The Poetical Works of the Ingenious and Learned William Meston ... The Sixth edition |
 |
 |
| 1. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. | TALE IX.
|
| X. |
| 2. |
|
|
 | The Poetical Works of the Ingenious and Learned William Meston |  |
119
TALE IX.
PHAETON burlesqu'd.
[From Ovid's Metamorphosis, Lib. II. Fab. I.]
------ Ingreditur dubitati tecta parentis.
Sol's manor was a pretty good house,
But meaner far than Holy-rood-house:
The walls rear'd up of lath and plaister;
'Tis good gear that contents the master.
On the ceil'd roof one Mulciber,
A cripple common sign-post dauber,
Or if you please to call him painter,
Had made some odd draughts at a venture.
The various seasons of the year,
Rank'd in due order, did appear,
And all the beasts, and fowls, and fishes,
Which ilk month made the nicest dishes;
When beef or mutton, lamb or veal,
Salmond or Herring, trout or eel;
When hen and capon, leeks and cabbage,
And all the other kitchen baggage,
Were at their best; here, with one look,
You'd find without the help of book.
In every month, when they are best,
Their various figures are exprest:
In January you'd see haddocks,
In March was painted store of paddocks:
In every other month what nice is;
I must say these were fine devices,
Where one could draw a bill of fare,
Suiting the season of the year;
120
When crabs are best, & cætera.
This house at night did lodge the God;
You know all day he's still abroad.
When Phaeton came to the door,
Doubting his mother was a whore,
He chap'd, and then put in his head,
Pull'd off his cap, and said, God speed.
And having made a homely jook,
Spy'd Phoebus sitting in the nook,
With purple gown, in armed chair,
Contriving how to guide the year.
A minute-watch hang at his back,
And in his hand an almanack;
And round about him, in a ring,
Sand-glasses did in plenty hing:
The names of months, you may believe, he,
From March to March, had inclusive;
The summer, harvest, winter, spring,
About the walls on boards did hing;
And, to prevent all foul mistakes,
Of kalendars and almanacks,
Great store in every corner lay,
Which serv'd to guide him on his way.
From's journal-book, did quickly spy
The stripling, who stood half-amaz'd,
While on these raree-shows he gaz'd
“My son, quoth he, what brought thee hither?”
Sir, if I may but call you father,
121
“Ne'er play'd the whore with any other,
‘Give me some proof to know it by,
‘That I may frankly give the lye
‘To any, be he great or small,
‘Who me a son of whore shall call:
‘For, faith, Sir, I must here confess,
‘I never yet, in market-place,
‘Durst throw a stone, but I did dread,
‘That I might break my father's head.”
But Phoebus pulling off his hat,
Said, “By my saul, believe't who list,
‘A better wench yet never pist,
‘Than was thy mother, nor more true
‘To me; I'll give the devil his due.
‘Or if she did; for who can fix
‘A woman's heart, with others mix,
‘Thy carrot-pow can testify
‘That none thy father is but I.
‘That I may put thee out of doubt,
‘Now, Phaeton, look round about,
‘Ask any thing; for, as I live,
‘Thou cannot ask what I'll not give.
‘ May Phoebus never see, I pray,
‘The morning of another day,
‘But in a halter may I hing,
‘If I deny thee any thing.”
‘Then, father, only let me guide
122
‘About the world drive day-light.”
At this old Phoebus shook his head,
And, clawing where there was no need,
He spat, and fidging twice or thrice,
Said, “Phaeton, my son, be wise:
‘I promised, but did suppose,
‘That thou didst see before thy nose,
‘And was not such an arrant sheep,
‘As not to look before thou leap.
‘ Would God I had a toleration
‘To swear with mental reservation;
‘This only suit I would deny;
‘Pox on the sin of perjury.
‘I may dissuade, since thy desires
‘Above thy age and strength aspires;
‘And since so feeble hands, as these are,
‘Unable are to guide the day-star.
