The Run-awayes Routed: OR, A WHIP for MOMƲS. Being an Answer, and a Confutation, | Against the Run-awayes, and their Ʋindication.
Quicquid Conabor dicere Ʋersus est, OVID.
OFF with your Doublet Sirrah, come you Ass,
Must every Coxcomb for a Poet pass?
With my Satyrick Rod I will thee VVhip,
And through the Royal Change i'le make thee Skip
Like Jack a Lent, that goodly Round shall be
No more abus'd by thy dull Poetry;
For with my thundring Verse Ile quite confound,
And hurle thy Lines out of that famous Round;
My Soul doth mount on golden wings that fly
Three times thrice higher than the Starry Sky.
But babling Battus needs must be in Print,
Though neither Head, nor Foot, nor matter in't;
Fie Battus, fie, is't not a burning shame,
To put in Print such paltry Lines and lame?
And for to Vindicate thou know'st not what,
For by this Act no credit hast thou got,
But foul disgrace, for as I did pass by
(Upon my Word I do not tell a Lie,)
The Royal Change, the Women that did stand
With thy disgraceful Paper in their hand:
It is such filly and such paltry stuff,
(Say they) theres none that sees them but doth puff;
It is a shame, a blemish and Disgrace,
Unto this Famous Round, and goodly Place
To have such senseless idle Lines to sell;
For Battus, if thou'lt give me leave to tell
Thee, they are raw and senseless, dull and nought,
And thats the cause so few of them are bought;
For those same Women that thy Lines do cry
(If they could once this gallant Poet spy,)
They'd scratch thy eyes out, and from off thy face
VVould pluck thy Nose, and with a foul disgrace,
They'd cause the boyes to hoot at thee, and shout,
Till from that Royal Round they did thee rout!
To cause them dayly in the cold to stand,
VVith such a senseless Paper in their hand,
Untill there braines do crow, their hearts do ake,
And cannot so much as a penny take;
Therefore thou famous Poet be advis'd
For if thou come, I wish thee come disguis'd.
Thou say'st the Prophets did from Solyma flee,
But prethee what is that to thee and me?
They had a special call from thence to go,
But these themselves, I'me sure cannot say so.
All argument by Scripture must be try'd,
But then the Scripture must be right apply'd;
'Tis Aprosdionuson nihil ad rem,
For what hast thou and I to do with them?
When in the Camp the Plague was now begun,
Did Moses, or did Aaron seek to shun?
Or were they so afraid they durst not stay?
Or did they once attempt to Run away?
They did not stirr afoot, but rather Ran
Unto that place where they heard it began;
So that it doth appear they ran not from't,
But with undaunted Spirits ran unto't.
Betwixt the Living and the Dead they stay'd,
And to the God of Heaven there they pray'd;
The sum is this, tis not to Run away
Can save a Man, but to repent and pray.
For if a sinner Rove the World about,
His sins pursue him and will find him out.
The Plague will follow sin be where it will,
VVithout repentance it a Man will Kill.
No more of Scripture Battus, let us see,
How we can prove it by Philosophie;
Tollitur causa, Tollit effectus;
The best Philosophers do argue thus.
The cause remov'd, th' effect doth cease to be,
This is both Scripture and Philosophie.
Sin is the Cause, then take the Cause away,
And the effect it can no longer stay;
Thou sai'st that Majesty did bid them go,
But prethee tell me canst thou prove it so?
Did Majesty bid them run, and not thee?
Thou wast to stay for to write Poetry,
'Tis well Majestick Poet thou didst stay,
For hadst thou Money to have Run away,
'Ime sure thou would not long have stay'd behind,
Thou art so giddy and distract in mind.
Thou Wooden Dunce that can do nought but Vaper,
Go pay the Printer for his pains and Paper.
For he his like to loose by thy Dull Brain,
And the poor Women for their daily pain;
Must all be loosers, they must never see
One pennie by thy Babling Poetry.
There's not a man alive did ever write
Such paltry nonsense, or did ere indite
Such Fustian stuff, for sure thou art some Boy,
That wantest Wit, and so do'st write a Toy!
Farwell, Farwell, poor Momus, my dear Hony,
I wish thee more Wit, and my self more Money.
Ars inimicum non habet nisi ignorantem.
FINIS.
London, Printed for the Author, Anno Domini. M. DC. LXV.