The times: A poem. By [blank]

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THE TIMES.

THE Time hath been, a Boyish, Blushing Time,

When Modesty was scarcely held a crime,

When the most Wicked had some touch of grace,

And trembled to meet Virtue face to face,

When Those, who, in the cause of Sin grown grey,

Had serv'd her without grudging day by day,

Were yet so weak an awkward shame to feel,

And strove that glorious service to conceal,

We, better bred, and than our Sires more wise,

Such paultry narrowness of soul despise,

To Virtue ev'ry mean pretence disclaim,

Lay bare our crimes, and glory in our shame.

Time was, e'er Temperance had fled the realm;

E're Luxury sat guttling at the helm

From meal to meal, without one moment's space

Reserv'd for business, or allow'd for grace;

E're Vanity had so far conquer'd Sense

To make us all wild rivals in expence,

To make one Fool strive to outvye another,

And ev'ry coxcomb dress against his brother;

E're banish'd Industry had left our shores,

And Labour was by Pride kick'd out of doors;

E're Idleness prevail'd sole Queen in Courts,

Or only yielded to a rage for sports;

E're each weak mind was with externals caught,

And Dissipation held the place of Thought;

E're gambling Lords in Vice so far were gone

To cog the die, and bid the Sun look on;

E're a great Nation, not less just than free,

Was made a beggar by Oeconomy;

E're rugged Honesty was out of vogue,

E're Fashion stamp'd her sanction on the rogue;

Time was, that Men had conscience, that they made

Scruples to owe, what never could be paid.

Was One then found, however high his name,

So far above his fellows damn'd to shame,

Who dar'd abuse, and falsify his trust,

Who, being great, yet dar'd to be unjust,

Shunn'd like a plague, or but at distance view'd,

He walk'd the crouded streets in Solitude,

Nor could his rank, and station in the land

Bribe one mean knave to take him by the hand.

Such rigid maxims (O, might such revive

To keep expiring Honesty alive)

Made rogues, all other hopes of fame denied,

Not just thro' principle, be just thro' pride.

Our Times, more polish'd, wear a diff'rent face;

Debts are an Honour; Payment a disgrace.

Men of weak minds, high-plac'd on Folly's list,

May gravely tell us Trade cannot subsist,

Nor all those Thousands who're in Trade employ'd,

If faith 'twixt Man and Man is once destroy'd.

Why—be it so—We in that point accord,

But what is Trade, and Tradesmen to a Lord.

FABER, from day to day, from year to year,

Hath had the cries of tradesmen in his ear,

Of tradesmen by his Villainy betray'd,

And, vainly seeking Justice, bankrupts made.

What is't to FABER? Lordly as before,

He sits at ease, and lives to ruin more.

Fix'd at his door, as motionless as stone,

Begging, but only begging for their own,

Unheard they stand, or only heard by Those,

Those slaves in Livery, who mock their woes.

What is't to FABER? he continues great,

Lives on in grandeur, and runs out in state.

The helpless Widow, wrung with deep despair,

In bitterness of soul, pours forth her pray'r,

Hugging her starving babes, with streaming eyes,

And calls down vengeance, vengeance from the skies.

What is't to FABER? he stands safe and clear

Heav'n can commence no legal action here,

And on his breast a mighty plate he wears,

A plate more firm than triple brass, which bears

The name of PRIVILEGE, 'gainst vulgar awe;

He feels no Conscience, and he fears no Law.

Nor think, acquainted with small knaves alone,

Who have not shame outliv'd, and grace outgrown,

The great World hidden from thy reptile view,

That on such Men, to whom Contempt is due,

Contempt shall fall, and their vile Author's name

Recorded stand thro' all the land of shame.

No—to his porch, like Persians to the Sun,

Behold contending crowds of Courtiers run;

See, to his aid what noble troops advance,

All sworn to keep his crimes in Countenance.

Nor wonder at it—They partake the charge,

As small their Conscience, and their debts as large.

Propp'd by such Clients, and without controul

From all that's honest in the human soul,

In Grandeur mean, with insolence unjust,

Whilst none but knaves can praise, and Fools will trust,

Caress'd and Courted, FABER seems to stand

A mighty Pillar in a guilty land.

