THE SECOND ADVICE TO THE PAINTER.
NOw Painter try if thy skil'd hand can draw,
The horrid'st Scene the trembling world ere saw;
Wipe all the Pencills that the former drew,
In dismal colours dip 'um all anew;
Colours that may in lively parts express
The plotted fall of Monarchs in a dress:
May fright the World from Crimes we can't atone,
With our best bloods, and Christians blush to own:
But let me first advise you ere you take
This work in hand, a small reflection make
On all that's hainous; Murthers, Treasons, Fires,
Deaths in all shapes, and rapines, hot desires:
Of Murthering Kings I tremble to reherse,
A tottering world and sinking Universe:
Think well on these ere you begin your part
'T will heighten fancy, and affect your heart:
In th' upper part of all the Canvas, paint
His Holyness the Pope, that mighty Saint,
Old Sathan his associate too must stand
Behind his chair to guide his heart and hand;
Draw him stuck round with all the toyes that come
From the grand Mint of lies, old foppish Rome:
Bulls, Dispensations, Pardons, all the baits
He lays for the dull crow'd; the Book of rates
Will be convenient too, that t'every sin
The value may be known, pray cram that in:
Draw him dispersing with a bounteous hand
For horrid ends the treasure of his Land;
Dispensing with false Oaths, or any thing,
So that they'l Murther Charles Great Brittains King:
Poor fool to think the guardian of his throne,
Is grown as dull and sensless as his own;
No, proud Impostor, no [...] thy hand's too short
To reach his head or make his fall thy sport.
Next draw proud France, and his ambitious hope
Of being mighty, cringing to the Pope:
'Tis not his zeal to him, or to those laws
That cheat the world, that his affection draws;
'Tis int'rest, mighty int'rest, bears the sway,
He dares not, though he's willing, disobey:
Base Prince and foolish too, your self you cheat,
When on such terms as these you would be great;
You feast your sences, secure at costly rates,
That nothing else can serve but dellicates
Dipt in the blood of Princes; Deaths of Kings,
In your opinion are but vulgar things:
Had thirst of Empire sway'd a generous soul
These base low tricks cou'd never sure controul;
But to a minde so firm on mischief bent,
No generous thoughts or honour could prevent
The meanest actions; Princes should be true,
And act on principles of honour too:
Then they are Sacred to the world, and ought
To be adored, then disrespect's a fault:
But when from base degenerate they are grown,
The vulgar hurl'um headlong from the throne:
Go on vile Prince in all these acts, and try,
How soon your Crown will fade, your Empire dye;
By your example your own Subjects teach,
To strike at Empires and at Scepters reach,
And may their first attempt be on thy head,
Dethrone thee first of all, then strike thee dead.
Now Painter to our Subjects dip thy pen
In black, in horrid black, yet once agen;
For when a Subject from a King revolts,
Conspires his death, and thinks these things no faults,
The scene must needs be horrid, first begin
With Bellasis and his foul and grateful sin:
Draw him a monster, in as foul a dress
As ere your heart can think, or hand express;
Long did he in his Princes bosom lie
One would have thought void of all Treachery;
For what base man but he, could ere conspire
To set that house, wherein he lives, on fire?
Who could such Treason harbour in his breast,
'Gainst th' best of Princes, and to him the best?
The other Lords must on the Stage be led,
Drawn—each man with halter on his head,
And dagger in his heart, that so in vain
Where with they strove to stab their Soveraign:
Base Rebells! do you thus your Prince reward?
Have you no Honour left? or no regard
T'his Clemency, which some of you I know
Have tasted, or y' had di'd for't long ago:
Had he been cruel or Tirannick grown,
You had more reason to usurp his Throne;
But to a Gratious and Obliging Prince,
'Tis past all hopes of pardon or defence.
Now Painter draw me Hell in all its heat,
Let sulphurous flames and dismal darkness meet,
And in the hottest place, as best befits,
Draw Stayly, Coleman, and the Jesuits:
Let 'um indure the flaming brimstone rage,
Those bloody Trayterous miscreants of our age,
Those were the men design'd (O horrid act)
Nay were resolved too, to commit the fact;
Base Rebells don't you know, that Heavens high hand
Has still kept safe the Monach of our Land,
And cou'd you think to move our Scene, and do
What Heavens great Lord had nere consented to.
Burn on vile wretches, think well on these things,
What Treason is, what 'tis to Murther Kings.
Now draw in all his Majesty and State,
Our Soveraign Prince, just rising from his Fate;
Pray paint him laughing at the follies done
By th' Pope, and France, his most unchristian Son?
Prithy Old fellow, prithy tell me why,
Old England should so much disturb thy Eye:
Is it because we do not dote like you,
And worship all your Saints we never knew?
If these, Old man, our aggravations be,
Know, we defy thy Mallice, Imps, and thee.
To the KING.
WElcome great Prince, to Life agen, at least,
welcom from dangers, which we hope are ceast,
Dangers which lately hover'd o're your head,
Threatning to strike your rising Glory dead;
The Cloud's blown over, and the mists away
Portend the rising of a glorious day?
May still your Saored Majesty give Law
To all your Kingdoms, keeping them in aw,
May your bright Crown, as beauteous rays disperse,
As any Monarchs of the Universe.
FINIS.