‘Except myself, none of the train,
‘Of Gods can guide my fiery wain:
‘ Whatever they may vainly boast,
‘None of them can rule such a roast.
‘Let Jove himself, the great Mogul
‘Of Heav'n, vapour as he will,
‘And wild-fire, like a juggler, spit,
‘To fright poor mortals out of wit,
‘He cannot guide my steeds, mark that,
‘ And who with Jove can bell the cat?
123
‘Through which my steeds can scarcely creep,
‘Tho' they be fresh; for every morn,
‘Before we yoke, they get their corn.
‘Whence looking down (I will not lie)
‘On sea and land, it makes me quake
‘For fear, and all my bones to shake:
‘ Thence turning down, should I mistake
‘One step, I'd surely break my neck.
‘Still whirling round in a vertigo,
‘Which all the stars about do swing,
‘And make them dance it in a ring.
‘Directly forward still must ride.
‘I dare not stop, nor turn my back,
‘For marring of the almanack;
‘My restless wheels must still be jogging,
‘Nor dare I halt to take a noggan.
“The rapid motion of the sphere
‘Would carry thee the Lord knows where.
“ Perhaps thou vainly dream'st the Gods
‘Have manor-houses on these roads:
‘Or thou may foolishly be thinking
‘Of inns and taverns there, for drinking,
‘Unless thou eat a heavenly sign,
‘On all the road thou cannot dine:
124
‘Or some such paultry stuff as this is.
‘And then, to wash thy pickled throat,
‘Thou must drink of a water-pot.”
‘Rightly manage my head-strong avers:
‘When they begin to spurn and kick,
‘As oft they use this vicious trick,
‘They make myself, who am more able
‘Than thou, seek all the seats i'th' saddle.’
‘ And say not, Would to God I had done't?
‘Thy mischief now must be prevented,
‘Or afterwards thou wilt repent it.’
‘To know if Phoebus be thy dad:
‘This is a thing I never doubted,
‘I took thy mother's word about it;
‘And had thou wit as thou hast years,
‘ Thou might perceive it by my fears.
‘Consider only, if Apollo,
‘The God of wit, would be so shallow,
‘So great a blockhead, or so dull,
‘To vex his head, or rack his scull,
‘With needless fears or cares, and that
‘For any common strumpet's brat;
‘If I did so, (as proverb tells),
‘I well deserved hood and bells.
‘Judge ye how such a dress would fit
‘The noddle of the God of wit.
125
‘ Except but this, ask any boon,
‘By all that's sacred, here I vow
‘I'll give it, were it worth a cow.”
‘Since I have sworn, I must give
‘Whate'er thou asks; but pray be wise,
‘ And yet make a discreeter choice.”
And finished his learned speeches.
But Phaeton, a wilful lad,
Whom all his wit could not dissuade,
Stood stiffly to his purpose, and
Still press'd to have his first demand.
Now Phoebus, finding that the day
Was dawning, durst no longer stay,
For fear some morning-men should think
That he had got too large a drink;
And lest he should sun-dials mar,
He leads the boy unto the car.
Old Brookie made with his own hand;
For Phoebus, who must still be peeping,
And spying faults when some are sleeping,
Through hole in door, as is reported,
Perceived that Mars with Venus sported,
And seeing Vulcan was in his shop,
He thus accosts his worthy messship.
126
“Gossip, while ye on iron pelt here,
‘A rogue, who well deserves a halter,
‘A captain too, forsooth, hath laid
‘A close siege to your worship's bed:
‘And that he may the more succeed,
‘Plac'd horned-works upon your head.”
Brookie, at this, threw by his hammer,
And thinking on his wife, cry'd, damn her;
Clench'd out of doors; but, being lame,
Before he came Mars plaid his game.
Yet notwithstanding this, he judged,
In gratitude he was obliged
To Phoebus, therefore did provide him
A trusty coach for him to ride in:
And, without brag, ne'er hackney hurl'd
On better wheels in the wide world.
