University of Virginia Library

I sing a Base with topping Voice,
Renown'd for making of a noise;
Not of the burnt-out pious Lad,
So fam'd for carrying of his Dad;
That spoyl'd his Character with crying,
If Virgil be n't a Rogue for lying:
Or him that lost a Rib a sleeping,
And died for tasting of a Pippin;
His Dame, or any one of those,
Which B---t has burlesqu'd in Prose;
Nor yet that cunning Spark, whose Tongue
They'd make us believe was so well hung,
That saw so many Modes, and Cities,
As we may read in Grecian Ditties,
Of a repeating old blind Harper,
That made a Hero of a Sharper.
Such little Folks, an't worth my while,
Their trifles shan't debase my Style.
But now methinks I hear a Sot
Cry out, what care I, who 'tis not?
Prithee tell us who 'tis: but stay:
I'll tell my Story my own way;
And would advise no soul to press me;
For my time shall be yours, God bless me:
'Twas one enclin'd to Rapes and Murther,
Enquire within, and you'll know further.
Typhon's the burden of my Song,
I'm sorry, that you stay'd so long.
Typhon a Wight no Bull-Dog bolder,
With fifty Arms to every Shoulder;
A monstrous Head, that void of fear
Was hung with Snakes instead of Hair;
With horned Brows, red glistering Eyes,
And Nostrills of prodigious size;
From which he sent, enflam'd with Ire,
Like Glass-house Chimney, Smoak and Fire:
Great Typhon, that despising odds,
Alone stood half a dozen Gods;
Of him I sing, and of his Fellows
So like himself, as Poets tell us:
That never stopt at Stiles or Hedges,
Cross'd Rivers without Boats or Bridges,
Took Oaks and Pines for walking sticks,
Play'd o'er their Cups more boystr'ous tricks,
Than dancing Bears; and every Foot
Tore up a Mountain by the root:
That ran the hazard of a Fight,
Of Gods, who got but little by't;
Ventur'd to their immortal Glory
T'attack 'em in their Territory,
And made 'em run, that those, who've seen 'em,
Humbly conceiv'd, the Dev'l was in 'em.

Muses, if y'ha'nt forgot the times,
In which, to save your paultry Rhimes,
You, and the Master of the Sun,
Shut up Shop, and left Helicon,
Turn'd Ballad-singers, if not worse,
And Pegasus a Sumpter Horse;
When Jove got trembling on his Bird,
And to the Gods cried, save's the word:
Let's know the truth, good Lasses, tell us,
Were they such damn'd ill favour'd Fellows?
And was that Treasure in such danger,
Which still you keep like Dogs in Manger?
Did Mars and Pallas fight like Lions,
Or were they beaten by the Giants?
Had any of 'em cause to prattle,
Or was it like Luzara's battle,
A draw-game, where both Parties lost,
Yet Crown'd and Triumph'd to their cost?
For since, this great while, there have been
No Gods or Giants to be seen,
It's like they fought it out, and so
Were both destroy'd for ought we know.
Nay ev'n your selves, and whom you follow,
That Jack of all Trades, God Apollo,
Are but Chimera's, as some say,
And, faith I don't know, but you may.
But, if y'are not, pray tell me so:
And, if you can assure me, do:
Inspire my thoughts, and don't be tedious;
Or else your humble Servant Ladies.

About the middl' of July, one day,
Which, as it happen'd was a Sunday,
The better day the better deed,
For 'twas an Age, in which we read
Of hardly one good Man in twenty,
An Age, that spoil'd by Peace and Plenty.
Had no Reformers, under Banners
Of holy Thirst-encountring Manners;
Those Champions of Sobriety,
That watch to keep the World adry;
Whose Drummers teach one day in seven,
That the tap-too's the March of Heaven.
I say 'twas in that wicked time,
When quenching thirst was thought no Crime.
That Typhon, with his Wig of Snakes,
Had ask'd some of his Brother Rakes,
To dine upon as fine a Dish
Of sucking Whales, as Men could wish;
I mean, such Men as they, (an't please ye)
As to my palate 'twas too greasie.
