The Poets address to the Honourable Sir Charles Duncomb, Knight, and alderman of the city of London

THE POETS ADDRESS To the Honourable Sir Charles Duncomb . THE fair Augusta of all Lands the Pride , And Wonder of the Gazing World beside ; The fair Augusta heretofore could Boast , Of noble Praetors at their proper Cost : Men Wise in Council , as for Wealth renown'd , And with the Praises of their People crown'd . Whose well-spread Tables Dishes did a●●●d , Equal in Plenty to a Potent Lord : Whose Kitchins were no Ordinarys then , To Treat at their own Charge the Liv'ry Men . Who for the Dinner they had got at Noon Pay in the Evening with a Silver Spoon ; As finely Guilt as Dr. Quack's fam'd Pills , Which fills so many of our Weekly Bills . They were not open-handed to receive , But their ennobl'd Talent was to give . And such is yours whose brighter Virtues are Of the same Stamp , your Predecessors were ; I mean not those of a more Modern Date , Who kept their Feasts upon a single Plate Whose Shreival Board produc'd a Bill of Fare , Nine Pence per Diem thro' the gaudy Year ; Who chew'd the Cud instead of wholsom Meat , And thought it was Original Sin to Eat ; Lord ! What a goodly Time had Cocks and Hens , The Calves were safe within our Smithfield Pens . No Foes from City Halls did them Invade , The Butchers had almost forgot their Trade . The Godly Folk deem'd every Man a Beast , A Wicked Glutton , who proclaim'd a Feast . The Bucks grew wilder and forsook their Mounds , And quite unlearnt the Opening of the Hounds ▪ These Pious Times in which dark Plots were rife , And Men Eat ●●●ion to support their Life ; To open Venison Pasty no Man durst , For fear of Plotters underneath the Crust . So cautious were they of preserving Life , They quite forgot the Use of Fork and Knife . Self-Preservation did Improve their Skill , They'd use no Weapons which would wound or kill . Still in their Food some hidden Mischief smoak'd , They wou'd not Eat for fear they shou'd be choak'd . Their Cupboard founder'd does to pieces fall And Good Boil'd Beef becomes Apocryphal . No racy Wine their duller Hearts united , And honourable Sir-Loyn was Unknighted ; They were to any honest Mortals thinking , Green Schismaticks in Eating and in Drinking . Now Vilest Avarice usurp'd the Place Of Charity , and Vice supplanted Grace . Frugality's a Grace they ne'er did want , For every Niggard was esteem'd a Saint . That sober Party , who did others Mock ; And ne'er were drunk but on the Publick Stock , At their own Tables are extremely Nice , And make Good Eating an Enormous Vice ; Can when on Free-Cost gormandize the Best , And feed as much like Gluttons as the rest . But you pursue the Methods as of old , When Men did use , not Idolize their Gold , When City May'rs , and Sheriffs of Request , Dissolv'd the Winters in continual Feast ; Whose Kitchins Heat did shivering Mortals Warm , What the far distant Sun could not perform . You on their Dressers every Day might see , The Nations Wealth in an Epitomy . Nor only did our Dainties fill their Board , But generous Wines Imported from abroad , Their daily Revels and their Banquets crown'd , Whilst fair Augusta's Health went round . If you when Sheriff did such Feasts prepare , What will you do when once elected May'r ? If such great Treatment from the Sheriff comes We from the May'r expect whole Hecatombs ? The Sober Party say , you will undo 'em , And sad Example of Profuseness shew 'em ; For should you ever thus debauch their Gullets , You 'l make a Dearth of Capons and of Pullets : We 'll by such Slaughters with Destruction meet , And want both Beef and Pork to serve the Fleet ; Your Wine and Meat will cause a double Pain , O'er charge their Stomachs , and disturb their Brain . For Wine in Noddle as in Ship is tost , And bounc'd alas from Pillow unto Post ; Cast on the Rocks by Seas which loudly Roar , And here disgorg'd into the Common Shoar : Wine makes Indentures , and what 's worst of all , Makes the most upright Mortal downwards fall , When tho' no Limbs are broke , or Sculls are torn , It often Damage does to strongest Horn ; For sad Disasters happen in the Fight , Where Head's too heavy , and the Heells too light . Thus who 's beholding for a Sumptuous Dinner , Which turns a Saint into a very Sinner . Who after such Insatiate Wicked Poring , Forgets the Wife , and runs to Miss a Whoring , Or by replenish'd Nature is beguil'd , At his own Charge gets his own Wife with Child . 