‘A rogue, who well deserves a halter,
‘A captain too, forsooth, hath laid
‘A close siege to your worship's bed:
‘And that he may the more succeed,
‘Plac'd horned-works upon your head.”
Brookie, at this, threw by his hammer,
And thinking on his wife, cry'd, damn her;
Clench'd out of doors; but, being lame,
Before he came Mars plaid his game.
Yet notwithstanding this, he judged,
In gratitude he was obliged
To Phoebus, therefore did provide him
A trusty coach for him to ride in:
And, without brag, ne'er hackney hurl'd
On better wheels in the wide world.
While Phaeton stood gazing on it,
Rubbing the stopple of his bonnet,
Transported with surprize and joy,
Like a blate fondling country boy,
Who'd never seen a coach before,
Rubbing the stopple of his bonnet,
Transported with surprize and joy,
Like a blate fondling country boy,
Who'd never seen a coach before,
Aurora peep'd in at the door.
This was a pretty ruddy maid,
Who waited close on Phoebus bed,
And oft, when he was sleeping sound,
Would rouse him up to ride his round:
And pinching him with thumb and finger,
Would tell him, 'twas no time to linger,
This was a pretty ruddy maid,
Who waited close on Phoebus bed,
And oft, when he was sleeping sound,
Would rouse him up to ride his round:
And pinching him with thumb and finger,
Would tell him, 'twas no time to linger,
When all the glimmering lamps of night,
For want of oil, had lost their light.
For this, and other service too,
Which neither of them dares avow,
And which at present shall be nameless,
Perform'd by wanton mistress shameless,
The sun had cloth'd this pretty harlot
With gown and petticoat of scarlet;
When both of them, tho' I'm to speak loath,
Deserv'd to wear a gown of sackcloath.
And, I must say, 'tis a great pity,
That they live not in our good city,
For our kirk-treasurer would trace them,
And on repentance-stool disgrace them,
Or make old Phoebus, for his cunny,
To doce down good ready money.
A reader of our kirk's profession,
I hope, will pardon this digression
About our discipline, and lo,
No more of this, now a propos.
For want of oil, had lost their light.
For this, and other service too,
Which neither of them dares avow,
127
Perform'd by wanton mistress shameless,
The sun had cloth'd this pretty harlot
With gown and petticoat of scarlet;
When both of them, tho' I'm to speak loath,
Deserv'd to wear a gown of sackcloath.
And, I must say, 'tis a great pity,
That they live not in our good city,
For our kirk-treasurer would trace them,
And on repentance-stool disgrace them,
Or make old Phoebus, for his cunny,
To doce down good ready money.
A reader of our kirk's profession,
I hope, will pardon this digression
About our discipline, and lo,
No more of this, now a propos.
Now Phoebus seeing madam Moon
Look as pale as a horn-spoon,
And all the stars quite disappear,
Ev'n Lucifer who guards the rear;
Straight he calls out a leash of lackeys,
Some call them Gods, which their mistake is,
At most they're but plebeian powers,
Look as pale as a horn-spoon,
And all the stars quite disappear,
Ev'n Lucifer who guards the rear;
Straight he calls out a leash of lackeys,
Some call them Gods, which their mistake is,
At most they're but plebeian powers,
And we, poor mortals, call them hours.
These nimble boys, then, were not idle,
Each quickly snatching up a bridle,
Led forth the steeds, well fed with hay,
From stables where all night they lay.
Then Phoebus taking out a flask
Of oil, for why, he wears no mask,
All o'er, from lug to lug, besmear'd
His face, his whiskers, and his beard:
And this forsooth he did assure him,
These nimble boys, then, were not idle,
Each quickly snatching up a bridle,
Led forth the steeds, well fed with hay,
From stables where all night they lay.
Then Phoebus taking out a flask
Of oil, for why, he wears no mask,
All o'er, from lug to lug, besmear'd
His face, his whiskers, and his beard:
128
'Gainst all sun-burning would secure him;
And on his head, to make him trig,
He put a powder'd periwig.
