Maggots :: :: University of Virginia Library

Maggots

or, Poems on Several Subjects, Never before Handled. By a Schollar [i.e. Samuel Wesley]

Wesley, Samuel (1662-1735)

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I think I may venture to pronounce this purely a Maggot, and so others that know no better may be apt to think too; but I can assure 'em the Foundation of the Story is as infallibly true, as any in—Lucian's true History.

A King turn'd Thresher.

Farewell ye gay Bubbles, Fame, Glory, Renown!
Farewell you bright Thorns that are pinn'd to a Crown,
Your little Enchantments no more shall prevail;
Look, look where my Sceptre is turn'd to a Flail!
O who can the Bliss of a Monarch discern,
Whose Subjects are Mice, and whose Palace a Barn?
In spight of curs'd Fortune he Kings it below,
While he looks all around him, and sees not a Foe.
The groans of the murder'd in Death and Despair,
Ne'r reach his calm Kingdom, but dye in the Air:
Fierce Battles roar on; but too weak is the voice,
For he threshes and threshes, and drowns all the Noise.

When his Envy could not be sated on the Christians, he left the Empire in Discontent, and retir'd to the Salonian Gardens,—as Cowley.

The Soul of Domitian sunk into a Clod,

That Tyrant driven from his Kingdom, travelled into Greece, and set up School-Master; where his Cares are here affirm'd as heavy as when a King.

Dyonisius his Scepter was as light as his Rod;

Charles the fifth Emperour of Germany, who after as great a Rufflle in the World as has been made this several Centuries; after War, not only against most of Europe, but Argiers, in Africa too; at last on some discontent, or the unpleasing face of his business, resigned the Empire, and retired to a little House and Garden, which he cultivated with his own hand, and there liv'd and dy'd.

And the Little-Great-Charles with his Shovel and Spade,
Dug a hole, and lay down in the Grave he had made.
But a thousand times brighter my Stars do appear,
And I ne'r was a Monarch in earnest till here:
On a heap of fresh Straw I can laugh and lye down,
And pity the man that's condemn'd to a Crown.
No Armyes of Frogs here croak by my Throne,
I can rise, I can walk, I can eat all alone:
Reliev'd from the Siege of importunate men,
I enjoy my Original Freedom agen.
Scarce peeps out the Sun with a blushing young Ray,

Meaning Chaunticleer,—as Gransire Chaucer has it; or in new English, no better nor worse than a Cock,—that Baron Tell-Clock of the Night,—as Cleveland christens him.

E're my brisk feather'd Bell-man will tell me 'tis day;
Proud with his Serallio behind and before,
He cheerly triumphing, struts along by the Door.
Here's an honest brown George which my Scrip does adorn,
Here's a true Houshold Loaf of the hiew o' my Corn;

Here's a good Rammel-Cheese, but a little decay'd,
As fat as the Cream out of which it was made.

The common old Proverb here meant, is, that—There's no Fence against a Flail.

When Death shall cross Proverbs, and strike at my Heart,
When the best of my Flails is no fence for his Dart;
I'le open my Arms, not a Groan, not a Sigh,
Drop't soft on the Straw, with a smile I will dye.

University of Virginia Library

I think I may venture to pronounce this purely a Maggot, and so others that know no better may be apt to think too; but I can assure 'em the Foundation of the Story is as infallibly true, as any in—Lucian's true History. A King turn'd Thresher.

I think I may venture to pronounce this purely a Maggot, and so others that know no better may be apt to think too; but I can assure 'em the Foundation of the Story is as infallibly true, as any in—Lucian's true History.

A King turn'd Thresher.