T

BETTESWORTH'S EXULTATION,

UPON HEARING THAT HIS NAME WOULD BE TRANSMITTED TO POSTERITY IN DR. SWIFT'S WORKS.

WELL! now, since the heat of my passion's abated, That the Dean hath lampoon'd me, my mind is elated:

Lampoon'd did I call it?-No-what was it then?
What was it?'Twas fame to be lash'd by his pen :
For had he not pointed me out, I had slept till
E'en doomsday, à poor insignificant reptile,
Half lawyer, half actor, pert, dull, and inglorious,
Obscure, and unheard of-but now I'm notorious.
Fame has but two gates, a white and a black one,
The worst they can say is, I got in at the back one:
If the end be obtain'd 'tis equal what portal
I enter, since I'm to be render'd immortal:
So clysters applied to the anus, 'tis said,
By skilful physicians, give ease to the head-
Though my title be spurious, why should I be
dastard,

A man is a man, though he should be a bastard.
Why sure 'tis some comfort that heroes should slay us,
If I fall, I would fall by the hand of Æneas;
And who, by the Drapier would not rather damn'd be,
Than demigoddized by madrigal Namby

A man is no more, who has once lost his breath;
But poets convince us there's life after death.
They call from their graves the king or the peasant,
React our old deeds, and make what's past present;

Ambrose Philips. N.

And when they would study to set forth a like,
So the lines be well drawn, and the colours but strike,
Whatever the subject be, coward or hero,

A tyrant or patriot, a Titus or Nero,

To a judge 'tis all one which he fixes his eye on,
And a well-painted monkey's as good as a lion.
The scriptures affirm (as I heard in my youth,
For indeed I ne'er read them, to speak for once truth,)
That death is the wages of sin, but the just
Shall die not, although they be laid in the dust.
They say so, so be it, I care not a straw,
Although I be dead both in Gospel and law;
In verse I shall live, and be read in each climate;
What more can be said of prime sergeant or primate?
While Carter and Prendergast both may be rotten,
And damn'd to the bargain, and yet be forgotten.

THE YAHOO'S OVERTHROW; OR, THE KEVAN BAYL'S NEW BALLAD,

UPON SERGEANT KITE'S INSULTING THE DEAN.

To the Tune of, Derry down.

JOLLY boys of St. Kevan's, St. Patrick's, Donore,
And Smithfield, I'll tell you, if not told before,
How Bettesworth, that booby, and scoundrel in
grain,

Has insulted us all by insulting the Dean.

Knock him down, down, down, knock him down.

The Dean and his merits we every one know, But this skip of a lawyer, where the De'el did he grow?

How greater his merit at Four Courts of House, Than the barking of Towzer, or leap of a louse? Knock him down, &c.

That he came from the Temple, his morals do show;

But where his deep law is, few mortals yet know:
His rhetorick, bombast, silly jests, are by far
More like to lampooning, than pleading at bar.
Knock him down, &c.

This pedlar, at speaking and making of laws,
Has met with returns of all sorts but applause;
Has, with noise and odd gestures, been prating some

years,

What honester folks never durst for their ears.

Knock him down, &c.

Of all sizes and sorts, the fanatical crew

Are his brother protestants, good men and true,
Red hat, and blue bonnet, and turban's the same,
What the De'el is't to him whence the Devil they

came ?

Knock him down, &c.

Hobbes, Tindal, and Woolston, and Collins, and
Nayler,

And Muggleton, Toland, and Bradley the Taylor,
Are Christians alike; and it may be averr'd,
He's a Christian as good as the rest of the herd.

Knock him down, &c.

He only the rights of the clergy debates, Their rights! their importance! We'll set on new

rates

On their tithes at half-nothing, their priesthood at

less:

What's next to be voted with ease you may guess.

Knock him down, &c.

At length his old master (I need not him name) To this damnable speaker had long ow'd a shame; When his speech came abroad, he paid him off clean, By leaving him under the pen of the Dean.

Knock him down, &c.

He kindled, as if the whole satire had been The oppression of virtue, not wages of sin : He began, as he bragg'd, with a rant and a roar ; He bragg'd how he bounc'd, and he swore how he

swore.

Knock him down, &c.

Though he cring'd to his deanship in very low strains,

To others he boasted of knocking out brains,
And slitting of noses, and cropping of ears,

While his own ass's zags were more fit for the

shears.

Knock him down, &c.

On this worrier of deans whene'er we can hit, We'll show him the way how to crop and to slit; We'll teach him some better address to afford To the Dean of all deans, though he wears not a

sword.

Knock him down, &c.

We'll colt him through Kevan, St. Patrick's,

Donore,

And Smithfield, as rap was ne'er colted before; We'll oil him with kennel, and powder him with

grains,

A modus right fit for insulters of deans.

Knock him down, &c.

And, when this is over, we'll make him amends, To the Dean he shall go; they shall kiss and be

friends:

But how? Why, the Dean shall to him disclose
A face for to kiss, without eyes, ears, or nose.
Knock him down, &c.

If you say this is hard on a man that is reckon'd That sergeant at law whom we call Kite the Second, You mistake; for a slave, who will coax his superiours, May be proud to be licking a great man's posteriours. Knock him down, &c.

What care we how high runs his passion or pride? Though his soul he despises, he values his hide; Then fear not his tongue, or his sword, or his knife; He'll take his revenge on his innocent wife.

Knock him down, down, down, keep him down.

ON THE ARCHBISHOP OF CASHEL,
AND BETTESWORTH.

DEAR

CAR Dick, pr'ythee tell by what passion you move?
The world is in doubt, whether hatred or love;
And, while at good Cashel you rail with such spite,
They shrewdly suspect it is all but a bite.

You certainly know, though so loudly you vapour,
His spite cannot wound, who attempted the Drapier.
Then, prithee, reflect, take a word of advice;
And, as your old wont is, change sides in a trice:
On his virtues hold forth; 'tis the very best way;
And say of the man what all honest men say,
But if, still obdurate, your anger remains,
If still your foul bosom more rancour contains;
Say then more than they; nay, lavishly flatter,
'Tis your gross panegyricks alone can bespatter:
For thine, my dear Dick, give me leave to speak plain,
Like very foul mops, dirty more than they clean.