And (a sad truth to which succeeding times

Will scarce give credit, when 'tis told in rimes)

Did not strict Honour with a jealous eye

Watch round the Throne, did not true Piety,

(Who, link'd with Honour for the noblest ends,

Ranks none but honest Men amongst her friends)

Forbid us to be crush'd with such a weight,

He might in time be Minister of State.

But why enlarge I on such petty crimes?

They might have shock'd the faith of former times.

But now are held as Nothing—We begin,

Where our Sires ended, and improve in Sin,

Rack our invention, and leave nothing new

In vice, and folly for our sons to do.

Nor deem this censure hard; there's not a place

Most consecrate to purposes of grace,

Which Vice hath not polluted; none so high,

But with bold pinion She hath dar'd to fly,

And build there for her pleasure; none so low,

But She hath crept into it, made it know,

And feel her pow'r; in Courts, in Camps She reigns,

O'er sober Citizens, and simple Swains,

E'en in our temples She hath fix'd her throne,

And 'bove God's holy altars plac'd her own.

More to increase the horrour of our State,

To make her Empire lasting as 'tis great,

To make us in full-grown Perfection feel

Curses which neither Art, nor Time can heal,

All Shame discarded, all remains of pride,

MEANNESS sits crown'd, and triumphs by her side.

MEANNESS, who gleans out of the human mind

Those few good seeds which Vice had left behind,

Those seeds which might in time to Virtue tend,

And leaves the Soul without a pow'r to mend;

MEANNESS, at sight of whom, with brave disdain

The breast of Manhood swells, but swells in vain,

Before whom Honour makes a forc'd retreat,

And Freedom is compell'd to quit her seat;

MEANNESS which, like that mark by bloody CAIN

Borne in his forehead for a brother slain,

God, in his great and all-subduing rage,

Ordains the standing mark of this vile age.

The venal Heroe trucks his fame for gold,

The Patriot's virtue for a place is sold,

The Statesman bargains for his Country's shame,

And for preserment Priests their God disclaim.

Worn out with lust, her day of letch'ry o'er,

The Mother trains the daughter which She bore

In her own paths; The Father aids the plan,

And, when the Innocent is ripe for Man,

Sells her to some old Letcher for a wife,

And makes her an Adulteress for life,

Or in the papers bids his name appear,

And advertises for a L—;

Husband and Wife (whom Av'rice must applaud)

Agree to save the charge of Pimp and Bawd;

Those parts they play themselves, a frugal pair,

And share the infamy, the gain to share,

Well-pleas'd to find, when They the profits tell,

That they have play'd the whore and rogue so well.

Nor are these things (which might imply a spark

Of Shame still left) transacted in the dark.

No—to the Public they are open laid,

And carried on like any other trade,

Scorning to mince damnation, and too proud

To work the works of darkness in a cloud,

In fullest vigour Vice maintains her sway:

Free are her Marts, and open at noon-day.

MEANNESS, now wed to IMPUDENCE, no more

In darkness skulks, and trembles as of yore

When the Light breaks upon her coward eye;

Boldly She stalks on earth, and to the sky

Lists her proud head, nor fears least time abate,

And turn her Husband's love to canker'd hate,

Since Fate, to make them more sincerely one,

Hath crown'd their loves with MOUNTAGUE their son.

A Son, so like his Dam, so like his Sire,

With all the Mother's craft, the Father's fire,

An Image so express in ev'ry part,

So like in all bad qualities of heart,

That, had They fifty children, He alone

Would stand as Heir Apparent to the throne.

With our own Island vices not content,

We rob our neighbours on the Continent,

Dance Europe round, and visit ev'ry court

To ape their follies, and their crimes import.

To diff'rent lands for diff'rent sins we roam,

And, richly freighted, bring our cargoe home,

Nobly industrious to make vice appear

In her sull State, and perfect only here.