't is not for Poets to dispute Elections , Or Troubles raise by Scandalous Reflections ; We for Parnassus chuse no Lordly May'r , Or ever vote to fill the vacant Chair ; Tho in this Age we Schismatick's are grown , And would for Claret change our Hellicon . We love not Mony but to buy us Drink , And always Mump for Paper , Pens and Ink ; With which , and of Canary a Good Cup , Is a Good Stock to set a Poet up . We know no difference 'twixt a Guild-hall Pole , And those round which the wand'ring Stars do Role ; But yet we know th' Opinion of the Gods , Who give the Choice to him that has the Odds ; Were we to Vote I certainly do think , We should Elect such as would make us Drink . Such as would give us Meat without Disdain , The fittest Props to fortify the Brain : Deny us such Assistance , Sirs , and then Poets as stupid are as other Men ; They dully will the Mases Chariot draw , As for Example , Brother Elkanah ; Who long Time has from Rules of Reason swerv'd , And underneath his glorious Pageants starv'd : Who mounts no higher than a few dull Speeches ; Not from his Brain , but voided in his Breeches ; And those the best upon a Poets Word , He can from such Encouragement Afford . How sad's the State of every Mortal Cit , A Dearth of Victuals , and a Dearth of Wit ; While we such Good Accommodations want , Old London is again turn'd Troynovant . The Muses State is settl'd not at all , But like the Stocks , does either rise or fall ; Sometimes we raise our Thoughts in Notes sublime , And half way up Parnassus Mount do climb ; But then descending with uneven pace , For want of Ammunition quit the Place . Time was , alas ! but in the Days of Yore , When London's Soil sublimest fancies bore . When thence the Muses did their Minious take , And every Prentice could a Ballad make ; And Songs compos'd by Poets Grave and Wise , At Christmas , plenty were as Christmas Pies . But now to Learning we have no pretence ; Bankrupt in Trade , in Poetry and Sense . Will no kind Magistrate our Griefs redress , And vouchsafe Life unto Immortal Verse . How awkardly shall we a Christmas keep ? Our Muse will slumber , and our Senses Sleep . If no Good Patriot at that time encourage , Islands of Meat in Oceans of Plumb-porridge ; Which makes the Jolly Citizens rejoyce , And tune their Throats in a melodious Noise . Instead of Meat we now must suck our Fingers ; The Poets starv'd , and whipt the Ballad-singers . If once in London we should play the Fool , Our Land is grown incorrigibly dull . Now both the Universities are broke , And can't afford the Nine one tuneful stroke ; Whose Songs of late on Dryden plainly told , Their Wit is shrivl'd , and their Brains are cold ; No Verse exalted , and no Thoughts Divine , Th' Effects of Water-gruel not of Wine . Apollo now disowns 'em for his Sons , And from their disinspired Mansions runs : Yet would make London his most blest Abode , Had he but Grace to entertain the God . Here would erect his high Imperial Seat ; And as in Wealth , in Wisdom make us Great . It is resolv'd , and by the God decreed ; The Times shall mend when Du●comb shall succeed . He Good Presages gave of peaceful Sway , And mark'd the Tract , where Virtue led the Way . Enfeebl'd Charity , grown Stiff and Cold , He brought to Life by showr's of Liquid Gold ; His Bounty more Extensive than the Sun , Did not o'er Hills and lofty Mountains run ; But dark Recesses of the Prisons warm'd , And drooping Spirits with his Bounty charm'd . He Ludgate's Hell did Bless with Rays of Light , Where Shackl'd Souls keep an Eternal Night ; Cag'd up like Birds to sing the Infamy Of Creditors , and their own Elegy : These he let fly , and set upon the Wing , Who now for ever will his Praises Sing : In vain do Niggard Saints their Virtues Cant , While they extensive Charity do want . Methinks I see of his good Reign a Scene , Tho with a Space of Twelve sad Months between , In which Augusta is again in State , Reviv'd in Pomp , magnificently Great : In which her lively Children do appear , Blest with such Features as their Fathers were . Greaz'd with his Oyl , each Bacchus Cheeks do's shine , Plump'd up with Bumpers of his Racy Wine ; To grace his Court the wretched do advance , The Orphans Singing , as the Widows Dance . Poets like Batts , this tedious Winter dwell , In some retir'd and Melancholly Cell . But like the Swallows will Arise and Sing , At the Approach of his more fragrant Spring . When Duncomb gives to Gladness a new Birth , And like the Sun replenishes the Earth . FINIS .