonsense to their Hearts content
If for the King (as All's pretended) they
Do here drink Healths, and curse, sure We may pray;
Heaven once more keep him then for Healing Ends ,
Safe from old Foes—but most from his new Friends!
Such Protestants as propp a Popish Cause,
And Loyal Men, that break all Bound of Laws!
Whose Pride is with his Servants Salaries fed,
And when they've scarce left him a Crust of Bread,
Their corrupt Fathers Foreigne Steps to follow,
Cheat ev'n of Scraps, and that last Sopp would swallow.
French Fetters may this Isle no more endure;
Spite of Rome 's Art stand England 's Church secure,
Not from such Brothers as desire to mend it,
But false Sons, who designing worse to rend it,
With leud Lives and no Fortunes would defend it.