To HOLLAND, where Politeness ever reigns,

Where primitive Sincerity remains,

And makes a stand, where Freedom in her course

Hath left her name, tho' she hath lost her force

In that, as other lands, where simple Trade

Was never in the garb of Fraud array'd,

Where Av'rice never dar'd to shew his head,

Where, like a smiling Cherub, Mercy, led

By Reason, blesses the sweet-blooded race,

And Cruelty could never find a place,

To HOLLAND for that Charity we roam,

Which happily begins, and ends at home.

FRANCE, in return for peace and pow'r restor'd,

For all those Countries, which the Heroe's sword

Unprofitably purchas'd, idly thrown

Into her lap, and made once more her own.

FRANCE hath afforded large and rich supplies

Of Vanities full-trimm'd, of polish'd lies,

Of soothing flatteries, which thro' the ears

Steal to, and melt the heart, of slavish fears

Which break the Spirit, and of abject fraud—

For which alas! we need not send abroad.

SPAIN gives us Pride—which SPAIN to all the earth,

May largely give, nor fear herself a dearth—

Gives us that Jealousy, which, born of fear

And mean distrust, grows not by Nature here—

Gives us that Superstition, which pretends

By the worst means to serve the best of ends—

That Cruelty, which, stranger to the brave,

Dwells only with the Coward, and the Slave,

That Cruelty, which led her Christian bands

With more than savage rage o'er savage lands,

Bade her without remorse whole countries thin,

And hold of nought, but Mercy, as a sin.

ITALIA, nurse of ev'ry softer art,

Who, feigning to refine, unmans the heart,

Who lays the realms of Sense and Virtue waste,

Who marrs whilst She pretends to mend our taste,

ITALIA, to compleat and crown our shame,

Sends us a Fiend, and LEGION is his name.

The Farce of greatness, without being great,

Pride without Pow'r, Titles without Estate,

Souls without vigour, Bodies without force,

Hate without cause, Revenge without Remorse,

Dark, mean Revenge, Murder without defence,

Jealousy without Love, Sound without Sense,

Mirth without Humour, without Wit Grimace,

Faith without Reason, Gospel without Grace,

Zeal without Knowledge, without Nature Art,

Men without Manhood, Women without Heart,

Half-Men, who, dry and pithless, are debarr'd

From Man's best joys—no sooner made than marr'd—

Half-Men, whom many a rich and noble Dame,

To serve her lust, and yet secure her fame,

Keeps on high diet, as We Capons feed,

To glut our appetites at last decreed,

Women, who dance, in postures so obscene,

They might awaken shame in ARETINE,

Who, when, retir'd from the day's piercing light,

They celebrate the mysteries of night,

Might make the Muses, in a corner plac'd

To view their monstrous lusts, deem SAPPHO chaste;

These, and a thousand follies rank as these,

A thousand faults, ten thousand Fools, who please

Our pall'd and sickly taste, ten thousand knaves,

Who serve our foes as spies, and us as slaves,

Who by degrees, and unperceiv'd prepare

Our necks for chains which they already wear,

Madly we entertain, at the expence

Of Fame, of Virtue, Taste, and Common-Sense.

Nor stop we here—the soft luxurious EAST,

Where Man, his soul degraded, from the Beast

In nothing diff'rent but in shape we view,

They walk on four legs, and he walks on two,

Attracts our eye, and, flowing from that source,

Sins of the blackest character, Sins worse

Than all her plagues, which truly to unfold

Would make the best blood in my veins run cold,

And strike all Manhood dead, which but to name

Would call up in my cheeks the marks of shame,

Sins, if such Sins can be, which shut out grace,

Which for the guilty leave no hope, no place

E'en in God's mercy, Sins 'gainst Nature's plan

Possess the land at large, and Man for Man

Burns in those fires, which Hell alone could raise

To make him more than damn'd, which, in the days

Of punishment, when guilt becomes her prey,

With all her tortures She can scarce repay.

Be Grace shut out, be Mercy deaf, let God

With tenfold terrours arm that dreadful nod

Which speaks them lost, and sentenc'd to despair;

Distending wide her jaws, let Hell prepare

For Those who thus offend amongst Mankind,

A fire more fierce, and tortures more refin'd;

On Earth, which groans beneath their monstrous weight,

On Earth, alas! They meet a diff•rent fate,

And whilst the Laws, false grace, false mercy shewn,

Are taught to wear a softness not their own,

Men, whom the Beasts would spurn, should they appear

Amongst the honest herd, find refuge here.