But calling into mind the tallow
Wherewith their dying friends some hallow,
(A practice once, they say, was common)
He thought it was no pleasant omen,
He sigh'd untill his guts did tumble,
Then out these following words did mumble,
“My son, observe what I'm to tell you,
‘And if you don't, then dool will fell you:
‘ And first, keep a good bridle-hand;
‘But seldom use the spur or wand.
‘My steeds their own jog-trot will keep,
‘Scarce will they leave't for spur or whip.
‘You must not drive too high nor low,
‘The safest way is 'twixt the two.
‘For if you chance to drive too high,
‘You'll burn the sign-posts of the sky.
‘Astrologers will be undone,
‘When not one house in heav'n is known;
‘And who, without a sign, can tell
‘Where heavenly constellations dwell?
‘And if too low (which a disgrace is),
‘You will tawn all the ladies faces.
‘Now, more directions were but needless;
‘I hope you will not be so heedless,
‘But you'll observe and closely follow
‘ The coach-wheel tract, you'll find it hollow;
‘And this will guide you to a minute,
‘Or else I'm sure the Devil's in it.
‘And so to fortune I must leave ye,
‘I wish she play not you a shavie.
‘And now comes on the firie-farie,
‘Time calls us, and we must not tarry;
‘Then take the reins, or if, as yet,
‘You'll show less fondness and more wit,
‘Let me alone to guide the chariot,
‘'Tis ten to one but you will mar it;
‘Stay you at home, and sport and play,
‘And suffer me to guide the day:
‘Here you may safely dance and caper,
‘And see me drive the blazing taper.”
And on his head, to make him trig,
He put a powder'd periwig.
But calling into mind the tallow
Wherewith their dying friends some hallow,
(A practice once, they say, was common)
He thought it was no pleasant omen,
He sigh'd untill his guts did tumble,
Then out these following words did mumble,
“My son, observe what I'm to tell you,
‘And if you don't, then dool will fell you:
‘ And first, keep a good bridle-hand;
‘But seldom use the spur or wand.
‘My steeds their own jog-trot will keep,
‘Scarce will they leave't for spur or whip.
‘You must not drive too high nor low,
‘The safest way is 'twixt the two.
‘For if you chance to drive too high,
‘You'll burn the sign-posts of the sky.
‘Astrologers will be undone,
‘When not one house in heav'n is known;
‘And who, without a sign, can tell
‘Where heavenly constellations dwell?
‘And if too low (which a disgrace is),
‘You will tawn all the ladies faces.
‘Now, more directions were but needless;
‘I hope you will not be so heedless,
‘But you'll observe and closely follow
‘ The coach-wheel tract, you'll find it hollow;
‘And this will guide you to a minute,
‘Or else I'm sure the Devil's in it.
129
‘I wish she play not you a shavie.
‘And now comes on the firie-farie,
‘Time calls us, and we must not tarry;
‘Then take the reins, or if, as yet,
‘You'll show less fondness and more wit,
‘Let me alone to guide the chariot,
‘'Tis ten to one but you will mar it;
‘Stay you at home, and sport and play,
‘And suffer me to guide the day:
‘Here you may safely dance and caper,
‘And see me drive the blazing taper.”
But all this good advice was lost,
The stripling quickly took his post.
And, O! but he was wondrous fain,
With eager hand to snatch the rein;
Then to his father made a bow,
First said, gramercie, then adieu.
“Poor Phaeton you are demented,
“Quoth Sol, e'er sun-set you'll repent it.”
Mean time the steeds began to neigh,
The coach-man clack'd his whip, cry'd jee.
With this the hackney-jades first started,
And then, well fed with corn, they farted.
Then up the path they trot and hobble:
But Phaeton, like a young noble,
Now seated in his father car,
Look'd ev'n as big as Muscow's Czar:
The stripling quickly took his post.