They stuff'd and swore 'twas nicely drest:
So belly full, and heart at rest:
Their Guts well lined with dainty Diet
The Sons of each sat mighty quiet,
Some half a Sleep, some talking non-sence,
All of 'em dull enough in Conscience.
Up gets the Master of the Feast,
His Coat unbutton'd to his Waste,
Belches, and walking to and fro,
Cries, well my Lads, what shall we do?
Are you for Punch this Afternoon?
Quoth Encelades, 'tis too soon.
Replies my Landlord, then let's play
At Nine-pins, to pass time away:
I never tried my new Set yet,
We'll play Six and the rest shall Bet.
Agreed. His Pins were made of Stones
That weigh'd some five six hundred Tuns:
For wooden ones all Norway round,
There was no Timber to be found
Half quarter big enough: They were
Contriv'd, and wrought by Typhon's care;
Who had destroy'd some Mountains for 'em
From which with his strong Fists he tore 'em;
And one most round enough to rowl
Serv'd him in quality of Bowl.
They were not very handsome, no,
Nor very ugly; but so, so.
And, Faith, the Giant was no Fool;
That work'd so well without a Tool;
For to all these, and what he made,
The Dev'l an Instrument he had
Besides his Fingers. Now the Pins
Are set up, and the Play begins
For half a Farthing to be spent,
As in most Games, so here it went.
Their Giantships were calm at first,
But growing hot they swore and curst:
And as 'tis with all Clowns and Brutes
So they had plenty of Disputes:
There happen'd one among the rest,
Caused only by an ill timed Jest;
Which if 't had gone a little further
Could not have ended without Murther:
However Typhon laid it by
With some sort of Authority.
Now all to play return again,
As if no Quarrel e'er had been:
When Mimas cries, Who follows you,
Celandor? That am I quoth Grue,
A Fellow dev'lish strong in th'Arm;
Who, having lost, was pretty warm,
And reckoning, as he left the Frame,
What he went for, cry'd, blew's the Game?
Let's see; fifteen: by the Lord Harry,
I may save all, if I could carry
But six, I can tip Nine of course:
Then throwing with Gigantick force:
He hit (the bowl by chance flying wide)
Typhon, who stood a little aside,
Full butt against his Ancle-bone;
Which had been better let alone.
My Landlord, who could hardly stand to't,
Drew up his Leg, and clapt his Hand to't:
Then hopt along, made ugly Faces,
And all those usual Grimaces,
Which Pain requires; but that ill bred,
Left-handed Fellow Grue, instead
Of saying, Sir I beg your Pardon,
Or faith, I'm sorry 't came so hard on,
Look'd quite another way, and cry'd,
What Beast am I to fling so wide?
We've lost the Set; but yet I'll Bet ye.
Quoth th'other, the grand Devil Set ye,
You and your Play, with tears in's Eyes,
But how tears? tears! a Puppy cries,
Yes, tears Sir, tears I'm for plain dealing;
D'ye think that Giants have no feeling.
'Twas a damn'd blow, yet he forbore
Quar'ling at home, and said no more,
To Grue; but with a fretful look,
To be reveng'd on something, took
The Pins, and threw 'em in damnable
Anger, as high, as he was able.
Had I best follow 'em or no,
For they've an ugly way to go?
And I assure you, he that knows 'em,
Together with the Man, That throws 'em
What with their Bulk, and his strong Arm,
May well suspect, they will do harm.
But telling, how from mortal Eye
They flew and bored the yeilding Skie.
Thro' Arches, Firmament, and all,
Like Bullets thro' a Plaister Wall,
I doubt I shall get little Glory;
Because you'll say, I tell a Story:
I own 'twas strange, they lit just there,
Where Heav'n was most out of repair;
But as I'm an Historian,
That flatters neither, Gods nor Men,
What's that to me? it is beneath me,
I should, to please the Folks that read me,
When things look odd, leave History,
And follow probability;
Or meeting Truths, that are not taking,
Change 'em for Lies of my own making.
Tho' we all know, it matt'r of fact is,
That this has been the common practice,
Of cunning Writers, that made conscience
Of nothing else but writing Non-sence.
Truly, I'm none of those, and word
Things, as I find them on record:
As for the rest I've no design to
Make you b'lieve more, than you've a mind to:
Authors, no more than Quacks, should grudge
The People to Read, Try, and Judge.
