Are these Things So? Part 3

No! with the _Curs'd_ your Tomb shall foremost stand, The GAVESTON'S and WOLSEY'S of the Land.

Your Epitaph--_In this foul Grave lies HE_, _Who dug the grave of_ British _Liberty_.

Since then your Gla.s.s has but few Hours to run, Quit quit the Reins before we're quite undone.

Why should you torture out your Dregs of Life, In publick Tumult, Infamy and Strife?

To the last gasp maintain a baneful Power Only to see your Country die before?

If not for _us_--for your _own_ Family, And as you've made 'em _Great_, pray leave 'em _Free_.

But if there's nothing that can bribe your Will, From this perverse Propensity to Ill; If to the Grave you are on Mischeif bent.

By growth in Crimes too harden'd to Repent.

If, whilst _perhaps_ you may, you _won't Retreat_, Resolv'd the Nations _Ruin_ to compleat, On _Britain_'s Downfall to erect a Name, And trust to an _immortal Guilt_ for Fame, May'nt the _Just Vengeance_ of an injur'd Land, Thus greatly urg'd, exert a glorious _Stand_?

Drive not the _Brave_ and _Wretched_ to Despair, For though of Freedom, Wealth and Power left bare, The Plunder'd still have _Tongues_--and they may rear, Their loud Complaints to reach their _Sovereign's_ Ear, Lay, with one Voice, their _Wrongs_ before the _Throne_, Whilst HE whose _Fame_ to both the Poles is known, All Europe's Arbiter, all Asia's Theme, Affrick's Delight, America's Supreme; HE who does still express his Royal Care, His loving Subjects Injuries to repair; To their _Addresses_ graciously attends, And above all their _Liberty_ defends, Who is as Wise as Pious, Mild as Great, And whose sole Business is to nurse the State; _May_ judge their Cause and, greatly rous'd, command, The _Staff_ of _Power_ from thy _polluted_ Hand, And to some _abler Head_ and _better Heart_, His long _dishonour'd Stewardship_ impart.

Perhaps to Thee! great _Carteret_, who can'st boast.

Talents quite equal to the arduous Post; A keen Discernment; strong, yet bridled Thought, One Natures Dow'r, one by just Learning taught: Calm Fort.i.tude, unwarp'd Integrity, And Flame divine to keep thy Country Free.

Or to thy Conduct, _Pultney_! whose just Zeal, Is still exerted for the publick Weal; Whose boundless Knowledge and distinguish'd Sense, Flow in full Tides of rapid Eloquence; And to the native Treasures of whose Mind, We see form'd Worth, and wide Experience join'd.

With these the darling _Chesterfield_ may sit An _able_ Partner--if his _rebel Wit_ } Can to such _Pains_ and _Penalties_ submit. }

And that fam'd _Caledonian Youth_, whose Morn Propitious Skies, and Noon-tide Rays adorn, Who rose so _early_ in his Country's Cause, Shone, though so Young, _so bright_, that our Applause Was lock'd in Wonder--gazing Senates hung On the divine Enchantment of his Tongue; Hark with what Force he pleads in our Defence!

How just he speaks an injur'd People's Sense!

_Half_ lost to _Britain_ now, He chides his Fate, For stealing him, _by t.i.tles_, from the State; Whilst we, lov'd _Polwarth_! with thy t.i.tles _more_, As might such Virtues to the State restore.

Then too the n.o.ble _Cobham_, first of Men!

May leave his Garden for the Camp again; Call'd, like old Rome's Dictator from the Plough, To plant once more the Laurel on his Brow.

And Brave _Argile_, who's form'd alike to wield The Rhet'rick of the Senate and the Field, So tun'd whose Eloquence, whose Breast so Mann'd, None can the _Speaker_ or the _Chief_ withstand.

Yet feign Methink's I'd hope that you were clear From this _high Charge_ that eccho's in my Ear; Trust that some Demon envious of my Rest With visionary Wrongs distracts my Breast, Or that this Blazon of enormous Crimes Springs from the wanton Licence of the Times.

Therefore I put this _Question_ to your Heart,---- Speak, Culprit--_Are you Guilty_? Nay, don't Start, This is a Question all have right to ask, To answer it with _Honour_ is your Task; That, If you dare unbosom, I expect, Till when, _I'm Yours, Sir, with all_ due _Respect_.

_FINIS_

[Ill.u.s.tration: Decoration]

THE GREAT MAN's ANSWER TO Are these Things So?

[Ill.u.s.tration: Decoration]

(Price One Shilling.)

THE GREAT MAN'S ANSWER TO Are these Things So?

IN A DIALOGUE BRTWEEN His HONOUR and the ENGLISHMAN in His GROTTO.

_Qui capit_----

By the Author of _Are these Things So?_

_LONDON:_

Printed for T. Cooper, at the _Globe_ in _Paternoster-Row_.

MDCCXL.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Decoration]

THE GREAT MAN's ANSWER TO Are these Things So?

_E.M._ HAIL blest _Elizium_! sweet, secure Retreat; Quiet and Contemplation's sacred Seat!

Here may my Life's last Lamp in Freedom burn, Nor live to light my Country to her Urn: Die 'ere that huge _Leviathan_ of State Shall swallow all.--Who thunders at my Gate!

See _John_--But hah! what Tempest shakes my Cell?

Whence these big Drops that Ooze from ev'ry Sh.e.l.l?

From this obdurate Rock whence flow those Tears?

Sure some _Ill Power_'s at hand--Soft! it appears.

