No More Learning

^ Shall they pretend to say, that bread is bread,
" If We affirm it is a God indeed ?
" Or there 's no Purgatory for the dead ?
" That extreme unction is but common oil?
^ And not infallible the Roman soil ?
<^ I '11 have those villains in our notions rest ;
"And I do say it, therefore 'it 's the best"

Next, Painter, draw his Mordaunt by his side,
Conveying his religion and his bride :
He, who long since abjured the royal line.
Does now in popery with his master join.
Then draw the princess with her golden locks,
. Hastening to be envenomed with the pox.



t my will, 1

1 e'er do ill? >

to kill J

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OF MAKVELL. 249

And in her youthful veins receive a wound,
Which sent N. H. before her under ground ;

The wound of which the tainted C ret fades^

Laid up in store for a new set of maids.
Poor princess, bom under a sullen star.
To find such welcome when jou came so far !
Better some jealous neighbour of your own
Had called you to a sound, though petty

throne ;
Where 'twixt a wholesome husband and a page,
Tou might have lingered out a lazy age,
Than on dull hopes of being here a Queen,
Ere twenty die, and rot before fifteen.
Now, Painter, show us in the blackest dye,
The counsellors of all this villany.
Clifford, who first appeared in humble guise,
Was always thought too gentle, meek, and

wise ;
But when he came to act upon the stage,
He proved the mad Cethegus of our age.
He and his Duke had both too great a mind,
To be by justice or by law confined :
Their broiling heads can bear no other sounds,
Than fleets and armies, battles, blood and

wounds :
And to destroy our liberty they hope,
By Irish fools, and an old doting Pope.

Next, Talbot must by his great master stand.
Laden with folly, flesh, and ill-got land ;



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250 THE POEMS

He 's of a size indeed to fill a porch.
But ne'er can make a pillar of the charch.
His sword is all bis argument, not his book ;
Although no scholar, he can act the cook.
And will cat throats again, if he be paid ;
In the Irish shambles he first learned the trade.

Then, Painter, show thy skill, and in fit place
Let 's see the nuncio Arundel's sweet face ;
Let the beholders bj thy art espy
His sense and soul, as squinting as his eye.

Let Bellasis' autumnal face be seen,
Rich with the spoils of a poor Algerine ;
Who, trusting in him, was by him betrayed.
And so shall we, be his advice obeyed.
The hero once got honour by his sword ;
He got his wealth by breaking of his word ;
And now his daughter he hath got with child.
And pimps to have his family defiled.

Next, Painter, draw the rabble of the plot ;
Jermain, Fitz-Gerald, Loftus, Porter, Scott :
These are fit heads indeed to turn a state.
And change the order of a nation's fate ;
Ten thousand such as these shall ne'er control
The smallest atom of an English soul.