At Rome, a godly Part they made me play;
A damn'd unnatural one to me, you'll fay:
They wou'd not let me roar, or rant, or fwear,
But fobb'd me off with Penitence and Prayer,
Guess how that Penance relifh'd with a Player.
That ever any Player fhould have the Face
Thus to pretend to fuch a Thing as Grace!
'Tis very hard, indeed, th' Italian Nation
Should put this Phiz a little out of Fashion;
But yielding Nature, and this tempting Face,
Confirms me Flesh and Blood in fpite of Grace:
Therefore, dear loving Sifters of the Pit,
Again your Brother Runagade admit,
And don't defpife me now because I've liv'd
Where fawcy Boys claim your Prerogative.
No, Sifters; no,
I ne'er turn'd Heretick, in Love at least t;
'Twas decent Whoring kept my Thoughts ftill chafte :
But you, kind Sirs! who here are daily known,
To love all Whores but her of Babylon,
Will never damn Fo. Haines for his Religion.
Well, Sirs!
B'ing thus confefs'd, and free from all Pollution,
I beg from your kind Hands my Abfolution.
Tho. Brown's Recantation of his Satyr on the French King. Suppos'd by fome to be written by Mr. Brown, tho faid by others to be written by a Nonjuring-Parfon.
ND has this Bitch, my Mufe, trapan'd me?
Then I'm as much undone as can be ;
I knew the Jilt would never leave me
'Till to a Prifon fhe'd deceive me :
Curft be the Wretch, and sure he's curst
That taught the Trade of Rhyming first:
'Tis a damnn'd Trade, and who purfues it,
I'll pafs my Word, at laft, he rues it:
Homer and Virgil were but Tools,
Fit only for the Ufe of Fools.
And Horace too, with all his Art,
To Men of Senfe not worth a Fart:
Even Caufabon for Satyr famous,
Was but a jingling Ignoramus.
And all the reft, to Ben, and fo forth,
A Crew of ufelefs Things of no Worth:
But now I have no Time to rail,
Alas! alas! I'm now in Jayl;
My Wits are rather on the Wrack
To fave my own Poetick Back :
Yet, by the Way, 'tis very hard,
Poets, of all Men, fhould-be barr'd
From lab'ring in their proper Station;
Why, where's the Juftice of the Nation?
Believe me, Sirs, as I am a Sinner,
I writ that Satyr for a Dinner :
And ftampt it with a Parfon's Name,
Not as I meant them any Shame,
But fince I muft the Matter tell,
I thought 'twould make the Paper fell:
By all that's Good, and all that true is,
I ever lov'd and honour'd Lewis:
He's Great and Wife : more could I fay,
But fear again to disobey;
And for his Priests, I here proteft,
I value them like all the rest :
And tho' I curft them all, what then?
The Men are honeft harmlefs Men.
Next for King James and Prince of Wales,
I always wish'd them happy Gales ;
And for my fawcy naming Molly,
I own 'twas Impudence and Folly.
Laftly, for naming the Non-Juror,
Why that was but Poetick furor,
I know I have ungrateful been ;
'Twas raging Hunger drew me in
T'abuse those very Friends that have
Almoft preferv'd me from the Grave;
They're honeft Men, mark what I say,
If I love any Priests, 'tis they.
I now confefs 'tis highly bafe,
T' infult the Gown in fuch a Cafe:
And could the Thing be done again,
I'd ftarve before I'd wrong fuch Men.
What fhall I fay, I here recant,
And own myfelf a Sycophant:
But, oh! I fear that will not do,
A thousand difinal Thoughts perfue.
I'in all in Pain, and let me tell ye,
My Back begins to curfe my Belly:
I'm just as if at Cart's-Arfe tŷ'd,
With Hangman grinning by my Side,
And Mob of all Sorts Crowding round me,
Advifing Ketch to fwinge me foundly;
And what torments me worst of all,
Methinks that fome among them bawl,
'Tis he that for a Crown to spend,
Reviles crown'd Heads, betrays his Friend.
All this, 'tis true, I well deferve,
And yet 'tis very hard to starve;
So that if Things were rightly stated,
Part of my Sentence might be bated:
I was of Poppin's-Alley Chief,
'Till forc'd from thence to feek Relief,
And to avoid fome dang'rous Rogues,
Took Shelter among Pedagogues,
'Twas then, like the Sicilian King,
Under ftrict Laws I Boys did bring;
And tho' I was but a Vice-Roy,
I cou'd command the chiefeft Boy :
But here a little Time was spent,
Before I left my Government,
Was charg'd with Male-Adminiftration,
And fo pull'd down from regal Station,
To Town again disgrac'd I came,
For now 'tis vain to hide my Shame;
Where fince I fharp'd, and fpung'd, and tick'd,
Being always fcorn'd, and fometimes kick'd.
And yet the worst is ftill behind,
Oh! hear me but, and you'll be kind.
For three long Weeks my Mufe and I
Had been shut up in Garret high :
The Cause, I think, I need not tell
Poet with P-convertible;
While thus I lay in defperate State,
In comes a Bawd, whofe Name was Kate;
A rampant Jade, where once I tabled,
Who finding me of Strength difabled,
Not Vows nor Promifes could fave me,
But off the tears the Cloaths fhe gave me.
And thus of Coat, e'en Shirt bereft,
Poor naked Tom in Bed was left.
In this most fharp and ftrange Diftrefs,
'Twas then I thought on trusty Bess;
Who, tho' I knew fhe was but poor,
I always found a faithful Whore :
To her, without a long Petition,
I briefly told my fad Condition.
But I forgot to tell you hów
With hot Ox-cheek, and Heel of Cow,
With Trotters neat, and Tripe like Jelly,
She oft had fill'd my empty Belly.
And one Thing more I had forgot,
Hot Furmety and Rife-Milk hot
She never let me want; for why,
It was her Trade the fame to cry.
I thought (poor Fool) fhe'd pity me,
Who thus refolv'd to fet me free.
With Twenty-pence which she had got,
And Shillings Four, for Loan of Pot,
To fome convenient Bulk fhe hies,
And there a Coat and Breeches buys;
The want of Shirt too, to fupply,
Sends me her Smock, tho' hardly dry.
And more, to fit me out compleat,
For t'other Three-
e-pence buys a Cheat.
When thus equipp'd, Abroad I venture,
Hoping on Subjects new to enter;
But all my Hopes proves vain, God wot,
Befs ftill muft want her Porridge-Pot.
My Belly too grows lank, for the
Had no Rice-Milk nor Furmety.
All Friends I try'd, not one was willing
To credit me with one poor Shilling:
In this Diftrefs, without advifing,
I fell to curfed Satyrifing.
Oh! pity me, or I am loft,
Far worse than when in Blanket tofs'd;
And if this Time I'm fpar'd from whipping,
If e'er again you catch me tripping,
May all the Plagues that e'er befel
A Poet poor, on this Side Hell,
Seize me at once, and may I be
A publick Mark of Infamy:
May all my Whores and Duns o'ertake me,
And all my Friends (even Befs) for fake me:
And may the P―, with which I ftruggle,
Join'd with the Gout, afflict me double:
May I at laft by Inches die,
Firft lofe my Nofe, and then an Eye ;
And when I'm dead, then may I have
A just Memento on my Grave.
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