Then it's resolv'd, come on't what will,
We'll keep close to the Original;
And go in quest of those nine stately
Gigantick Pins, we left so lately;
Flying thro' th'Air up to the Palace
Of Heaven, where I hope, all well is.
But, tho' they shoot so mighty fast,
They're not there yet for all their haste;
Which is not strange, if we consider
What wicked way from hence it is thither.
Well let 'em fly, mean while I'm going
To see the Gods, and what they're doing.
This large Room is the Council-Hall,
Where Gods meet at their Masters call:
But this next to 't (which, if you'll b'lieve me
With all its strong scents, God forgive me,
If the Comparison too rough is,
Looks like a cleanly House of Office,
It has so many Holes and neat Seats)
Is the great Closet of the Sweat-meats;
Where Jove and others, that are nice,
By way of Snuff take Sacrifice,
Which Mortals, that are Godly given,
Broyl upon Earth to nourish Heaven:
From which, Beloved, I shall raise
The following Doctrine, if you please;
(Pardon, that Manibus illotis
I shou'd touch Phrases Sacerdotis)
That is, that those, who know what's good,
Care not for gross substantial Food:
So Cooks eat little, yet look well,
Because like Gods they live on smell;
Which being too fulsom, where it's near,
The latter draw it first thro' Air,
And distance makes it tast the better;
As long Pipes make Tobacco sweeter.
That Parlour there, which Merc'ry is
Dusting with an old Wing of his,
Is a well-furnish'd Room in troth.
O fie! I thought 'twas hung with Cloth,
As fine as e'er was cut by Draper,
But coming near I see its Paper.

Perhaps you'll wonder, why you're brought to
This empty place, and where you thought to
Find Deities, like Plumbs in Pudding,
That Heav'n, you'll say, has ne'er a God in;
Great Rooms with neither Cat nor Mouse;
But this poor Lad that cleans the House.
But you're mistaken, they're at home,
Tho' lockt up in their Dining-Room,
Where most of 'em, who lookt too deep in
The Bottle, are at present sleeping,
On Stools and Benches, not in lecto.
Henceforth I'll talk in imperfecto,
Not that, I hate the present time;
But th'other suites more with my Rhime.

I saw a hole thro' which I ey'd
The Room round, and the first I spy'd
Was Jove, who free from Royal care,
Sat lolling in an easie Chair.
But Juno lay in rumpled Head-clothes
On Couch with neither shame, nor Bed-clothes,
But Coats in tumbling shov'd so high,
That I could see half way her Thigh,
And something, which, I thought, but odd was
For a neat Woman and a Goddess:
She slept, and a drove her Hoggs to Rumfort,
But ne'er a word, to Jove's great Comfort.
A low broad Chair, that by its cracking
Proclaim'd, t'had been abus'd in backing,
Was Vulcan's darling Seat, to shew,
That Cukholds love, what makes 'em so;
And in't (his Tools and other things
Stuck round his Guts in Apron-strings)
With slabber'd Chin, his sooty Godhead
Kept in his Pipe, for all he nodded.
But Pallas, tho' she drank but little,
Lay with her Gown in all his Spittle:
On th'other side the Lady Ceres,
Who Patroness of Corn and Beer is,
Drunk with Mault Spirits, pale as Death,
Was sick at Heart, and yawn'd for Breath.
Mars lying forward on a Bench
Hug'd it, as if 'thad been a Wench.
Among the Pots that heavy Cow
Bacchus, as drunk as David's Sow
Lay backward breathing, like a Booby
Thro' Pimpled Nose that look'd like Ruby.
Next to him slept that Sot Silenus;
And th'only one awake was Venus:
Whom with her right Foot on the Ground,
Th'other upon a Stool I found;
Her left Arm, which was next to me,
Was leaning on the same side's Knee;
But as for th'other Hand, I dont know,
'Twas hid; and she, in statu prono,
With rowling Eyes, like Sinning Harlot,
And eager Face as red as Scarlet.
Perhaps some Criticks wish we'd lost her,
Rather than found her in this posture.