No longer by vain fear, or shame controul'd,

From long, too long Security grown bold,

Mocking rebuke, they brave it in our streets,

And LUMLEY e'en at noon his mistress meets.

So public in their crimes, so daring grown,

They almost take a pride to have them known,

And each unnat'ral Villain scarce endures

To make a secret of his vile amours.

Go where We will, at ev'ry time and place,

S•DOM confronts, and stares us in the face;

They ply in public at our very doors

And take the bread from much more honest Whores.

Th•se who are mean high Paramours secure,

And the rich gailty screen the guilty poor;

The Sin too proud to feel from Reason awe,

And Those, who practise it, too great for Law.

Woman, the pride and happiness of Man,

Without whose soft endearments Nature's plan

Had been a blank, and Life not worth a thought;

Woman, by all the Loves and Graces taught,

With softest arts, and sure, tho' hidden skill

To humanize, and mould us to her will;

Woman, with more than common grace form'd here,

With the persuasive language of a tear

To melt the rugged temper of our Isle,

Or win us to her purpose with a smile;

Woman, by fate the quickest spur decreed,

The fairest, best reward of ev'ry deed

Which bears the stamp of honour, at whose name

Our antient Heroes caught a quicker flame,

And dar'd beyond belief, whilst o'er the plain,

Spurning the carcases of Princes slain,

Confusion proudly strode, whilst Horrour blew

The fatal trump, and Death stalk'd full in view;

Woman is out of date, a thing thrown by

As having lost its use; No more the Eye

With female beauty caught, in wild amaze,

Gazes entranc'd, and could for ever gaze;

No more the Heart, that seat where Love resides,

Each Breath drawn quick and short, in fuller tides

Life posting thro' the veins, each pulse on fire,

And the whole body tingling with desire,

Pants for those charms, which Virtue might engage

To break his vow, and thaw the frost of age,

Bidding each trembling nerve, each muscle strain,

And giving pleasure which is almost pain.

Women are kept for nothing but the breed;

For pleasure we must have a GANYMEDE,

A fine, fresh HYLAS, a delicious boy,

To serve our purposes of beastly joy.

Fairest of Nymphs, where ev'ry Nymph is fair,

Whom Nature form'd with more than common care,

With more than common care whom Art improv'd,

And Both declar'd most worthy to be lov'd,

—neglected wanders, whilst a croud

Pursue, and consecrate the steps—

She, hapless maid, born in a wretched hour,

Wastes life's gay prime in vain, like some fair flow'r,

Sweet in its scent, and lively in its hue,

Which withers on the stalk from whence it grew,

And dies uncropp'd, whilst He, admir'd, carest,

Belov'd, and ev'ry where a welcome guest,

With Brutes of rank and fortune plays the Whore,

For their unnat'ral lust a Common Sew'r.

Dine with APICIUS—at his sumptuous board

Find all, the world of dainties can afford—

And yet (so much distemper'd Spirits pall

The sickly appetite) amidst them all

APICIUS finds no joy, but, whilst he carves

For ev'ry guest, the Landlord sits and starves.

The forest Haunch, fine, fat, in flavour high,

Kept to a moment, smokes before his eye,

But smokes in vain; his heedless eye runs o'er

And loathes what He had deified before;

The Turtle, of a great and glorious size,

Worth its own weight in gold, a mighty prize

For which a Man of Taste all risques would run,

Itself a feast, and ev'ry dish in one,

The Turtle in luxurious pomp comes in,

Kept, kill'd, cut up, prepar'd, and drest by QUIN;

In vain it comes, in vain lies full in view;

As QUIN hath drest it, he may eat it too,

APICIUS cannot—When the glass goes round,

Quick-circling, and the roofs with mirth resound,

Sober he sits, and silent—all alone

Tho' in a croud, and to himself scarce known,

On grief he feeds, nor friends can cure, nor wine

Suspend his cares, and make him cease to pine.

