The True-Born Englishman
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PART II
The breed's described: now, Satire, if you can,Their temper show, for manners make the man.Fierce as the Briton, as the Roman brave,And less inclined to conquer than to save;Eager to fight, and lavish of their blood,And equally of fear and forecast void.The Pict has made them sour, the Dane morose,False from the Scot, and from the Norman worse.What honesty they have, the Saxon gave them,And that, now they grow old, begins to leave them.The climate makes them terrible and bold:And English beef their courage does uphold:No danger can their daring spirit dull,Always provided when their belly's full.In close intrigues, their faculty's but weak;For, gen'rally, whate'er they know they speak.And often their own councils undermineBy their infirmity, and not design.From whence, the learned say, it does proceed,That English treason never can succeed:For they're so open-hearted, you may knowTheir own most secret thoughts, and others too.The lab'ring poor, in spite of double pay,Are saucy, mutinous, and beggarly;So lavish of their money and their time,That want of forecast is the nation's crime.Good drunken company is their delight;And what they get by day they spend by night.Dull thinking seldom does their heads engage,But drink their youth away, and hurry on old age.Empty of all good husbandry and sense;And void of manners most when void of pence.Their strong aversion to behaviour's such,They always talk too little or too much.So dull, they never take the pains to think;And seldom are good natured but in drink.In English ale their dear enjoyment lies,For which they starve themselves and families.An Englishman will fairly drink as much,As will maintain two families of Dutch:Subjecting all their labours to the pots;The greatest artists are the greatest sots.The country poor do by example live;The gentry lead them, and the clergy drive;What may we not from such examples hope?The landlord is their god, the priest their pope;A drunken clergy, and a swearing bench,Has given the reformation such a drench,As wise men think, there is some cause to doubt,Will purge good manners and religion out.Nor do the poor alone their liquor prize,The sages join in this great sacrifice;The learned men who study Aristotle,Correct him with an explanation bottle:Praise Epicurus rather than Lysander,And Aristippus more than Alexander;The doctors too their Galen here resign,And generally prescribe specific wine;The graduate's study's grown an easy task,While for the urinal they toss the flask;The surgeon's art grows plainer every hour,And wine's the balm which into wounds they pour.Poets long since Parnassus have forsaken,And say the ancient bards were all mistaken.Apollo's lately abdicate and fled,And good king Bacchus reigneth in his stead:He does the chaos of the head refine,And atom thoughts jump into words by wine:The inspiration's of a finer nature,As wine must needs excel Parnassus water.Statesmen their weighty politics refine,And soldiers raise their courages by wine.Cecilia gives her choristers their choice,And lets them all drink wine to clear the voice.Some think the clergy first found out the way,And wine's the only spirit by which they pray.But others, less profane than so, agree,It clears the lungs, and helps the memory:And, therefore, all of them divinely think,Instead of study, 'tis as well to drink.And here I would be very glad to know,Whether our Asgilites may drink or no;The enlightening fumes of wine would certainlyAssist them much when they begin to fly;Or if a fiery chariot should appear,Inflamed by wine, they'd have the less to fear.Even the gods themselves, as mortals say,Were they on earth, would be as drunk as they:Nectar would be no more celestial drink,They'd all take wine, to teach them how to think.But English drunkards, gods and men outdo,Drink their estates away, and senses too.Colon's in debt, and if his friend should failTo help him out, must die at last in jail:His wealthy uncle sent a hundred nobles,To pay his trifles off, and rid him of his troubles:But Colon, like a true-born Englishman,Drunk all the money out in bright champaign,And Colon does in custody remain.Drunk'ness has been the darling of the realm,E'er since a drunken pilot had the helm.In their religion, they're so uneven,That each man goes his own byway to heaven.Tenacious of mistakes to that degree,That ev'ry man pursues it sep'rately,And fancies none can find the way but he:So shy of one another they are grown,As if they strove to get to heaven alone.Rigid and zealous, positive and grave,And ev'ry grace, but charity, they have;This makes them so ill-natured and uncivil,That all men think an Englishman the devil.Surly to strangers, froward to their friend,Submit to love with a reluctant mind,Resolved to be ungrateful and unkind.If, by necessity, reduced to ask,The giver has the difficultest task:For what's bestow'd they awkwardly receive,And always take less freely than they give;The