Whilst thus this fine Assembly, thinking
No harm, was napping after drinking,
Their slaving drudge poor Mercury
Did all the Work, and, just as he
Stood in the Yard behind the Kitchin,
Trundling his Mop, and thought to fetch in
Fresh Water for next Day, a Pin,
With more noise than a Hurrican,
Came thundring in, and breaking down
The side Wall, beat two Rooms in one:
The Son of Maja out of 's Wits
Cried, s'ounds you'll break the House to bits,
Hold—y'are distracted sure—, I wonder,
You'll ever meddle with your Thunder,
When y'are in drink: and whilst he spoke
He heard a Beam, or Bar that broke;
But running in, he met in th'Entry
The Meal-tub flying from the Pantry:
Down went he, and what most provok'd him,
The Meal got in his Throat and choak'd him.
There let him wallow, whilst we tell,
What mischief th'other Gods befell:
At the first noise the Nine-pins made
Jove waked, jump'd from his Chair and said;
What's that! in Tone so formidable,
As made the Gods (those that were able)
Get up and stare, tho' ne'er a Word.
Which, Jove thought, was a little absur'd,
And cry'd, what can't you hear nor stir?
What was that noise there? Nothing Sir,
Says Venus. You're a pretty Lady,
Quoth Jove, nothing! the Devil had ye.
Says Pallas it's, a Meteor,
Of which I b'lieve I've read before
I'n a new Author: They're no less
Than Stars got from their Vortices,
Which may, according to Descartes,
Happen, if near the Poles ... a Fart is,
Quoth Jove, I'm sure, that such a plenty
Materiæ primi Elementi
Had burnt us, when the Vortex broke;
And I see neither Fire nor Smoak:
Whilst thus they strove to find a way,
To solve these hard Phænomena,
A piece of Pin came clever thro',
Yet touch'd none; but as splinters do
More mischief often, than the Ball,
So Furniture and Bits of Wall,
Were more offensive than the Pins;
A Chair hit Jove against the Shins:
A bit of Plaister broke the Bowl
Of Vulcan's Pipe, and sent the Coal
On Snoring Juno's naked Thigh;
Who Waked so unexpectedly,
Flew up, and Scolding scratch'd her Arse;
Then overthrew the Bench where Mars
Was laid: quoth he, what are y' a doing?
And, as he felt himself a going,
Stretch'd out his Hand, on what he could
Grasp first, and by ill luck took hold
Of a full Shaftsb'ry of Murgou,
Which after him the Warriour drew;
And made his Body look all o'er,
As if he had been dipt in gore:
And, whilst the Bully ris, and rapt out
Some Oaths, poor Merc'ry, newly crept out
His pow'dring Tub came hopping in;
Where in the Devil's name hast thou been?
Quoth Jove, are you to act a Ghost,
Or Miller? I'm undone, and lost,
Replyed his Son, Thanks to your Thunder,
With which you Lamed me; but's no Wonder,
As long you break the House you dwell in,
To try your Bolts. You lying Villain,
I han't touch'd one to day, cryed Jove,
But sure we're all bewitch'd above:
He Swore by Styx and th'Alcoran,
Whoe'er made this Distraction,
Should rue for 't; then bursts out a Laughter;
Ev'n Pallas his Grave learned Daughter
Could not forbear, to see her Owl
Fight Bacchus half awake; Poor Fowl,
Who could not see, because 'twas light,
Was like t'have spoil'd her Wind-pipe by 't;
For whilst Dame Juno made this rout,
And Pipes and Seats were thrown about;
The frighted Bird, drove from her place,
Had perch'd on Bacchus's jolly Face;
He pull'd and pluckt; but she kept close,
And struck her Talons in his Nose;
Lyus used to fight for Glory,
And not to beat from Territory
Insulting Foes of Manners Savage,
Whilst they on hostile bottoms ravage,
Seem'd much surpriz'd, tho' really stronger;
Which would have made the Conflict longer,
Had not the wise Minerva been
In Battels skilful and foreseen;
That, tho' her Bird might spoil his Phiz,
Th'other would do her business:
Yet in the parting 'em the martial
Virago shew'd her self Impartial
And rid, espousing Neither's Cause,
The Brutes from one anothers Claws.