Why mourns APICIUS thus? why runs his eye,

Heedless, o'er delicates, which from the sky

Might call down Jove? Where now his gen'rous wish

That, to invent a new and better dish,

The World might burn, and all mankind expire,

So he might roast a Phoenix at the fire.

Why swims that eye in tears, which, thro' a race

Of sixty years, ne'er shew'd one sign of grace?

Why feels that heart, which never felt before?

Why doth that pamper'd glutton eat no more,

Who only liv'd to eat, his Stomach pall'd,

And drown'd in floods of sorrow? hath Fate call'd

His Father from the grave to second life?

Hath CLODIUS on his hands return'd his Wife,

Or hath the Law, by strictest justice taught,

Compell'd him to restore the dow'r She brought?

Hath some bold Creditor against his will

Brought in, and forc'd him to discharge a bill,

Where Eating had no share? Hath some vain Wench

Run out his wealth, and forc'd him to retrench?

Hath any rival Glutton got the start,

And beat him in his own luxurious art,

Bought cates for which APICIUS could not pay,

Or drest old dainties in a newer way?

Hath his Cook, worthy to be slain with rods,

Spoil'd a dish, fit to entertain the Gods,

Or hath some Varlet, cross'd by cruel fate,

Thrown down the price of Empires in a plate?

None, none of these—his Servants all are try'd,

So sure, they walk on ice, and never slide;

His Cook, an acquisition made in France,

Might put a CLOE out of countenance,

Nor, tho' old HOLLES still maintains his stand,

Hath He one rival glutton in the land;

Women are all the objects of his hate,

His debts are all unpaid, and yet his state

In full security and triumph held,

Unless for once a Knave should be expell'd;

His Wife is still a Whore, and in his pow'r

The Woman gone, he still retains the dow'r;

Sound in the grave (thanks to his filial care

Which mix'd the draught, and kindly sent him there,)

His Father sleeps, and, till the last trump shake

The corners of the earth, shall not awake.

Whence flows this Sorrow then? behind his chair

Did'st Thou not see, deck'd with a Solitaire

Which on his bare breast glitt'ring play'd, and grac'd

With nicest ornaments, a Stripling plac'd,

A Smooth, Smug, Stripling in life's fairest prime?

Did'st Thou not mind too, how from time to time,

The monstrous Letcher, tempted to despise

All other dainties, thither turn'd his eyes?

How He seem'd inly to reproach us all,

Who strove his fix'd attention to recall,

And how He wish'd, e'en at the Time of grace,

Like Janus, to have had a double face?

His cause of grief behold in that fair Boy;

APICIUS dotes, and CORYDON is coy.

Vain and unthinking Stripling! When the glass

Meets thy too curious eye, and, as You pass,

Flatt'ring, presents in smiles thy image there,

Why dost Thou bless the Gods, who made Thee fair?

Blame their large bounties, and with reason blame;

Curse, curse thy beauty, for It leads to shame.

When thy hot Lord, to work Thee to his end,

Bids show'rs of gold into thy breast descend,

Suspect his gifts, nor the vile giver trust;

They're baits for Virtue, and smell strong of lust.

On those gay, gaudy trappings, which adorn

The temple of thy body, look with scorn,

View them with horrour, they pollution mean

And deepest ruin; Thou hast often seen,

From 'mongst the herd, the fairest and the best

Carefully singled out, and richly drest,

With grandeur mock'd, for sacrifice decreed,

Only in greater pomp at last to bleed.

Be warn'd in time, the threat'ned danger shun,

To stay a moment is to be undone.

What tho', temptation proof, thy Virtue shine,

Nor bribes can move, nor arts can undermine,

All other methods failing, one resource

Is still behind, and Thou must yield to force.

Paint to thyself the horrors of a rape,

Most strongly paint, and, while Thou can'st escape,

Mind not his promises—They're made in sport—

Made to be broke—Was He not bred at Court?