obligation is their highest grief,They never love where they accept relief;So sullen in their sorrows, that 'tis knownThey'll rather die than their afflictions own;And if relieved, it is too often true,That they'll abuse their benefactors too;For in distress their haughty stomach's such,They hate to see themselves obliged too much;Seldom contented, often in the wrong,Hard to be pleased at all, and never long.If your mistakes there ill opinion gain,No merit can their favour re-obtain:And if they're not vindictive in their fury,'Tis their inconstant temper does secure ye:Their brain's so cool, their passion seldom burns;For all's condensed before the flame returns:The fermentation's of so weak a matter,The humid damps the flame, and runs it all to water;So though the inclination may be strong,They're pleased by fits, and never angry long:Then, if good-nature show some slender proof,They never think they have reward enough;But, like our modern Quakers of the town,Expect your manners, and return you none.Friendship, th' abstracted union of the mind,Which all men seek, but very few can find;Of all the nations in the universe,None can talk on't more, or understand it less;For if it does their property annoy,Their property their friendship will destroy.As you discourse them, you shall hear them tellAll things in which they think they do excel:No panegyric needs their praise record,An Englishman ne'er wants his own good word.His first discourses gen'rally appear,Prologued with his own wond'rous character:When, to illustrate his own good name,He never fails his neighbour to defame.And yet he really designs no wrong,His malice goes no further than his tongue.But, pleased to tattle, he delights to rail,To satisfy the letch'ry of a tale.His own dear praises close the ample speech,Tells you how wise he is, that is, how rich:For wealth is wisdom; he that's rich is wise;And all men learned poverty despise:His generosity comes next, and thenConcludes, that he's a true-born Englishman;And they, 'tis known, are generous and free,Forgetting, and forgiving injury:Which may be true, thus rightly understood,Forgiving ill turns, and forgetting good.Cheerful in labour when they've undertook it,But out of humour, when they're out of pocket.But if their belly and their pocket's full,They may be phlegmatic, but never dull:And if a bottle does their brains refine,It makes their wit as sparkling as their wine.As for the general vices which we find,They're guilty of in common with mankind,Satire forbear, and silently endure,We must conceal the crimes we cannot cure;Nor shall my verse the brighter sex defame,For English beauty will preserve her name;Beyond dispute agreeable and fair,And modester than other nations are;For where the vice prevails, the great temptationIs want of money more than inclination;In general this only is allow'd,They're something noisy, and a little proud.An Englishman is gentlest in command,Obedience is a stranger in the land:Hardly subjected to the magistrate;For Englishmen do all subjection hate.Humblest when rich, but peevish when they're poor,And think whate'er they have, they merit more.The meanest English plowman studies law,And keeps thereby the magistrates in awe,Will boldly tell them what they ought to do,And sometimes punish their omissions too.Their liberty and property's so dear,They scorn their laws or governors to fear;So bugbear'd with the name of slavery,They can't submit to their own liberty.Restraint from ill is freedom to the wise!But Englishmen do all restraint despise.Slaves to the liquor, drudges to the pots;The mob are statesmen, and their statesmen sots.Their governors, they count such dang'rous things,That 'tis their custom to affront their kings:So jealous of the power their kings possess'd,They suffer neither power nor kings to rest.The bad with force they eagerly subdue;The good with constant clamours they pursue,And did King Jesus reign, they'd murmur too.A discontented nation, and by farHarder to rule in times of peace than war:Easily set together by the ears,And full of causeless jealousies and fears:Apt to revolt, and willing to rebel,And never are contented when they're well.No government could ever please them long,Could tie their hands, or rectify their tongue.In this, to ancient Israel well compared,Eternal murmurs are among them heard.It was but lately, that they were oppress'd,Their rights invaded, and their laws suppress'd:When nicely tender of their liberty,Lord! what a noise they made of slavery.In daily tumults show'd their discontent,Lampoon'd their king, and mock'd his government.And if in arms they did not first appear,'Twas want of force, and not for want of fear.In humbler tone than English used to do,At foreign hands for foreign aid they sue.William, the great successor of Nassau,Their prayers heard, and their oppressions saw;He saw and saved them: God and him they praisedTo this their thanks, to that their trophies raised.But glutted with their own felicities,They soon their new deliverer despise;Say