The pacificator a poem.

The pacificator a poem.

Table of contents

Title page

The Pacificator.

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[Page]

The Pacificator.

WHAT English Man, without Concern, can see

The Approach of Bleeding Britain's Destiny?

That Glorious Land which Justly did Preside,

For Wit and Wealth, o'r all the World beside?

In vain Victorious NASSAV did Advance

His Conquering Arms against the Power of France,

Since from those Conquests he is hardly come,

But here's a Civil War broke out at Home:

Britannia's Warlike Sons disturb the Isle,

Delighting one another to Dispoil,

Enur'd to Discord, Envy, and Debate,

Hereditary Frenzies of the State.

The Fruits of Ten Years War they now prevent,

By Civil Feuds, and Private Discontent.

The Peace We Gain'd! Does it so Cheap appear,

To Prize so Low, what We have bought so Dear?

The Blood, the Treasure, which has been Destroy'd!

Methinks We shou'd with War and Wounds be Cloy'd,

But 'twill not be, We cannot hope to find

That in the Birth which is not in the Kind:

For Pride, and Strife, are Natives of our Soil,

Freeholders born, and have Possess'd the Isle

Long before Iulius Caesar Landed here,

Or Picts, or Painted Brittons did appear,

A stubborn People, Barbarous and Rude;

Who, like the Kentish Men, were ne'r Subdu'd.

Fierce English Men, in Blood and Wounds delight,

For want of Wars, with one another fight:

[Page]Nothing's so dangerous to them as Peace,

To feed the Flame, and nourish the Disease;

No Laws can this Contentious humour Curb,

Their Charter's such, they will themselves Disturb.

O Iulian, Iulian, who begun the Cry

Against our Safety, for our Liberty,

Who wou'd no Mercenary Troops allow,

Wou'd you Disband our Standing Army now?

Behold a Civil War is just at hand,

I'th' very bowels of your Native Land;

The strong Contention's grown to such a hight,

The Pen's already drawn, and has begun the fight.

The Pen's the certain Herald of a War,

And Points it out like any Blazing Star:

Men Quarrel first, and Skirmish with ill Words,

And when they're heated then they draw their Swords;

As little Bawling Curs begin to Bark,

And bring the Mastive on you in the Dark.

We had some Jealousies of this last Year,

Both sides rais'd Forces, both in Arms appear;

But some Sage Doctors did them both Advise,

To make it up without Hostilities:

But the deep Quarrel's now of such a Nature,

As Magna Charta fights with Alma Mater;

The Doctors fight, and who shall heal the Matter?

The Dreadful Armies are Drawn out to fight,

Encamp'd at large in one anothers fight;

Their Standards are the Red Rose and the White.

Nothing but dire Destruction does Impend,

And who knows where the fatal Strife will end?

The Men of Sense against the Men of Wit,

Eternal fighting must determine it.

Great Nokor does the Men of Sense Command,

Prince Arthur Trailes a Pike at his Right Hand;

[Page]Heroic Nokor made the first Attack,

And threw Drammatick Wit upon its Back;

Sixteen Battalions of Old Brittons stand,

Enrich'd with Conquest from the Neustrian Strand,

Ready to Charge when he the Signal makes;

And thus the Bloody Combat undertakes.

His Sence was good, but see what Fate Decrees!

His hasty Talent threw him on his Knees,

A Storm of Words the Hero overtook,

Disorder'd all his Lines, and all his Squadrons broke.

The adverse Troops pour'd in their Light Dragoons,

Charg'd him with Forty thousand Arm'd Lampoons;

The Shock surpriz'd him into a Retreat,

And Wits Gazette Proclaim'd a huge Defeat;

Printed a List of Wounded and of Slain,

And bragg'd he ne'r cou'd Rally up again.

But Nokor, like a Prudent General,

Resum'd new Courage from a seeming Foil,

The same Campagne again in Arms appear'd,

And what the Prince had lost, the King repair'd;

Apollo Knighted him upon the spot,

With other Royal Bounties I've forgot.

The Wits Commanders tho' they did retreat,

Will not allow it to be a Defeat;

Their Troops, they say, soon made a stand again,

Besides they lost but Thirteen thousand Men.

C—r came next in order to the Charge,

His Squadrons thin, altho' his Front was large,

A modest Soldier, resolute and stout,

Arm'd with a Coat of Sense from head to foot;

No more than need, for he was hard put to't.