Trust not his Honour; He's a Man of birth;

Attend not to his oaths—They're made on earth,

Not regist'red in Heav'n—He mocks at grace,

And in his Creed God never found a place—

Look not for Conscience—for He knows her not,

So long a Stranger, she is quite forgot—

Nor think thyself in Law secure and firm—

Thy Master is a Lord, and Thou a Worm,

A poor mean Reptile, never meant to think,

Who, being well supplied with meat and drink,

And suffer'd just to crawl from place to place,

Must serve his lusts, and think he does Thee grace.

Fly then, whilst yet 'tis in thy pow'r to fly,

But whither can'st Thou go? on Whom rely

For wish'd protection? Virtue's sure to meet

An armed host of foes, in ev'ry street.

What boots It, of APICIUS fearful grown,

Headlong to fly into the arms of STONE,

Or why take refuge in the house of pray'r,

If sure to meet with an APICIUS there?

Trust not Old Age, which will thy faith betray;

Saint SOCRATES is still a Goat, tho' grey;

Trust not green Youth; FLORIO will scarce go down,

And, at eighteen, hath surfeited the Town;

Trust not to Rakes—alas! 'tis all pretence—

They take up Raking only as a fence

'Gainst Common fame—place H— in thy view;

He keeps one Whore, as BARROWBY kept two;

Trust not to Marriage— T— took a Wife,

Who chaste as Dian might have pass'd her life,

Had She not, far more prudent in her aim,

(To propagate the honours of his name,

And save expiring titles) taken care

Without his knowledge to provide an heir;

Trust not to Marriage, in Mankind unread;

S—'s a married man, and S— new wed.

Would'st Thou be safe? Society forswear,

Fly to the desart, and seek shelter there,

Herd with the Brutes—they follow Nature's plan—

There's not one Brute so dangerous as Man

In Afric's wilds—'mongst them that refuge find,

Which Lust denies thee here among Mankind;

Renounce thy name, thy nature, and no more

Pique thy vain pride on Manhood, on all four

Walk, as You see those honest creatures do,

And quite forget that once You walk'd on Two.

But, if the thoughts of Solitude alarm,

And Social life hath one remaining charm,

If still Thou art to jeopardy decreed

Amongst the monsters of AUGUSTA'S breed,

Lay by thy sex, thy safety to procure;

Put off the Man, from Men to live secure;

Go forth a woman to the public view,

And with their garb assume their manners too.

Had the light-footed GREEK of Chiron's school

Been wise enough to keep this single rule,

The Maudlin Heroe, like a puling boy

Robb'd of his play-thing, on the plains of Troy

Had never blubber'd at Patroclus' tomb,

And plac'd his Minion in his Mistress' room.

Be not in this than Catamites more nice,

Do that for Virtue, which they do for vice.

Thus shalt Thou pass untainted life's gay bloom,

Thus stand uncourted in the drawing room,

At midnight thus, untempted, walk the sttreet,

And run no danger but of being beat.

Where is the Mother, whose officious zeal

Discreetly judging what her Daughters feel

By what She felt herself in days of yore,

Against that Letcher Man makes fast the door,

Who not permits, e'en for the sake of pray'r,

A Priest, uncastrated, to enter there,

Nor (could her wishes, and her care prevail)

Would suffer in the house a fly that's male?

Let Her discharge her cares, throw wide her doors,

Her daughters cannot, if They would, be Whores,

Nor can a Man be found, as Times now go,

Who thinks it worth his while to make them so.

Tho' They, more fresh, more lively than the Morn,

And brighter than the noon-day Sun, adorn

The works of Nature, tho' the Mother's grace

Revives, improv'd, in ev'ry daughter's face,

Undisciplin'd in dull discretion's rules,

Untaught, and Undebauch'd by Boarding Schools,

Free and unguarded, let Them range the Town,

Go sorth at random, and run pleasure down

Start where She will, discard all taint of fear,

Nor think of danger, when no danger's near.

Watch not their steps—They're safe without thy care,

Unless, like Jennets, they conceive by air,

And ev'ry one of them may die a Nun,

Unless They breed, like Carrion, in the Sun.

