Numb. I.
MERCURIUS DEFORMATUS:
Or the TRUE
OBSERVATOR.
Omne verum deforme imaginatione perversa.
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WHen smockless Cinthia scarce had run
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Beyond the Tropick of the Sun,
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And Phoebus with his fiery Taper,
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Upon the Clouds begun to caper:
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E're every Cuckold, with his Horn,
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Had bid Good-morrow to the Morn;
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And all the lazy London Fops
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Had set to sale their lowsie Shops.
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Through muddy Beer, in Rhiming vein,
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Like tumbling waves upon the Main,
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My noddle went: but up I rose,
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Contriving for the other Dose;
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And through the streets as I did range,
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I pick'd up one at the Exchange;
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A Banker that had three times broke,
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Whom nothing but a Rope could choak:
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With Di'mond Ring and Beaver Hat,
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A roaring Wig and Point Cravat;
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A Conscience made of stretching Leather,
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As wide as from the Artick hither.
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His Tongue did run of Turks and Jews,
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And Daemons sat betwixt his brows.
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His voice my Spirits did confound,
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His least word was a thousand pound.
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Loss, Ruin, and the poor Man's fall,
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Had all enrich'd the Cannibal:
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But at a stand my Senses were,
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How to accost the Conjurer;
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Yet made Address, and for defence,
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I arm'd myself with Confidence.
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Sir, I came from such a Squire,
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"The issue of a Noble Sire;
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"His Daughters Portion he must pay,
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"Tomorrow morning, or today;
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"If you'll lend him a thousand pound,
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"He will secure you in his Ground:
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"He'll prove both honest, and fulfill,
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"Whate're, in reason, is your will.
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He peep'd at me with half an eye,
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Began my suit to shift it by;
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But I, right slily to prevent him,
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Threw in a Twenty pound per Centum.
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We walk'd together Cheek by Jole,
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As far as Hockley in the Hole:
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With many a sweet and sugar word,
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And Rhetorick, all I could afford,
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I push'd my suit a little bolder,
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When Miser, with a shrug'd up Shoulder,
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A gruntling Voice, and rueful Face,
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Did thus bemoan his woful case;
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I'd serve you Sir, but that I'm undone,
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There's not a poorer man in London;
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Fortune that Jilt serv'd me a slim Trick,
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All that I had I lost on Lym'rick.
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And thus march'd off my broken Miser,
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And poor Pilgarlick ne're the wiser.
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Then, broke with grief, I did repair
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Unto a place, I know not where;
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Where Athens Owls stand round a Table,
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And speak as Nature makes them able:
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But D------n in the middle sits,
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As great Apollo of the Wits;
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With Leather Lugs, and Leather Jaws,
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With greasie Face and nasty Paws;
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Who, tho he be of Maggots full,
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Proves Vacuum by his empty Scull.
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Their These it was an ill-look'd Monster,
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Whom every Fop and Fool dares conster;
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Of Ens, and Non-ens, Penetration,
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Of Causa and of Ubication;
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But D------n was for Generation.
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I waited long, till I was weary,
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For Sylogismus faciens scire.
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But O the Stoicks with pretences
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Of Nonsense, did confound my senses.
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Tam grande Sophos Rabble cry'd,
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And others swore the Wise men ly'd;
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But I should, were I their Mecaenas,
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Deferre Noctuas Athenas.
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For as Reformed Observator,
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Of all our News the Nomenclator,
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Deserves the Trumpet and the Drum,
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To sound and beat's Encomium;
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These Philosophs, by apprehension,
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That end debate, by new Contention,
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That draw the draught, but cannot work it,
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Like boys, should have their Arses jerked.
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A lowsie Tylor lately found
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A lump of Wit, that weigh'd a pound,
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Which from some Patterer did drop,
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Or some Athenian Learned Fop,
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Which seemed per conceptum primum,
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Quid rationale, but ad imum,
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An ugly Crab of Contradiction,
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'Twixt Ens Reale, and a Fiction:
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And, when he cram'd it in his noddle,
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It turn'd his brains into a Coddle;
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And at the last made him so bad,
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That he was sent to Bedlam mad.
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The Country Farmers likewise now
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Turn Philosophs, and leave the Plough,
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And stare, like Owls, from every bough.
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And shortly now scarce will be found
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A Husbandman to till the ground;
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No Sofia, Syrus, nor Alexis,
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To pay the Parliamental Taxes.
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Thus Rabbies, if you longer sit,
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You'll craze the Nation with your Wit.
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Tho I must own you have done more
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Than all Philosophers before.
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Squire B------ with all his boyling Kettles,
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His Limbicks, Pots, and Chymick Mettles,
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Bids his Inventions all adieu,
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And leaves the Golden Stone to you.
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What Fops were all our Old Divines,
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When you, in less than twenty lines,
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Discuss those AEnigmatick Theses,
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(Which all the Universe amazes)
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That they could never well descry
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In Systems of Divinity.
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But some say, it's not worth the while
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To answer Ignoramus Stile.
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But sense or nonsense, false or true,
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We give implicit Faith to you:
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And he that would the reason know,
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The Owls of Athens tell us so.
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Oxford and Cambridge now are Fools,
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To those our new Athenian Tools,
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And both must at the Feet down lye
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Of Londons new Society.
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King Solomon he could not know
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The Causes and Effects below:
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But learned you, like Dancing Bears,
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Can trace the Footsteps of the Spheres.
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And with Chimaeras Chain, at Noon,
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Survey the World that's in the Moon.
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Our Royal Colledge Virtuoso,
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Or Foppery-forgers (let them go so)
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To make themselves in knowledge rich,
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Made naked Madam Natures Britch;
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But you, just as she were a Whore,
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Turn up her Clouts both back and fore.
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Sure you, by Opium, make her sleep,
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You dive into her Womb so deep.
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You Cuckoldize, by your great sense,
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The Orbs, and stop their influence.
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The Universe is got with Child,
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Materia prima is defil'd;
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And yet the birth's not worth a Souse,
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The Hawkers midwife forth the Mouse.
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Your Volumes, that such knowledge breed,
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More needful than secundum quid,
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Gives England whereupon to glory,
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In Londons new Dispensatory.
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And many Cities will contest,
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Where Athens Owls first found a Nest.
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For they, as blind as Homer, write,
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Which after Death will come to light.
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You clear Philosophy from Schism,
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By your Athenian Catechism.
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But ah, as Hay'rst the Gazetteer,
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Did cast the Kingdoms water clear;
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Our Questions are resolv'd in vain,
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The doubtful dregs do still remain.
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All men of sense have now given o're
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To send you any Questions more;
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But Kitchin wenches Queries move,
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How to be cur'd of Nature's love;
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But still your Remedy's in vain,
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Their weighty Maiden heads are their pain.
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You live in darkness, still unknown,
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Your Brats of Nonsence to disown:
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You are asham'd to shew your face,
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Lest you be branded with Disgrace.
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But Gentlemen, when Madam Nature
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Is prostitute to every Creature,
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And all her Secrets are made bare,
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In Fire and Water, Earth and Air;
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Then shut your books, and go to bed,
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Next morning choose some Cobbling Trade.
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When Aristotle, Moses read,
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He did approve the work, and said,
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Of Heaven and Earth, and all that move,
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Thou speakest well; but how dost prove?
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But you, in Madam Natures plea,
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You nothing prove, you nothing say.
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Hence then Impostors, proud pretenders,
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Who do discuss, like Kettle-menders,
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Or Hydra like, with much to do,
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You wound one Doubt, and raise up two.
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