The Cabal at Nickey Nackeys.
I.
A Pox of the States-man that's witty,
Who watches and Plots all the Sleepless Night:
For Seditious Harangues, to the Whiggs of the City;
And Maliciously turns a Traytor in Spight.
Let him Wear and Torment his lean Carrion:
To bring his Sham-Plots about,
Till at last King Bishop and Barron,
For the Publick Good he have quite rooted out.
II.
But we that are no Polliticians,
But Rogues that are Impudent, Barefac'd and Great,
Boldly head the Rude Rable in times of Sedition;
And bear all down before us, in Church and in State.
Your Impudence is the best State-Trick;
And he that by Law meanes to rule,
Let his History with ours be related;
And tho' we are the Knaves, we know who's the Fool.
A Paraphrase on the Eleventh Ode Out of the first Book of Horace.
Dear Silvia, let's no farther strive,
To know how long we have to Live;
Let Busy Gown-men search to know
Their Fates above, while we
Contemplate Beauties greater Power below,
Whose only Smiles give Immortality;
But who seeks Fortune in a Star, }
Aims at a Distance much too far, }
She's more inconstant than they are. }
What though this year must be our last, }
Faster than Time our Joys let's hast; }
Nor think of Ills to come, or past. }
Give me but Love and Wine, I'll ne'er
Complain my Destiny's severe.
Since Life bears so uncertain Date, }
With Pleasure we'll attend our Fate, }
And Chearfully go meet it at the Gate. }
The Brave and Witty know no Fear or Sorrow,
Let us enjoy to day, we'll dye to Morrow.
A Translation.
I.