Men, dead to pleasure, as they're dead to grace,

Against the law of Nature set their face,

The grand, primoeval law, and seem combin'd

To stop the propagation of Mankind;

Vile Pathicks read the Marriage Act with pride,

And fancy that the Law is on their side.

Broke down, and Strength a stranger to his bed,

Old L— tho' yet alive, is dead;

T— lives no more, or lives not to our Isle;

No longer blest with a Cz—'s smile

T— is at P— disgrac'd,

And M— grown grey, perforce grows chaste;

Nor, to the credit of our modest race,

Rises one 〈◊〉 to supply their place.

A Maidenhead, which, twenty years ago,

In mid December, the rank Fly would blow

Tho' closely kept, now, when the Dog-Star's heat

Enflames the marrow, in the very street

May lie untouch'd, left for the worms, by Those

Who daintily pass by, and hold their nose.

Poor, Plain Concupiscence is in disgrace,

And Simple Letch'ry dares not shew her face

Least She be sent to Bridewell; Bankrupts made,

To save their fortunes, Bawds leave off that trade,

Which first had left off them; to Well-close Square

Fine, fresh, young Strumpets (for DODD preaches there)

Throng for subsistence; Pimps no longer thrive,

And Pensions only keep L— alive.

Where is the Mother, who thinks all her pain,

And all her jeopardy of travail, gain,

When a Man Child is born, thinks ev'ry pray'r

Paid to the sull, and answer'd in an heir?

Shortsighted Woman! Little doth she know

What streams of sorrow from that source may flow,

Little suspect, whilst She surveys her Boy,

Her young NARCISSUS, with an eye of joy

Too full for Continence, that Fate could give

Her darling as a curse, that She may live,

E're sixteen Winters their short course have run,

In agonies of soul, to curse that Son.

Pray then, for daughters, Ye wise Mothers, pray;

They shall reward your love, nor make ye grey

Before your time with sorrow; They shall give

Ages of peace and comfort, whilst Ye live

Make life most truly worth your care, and save,

In spite of death, your mem'ries from the grave.

That Sense, with more than manly vigour fraught,

That Fortitude of Soul, that stretch of Thought,

That Genius, great beyond the narrow bound

Of Earth's low walk, that Judgment perfect found,

When wanted most, that Purity of Taste,

Which, Critics mention by the name of chaste,

Adorn'd with Elegance, that easy flow

Of ready Wit, which never made a foe,

That Face, that Form, that Dignity, that Ease,

Those pow'rs of pleasing with that will to please,

By which LEPEL, when in her youthful days,

E'en from the currish POPE extorted praise,

We see, transmitted, in her Daughter shine,

And view a new LEPEL in CAROLINE.

Is a son born into this world of woe?

In never-ceasing streams let sorrow flow,

Be from that hour the house with sables hung,

Let lamentations dwell upon thy tongue,

E'en from the moment that he first began

To wail and whine, let him not see a man.

Lock, Lock him up, far from the public eye,

Give him no opportunity to buy,

Or to be bought; B—, tho' rich, was sold,

And gave his body up to shame for gold.

Let It be bruited all about the Town,

That He is coarse, indelicate, and brown,

An Antidote to Lust, his Face deep scar'd

With the Small Pox, his Body maim'd and marr'd,

Eat up with the Kings-evil, and his blood,

Tainted throughout, a thick and putrid flood,

Where dwells Corruption, making him all o'er,

From head to foot, a rank and running sore.

Should'st Thou report him as by Nature made,

He is undone, and by thy praise betray'd;

Give him out fair, Letchers in number more,

More brutal and more fierce, than throng'd the door

Of Lor in SODOM, shall to thine repair,

And force a passage, tho' a God is there.

Let Him not have one Servant that is male;

Where Lords are baffled, Servants oft prevail.

Some vices They propose, to all agree;

H— was guilty, but was M— free?

Give him no Tutor—throw him to a punk,

Rather than trust his morals to a Monk—

Monks we all know—We, who have liv'd at home,

From fair report, and Travellers, who roam,

More feelingly—nor trust him to the gown,

Tis oft a covering in this vile town

For base designs; Ourselves have liv'd to see

More than one Parson in the Pillory.