The God got up without a word
Of Defamation to the Bird;
But looking all about, said, Vulcan
Don't you know what's come of that full Can,
I left upon the Table?—No
Replied the Smith, hang m'if I do;
I've been asleep; but, if t'be red,
I b'lieve they spilt it.—God sorbid
Quoth Bacchus staring: wan't it there
Silenus? Ask the God of War,
Quoth Momus laughing. Damn your Pot
Cry'd Mavors, you eternal Sot,
I've half on't in my Breeches still;
You greedy Rascal can't you fill
That frighten'd me out of my Wits;
Our Glasses are all broke to bits,
The great ones too, there's not one stands.
Then we must sup out of our Hands,
Quoth Venus, like the Cynick. No Miss,
We'll drink by word of mouth, quoth Momus.
Jove look'd, like Clown, that at a Shew,
In famous Fair of Barth'lmew,
Sees Juglers, and whilst looking on
Believes, what, he knows, can not be done.
The brainborn Calf's eyed Goddess, vext
To see her Father so perplext,
Said, Sir, and pul'd him by the Sleeve,
I'm much concern'd to see you grieve
For things so frail; your Soul's too great;
Suppose it's a hard stroak of Fate;
Remember what the Stoick says,
To have been Fortunate always,
Is not to know the second part
Of Nature; then keep up your heart
Above your Girdle. Other losses,
Quoth Jove, I could bear; but my Glasses!
Your Gutts and sleep without full Flaggons,
To watch you, like so many Dragons
Against th'assaults of dreadful Thirst?
You might have drank it, and been burst,
Not left it here: I'm wet as dung,
My Shirt's all stain'd. Pray hold your Tongue,
Quoth Bacchus, its an exc'lent Colour,
So deep and bright, none e'er was fuller.
Oh! he that knows but how they sell it,
Must be a heathen Rogue to spill it.

At th'end of these Pathetick Speeches
Came Ganimede without his Breeches,
And cry'd, how well you keep your word?
I've made the Bed, and fed the Bird,
And all, and yet you did not come:
Who'd stay alone? I've lookt the Room,
And here's the Key, if you shou'd want it.
But N'uncle sure this House is haunted,
I've heard such noise; 't must be a bad Spright,
And, as I came, I've seen a sad sight,
Oh! could I but find out who broke 'em...
Here Pallas stopt him, and cry'd Choak 'em,
T'will be discover'd never fear it:
I b'lieve I can guess pretty near it:
Its either some Machine of War,
Or Instrument to shoot a Star,
Of Mortals, that with envious Eyes
Long have beheld your glorious Skies.
Nay I dare lay, what e'er I'm worth,
That all this hubbub comes from th'Earth:
For Man grows worse and worse; you flatter
You{r} self, and cry they will grow better;
And so they will, in Understanding;
But as for any other mending,
You'll find, they'll do that ev'ry hour,
As small Beer that Begins to sowr.
All this while, Anger, like a Thief,
Stole on Jove's Heart, and push'd out grief:
Till, rous'd from dumps by cunning brat,
He in a Passion Cockt his Hat,
And said; then Heav'n is penetrable!
And Mortals brave me at my Table!
I've a fine time on't on my Conscience,
Attack'd by Scoundrells, that might long since
Have hang'd themselves, but for my help,
For which, when in distress, they'll yelp,
And stun my ears: what makes 'em uppish,
Can they subsist, ungrateful Puppies,
Without my Sun-shine, Rain, and twenty
Odd things, of which they have had plenty,
Ev'n when themselves forgot to pray for it?
What signifies to cry they'll pay for it?
Perhaps they will; but God knows when;
And 'tmay be not, where am I then?
Dogs, Villains, Worms; I'm out of patience,
Of which I'll give such Demonstrations,
That they shall curse the very Hour,
They rais'd a thought to tempt my Power.