And, O! but he was wondrous fain,
With eager hand to snatch the rein;
Then to his father made a bow,
First said, gramercie, then adieu.
“Poor Phaeton you are demented,
“Quoth Sol, e'er sun-set you'll repent it.”
Mean time the steeds began to neigh,
The coach-man clack'd his whip, cry'd jee.
With this the hackney-jades first started,
And then, well fed with corn, they farted.
Then up the path they trot and hobble:
But Phaeton, like a young noble,
Now seated in his father car,
Look'd ev'n as big as Muscow's Czar:
As ships, that bear him sail then ballast,
Slinger before the very smallest
Unequal blast, so is he driven,
Jolting and jumbling up to heaven:
Nor was his father half so wise,
As his light-headed son to poise,
Which in horse-races is the practice,
Where still the rider's weight exact is;
And if but one of all the number
Of riders is too light, with lumber,
Or baggs of sand, this is corrected;
But this by Phoebus was neglected.
Nor need you much at this to wonder,
The best of wits will sometimes blunder.
The coach, near empty, swiftly reels,
And glides away on easy wheels.
The steeds perceiv'd it moving light,
And wanting of its usual weight,
Which made them first begin to amble,
And then through thick and thin to ramble;
O'er hedge and ditch with speed they fly,
Slinger before the very smallest
Unequal blast, so is he driven,
Jolting and jumbling up to heaven:
Nor was his father half so wise,
As his light-headed son to poise,
130
Where still the rider's weight exact is;
And if but one of all the number
Of riders is too light, with lumber,
Or baggs of sand, this is corrected;
But this by Phoebus was neglected.
Nor need you much at this to wonder,
The best of wits will sometimes blunder.
The coach, near empty, swiftly reels,
And glides away on easy wheels.
The steeds perceiv'd it moving light,
And wanting of its usual weight,
Which made them first begin to amble,
And then through thick and thin to ramble;
O'er hedge and ditch with speed they fly,
And quit forsake the King's high way.
And now, our poor young charioteer
Was seized with a panick fear;
At once confounded and amaz'd,
He sweat, he trembled, star'd and gaz'd;
He knew not where the way did ly,
Nor would the vicious jades obey:
O'er crags and cliffs his coach-wheels rattle,
Which scar'd and scorch'd the heavenly cattle.
The bull truss'd up his tail on rig,
Prick'd, and ran round like whirlegig.
The lion soon began to roar;
And now, our poor young charioteer
Was seized with a panick fear;
At once confounded and amaz'd,
He sweat, he trembled, star'd and gaz'd;
He knew not where the way did ly,
Nor would the vicious jades obey:
O'er crags and cliffs his coach-wheels rattle,
Which scar'd and scorch'd the heavenly cattle.
The bull truss'd up his tail on rig,
Prick'd, and ran round like whirlegig.
The lion soon began to roar;
With heat the great and little boar,
To find some cooler shade, or hole,
Ran even to the artick pole.
The dog, stark mad, began to snarle
To find some cooler shade, or hole,
Ran even to the artick pole.
The dog, stark mad, began to snarle
At poor Bootes, an old carle,
Who ran away with his wheel-barrow,
So fast, he almost sweat his marrow.
The serpent, in this hurly-burly,
Benum'd with cold before, look'd surly.
The fishes swam away with speed,
I cannot say but they had need,
Nor could Aquarius relieve them,
His boiling water more did grieve them;
Parboil'd they lay now in the gutter,
They'd made good sauce, had there been butter.
131
So fast, he almost sweat his marrow.
The serpent, in this hurly-burly,
Benum'd with cold before, look'd surly.
The fishes swam away with speed,
I cannot say but they had need,
Nor could Aquarius relieve them,
His boiling water more did grieve them;
Parboil'd they lay now in the gutter,
They'd made good sauce, had there been butter.
