Maggots or, Poems on Several Subjects, Never before Handled. By a Schollar [i.e. Samuel Wesley] |
 |
|
An Anacreontique on a Pair of BREECHES.
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
 | Maggots |  |
An Anacreontique on a Pair of BREECHES.
Gently flow, my easie Strain,
Smoother than Tempe's Heav'nly Plain,
Smoother than e're Anacreon sung,
Anacreon sweet with silver Tongue,
When he by fair Bathillus lay,
Melting his softer hours away.
No rough harsh sounds to gagg the Voice,
Nor hoarse Pindaric's grumbling Noise,
Soft as the amorous Turtles call,
Smooth as the whisp'ring Waters fall;
Smooth as thred-bare Breeches be,
Soft as the Fustian round my Knee.
Smoother than Tempe's Heav'nly Plain,
Smoother than e're Anacreon sung,
Anacreon sweet with silver Tongue,
When he by fair Bathillus lay,
Melting his softer hours away.
No rough harsh sounds to gagg the Voice,
Nor hoarse Pindaric's grumbling Noise,
Soft as the amorous Turtles call,
Smooth as the whisp'ring Waters fall;
34
Soft as the Fustian round my Knee.
Where shall I my work begin,
And stick the Muse's Needle in?
The Muses, which if Fame says true,
Were Sempstresses and Taylors too:
Where shall I use my artful Hand;
At the Knee, or at the Band?
Fruitless labour, fruitless pain!
All my skill and time's in vain:
Never will my Trouble end,
I eternally must mend;
For one hole starts out two more,
Hydra-like, or three, or four;
Patch on patch are new lay'd on,
Till th' old, like Jason's Ship, are gone.
Match't full lawfully they've bin,
For sure none were too near a kin.
From how many a narrow Hem
Has my Botcher cabbag'd them?
Spoils of Nations far and nigh,
Meer Babel of good Husbandry!
Not the Jay could Feathers boast
From so many a different Coast.
But since Friends at last must part,
Adieu, adieu, with all my Heart;
Ill, as Friends to Poets use,
Give y'a good Name, and turn you loose.
Take your chance, your Fortune try,
Pray beg or starve, as well as I;
Trouble me with your Raggs no more,
Here's your Pass, and out of Door.
And stick the Muse's Needle in?
The Muses, which if Fame says true,
Were Sempstresses and Taylors too:
Where shall I use my artful Hand;
At the Knee, or at the Band?
Fruitless labour, fruitless pain!
All my skill and time's in vain:
Never will my Trouble end,
I eternally must mend;
For one hole starts out two more,
Hydra-like, or three, or four;
Patch on patch are new lay'd on,
Till th' old, like Jason's Ship, are gone.
The Story of Jason's Ship is almost as much worn, as its Subject; which was so often mended, and vampt up again, till not one plank of the Original-primitive Wood was left; tho' neither did that suffer so many Transmutations as the old Gentlemans Knife that had had five new hafts, and seven new blades.
Match't full lawfully they've bin,
For sure none were too near a kin.
From how many a narrow Hem
Has my Botcher cabbag'd them?
Spoils of Nations far and nigh,
Meer Babel of good Husbandry!
Not the Jay could Feathers boast
From so many a different Coast.
But since Friends at last must part,
Adieu, adieu, with all my Heart;
Ill, as Friends to Poets use,
Give y'a good Name, and turn you loose.
Take your chance, your Fortune try,
Pray beg or starve, as well as I;
35
Here's your Pass, and out of Door.
Ever honest, ever true,
You've stuck as fast as Shirt can do;
Which soon, if you no longer stay,
Will drop loose, and run away.
Long did your lean Pockets stare,
Like Camelions, fill'd with Air;
And what ever place were torn,
They be sure were ne'r o'reworn.
Generous Six-pence born with Pain,
Have often made 'em gape in vain;
Now they'l save that dreadful Charge,
They can far cheaper starve at large:
You've stuck as fast as Shirt can do;
Which soon, if you no longer stay,
Will drop loose, and run away.
Long did your lean Pockets stare,
Like Camelions, fill'd with Air;
And what ever place were torn,
They be sure were ne'r o'reworn.
Generous Six-pence born with Pain,
Have often made 'em gape in vain;
Now they'l save that dreadful Charge,
They can far cheaper starve at large:
Take this Groat, and do not prate;
Take the half of my Estate:
Scamper now as well as I,
To the barren Indys fly,
And see if e're a Slave that's there,
Is Master of a lighter Pair.
Never fear where e're you go,
You're sure ne're to fall more low,
Till your selves with Earth you trust;
Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust.
Take the half of my Estate:
Scamper now as well as I,
To the barren Indys fly,
And see if e're a Slave that's there,
Is Master of a lighter Pair.
Never fear where e're you go,
You're sure ne're to fall more low,
Till your selves with Earth you trust;
Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust.
| Maggots | |