Should He have Brothers, (Image to thy view

A Scene, which, tho' not public made, is true)

Let not one Brother be to t'other known,

Nor let his Father sit with him alone.

Be all his Servants, Female, Young, and Fair,

And if the Pride of Nature spur thy heir

To deeds of Venery, if, hot and wild,

He chance to get some score of maids with child,

Chide, but forgive him; Whoredom is a crime,

Which, more at this, than any other time,

Calls for indulgence, and, 'mongst such a race,

To have a bastard is some sign of grace.

Born in such times, should I sit tamely down,

Suppress my rage, and saunter thro' the town

As One who knew not, or who shar'd these crimes?

Should I at lesser evils point my rimes,

And let this Giant Sin, in the full eye

Of Observation, pass unwounded by?

Tho' our meek Wives, passive Obedience taught,

Patiently bear those wrongs, for which They ought,

With the brave spirit of their dams possess'd,

To plant a dagger in each husband's breast,

To cut off male increase from this fair Isle,

And turn our Thames into another Nile;

Tho', on his Sunday, the smug PULPITEER,

Loud 'gainst all other crimes, is silent here,

And thinks himself absolv'd, in the pretence

Of Decency, which meant for the defence

Of real Virtue, and to raise her price,

Becomes an agent for the cause of vice;

Tho' the Law sleeps, and, thro' the care They take

To drug her well, may never more awake;

Born in such times, nor with that patience curst

Which Saints may boast of, I must speak, or burst.

But if, too eager in my bold cariere,

Haply I wound the nice, and chaster ear,

If, all unguarded, all too rude, I speak,

And call up blushes in the maiden's cheek,

Forgive, Ye Fair—my real motives view,

And to forgiveness add your praises too.

For You I write—nor wish a better plan—

The Cause of Woman is most worthy Man—

For You I still will write, nor hold my hand,

Whilst there's one slave of SODOM in the land.

Let them fly far, and skulk from place to place,

Not daring to meet Manhood face to face,

Their steps I'll track, nor yield them one retreat

Where They may hide their heads, or rest their feet,

Till God in wrath shall let his vengeance fall,

And make a great example of them all,

Bidding in one grand pile this Town expire,

Her Tow'rs in dust, her Thames a lake of fire,

Or They (most worth our wish) convinc'd, tho' late,

Of their past crimes, and dangerous estate,

Pardon of Women with Repentance buy,

And learn to honour them, as much as I.

FINIS.

THE TIMES. A POEM.

BY 〈…〉

LONDON: PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR; And Sold by J. COOTE, in Pater-noster-Row; J. ALMON, in Piccadilly; W. FLEXNEY, near Gray's-Inn Gate, Holborn; C. HENDERSON, at the Royal-Exchange; J. GARDINER, in Parliament-Street, Westminster; and C. MORAN, under the Great Piazza, Covent-Garden. MDCCLXIV.

BOOKS written by Mr. CHURCHILL, to be had of all the Booksellers in Town.

- A Volume in Quarto, containing the Rosciad, Apology, Night, Prophecy of Famine, Epistle to Hogarth, and Ghost, four books. Price Thirteen Shillings, in Sheets.

- Conference, Author, Duellist, Gotham first second and third Books, Candidate, and Farewell. Price each, Two Shillings and Sixpence.

Information about this book

Title statement

The times: A poem. By [blank]

Churchill, Charles, 1731-1764.

Publication

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ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/4216

ID [isbn10]

1106012151

ID [isbn13]

9781106012159

ID [TCP]

K046334.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3310934065

ID [ECLL]

0131305400

Availability

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Source

— The times: A poem. By [blank], Churchill, Charles, 1731-1764.. 32,29-33,[1]p. ; 4⁰. London :: printed for the author; and sold by J. Coote; J. Almon; W. Flexney; C. Henderson; J. Gardiner; and C. Moran,. 1764.. [Anonymous. By Charles Churchill.] [It appears that the author's name is intended to be supplied in MS. following "By".] [With a half-title.] [The text is continuous despite the pagination.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT50334.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

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