He Charg'd the strongest Troops of all the Foes,

And gave them several signal Overthrows,

[Page]But over-power'd by multitudes of Wits,

By Number, not by Force oppress'd, retreats;

So Sense, to Noise and Nonsence, oft submits.

C—r's a calm and steady Combatant,

And push'd the forward Troops with brave Intent,

Modest, a Fault not known among his Tribe,

And honest too, too honest for a Bribe:

The Wits wou'd fain ha' bought his fury off,

And proffer'd him Applause, and Gold enough,

But 'twou'd not do, he boldly Charg'd again,

And by Ten thousand Wounds at last was slain.

Some say he was by his own Men betray'd,

And basely left alive among the Dead,

But I cannot understand how that can be,

For how can Treachery and Sense agree?

In Honours Truckle-Bed the Hero lies,

Till Sense again, the Lord knows when, shall rise.

M—n, a Renegade from Wit, came on

And made a false Attack, and next to none;

The Hypocrite, in Sense, could not conceal

What Pride, and want of Brains, oblig'd him to reveal.

In him the Critick's ruin'd by the Poet,

And Virgil gives his Testimony to it;

The Troops of Wit were so enrag'd to see,

This Priest Invade his own Fraternity,

They sent a Party out, by Silence led,

And without Answer shot the Turn-Coat Dead.

The Priest, the Rake, the Wit, strove all in vain,

For there, alas, he lies among the slain,

Memento Mori; see the Consequence,

When Rakes and Wits set up for Men of Sense.

But Sense still suffer'd, and the shock was rude,

For what can Valour do to Multitude?

[Page]The General sent for help both far and near,

To Cowley, Milton, Ratcliff, Rochester,

Waller, Roscommon, Howard, and to Bhen,

The Doubtful Fight the better to maintain;

Giants these were of Wit and Sense together,

But they were dead and gone the Lord knows whether.

The swift Express he then Commands to fly,

To D—, M—, and N—,

To send their Aid, and save him from Defeat,

But their United Council was Retreat,

Reserve your Fortunes for a better Day;

So Sailors, when the Ship's a sinking, Pray.

These are the Sages who Preside o'r Sense,

And Laws to all the Common-wealth Dispence,

But Wealth and Ease anticipates our fate,

And makes our Heroes all degenerate,

The Muses high Preferments they possess,

And now their Pay's so great their Pains decrease;

So R— fought, so H— too fell on,

Till Lords of O— made and T—.

And now the Wits their Victory Proclaim,

Loaden with Spoils of Sense, and swell'd with Fame;

Their Plunder first they carefully bestow,

And then to spread their Conquest farther, go,

Their Troops divide, their Terror to extend,

And God knows where their Ravages will end.

D—s Commanded the Forlorn of Wit,

A stiff Politish Critick, very fit

The open Country to over-run,

And find out all Mens Errors but his own;

His Stony-Stratford Mistress read his Fate,

A Slovens Fancy, and an Empty Pate.

[Page]But now Commission'd by the Jingling Train,

He has his Thousands, and Ten Thousands slain:

He, like the Tartars, who fore-run the Turks,

Easie to be distinguish'd by his Works,

With equal Havock, and destructive Hate,

Leaves all the Land he treads on Desolate;

He roots up Sense, and sows the Weeds of Wit,

And Fops and Rakes, ten thousand strong, submit.

C—e and D—n, H—s and M—x,

D—y, and everlasting Fops, and Beaus,

Led up the Battel Fifty thousand strong,

Arm'd with Burlesque, Bombast, and Bawdy-Song;

Flesh'd with Great C—'s Slaughter they led on,

Shouting Victoria, the Day's their own.

No Bounds to their Licentious Arms they know,

But Plunder all the Country as they go,

Kill, Ravish, Burn, Destroy, do what they please!

The French at Swamerdam were Fools to these.

The Cruelties they Exercis'd were such,

Amboyna's nothing, they've out-done the Dutch;

Never such Devastation sure was known,

A Man of Sense cou'd not be seen in Town.

T—n, even Hackney T—n, wou'd not Print,

A Book without Wits Imprimatur in't;

And as in Revolutions of the State,

Men strive the present things to imitate,

So when the Wits, and Fops, had got the best,

Men Acquiesc'd, and took the Oaths and Test:

Few wou'd be Martyrs for their Understanding,

But all went over at the Prince's Landing;

So Story tells, in Crook-back'd Richard's Time,

Folks wore false Humps to make them look like him.