How soon the boy, from Heaven's rigging,
Had cast his eye on earth's low bigging,
He trembl'd, and, which was a token
Of a dirt-fear, look'd dun as docken;
Down from his eyes the tears did trickle,
O, but he was in a sad pickle!
Ne'er was young lad in bader plight,
His eyes turn'd dim, he lost his sight:
In this perplexing firie-farie,
And inexpressible quandarie,
Had he possess'd an hundred pound
He'd giv'n it all for soal o'ground.
Oft did he wish he'd had a pox,
When sirk he mounted the coach-box:
Were he on earth again, he'd rather
Content himself with any father,
Or chuse out one by odds or even,
Rather than gallop thus through Heaven,
To prove his genealogy
By dangerous astrology.
Curgloft, confounded and bumbaz'd,
On east and west, by turns, he gaz'd;
As ship that's tost with stormy weather,
Drives on, the pilot knows not whither,
At mercy of the winds and tides,
Just so our hackney coach-man rides.
The more the coach-wheels reel'd and tumbl'd,
The more his judgment still was jumbl'd.
The slacken'd reins he held not fast,
Nor dropt them quite, but all agast,
And at his wits end, like a sot,
His horses names he had forgot.
Much tost with jolting and with hobblings,
And terrify'd with strange hobgoblins,
Which, up and down, dispersed lye
Through the wild regions of the sky,
At last his fingers dropt the reins;
The steeds perceiv'd them on their manes,
Rambling and ranging, out they fly
Had cast his eye on earth's low bigging,
He trembl'd, and, which was a token
Of a dirt-fear, look'd dun as docken;
Down from his eyes the tears did trickle,
O, but he was in a sad pickle!
Ne'er was young lad in bader plight,
His eyes turn'd dim, he lost his sight:
In this perplexing firie-farie,
And inexpressible quandarie,
Had he possess'd an hundred pound
He'd giv'n it all for soal o'ground.
Oft did he wish he'd had a pox,
When sirk he mounted the coach-box:
Were he on earth again, he'd rather
Content himself with any father,
Or chuse out one by odds or even,
Rather than gallop thus through Heaven,
To prove his genealogy
By dangerous astrology.
Curgloft, confounded and bumbaz'd,
On east and west, by turns, he gaz'd;
As ship that's tost with stormy weather,
Drives on, the pilot knows not whither,
132
Just so our hackney coach-man rides.
The more the coach-wheels reel'd and tumbl'd,
The more his judgment still was jumbl'd.
The slacken'd reins he held not fast,
Nor dropt them quite, but all agast,
And at his wits end, like a sot,
His horses names he had forgot.
Much tost with jolting and with hobblings,
And terrify'd with strange hobgoblins,
Which, up and down, dispersed lye
Through the wild regions of the sky,
At last his fingers dropt the reins;
The steeds perceiv'd them on their manes,
Rambling and ranging, out they fly
Through dens and desarts of the sky,
With lawless force and divelish din,
They drive the coach through thick and thin:
Their fury all before them mars,
They dash the sun against the stars:
And now they turn their tails, and down
They drive the sun below the moon.
Quoth Luna, in a great surprize,
‘Can I believe now my own eyes?
‘Yes, 'tis my brother, that is clear,
‘But then, what does he riding here?
‘I know not what to say; sure this is
‘A thing portends no good, (God bless us.)
‘All nature topsy turvie turns,
‘The clouds he into ashes burns,
‘Which sends us up such stinking smoke,
‘God help me, I am like to choak.”
With lawless force and divelish din,
They drive the coach through thick and thin:
Their fury all before them mars,
They dash the sun against the stars:
And now they turn their tails, and down
They drive the sun below the moon.
Quoth Luna, in a great surprize,
‘Can I believe now my own eyes?
‘Yes, 'tis my brother, that is clear,
‘But then, what does he riding here?
‘I know not what to say; sure this is
‘A thing portends no good, (God bless us.)