_E. M._ What's That approaches, _John_? _J._ Why Sir, 'tis He.

_E. M._ What He? _J._ Why He Himself, Sir; the _great_ HE.

_E. M._ Enough. _G. M._ Your Slave, Sir. _E. M._ No Sir, I'm _your Slave_, Or soon shall be.--How then must I behave?

Must I fall prostrate at your Feet? Or how-- I've heard the _Dean_, but never saw him _Bow_.

_G. M._ Hoh! hoh! you make me laugh. _E. M._ So _Nero_ play'd, Whilst _Rome_ was by his Flames in Ashes laid.

_G. M._ Well, solemn Sir, I'm come, if you think fit, To solve your Question. _E. M._ Bless me! pray, Sir, sit.

_G. M._ The Door! _E. M._ No Matter, Sir, my Door won't shut: Stay here, _John_; we've no _Secrets_. _G. M._ Surly Put!

How restiff still! but I have _what_ will win him Before we part, or else the Devil's in him.

_E. M._ I wait your Pleasure, Sir. _G. M._ Why _Fame_, you say, Reports that I'm the Author of To-Day: I am--But not the Day that you describe, Black with imagin'd Ills--Your Patriot Tribe, Those growling, restless, factious Malecontents, Who blast all Schemes, and rail at all Events; Whom Ministers, nor Kings, nor G.o.ds can please; Whose Rage my Ruin only can appease; That motley Crew, the Sc.u.m of ev'ry Sect, Who'd fain destroy, because they can't direct; Wits, Common-Council-Men, and Brutes in Fur, Knights of the Shire, and of the Post.--_E. M._ This, Sir, Is _Gazetteer_ Abuse. _G. M._ These Miscreants dire Apply the Torch themselves, then cry out Fire; In Rhime, in Prose, in Prints, and in Debate, They falsly represent the Nation's State.

Go forth, and see if _Britain_'s fall'n _so low_; Fly to her Coasts, and mark the glorious _Show_: See Fleets how gallant! See _Marines_ how _stout_! } That wait but till the _Wind shall turn about_. } _E. M._ What a whole _Twelvemonth_! _G. M._ Pray Sir, hear me out. } See all their Sails unfurl'd, their Streamers play; You'd think old _Neptune_'s Self kept Holiday: These shall protect our Commerce, scour the Main, The Honour of the _British_ Flag maintain; Pour the avenging Thunder on the Foe, } And--_E. M._ Mighty well; but when are they to go? } _G. M._ When? Psha! why look'ee, Sir, that _Time_ will show. } Next view the martial Guardians of the Land: Lo! her gay Warriors redden all the Strand: _c.o.c.kade_ behind _c.o.c.kade_, each Entrance keep, Whilst in their Sheaths ten thousand Falchions _sleep_.

_E. M._ But, Sir, 'tis urg'd that these are needless quite, Kept only for Review, and not for Fight: That Fleets are _Britain_'s Safety--_G. M._ Stupid Elves!

Why these, Sir, are to _save you_ from _yourselves_: Ye're p.r.o.ne, ye're p.r.o.ne to murmur and rebel, And when mild Methods fail, we must compel: Besides, consider Sir, _th' Election_'s near-- _E. M._--O, Sir, I'm answer'd--Now the _Case_ is _clear_.

_G. M._ Ay,--I shall answer all the rest as well.

_E. M._ I doubt it not. _G. M._ On _Se--s_ next you fell: Fie! that was paw--_Se--s_ are _sacred_ Things, And _no more_ capable of _Ill_ than--_Kings_.

_E. M._ 'Tis granted. _G. M._ Yet at them your Gall is spit; You're told they _Yea_ and _No_ as I think fit; And that if some brave _One_ Rebellious prov'd, From his Lord's Banquet he was strait remov'd; Cast into utter Darkness, like the Guest, Who was not in a _Wedding Garment_ Dress'd.

Well, What of that? should not the _Blind_ be led?

Should not so vast a _Body_ have a _Head_?

And if _one Finger's gangreen'd_, sure 'tis best To lop it off 'ere it infect the rest.

_Free_ P----ts! mere stuff--What would be done?

Let loose, five hundred diff'rent Ways they'd run; They'd Cavil, Jarr, Dispute, O'return, Project, And the great Bus'ness of _Supply_ Neglect; On _Grievances_, not _Ways_ and _Means_ would go; Nor one round _Vote of Credit_ e're bestow: The _sinking Fund_ would _strangely_ be apply'd, And _secret service Money_ quite denied: Whilst _Soap_ and _Candles_ we _untax_'d should rue, And _Salt_ itself would lose it's _Savour_ too: Ev'n _Gin_ would then be drank without controul, And the poor _civil List_ be ne're _lick'd whole_.

Down go all _Pensioners_, all _Placemen_ down.

Those lov'd and trusty Servants of the Crown, Who're always ready at their Chief's Command, Would have no _Vote_ to save the _sinking_ Land: Ev'n _Levy_'s Bench might lose it's sacred _Weight_, Remov'd, O _sad Translation_! from the State.

Then Pen's like yours would _freely_ vent their Rage, No _License_ on the _Press_, or on the _Stage_; Whilst loyal _Gazetteer_'s, tho' ne're so witty, No more might chasten the Rebellious _City_: No more sage _Freeman_ trumpet out my Fame, Nor _unstamp'd Farthing-Posts_ my worth proclaim.

_E. M._ Indeed--such dire _Calamities_ attend!