[Page]

News, hasty News, the Post is just come in.

Nokor has Rally'd all his Troops again;

In a Pitch'd Field he met the haughty Foe,

And gave them there a total Overthrow,

The Slaughter's great, the Soldiers still pursue▪

For they give Quarter but to very few;

Wits Routed, all the Beaus are quite undone,

Their General's slain, their Army's fled and gone.

See the uncertain fate of humane Things!

Change lays its fickle hands on States and Kings;

This bloody Battel has undone us all,

Wit from its Glorious blazing Throne will fall,

For all the Flower of Gallantry, and Wit,

Was listed here, and overthrown in it.

The Florid G—h was General of Horse,

And lost his Life and Fame too, which was worse;

The Credit of this new Commander brought,

With hopes of Plunder, many a Coward out,

Who hitherto had very wisely chose,

The Name of Wits, but had declin'd the blows.

'Twas dismal to behold the Field of War,

What Desolation Wit has suffer'd there,

Whole Squadrons of Epick Horse appears,

Trod down by his Heroic Curassiers,

G—h lost his Darling Satyrick Dragoons,

And two Brigades of Light Horse, call'd Lampoons,

Old Soldiers all, well beaten to the Wars,

Known by their Roughness, Vgliness, and Scars;

Fellows, the like were never heard nor read of,

"Wou'd bite sometimes, enough to bite one's Head off,

Nor cou'd their swiftness their Escape procure,

For Nokor's Fury nothing cou'd endure:

Enrag'd with former Losses he fell on,

Resolv'd to Conquer, or be quite undone,

[Page]Whole Wings of Foreign Troops he overthrew,

Whom G—h from France to Wits assistance drew,

Something the Matter was those Troops betraid 'em,

He ill Procur'd them, or he had not Paid 'em;

'Twas a dull fancy in him to think fit,

To polish English Sense with Foreign Wit.

Among the Foot the Battel was severe,

For Wits best Troops were wisely planted there,

Led up by old Experienc'd Commanders,

As D—n, C—e, A—n and S—s.

The Granadiers were known by their Blue Bonnets,

For they had been in Scotland making Sonnets;

Pun-Master-General D—y led them on,

And with his Chattering Tunes the fight began.

His Orders were to Charge, and then retire,

And give the Body liberty to fire;

Ten Regiments of Plays stood on the Right,

Led on by General D—n to the Fight;

The Tragedies had made some small pretence

To Mutiny, and so Revolt to Sense.

For D—n had some Sense, till he thought fit

To Dote, and lately Deviate into Wit;

The Reason's plain, and he has found it true,

He follow'd Wit which did too fast pursue.

The Left was form'd of seven large Brigades,

Of Farces, Opera's, and Masquerades,

With several little Bands of Dogrel Wit,

To Scowre the Ways, and Line the Hedges fit.

Between these mighty Wings was rang'd in sight,

A solid Phalanx of Compounded Wit;

Ten thousand Lyrick Foot, all Gallant Beaus,

Arm'd with soft Sighs, with Songs, and Billet-Doux.

[Page]There was Eight thousand Elegiack Foot,

By Briny Tears and Sullen Grief made stout;

Five Pastoral Bands, lately bred up in Arms,

By Chanting Gloriana's Mighty Charms,

And Thund'ring out King WILLIAM's loud Alarms.

Pindarick Legions, seven I think appear'd

Like Brandenburghers, with the Enchanted Beard,

For Lions Skins, and Whisker's late so fear'd.

These were led up by able old Commanders,

As C—e, H—s, Soldiers Bred in Flanders,

With D—s, D—y, T—n, Dull M—x,

B—r, W—y, P—s, Fops and Beaus,

Dull T—e, and Pious B—y, Old T—e,

G—n, Tom B—n, and many a Subaltern;

Some Flying Troops were plac'd in Ambuscade,

Mock-Wits, Beau-Wits, and Wits in Masquerade,

Some Amazonian Troops of Female Wit,

For Ostentation, not for Combat fit;

The Witty D—t appear'd there too,

Whose Wit's in Prose, but all Incognito.

There was one Caledonian Voluntier,

With some Hibernian Wits brought up the Rear;

The whole, as by the Musters may be seen,

Was Ninety seven thousand Fighting Men.