‘All nature topsy turvie turns,
‘The clouds he into ashes burns,
‘Which sends us up such stinking smoke,
‘God help me, I am like to choak.”
133
And now the earth begins to fry,
The rivers, great and small, run dry;
The rivers, great and small, run dry;
The woods and heaths do make but one fire,
And every mountain is a bonfire.
The frozen zone begins to thaw,
And all the corn-fields do glow,
Small loss of woods, of fields and hills,
When they're compar'd with greater ills:
Whole cities and whole peopl'd nations
Make but continu'd conflagrations:
And every mountain is a bonfire.
The frozen zone begins to thaw,
And all the corn-fields do glow,
Small loss of woods, of fields and hills,
When they're compar'd with greater ills:
Whole cities and whole peopl'd nations
Make but continu'd conflagrations:
Nilus, to fly the scorching sun,
With all his speed did backward run,
And hide his head so under ground,
To this good day it is not found.
The solid ground even splits asunder,
The sun-beams fill all with hell with wonder.
With all his speed did backward run,
And hide his head so under ground,
To this good day it is not found.
The solid ground even splits asunder,
The sun-beams fill all with hell with wonder.
Old Nick, and his goodwife, benighted,
Till they were with the flash affrighted.
With heat the ocean boils and bubbles,
Neptune was in a peck of troubles:
Thrice 'bove the floods his head he rear'd,
The flame thrice sing'd his grisly beard.
Till they were with the flash affrighted.
With heat the ocean boils and bubbles,
Neptune was in a peck of troubles:
Thrice 'bove the floods his head he rear'd,
The flame thrice sing'd his grisly beard.
Old mother earth, in this sad case,
Lift up her scorch'd and wrinkled face,
Lift up her scorch'd and wrinkled face,
And, seiz'd with a convulsion fit,
(Tho' too much heat occasion'd it),
She thratches, trembles, and she groans,
And falls down on her hurkle-bones,
Claps both her hands upon her eyes,
And thus she simpers, whines and cries.
“Alas! to what hand shall I turn me?
‘This flame, alive, is like to burn me.
‘Don Jove! what means this rage and fury,
‘To scorch me thus without a jury?
‘My crimes could ne'er deserve so much,
‘As thus to fry me like a witch.
‘What mean ye, Sir, to play such pranks?
‘ I can say I deserv'd more thanks;
‘For, Sir, you know, and your own butchers,
‘Should you deny't, would be my vouchers;
‘Well can they tell, would they but speak,
‘How oft I've made your kitchen reek
‘With good fat beasts of my own feeding:
‘You might have had some better breeding,
‘And not with flames have thus consum'd me,
‘For many a time I have perfum'd ye.
‘But then, suppose you'd guilty make me
‘Of some black crime, (tho' devil me
‘If I know wherein I've offended,
‘And if I knew, I would amend it:)
‘Pray, Hogan Mogan, (now I'd coax you),
‘Would you but tell me what provokes you
‘'Gainst Neptune, who was never sparing
‘With cabelow and good Lewes herring,
‘Well dress'd, to please your dainty palate,
‘While I provided you with sallad?
‘But if you're such a stingy fellow,
‘As neither him nor me to value,
‘Yet humbly, Sir, I would desire,
‘Now when your neighbour's house takes fire,
‘You'd mind your own; know this is fit,
‘Had you one ounce of mother-wit,
‘(And this, you know, is always found
‘To be of clergy worth a pound),
‘Or else this flame will reach the spheres,
‘ And burn your house about your ears.”
This said, her head within her shell
She drew, and in a swoon she fell.
(Tho' too much heat occasion'd it),
She thratches, trembles, and she groans,
And falls down on her hurkle-bones,
134
And thus she simpers, whines and cries.
“Alas! to what hand shall I turn me?
‘This flame, alive, is like to burn me.
‘Don Jove! what means this rage and fury,
‘To scorch me thus without a jury?
‘My crimes could ne'er deserve so much,
‘As thus to fry me like a witch.