all their prayers back, their joy disown,Unsing their thanks, and pull their trophies down;Their harps of praise are on the willows hung;For Englishmen are ne'er contented long.The reverend clergy too, and who'd ha' thoughtThat they who had such non-resistance taught,Should e'er to arms against their prince be broughtWho up to heav'n did regal power advance;Subjecting English laws to modes of FranceTwisting religion so with loyalty,As one could never live, and t'other die;And yet no sooner did their prince designTheir glebes and perquisites to undermine,But all their passive doctrines laid aside,The clergy their own principles denied;Unpreach'd their non-resisting cant, and pray'dTo heav'n for help, and to the Dutch for aid;The church chimed all her doctrines back again,And pulpit-champions did the cause maintain;Flew in the face of all their former zeal,And non-resistance did at once repeal.The Rabbi's say it would be too prolix,To tie religion up to politics,The churches' safety is suprema lex:And so by a new figure of their own,Their former doctrines all at once disown;As laws post facto in the parliament,In urgent cases have attained assent;But are as dangerous precedents laid by,Made lawful only by necessity.The rev'rend fathers then in arms appear,And men of God became the men of war:The nation, fired by them, to arms apply,Assault their antichristian monarchy;To their due channel all our laws restore,And made things what they should have been before.But when they came to fill the vacant throne,And the pale priests look'd back on what they'd done,How England liberty began to thrive,And Church of England loyality outlive;How all their persecuting days were done,And their deliv'rer placed upon the throne:The priests, as priests are wont to do, turn'd tail,They're Englishmen, and nature will prevail;Now they deplore their ruins they have made,And murmur for the master they betray'd;Excuse those crimes they could not make him mend,And suffer for the cause they can't defend;Pretend they'd not have carried things so high,And proto-martyrs make for popery.Had the prince done as they design'd the thing,High set the clergy up to rule the king:Taken a donative for coming hither,And so have left their king and them together;We had, say they, been now a happy nation;No doubt we had seen a blessed reformation:For wise men say 'tis as dangerous a thing,A ruling priesthood, as a priest-rid king;And of all plagues with which mankind are curst,Ecclesiastic tyranny's the worst.If all our former grievances were feign'd,King James has been abused, and we trepann'd;Bugbear'd with popery and power despotic,Tyrannic government, and leagues exotic;The revolution's a fanatic plot,William's a tyrant, King James was not;A factious army and a poison'd nation,Unjustly forced King James's abdication.But if he did the subjects' rights invade,Then he was punish'd only, not betrayed;And punishing of kings is no such crime,But Englishmen have done it many a time.When kings the sword of justice first lay down,They are no kings, though they possess the crown.Titles are shadows, crowns are empty things,The good of subjects is the end of kings;To guide in war, and to protect in peace,Where tyrants once commence the kings do cease;For arbitrary power's so strange a thing,It makes the tyrant and unmakes the king:If kings by foreign priests and armies reign,And lawless power against their oaths maintain,Then subjects must have reason to complain:If oaths must bind us when our kings do ill,To call in foreign aid is to rebel:By force to circumscribe our lawful prince,Is wilful treason in the largest sense:And they who once rebel, must certainlyTheir God, and king, and former oaths defy;If ye allow no mal-administrationCould cancel the allegiance of the nation,Let all our learned sons of Levi try,This ecclesiastic riddle to untie;How they could make a step to call the prince,And yet pretend the oath and innocence.By th' first address they made beyond the seas,They're perjur'd in the most intense degrees;And without scruple for the time to come,May swear to all the kings in Christendom:Nay, truly did our kings consider all,They'd never let the clergy swear at all,Their politic allegiance they'd refuse,For whores and priests do never want excuse.But if the mutual contract was dissolved,The doubt's explain'd, the difficulty solved;That kings, when they descend to tyranny,Dissolve the bond, and leave the subject free;The government's ungirt when justice dies,And constitutions are nonentities.The nation's all a mob, there's no such thing,As lords, or commons, parliament, or king;A great promiscuous crowd the Hydra lies,Till laws revive and mutual contract ties;A chaos free to choose for their own share,What case of government they please to wear;If to a king they do the reins commit,All men are bound in conscience to submit;But then the king must by his oath assent,To Postulata's of the government;Which if he breaks he cuts off the entail,And power retreats to its original.This