All these drawn up, and ready to Engage,

Old General D—n, with a Pious Rage,

That the Great Work might with success go on,

First Sacrific'd to the Emperor o' th' Moon;

The Poet and the Priest alike in Fame,

"For Priests of all Religions are the same.

When Nokor's Conquering Troops began t' appear,

They found a very warm Reception here,

[Page]He had Invok'd the Gods of Wit before,

And vow'd to make their Altars smoke once more,

With Bloody Hecatombs of Witty Gore.

Swifter than Lightning at their Host he flew,

His Word was D—, D—, M—,

His Squadrons in Poetick Terror shone,

And whisper'd Death to Wit as they came on:

The strong Brigades of his Heroic Horse,

Dreadful for Sense, for Pointed Satyr worse,

Wing'd with Revenge, in fiery Raptures flew,

And dipt in Poison'd Gall the Darts they threw;

Nothing cou'd Nokor's furious Troops withstand,

Nor cou'd he check them with his own Command.

The Troops of Wit, Disorder'd, and O'r-run,

Are Slain, Disperc'd, Disgrac'd, and Overthrown;

The Shouts of Triumph reach the distant Sky,

And Nokor lies Encamp'd in the Field of Victory.

These are the doubtful dark Events of War,

But who Britannia's Losses shall Repair?

For as when States in Civil Wars Engage,

Their Private Feuds and Passions to asswage,

The Publick suffers, harmless Subjects bear

The Plagues, and Famines, which attend the War.

So if we this Destructive War permit,

Britain will find the Consequence of it,

A Dearth of Sense, or else a Plague of Wit;

For Wit, by these Misfortunes desperate,

Begins to arm at an unusual rate,

Levies new Forces, gives Commissions out,

For several Regiments of Horse and Foot,

Recruits from every side come in amain,

From Oxford, Cambridge, Will's, and Warwick-lane.

The scatter'd Troops too, from the last Defeat,

Begin to Halt, and check their swift Retreat:

[Page]In numerous Parties Wit appears again,

Talks of another Battel this Campagne,

Their strong Detachments o'r Parnassus range,

And meditate on nothing but Revenge.

To whom shall we Apply, what Powers Invoke,

To deprecate the near impending stroke?

Ye Gods of Wit and Arts, their Minds inspire

With Thoughts of Peace, from your Pacifick Fire;

Engage some Neighbouring Powers to undertake

To Mediate Peace, for Dear Britannia's sake;

Pity the Mother rifl'd of her Charms,

And make her Sons lay down Intestine Arms.

Preliminary Treaties first begin,

And may short Truce a lasting Peace let in,

Limits to Wits Unbounded Ocean place,

To which it may, and may no farther pass;

Fathom the unknown Depths of sullen Sense,

And Purge it from its Pride, and Insolence,

Your secret Influences interpose,

And make them all dispatch their Plenipo's;

Appoint Parnassus for a Place to meet,

Where all the Potentates of Wit may Treat,

Around the Hill let Troops of Muses stand,

To keep the Peace, and Guard the Sacred Land;

There let the high Pretensions be discuss'd,

And Heaven the fatal Differences adjust.

Let either side abate of their Demands,

And both submit to Reason's high Commands,

For which way ere the Conquest shall encline,

The loss Britannia will at last be thine.

[Page]

Wit, like a hasty Flood, may over-run us,

And too much Sense has oftentimes undone us:

Wit is a Flux, a Looseness of the Brain,

And Sense-abstract has too much Pride to Reign:

Wit-unconcoct is the Extreme of Sloth,

And too much Sense is the Extreme of both▪

Abstracted-wit 'tis own'd is a Disease,

But Sense-abstracted has no Power to please:

For Sense like Water is but Wit condense,

And Wit like Air is rarify'd from Sense:

Meer Sense is sullen, stiff, and unpolite,

Meer Wit is apoplectick, thin, and light:

Wit is a King without a Parliament,

And Sense a Democratick Government:

Wit, like the French, where e'r it reigns Destroys,

And Sense advanc'd is apt to Tyrannize:

Wit without Sense is like the Laughing-Evil,

And Sense unmix'd with Fancy is the D—l.

Wit is a Standing Army Government,

And Sense a sullen stubborn P—t:

Wit by its haste anticipates its Fate,

And so does Sense by being obstinate:

Wit without Sense in Verse is all but Farce,

Sense without Wit in Verse is all mine A—.

