Tho. Brown's recantation of his Satyr on the French King. Facit recantatio versum.

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