A Match, between the keen Rasor, and the dull Ax,
1683.
Occasioned by the death of the Lord Russel and the E. of Essex.
[I.]
Ten Pounds to a Crown, (who will make the match)
On Bomini's head, against Squire Catch;
Whose Instrument shall make most quick dispatch.
The Noble Rasor, or the Ax
In Bulk, (perhaps) not Virtue, lacks;
Which, by rare slight of hand, can do
More at one stroke, than that at two:
So Gems are precious, which unite
In little Orbs, great Rays of Light:
More subtle than th'Inchanted Sword,
Which slew twice o'er
The Knight, once slain before;
For thou cou'dst kill,
Against thy will,
And his, and ours, a Noble Lord.
II.
Dead doing Tool! surely just Fate
Will dub thee now the Ax of State;
If first the grateful Heav'ns shall not Translate
The thither, to maintain
The Regiment of C--- his VVain.
But gentle Muse, I pray thee tell,
What made that Hack, this Shave so well:
And why the dapper Monsieur can
Out-do the heavy Englishman?
Did the old Ax, on that great day,
It went away
To Rome, to be Enshrin'd,
Steal all the Steel; and only Iron leave behind?
Or did the Hone
Sharpen the Rasor, to the Ax give none?
III.
VVou'd you this Riddle understand;
Distinguish 'twixt the Butcher's clumsy Hand,
And the invisible Command,
Divines allow, the unseen Powers
May wonders work; and why not ours,
VVhether on Scaffolds, or in Towers?
All you, whose Lot
It once may be to go to Pot,
VVhen e'er the State shall hit your Blot;
And you whose Heads by sullen Fates
Are doom'd to fall at these hard rates:
Pray use your Barbers cheaper Art,
And let your bungling Butchers bear no Part.
Now, for a curious Youth to cut your Throats,
VVho (on occasion fine, and neat)
VVill do the clever Feat;
Let trusty Monsieur preingage your ready Votes.