‘What mean ye, Sir, to play such pranks?
‘ I can say I deserv'd more thanks;
‘For, Sir, you know, and your own butchers,
‘Should you deny't, would be my vouchers;
‘Well can they tell, would they but speak,
‘How oft I've made your kitchen reek
‘With good fat beasts of my own feeding:
‘You might have had some better breeding,
‘And not with flames have thus consum'd me,
‘For many a time I have perfum'd ye.
‘But then, suppose you'd guilty make me
‘Of some black crime, (tho' devil me
‘If I know wherein I've offended,
‘And if I knew, I would amend it:)
‘Pray, Hogan Mogan, (now I'd coax you),
‘Would you but tell me what provokes you
‘'Gainst Neptune, who was never sparing
‘With cabelow and good Lewes herring,
‘Well dress'd, to please your dainty palate,
‘While I provided you with sallad?
‘But if you're such a stingy fellow,
‘As neither him nor me to value,
‘Yet humbly, Sir, I would desire,
‘Now when your neighbour's house takes fire,
‘You'd mind your own; know this is fit,
‘Had you one ounce of mother-wit,
‘(And this, you know, is always found
‘To be of clergy worth a pound),
135
‘ And burn your house about your ears.”
This said, her head within her shell
She drew, and in a swoon she fell.
The old goodman, in his high seat,
Began to feel the sultry heat;
Then from his chair he starts, and looks
On earth all in a flame; “Godzooks!
‘Said Jupiter, what means the matter?
‘Go ring the fire-bells, and bring water.”
With Mercury, for loitering, quarrels,
Began to feel the sultry heat;
Then from his chair he starts, and looks
On earth all in a flame; “Godzooks!
‘Said Jupiter, what means the matter?
‘Go ring the fire-bells, and bring water.”
With Mercury, for loitering, quarrels,
But fiend a drop was in his barrels.
Then up the fire-fork he did snatch,
And ties to it a fiery match;
“Mad coach-man now, quoth he, have at you,
‘ I hope the father who begat you
‘Will pardon me, if to the devil
‘I send you, to prevent this evil.”
The bolt he levels with his eye,
And shoots it point-blank through the sky,
Which, whizzing through the air, flies down,
And knocks the coach-boy on the crown,
And drives him lifeless from the car,
Down tumbling like a shooting star.
Then up the fire-fork he did snatch,
And ties to it a fiery match;
“Mad coach-man now, quoth he, have at you,
‘ I hope the father who begat you
‘Will pardon me, if to the devil
‘I send you, to prevent this evil.”
The bolt he levels with his eye,
And shoots it point-blank through the sky,
Which, whizzing through the air, flies down,
And knocks the coach-boy on the crown,
And drives him lifeless from the car,
Down tumbling like a shooting star.
The steeds, affrighted with the crack,
And flash of lightning, started back,
And pull'd their necks out of the yoke,
The harness and coach-wheels they broke;
The beam lies broke, the coach all shatter'd,
The harness here and there was scatter'd;
So here's an end of this fine story,
Judge ye if Phoebus was not sorry.
And flash of lightning, started back,
And pull'd their necks out of the yoke,
The harness and coach-wheels they broke;
The beam lies broke, the coach all shatter'd,
The harness here and there was scatter'd;
136
Judge ye if Phoebus was not sorry.
So have we seen, with armed heel,
A wight bestride a commonweal,
To drive, with fury, a carreer
Like Jehu, without wit or fear,
Spurring and switching, whip in hand,
O'er head in ears in quagmire land.
A wight bestride a commonweal,
To drive, with fury, a carreer
Like Jehu, without wit or fear,
Spurring and switching, whip in hand,
O'er head in ears in quagmire land.
Ludere qui nescit, campestribus abstinet armis;
Ne spissæ risum tollant impune coronæ.
Ne spissæ risum tollant impune coronæ.
| The Poetical Works of the Ingenious and Learned William Meston | |