Tho. Brown's
RECANTATION
OF HIS
SATYR
ON THE
FRENCH KING.
Facit Recantatio versum.
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ANd has this Bitch my Muse trapan'd me,
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Then I'm as much undone as can be.
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I knew the Gilt would never leave me,
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Till to a Prison she'd deceived me:
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Curst be the wretch, and sure he's curst
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That taught the Trade of Rhyming first:
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'Tis a damn'd Trade, and who pursues it,
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I'll pass my word at last he rue's it,
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Homer and Virgil were but Tools------
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Fit only for the use of Fools.
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And Horrace too with all his Art,
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To Men of sense not worth a Fart:
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Even Causabon for Satyr famous,
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Was but a gingling Ignoramus.
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And all the rest to Ben. and so forth,
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A Crew of useless things of no worth:
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But now I have no time to rail,
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The Hog hath got another Tail.
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My Wits are rather on the Wrack,
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To save my own Poetick Back;
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Yet by the way, 'tis very hard
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Poets of all Men should be barr'd,
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From labouring in their proper Station;
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Why, Where's the Justice of the Nation?
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Believe me, Sirs, as I'm a Sinner,
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I writ this Satyr for a Dinner,
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And stampt it with the Parsons Name,
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Not as I meant them any shame.
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But since I must the Matter tell,
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I thought 'twould make the Paper sell.
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By all that's good, all that true is,
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I ever lov'd and honour'd Lewis:
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He's Great and Wise, more could I say,
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But fear again to dis-obey.
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And for his Priests, I here protest,
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I value them as all the rest:
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And tho' I curst them all, What then?
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The Men are honest harmless Men.
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Next for King James and Prince of Wales,
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I always wish'd them happy Gales;
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And for my sawcy naming Molly,
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I own 'twas Impudence and Folly.
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Lastly, for naming the Non-Juror;
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Why, that was but Poetick furor.
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I know I have ungrateful been.
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'Twas raging hunger drew me in,
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To abuse those very Friends that have
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Almost preserv'd me from the Grave;
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There honest Men, mark what I say,
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If I love any Priests 'tis they.
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I now confess 'tis highly base,
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To insult o'er Men in such a Case:
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And could the thing be done again,
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I'd starve before I'd injure them.
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What shall I say? I here recant,
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And own myself a Sycophant:
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But Oh! I fear that will not do,
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A thousand dismal Thoughts pursue.
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I'm all in pain, and let me tell you,
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My Back begins to curse my Belly.
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I'm just as if at Cart-arss tyde,
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With hang-man grinning by my side,
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And Mob of all sorts crowding round me,
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Advising Catch to swinge me soundly:
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And what torments me worst of all,
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Methinks that some among them bawl,
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'Tis he that for a Crown to spend,
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Reviles Crown'd Heads, betrays his Friend.
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All this 'tis true I well deserve,
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And yet 'tis very hard to starve.
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So that if things were rightly stated,
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Part of my Sentence might be bated.
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I was of Poppins-Ally chief.
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Till forc'd from thence to seek relief.
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And to avoid some dangerous Rogues;
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Took shelter among Paedagogues;
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'Twas then like the Sicylian King,
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Under strict Laws I Boys did bring:
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And tho' I was but a V[ic]e-Roy,
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I could command the c[hi]efest Boy.
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But here a little Time was spent
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Before I left my Government.
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I'm charg'd with Male Administration,
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And so pull'd down from regal Station.
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To Town again disgrac'd I came,
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For now 'tis vain to hide my Shame;
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Where since I sharp'd, and spung'd and tick'd,
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Been always scorn'd, and sometimes kick'd;
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And yet the worst is still behind,
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Oh! hear me out and you'll be kind.
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For three long Weeks my Muse and I,
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Had been shut up in Garret high:
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The Cause I think I need not tell,
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Poets with Pox convertible.
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While thus I lay in desperate state,
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In comes a Baud whose name was Kate;
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A Rampant Bitch where once I tabled,
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Who finding me of strength disabled;
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Not Vows nor Promises could save me,
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But off she bears the Cloaths she gave me.
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And thus of Coat, even Shirt bereft,
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Poor naked Tom. in Bed was left.
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In this most sharp and strange distress,
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T'was then I thought on Trusty Bess;
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Who tho' I knew she was but poor,
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I always found a faithful Whore.
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To her without a long Petition,
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I briefely told my sad Condition.
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But I forget to tell you how,
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With hot Ox-cheek, and heel of Cow:
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With Trotters neat and Tripe like Jelly,
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She oft had fill'd my empty Belly.
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And one thing more I had forgot,
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Hot Furmety and Rice-milk hot.
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She never let me want, for why?
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It was her Trade the same to Cry.
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I thought (poor fool) she pittyed me,
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And thus resolve's to set me free------.
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With twenty pence which she had got;
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And shillings four for loan of pot.
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To some convenient bulk she hies,
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And there a Coat and Breeches buyes.
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The want of Shirt too to supply------,
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Sends me her Smock tho' hardly dry.
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And more to fit me out compleat,
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For th' other three pence buys a Cheat.
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When thus equipp'd abroad I venture,
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Hopeing on projects new to enter:
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But all my hopes prove vain God wot;
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Bess still must want her porridge-pot.
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My belly too grows lank, for she
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Had no Rice-milk nor Furmety.
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All Friends I try'd not one was willing,
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To credit me with one poor shilling.
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In this distress without adviseing,
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I fell to cursed Satyrising.
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Oh! pitty me or I am lost,
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Far worst than when in blanket tost.
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And if this time I'm spar'd from whipping,
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If e'er again you catch me tripping,
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May all the plagues that are befel,
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On Poet poor on this side Hell:
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Seize me at once, and may I be,
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A publick mark of Infamy.
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May all my Whores and Dunes o'ertake me,
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And all my Friends even Bess forsake me.
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And may the Pox with which I struggle;
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Joyn'd with the Gout afflict me double:
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May I at Last by Inches Die,
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First loose my nose and then an Eye.
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And when I am dead, then may I have,
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This just Memento on my Grave:
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Here Lie's T.B. of Life and fame bereft:
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Here lie's I mean all that the Pox hath left.
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There let him lie, a Wretch too mean for scorning,
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To all ungrateful Scriblers a long Warning.
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