A Character of the Province of Maryland. George Alsop

      THE

       AUTHOR

       TO HIS

       BOOK.

       Table of Contents

      When first Apollo got my brain with Childe,

      He made large promise never to beguile,

      But like an honest Father, he would keep

      Whatever Issue from my Brain did creep:

      With that I gave consent, and up he threw

      Me on a Bench, and strangely he did do;

      Then every week he daily came to see

      How his new Physick still did work with me.

      And when he did perceive he’d don the feat,

      Like an unworthy man he made retreat,

      Left me in desolation, and where none

      Compassionated when they heard me groan.

      What could he judge the Parish then would think,

      To see me fair, his Brat as black as Ink?

      If they had eyes, they’d swear I were no Nun,

      But got with Child by some black Africk Son,

      And so condemn me for my Fornication,

      To beat them Hemp to stifle half the Nation.

      Well, since ’tis so, I’le alter this base Fate,

      And lay his Bastard at some Noble’s Gate;

      Withdraw my self from Beadles, and from such,

      Who would give twelve pence I were in their clutch: {28}

      Then, who can tell? this Child which I do hide,

      (see note No 8). May be in time a Small-beer Col’nel Pride

      But while I talk, my business it is dumb,

      I must lay double-clothes unto thy Bum,

      Then lap thee warm, and to the world commit

      The Bastard Off-spring of a New-born wit.

      Farewel, poor Brat, thou in a monstrous World,

      In swadling bands, thus up and down art hurl’d;

      There to receive what Destiny doth contrive,

      Either to perish, or be sav’d alive.

      Good Fate protect thee from a Criticks power,

      For If he comes, thou’rt gone in half an hour,

      Stiff’d and blasted, ’tis their usual way,

      To make that Night, which is as bright as Day.

      For if they once but wring, and skrew their mouth,

      Cock up their Hats, and set the point Du-South,

      Armes all a kimbo, and with belly strut,

      As if they had Parnassus in their gut:

      These are the Symtomes of the murthering fall

      Of my poor Infant, and his burial.

      Say he should miss thee, and some ign’rant Asse

      Should find thee out, as he along doth pass,

      It were all one, he’d look into thy Tayle,

      To see if thou wert Feminine or Male;

      When he’d half starv’d thee, for to satisfie

      His peeping Ign’rance, he’d then let thee lie;

      And vow by’s wit he ne’re could understand,

      The Heathen dresses of another Land:

      Well, ’tis no matter, wherever such as he

      Knows one grain, more than his simplicity.

      Now, how the pulses of my senses beat,

      To think the rigid Fortune thou wilt meet; {29}

      Asses and captious Fools, not six in ten

      Of thy Spectators will be real men,

      To Umpire up the badness of the cause,

      And screen my weakness from the rav’nous Laws,

      Of those that will undoubted sit to see

      How they might blast this new-born Infancy:

      If they should burn him, they’d conclude hereafter,

      ’Twere too good death for him to dye a Martyr;

      And if they let him live, they think it will

      Be but a means for to encourage ill,

      And bring in time some strange Antipod’ans,

      A thousand Leagues beyond Philippians,

      To storm our Wits; therefore he must not rest,

      But shall be hang’d, for all he has been prest:

      Thus they conclude.—My Genius comforts give,

      In Resurrection he will surely live.