THE
CAR-MANS POEM:
OR,
ADVICE to a Nest of Scriblers.
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CAR-men turn Poets now, why may not I?
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Then Horse, and Cart, and Whip, stand you three by:
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Nay, but I lack my Whip to lash those Cattel,
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That by their Scribling bid the Kingdom Battel.
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Woud I coud lash you with such mighty force,
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As I have usd to lash my drudging Horse.
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Its the dull Satyrs of this envious Age,
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That puts my Fancy in so great a rage;
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They swarm in evry Street, in evry Shop,
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They are the Froth of evry idle Fop.
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He that has nought to do, takes Pen and Ink,
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Calls for some Paper, and a Pot of Drink,
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And then the Maggot works, and Noddle rings,
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And theyl not spare the best of British Kings:
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Malice, and Pride, and Drink are all agreed,
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Then drive on, Car-man: but none cries, God speed.
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Their wicked Wits on wheels, but why so fast?
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I am afraid youl pay for this at last:
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Your head-strong Fancy must be curbd ere long,
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The Judge will make you sing another Song,
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A Kings a puny thing in your conceit;
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And all by reason of a shallow Pate:
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A Dukes a Trifle, and a Queens a Toy;
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Its death to you to sing out Viv le Roy.
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And a grave Bishop, or a learned Dean,
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You do abhor as much as King and Queen:
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Judges are next to nothing in your eye.
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So boldly from all Government you fly,
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That with your dirty, frothy, hair-braind Pen,
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You lash our Kings, even like our Common men.
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Touch not the Lords Anointed, it is said;
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But when with Ale and Beer youre muddy made,
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When with a little Drink your heads are warm,
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You touch the King, and do his Prophets harm:
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You rail, abuse, contemn, despise and jeer,
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You lash them like your Horses, without fear:
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It matters not for Sence, be they but Rhimes,
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Then there is hopes theyl suit with these sad Times.
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Away they run to Smith, and he corrects them;
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Thats a mistake, he Prints, and he Protects them:
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From Friend to Friend they march about the Street,
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And evry Baptizd Brothers glad to seet:
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Oh how they shrug their Elbows with delight,
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To see such dangrous things appear in sight.
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Hes wise thats bold, the fittest man for th Times,
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That dare presume to write the worst of Rhimes:
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Hang Sence, thats out of fashion, so is Reason;
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Come let us see you write Sedition, Treason,
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Move for a Commonwealth, cry down the King,
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Another Royal Head to th Block lets bring;
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Rail at the Bishops, and the Common-Prayer,
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Abuse the Papists, this is past compare:
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Let us beat down all these too Loyal Elves,
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Then we may hope we shall set up our selves.
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This is the language of the Baptizd Beast,
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The heart of evry Presbyterian Priest.
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Did they but fear a God, theyd love a King,
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They seldom Harp on such a pleasant String:
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They make long Prayrs your Houses to devour,
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Theyl pray for half a day, and preach an hour;
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Theyl Fast in earnest; turn up th white o th eyes,
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Evn like a Paraketto to the Skies:
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Theyl walk demurely, chatter like a Saint,
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Their language is so zealous, smooth and quaint,
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You woud not think that they coud act ought ill,
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Much less that they their Sovreign Lord woud kill.
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Give them but powr, youl find them greater Cheaters,
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Then old Nol Cromwell, or his Chaplain Peters.
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What has our Law no limits for our words?
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And shall our Pens cut like two-edged Swords,
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And none regard them? shall our Libels swarm,
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And will no Judge take notice of the harm?
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Seditious Libels surely have a Charm,
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Theres not one Judge that dare put forth his arm.
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Then let our Pamphlets swarm about the City,
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Be deaf and do not shew Conformists pity;
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Satyr them unto death, the days our own,
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Our Judges now we find are weary grown:
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Spare neither King nor Subject, let all share
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Alike that love the Mass and Common-Prayer:
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Come, drive on, Car-man, set thy brains to work,
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And write as if it were against the Turk.
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Puddle-dock Coach-man, hold thy Dung-Cart Pen,
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Spurn not against such great and powrful men;
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They do but let you run to your wits end,
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Now you must pay for what you wrote, my Friend.
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Thou that didst sin against both Judge and King,
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And stole the Honey, now must feel the Sting:
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Thy Libels now are all upon the File,
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That swarm like Hornets in a pleasing Isle.
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Imprimis, Answer thy Tom Ticklefoot,
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I fear that that will put thee hardly tot:
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Item, remember thy late New-years-Gift,
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Thy Neck thou from this Noose canst no way shift,
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Unless it from a twisted Halter be,
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Unto a Wooden Noose calld Pillory:
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And thy late Satyr will not be forgotten,
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When Smith and Anvil are decayd and rotten.
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Judgment has Leaden heels, but without doubt
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At the long run twill find the Rabble out:
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Then woe be to you, better you were choakd,
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Then deal with Judges that you have provokd;
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My life for yours theyl stick upon your Skirts,
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And pay you home for all your Jeers and Flirts:
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You and your hireling Scriblers will repent,
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That they their Time, and you your Money spent.
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One witty Dolben, and a sharp Recorder,
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Will timely bring you all to better order:
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A Pillory will tell us you were Rogues,
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To write against a Judge so just as Scroggs,
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Whose Worth and Judgment, Wit and Justice flies
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With far more Fame, thanks to your Scribling Lies.
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