"With all thy Whigish-bombast, stuff't with Lies, / Thy Shams, thy Gasconades and Forgeries; / Which to promote, thou hast thy Genius bent, / Set on by Hell, of which thy Brain's the Mint"
— Forbes of Disblair (fl. 1765-1771)
Place of Publication
London
Date
1712
Metaphor
"With all thy Whigish-bombast, stuff't with Lies, / Thy Shams, thy Gasconades and Forgeries; / Which to promote, thou hast thy Genius bent, / Set on by Hell, of which thy Brain's the Mint"
Metaphor in Context
Procul O procul esto Profani ------
For which of all our gross enormous Crimes
Bane of our Isle, and Nusance of our Times;
Art thou permitted (By-blow thing) to Write?
And Vent thy Hellish Malice, Rage and Spite?
And still Abuse to thy Seditous Ends,
The Measures of the Queen and Her best Friends;
Dar'st thou pretend to Prop that Ruin'd Cause,
Which Providence it self do's now oppose?
Thy Insolence to such a Pitch is Grown,
That none can match thee, save the Dutch alone;
Who Saucely pretend to dictate here,
As if we were the Pupils of Myn-Heer;
Who now are Smok'd, & must conform to Peace,
Tho' still they Higgle on and Hang an Ars;
Their Bug-Bear-Fears of Popery and France,
Which they to carry on the War Advance:
Their Barriers and Guarrantees, Plague Rott 'em,
Are nothing but Self-Interest at Bottom.
But 'twixt such Friends, no matter who partakes,
If one do's Play, so t'other sweeps the Stakes:
A very equal Lay, You may suppose
'Tis only Cross I Win, and Pile You Loose;
Yet why 've they our Game with France araign'd;
Oh! 'tis because they were not first in Hand.
'Tis pretty plain had they been in our Place,
They'd play'd our Game with not so good a Grace;
But by the Conduct of our Gracious QUEEN,
Sure Means are us'd, tho' not by them foreseen
That Truckle now they must, or go to Pot,
So Welcome Hogens, whether you will or not;
But since they now Submit, and we agree,
Then Rid---th what the Devil comes of thee;
With all thy Whigish-bombast, stuff't with Lies,
Thy Shams, thy Gasconades and Forgeries;
Which to promote, thou hast thy Genius bent,
Set on by Hell, of which thy Brain's the Mint;
Where Falshood still maintains an Open-shop,
To keep the Gainful Trade of Lying up;
But what Reward must thou Receive for this,
From old Black-dad, why thou must have a Kiss;
A pretty little Chuck beneath the Chin,
From thy Fair Mother, Lady Proserpine:
But first thy Neck, and Fame by justest Fate,
Must pay a Forfeit to our Injur'd STATE;
How well the Pill'ry will that Phiz become,
Where many a Sniviling-whigg with Ha & Hum;
And Pulpit-Mountebank with Grumbling-drone,
Shall there Salute thee on thy Wooden-Throne;
Whilst thou with Staunch-grimace and Pious-leer,
Dost like a Traytor Paramont Appear;
Bedaub'd with Smut of Mob, with Dirt cast ore,
And Pelted so as never Rogue before;
Where for each line thou writ'st against the State,
An Addle-Egg, Salutes thy Addle-Pate;
With wch Besmear'd, & Drench'd ore Head & Ears,
Thou all with Patience of a Stoick bares;
For since thy Neck's well Fixt in Wooden-noose,
'Tis Six to Four, if thou avoid the Blows;
The Whigish Pimps, and Pandors of the Town,
Their Patentees and Bullies of Renown;
Their Female-whiglings, who, their Honors Pawn,
By whose soft Charms Unthinking Fops are drawn;
To Vote our Happy Constitution down,
Less Aw'd by Heav'ns, than by Dorinda's Frown;
These finish'd Rakes: mark'd out for Reprobates,
Shall mourn this branded Rogue & curse their Fates;
Because they know that Rid---th's justest Doom,
Is but the Prologue, of their own to come.
For which of all our gross enormous Crimes
Bane of our Isle, and Nusance of our Times;
Art thou permitted (By-blow thing) to Write?
And Vent thy Hellish Malice, Rage and Spite?
And still Abuse to thy Seditous Ends,
The Measures of the Queen and Her best Friends;
Dar'st thou pretend to Prop that Ruin'd Cause,
Which Providence it self do's now oppose?
Thy Insolence to such a Pitch is Grown,
That none can match thee, save the Dutch alone;
Who Saucely pretend to dictate here,
As if we were the Pupils of Myn-Heer;
Who now are Smok'd, & must conform to Peace,
Tho' still they Higgle on and Hang an Ars;
Their Bug-Bear-Fears of Popery and France,
Which they to carry on the War Advance:
Their Barriers and Guarrantees, Plague Rott 'em,
Are nothing but Self-Interest at Bottom.
But 'twixt such Friends, no matter who partakes,
If one do's Play, so t'other sweeps the Stakes:
A very equal Lay, You may suppose
'Tis only Cross I Win, and Pile You Loose;
Yet why 've they our Game with France araign'd;
Oh! 'tis because they were not first in Hand.
'Tis pretty plain had they been in our Place,
They'd play'd our Game with not so good a Grace;
But by the Conduct of our Gracious QUEEN,
Sure Means are us'd, tho' not by them foreseen
That Truckle now they must, or go to Pot,
So Welcome Hogens, whether you will or not;
But since they now Submit, and we agree,
Then Rid---th what the Devil comes of thee;
With all thy Whigish-bombast, stuff't with Lies,
Thy Shams, thy Gasconades and Forgeries;
Which to promote, thou hast thy Genius bent,
Set on by Hell, of which thy Brain's the Mint;
Where Falshood still maintains an Open-shop,
To keep the Gainful Trade of Lying up;
But what Reward must thou Receive for this,
From old Black-dad, why thou must have a Kiss;
A pretty little Chuck beneath the Chin,
From thy Fair Mother, Lady Proserpine:
But first thy Neck, and Fame by justest Fate,
Must pay a Forfeit to our Injur'd STATE;
How well the Pill'ry will that Phiz become,
Where many a Sniviling-whigg with Ha & Hum;
And Pulpit-Mountebank with Grumbling-drone,
Shall there Salute thee on thy Wooden-Throne;
Whilst thou with Staunch-grimace and Pious-leer,
Dost like a Traytor Paramont Appear;
Bedaub'd with Smut of Mob, with Dirt cast ore,
And Pelted so as never Rogue before;
Where for each line thou writ'st against the State,
An Addle-Egg, Salutes thy Addle-Pate;
With wch Besmear'd, & Drench'd ore Head & Ears,
Thou all with Patience of a Stoick bares;
For since thy Neck's well Fixt in Wooden-noose,
'Tis Six to Four, if thou avoid the Blows;
The Whigish Pimps, and Pandors of the Town,
Their Patentees and Bullies of Renown;
Their Female-whiglings, who, their Honors Pawn,
By whose soft Charms Unthinking Fops are drawn;
To Vote our Happy Constitution down,
Less Aw'd by Heav'ns, than by Dorinda's Frown;
These finish'd Rakes: mark'd out for Reprobates,
Shall mourn this branded Rogue & curse their Fates;
Because they know that Rid---th's justest Doom,
Is but the Prologue, of their own to come.
Categories
Provenance
Searching "brain" and "mint" in HDIS (Poetry)
Date of Entry
04/14/2005