Discord and Fear shall plague their Lives,
I'll send 'em Impotence and Wives,
Atturneys, Money-Scriv'ners, Proctors;
And five and twenty sorts of Doctors;
With Poets to plague them's no matter,
Quoth prudent Pallas, for the latter;
Those Plants won't grow in every Ground,
Besides; These cunning Mortals found
A trick for't, knowing they deserve 'em,
What trick is that? Quoth Jove, they starve'em,
Replied his Daughter very drily;
For which he would have prais'd her highly
At other times; but being blinded
With Passion now, he did not mind it;
But like a Billingsgate went on,
Where he left off. Mean while the Sun
Light from his Carr, and, having drove
His Steeds to Pond, came in, where Jove
Was bragging what great Feats he'd do,
How he would warn 'em with the blow;
And, whilst he empty'd thus his Gall
In Language little godly, Sol
Beholding Grief in every Face,
Ask'd what disturb'd the Holy Place?
And, being inform'd by one or other
Of what had happen'd, told his Father,
He could give an account.—Then do it,
But make haste, for I'm mad to know it,
Quoth Jove; and Sol related neatly,
What I said once, and won't repeat t'ye.
(Tho' was I of renown, as some are,
I'd serve you as your Fav'rite Homer,
Who often wittily rehearses
Stories with the same ends of Verses;
And thinks a strong Line not half wore,
Unless 'thas been used thrice or more:
But cheating is not in my Nature,
And so Parenthesis Claudatur)
Sol now advanced to what befel
The Gyants Leg, to shew his skill,
Spun out his Tale to that just length
The Bowl's bulk, and the Thrower's strength
Required. Cries touchy, Jove, a Fart
For all this fiddle faddl', be short;
A mighty blow, and mighty Men,
And mighty every thing, What then?
Why then quoth Sol, that smarted soundly,
Typhon kick'd down the Pins, swore roundly,
And in great Fury flung 'em up
With such a force, that flying—stop,
Quoth Jove, I've heard more than enough
And doubt, that if big Words won't huff
This sturdy Dog into Compliance,
We shall be plagued more with these Giants,
Than y'are aware of.—Mercury!
Take your new set of Wings, and fly
Down to these Fellows, you know where:
Tell 'em what work they have made here;
Don't mince the matter, rattle 'em off;
And to be sure talk great enough:
Tell 'em they're Mortals, and what odds
There must be between them and Gods:
Tell Typhon, he'll find no small trouble,
If he designs to make m'his Bubble;
And, tho' he goes on ne'er so fast,
That it will be my turn at last:
But then, to wheedle him, you may say,
Good Words and Pray'rs go a great way;
To cry Peccav's, and knock under
Is th'only Shield against that Thunder,
Where Walls of Brass an't strong enough,
And Iron Armour's of no proof.
But Sir, quoth Momus, Men on Barrels
Lay Iron, to espouse Beer's Quarrels,
And, where that's done, they'll always venture
A Crown, your Thunder dares not enter:
Ergo. Sirrah you'll never rest,
Quoth Jove, till y'have paid for your Jest,
When e'er you see m' on business,
Get y'out, or else be serious;
Then turning to his Son; hold hard on,
To make these Giants sue for Pardon;
And as I stint not your Commission,
So rather add, than make Omission.
The business being general,
And of so much concern to all,
Sure you'll dispatch 'em, and need no Spur,
And so no more, but go and prosper.

All took their leave of Mercury,
Who tho' he liked this Embassy
But little, brush'd his meally Jacket,
Put a clean Neck-cloth in his Pocket,
Buckled his Wings to Head and Heels,
Twined both his Serpents, some say Eels,
About the Stick, which, where 'tapproaches,
Makes People sleep as sound as Roaches;
Then made a Leg, and said good Night
Good People, and so took his flight
O'er Rivers, Cities, Hills, and Seas;
Till, looking for a bating place,
He pitch'd upon the two horn'd Mountain,
Not far from the Castallian Fountain,
And saw the Learned Sisters sitting
In a low Barn, where some were Knitting,
And others Spinning; one made Socks
For Sol; two mending their own Smocks,
Whilst they made shift to fit without
In ragged Gowns. But now I doubt,
You'll think, I had sav'd the Decorum
Much better, had I laid before 'em
Some punctless Hebrew, crabbed Greek,
Or Pothookean Arabick.
How! says Critick ne'er a Book?