doctrine has the sanction of assentFrom nature's universal Parliament:The voice of nations, and the course of things,Allow that laws superior are to kings;None but delinquents would have justice cease,Knaves rail at laws, as soldiers rail at peace:For justice is the end of government,As reason is the test of argument:No man was ever yet so void of sense,As to debate the right of self-defence;A principle so grafted in the mind,With nature born, and does like nature bind;Twisted with reason, and with nature too,As neither one nor t'other can undo.Nor can this right be less when national,Reason which governs one should govern all;Whate'er the dialect of courts may tell,He that his right demands can ne'er rebel;Which right, if 'tis by governors denied,May be procured by force or foreign aid;For tyranny's a nation's term of grief,As folks cry fire to hasten in relief;And when the hated word is heard about,All men should come to help the people out.Thus England groan'd, Britannia's voice was heard,And great Nassau to rescue her appear'd:Call'd by the universal voice of fate,God and the people's legal magistrate:Ye heavens regard! Almighty Jove look down,And view thy injured monarch on the throne;On their ungrateful heads due vengeance takeWho sought his aid, and then his part forsake:Witness, ye powers! it was our call alone,Which now our pride makes us ashamed to own;Britannia's troubles fetch'd him from afar,To court the dreadful casualties of war;But where requital never can be made,Acknowledgment's a tribute seldom paid.He dwelt in bright Maria's circling arms,Defended by the magic of her charms,From foreign fears and from domestic harms;Ambition found no fuel for her fire,He had what God could give or man desire,Till pity roused him from his soft repose,His life to unseen hazards to expose;Till pity moved him in our cause to appear,Pity! that word which now we hate to hear;But English gratitude is always such,To hate the hand that does oblige too much.Britannia's cries gave birth to his intent,And hardly gain'd his unforeseen assent;His boding thoughts foretold him he should findThe people fickle, selfish, and unkind;Which thought did to his royal heart appearMore dreadful than the dangers of the war;For nothing grates a generous mind so soon,As base returns for hearty service done.Satire, be silent! awfully prepareBritannia's song, and William's praise to hear;Stand by, and let her cheerfully rehearseHer grateful vows in her immortal verse.Loud fame's eternal trumpet let her sound,Listen, ye distant poles, and endless round,May the strong blast the welcome news convey,As far as sound can reach or spirit fly!To neighb'ring worlds, if such there be, relateOur heroes fame for theirs to imitate;To distant worlds of spirits let her rehearse,For spirits without the helps of voice converse:May angels hear the gladsome news on high,Mix'd with their everlasting symphony;And hell itself stand in surprise to know,Whether it be the fatal blast or no.BRITANNIA
The fame of virtue 'tis for which I sound,And heroes with immortal triumphs crown'd;Fame built on solid virtue swifter flies,Than morning light can spread the eastern skies:The gath'ring air returns the doubling sound;And loud repeating thunders force it round;Echoes return from caverns of the deep,Old Chaos dreams on't in eternal sleep:Time hands it forward to its latest urn,From whence it never, never shall return:Nothing is heard so far, or lasts so long,'Tis heard by ev'ry ear, and spoke by every tongue.My hero, with the sails of honour furl'd,Rises like the great genius of the world;By fate and fame wisely prepared to beThe soul of war and life of victory;He spreads the wings of virtue on the throne,And ev'ry wind of glory fans them on;Immortal trophies dwell upon his brow,Fresh as the garlands he has won but now.By different steps the high ascent he gains,And differently that high ascent maintains:Princes for pride and lust of rule make war,And struggle for the name of conqueror;Some fight for fame, and some for victory,He fights to save, and conquers to set free.Then seek no phrase his titles to conceal,And hide with words what actions must reveal;No parallel from Hebrew stories take,Of godlike kings my similies to make;No borrowed names conceal my living theme,But names and things directly I proclaim;His honest merit does his glory raise,Whom that exalts let no man fear to praise;Of such a subject no man need be shy,Virtue's above the reach of flattery;He needs no character but his own fame,Nor any flattering titles but his own name.William's the name that's spoke by every tongue,William's the darling subject of my song;Listen, ye virgins, to the charming sound,And in eternal dances hand it round;Your early offerings to this altar bring,Make him at once a lover and a king;May he submit to none but to your arms,Nor ever be subdued, but by your charms;May your soft thoughts for him be all sublime,And ev'ry tender vow be made for him;May he be first in ev'ry morning thought,And