Wit, like the French, Performs before it Thinks,

And Thoughtful Sense without Performance sinks:

Sense without Wit is flegmatick and pale,

And is all Head, forsooth, without a Tail:

Wit without Sense is cholerick and red,

Has Tail enough indeed, but has no Head.

Wit, like the Jangling Chimes, Rings all in One,

Till Sense, the Artist, sets them into Tune:

Wit, like the Belly, if it be not Fed,

Will starve the Members, and distract the Head▪

[Page] Wit is the Fruitful Womb where Thoughts Conceive,

Sense is the Vital Heat which Life and Form must give:

Wit is the Teeming Mother brings them forth,

Sense is the Active Father gives them worth.

Vnited: Wit and Sense, makes Science thrive,

Divided: neither Wit nor Sense can live;

For while the Parties eagerly contend,

The Mortal Strife must in their Mutual Ruin end.

Listen, ye Powers, to Lost Britannia's Prayer,

And either side to yielding Terms Prepare;

And if their Cases long Debates admit,

As how much Condescention shall be fit,

How far Wits Jurisdiction shall extend,

And where the stated Bounds of Sense shall end,

Let them to some known Head that strife submit,

Some Judge Infallible, some Pope in Wit,

His Triple Seat place on Parnassus Hill,

And from his Sentence suffer no Appeal:

Let the Great Balance in his Censure be,

And of the Treaty make him Guarantee,

Let him be the Director of the State,

And what he says, let both sides take for Fate:

Apollo's Pastoral Charge to him commit,

And make him Grand Inquisitor of Wit,

Let him to each his proper Talent show,

And tell them what they can, or cannot do,

That each may chuse the Part he can do well,

And let the Strife be only to Excel:

To their own Province let him all confine,

Doctors to Heal, to Preaching the Divine;

D—n to Tragedy, let C—h Translate,

D—y make Ballads, Psalms and Hymns for T—e:

Let P—r Flatter Kings in Panegyrick,

R—ff Burlesque, and W—y be Lyrick:

[Page]Let C—e write the Comick, F—e Lampoon,

W—ly the Banter, M—n the Buffoon,

And the Transgressing Muse receive the Fate

Of Contumacy, Excommunicate.

Such as with Railing Spirits are possess'd,

The Muses Frenzy, let them be suppress'd,

Allow no Satyrs which receive their Date

From Iuno's Academy, Billinsgate;

No Banters, no Invective lines admit,

Where want of Manners, makes up want of Wit▪

Such as are hardned in Poetick Crimes,

Let him give up to their own foolish Rhimes;

Let those Eternal Poets be Condemn'd,

To be Eternal Poets to the end:

Let D—s still continue unpolite,

And no Man read what Dull M—c shall write,

Reduce him to his Letter-Case and Whore,

Let all Men shun him as they did before.

Let M—n talk for what he can't Defend,

And Banter Virgil which he ne'r cou'd Mend;

Let all the little Fry of Wit-Profaners

Rest as they are, with neither Sense, nor Manners,

Forsaken of Apollo's Influence,

With want of Language, and with want of Pence ▪

What Fools Indite, let none but Blockheads Read,

And may they write in vain, who write for Bread:

No Banters on the Sacred Text admit,

Nor Bawdy Lines, that Blasphemy of Wit:

To Standard Rules of Government Confine,

The Rate of every Bard, and Worth of every Line,

And let the Rays of their Ambition burn,

Those Phaeton-Wits who this Subjection scorn:

If they aspire to Invade the Government,

Bring them before the Muses Parliament,

No Universal Monarchy admit,

A Common-wealth's the Government for Wit.

FINIS.

§

§

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THE PACIFICATOR. A POEM.

LONDON: Printed, and are to be Sold by I. Nutt, near Stationers-Hall. 1700.

Information about this book

Title statement

The pacificator a poem.

Defoe, Daniel, 1661?-1731.

Edition statement

1700

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Text Creation Partnership,

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Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) :

Date

2003-01 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1).

ID [DLPS]

A37431

ID [STC]

Wing D839

ID [STC]

ESTC R4746

ID [EEBO-CITATION]

12137896

ID [OCLC]

ocm 12137896

ID [VID]

54803

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(EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A37431)

Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 54803)

Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 91:15)

Source

— The pacificator a poem., Defoe, Daniel, 1661?-1731..

Extent

[2], 14 p.

Printed and are to be sold by J. Nutt ...,. London :: 1700.. (Attributed to Daniel Defoe. Cf. BM.) (Reproduction of original in Yale University Library.)

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