heav'n ne'er hear a prayer where he's left out;May every omen, every boding dream,Be fortunate by mentioning his name;May this one charm infernal powers affright,And guard you from the terror of the night;May ev'ry cheerful glass as it goes downTo William's health, be cordials to your own:Let ev'ry song be chorust with his name,And music pay her tribute to his fame;Let ev'ry poet tune his artful verse,And in immortal strains his deeds rehearse:And may Apollo never more inspireThe disobedient bard with his seraphic fireMay all my sons their grateful homage pay,His praises sing, and for his safety pray.Satire, return to our unthankful isle,Secured by heaven's regards, and William's toil:To both ungrateful, and to both untrue,Rebels to God, and to good nature too.If e'er this nation be distress'd again,To whomsoe'er they cry, they'll cry in vain;To heav'n they cannot have the face to look,Or, if they should, it would but heav'n provoke;To hope for help from man would be too much,Mankind would always tell 'em of the Dutch:How they came here our freedoms to maintain,Were paid, and cursed, and hurried home again;How by their aid we first dissolved our fears,And then our helpers damn'd for foreigners:'Tis not our English temper to do better,For Englishmen think ev'ry one their debtor.'Tis worth observing, that we ne'er complain'dOf foreigners, nor of the wealth we gain'd,Till all their services were at an end:Wise men affirm it is the English way,Never to grumble till they come to pay;And then they always think, their temper's such,The work too little, and the pay too much.As frighted patients, when they want a cure,Bid any price, and any pain endure:But when the doctor's remedies appear,The cure's too easy, and the price too dear:Great Portland near was banter'd when he strove,For us his master's kindest thoughts to move:We ne'er lampoon'd his conduct, when employ'dKing James's secret councils to divide:Then we caress'd him as the only man,Who could the doubtful oracle explain;The only Hushai, able to repelThe dark designs of our Achitophel:Compared his master's courage to his sense,The ablest statesman, and the bravest prince;On his wise conduct we depended much,And liked him ne'er the worse for being Dutch:Nor was he valued more than he deserved,Freely he ventured, faithfully he served;In all King William's dangers he has shared,In England's quarrels always he appear'd:The revolution first, and then the Boyne,In both, his counsels and his conduct shine;His martial valour Flanders will confess,And France regrets his managing the peace;Faithful to England's interest and her king,The greatest reason of our murmuring:Ten years in English service he appear'd,And gain'd his master's and the world's regard;But 'tis not England's custom to reward,The wars are over, England needs him not;Now he's a Dutchman, and the Lord knows what.Schonbergh, the ablest soldier of his age,With great Nassau did in our cause engage;Both join'd for England's rescue and defence,The greatest captain and the greatest prince;With what applause his stories did we tell,Stories which Europe's volumes largely swell!We counted him an army in our aid,Where he commanded, no man was afraid;His actions with a constant conquest shine,From Villa Vitiosa to the Rhine;France, Flanders, Germany, his fame confess,And all the world was fond of him but us:Our turn first served, we grudged him the command,Witness the grateful temper of the land.We blame the King, that he relies too much,On Strangers, Germans, Hugonots, and Dutch;And seldom does his great affairs of state,To English counsellors communicate:The fact might very well be answer'd thus:He had so often been betray'd by us,He must have been a madman to rely,On English gentlemen's fidelity;For, laying other argument aside:This thought might mortify our English pride;That foreigners have faithfully obey'd him,And none but Englishmen have e'er betray'd him:They have our ships and merchants bought and sold,And barter'd English blood for foreign gold;First to the French they sold our Turkey fleet,And injured Talmarsh next at Cameret;The king himself is shelter'd from their snares,Not by his merits, but the crown he wears;Experience tells us 'tis the English way,Their benefactors always to betray.And, lest examples should be too remote,A modern magistrate of famous note,Shall give you his own history by rote;I'll make it out, deny it he that can,His worship is a true-born Englishman;By all the latitude that empty word,By modern acceptation's understood:The parish books his great descent record,And now he hopes ere long to be a lord;And truly, as things go, it would be pity,But such as he bore office in the city;While robb'ry for burnt-offering he brings,And gives to God what he has stole from kings;Great monuments of charity he raises,And good St. Magnus whistles out his praises;To city jails he grants a jubilee,And hires huzza's from his own mobile.Lately he wore the golden chain and gown,With which equipp'd he thus harangued the town.