And Worsted, Flax! methinks they look
Like Soldiers Trulls, where Pay is spent;
Or Girls, by crazy Worship sent,
For Principles of Non Resistance,
And keeping Legs, not Men, at distance,
To famous University
Of Bridewell; where unwillingly
The Damsels learn, when Income fails,
To use their Hands, and save their Tails,
They're no such Cattle; therefore shew 'em,
Dissecting some Heroick Poem,
Ode, Satyr, or with Brains Prolyphick
Solving Ægyptian Hierogliphick;
Or in some Books discov'ring Wit,
Ne'er thought on, when the Work was writ;
With Beauties Arts and Sciences,
That were unknown in th'Authors days;
As if the Bombast Rhapsody
Was made by way of Prophecy.
Whoever 'tis, that makes this clatter,
I say, knows nothing of the matter.
Should they in Metre, Song, and Rhyme
Spend every cranny of their time,
How could the Virgin Scholars live,
Where Honesty, nor Learning thrive?
Don't grudge 'em then, that Read and Write
All Day to take a stich at Night,
Make Petticoat from tatter'd Blanket,
Or foot a Stocking: God be thanked
They're so well bred, as to supply
Their wants with such good Housewif'ry.

As for this long digression,
It was a necessary one,
To clear my Cloudy Reputation,
Touching the truth of this Relation;
Which if you'll believe, when Mercury,
Was spied out by Calliope,
She threw her Arms about his Neck,
And kiss'd him till his Ears did crack;
And so did Clio; History
Equals Heroick Poetry
In loving Lies; some say she uses
More of 'em, than all th'other Muses.
And now he's deaffen'd with how d'ye?
Dear Coz, I'm very glad to see ye,
Pray how do all our Friends above?
One cries, how does that young Rogue Love?
Another; have you no new Misses?
On whom does Jove bestow his kisses,
Now Juno smoaks? But heark'y you
Bawl'd out Thalia, is it true?
We've heard, that that bold Trollop Venus
Had Clapt the good Old Man Silenus.
Will Pallas ne'er be Married, cries
Terpsichore? The God of Lies,
Most stifled with so many kisses,
Stun'd with the Noise, and hug'd to pieces,
Cried out, dear Cozens let m' alone;
I'm so dry, I can answer none
Before I drink; within this Hour
I've swallow'd a whole Bush'l of Flow'r.

Polymnia in broken Pail
Fetch'd thirsty Coz some Adam's Ale
From Hypocrene; which suddenly
Fill'd him with so much Poetry,
That having a large stock of Wit,
And not the Judgment requisite
To curb it, in continued flight
He talk'd like unshav'd Bedlamite;
And, tho' his Raptures ran in Rhime,
They were so out of Tune and Time;
That all his skillful Cozens, fearing,
Lest sounds as these might spoil their Hearing,
To stop their Ears, were forc'd to put in
Their Fingers ends, for want of Cotton.
Coz all the while mixt Air and Fancy
With Fustian; till Poetick Frenzy
Went off. But, as the Liquors force
Grew less and less, the God's discourse
Maintain'd its sprightliness no longer.
So Feavers make the sick man stronger;
But, when the burning Fit is gone,
The Patient cannot stand alone;
And, as small Wines, beyond their strength
By foolish Vintner work'd, at length
Turn flat, so he, who in his fit
Had prodigally spent his Wit,
Was, as his weary brain grew cool,
Turn'd from a Mad-man to a Fool.
He paus'd a while: Then cry'd adieu,
Jumpt up, and so away he flew,
From Ladies vers'd in every Science,
To rude Rebellious Rogues the Giants.

These Sparks no sooner got their Prey,
For which they Hunted twice a Day,
But thought on Fuel next to Food,
And in a moment stript a Wood;
Not a great Forest, but a Place,
About as big as Enfield-Chase.
Tho' that's no crime; for, where they eat,
They must have Coals to dress their Meat.
That Night, by chance, they had no more
Than Hundred Oxen, Fifty Score
Of Mutton. That was all.—What then?
They're none of 'em great Supper-men.
And now a greater Pile by far,
Than e'er burnt Roman Emperour
Was lit; which made as good a Fire,
As Cook in reason could desire;
When on the Coals they laid their Meat:
But I forgot to tell'y; how neat
In killing of their Beasts they were,
To what our nasty Butchers are,
That make such bloody business.
They're Fools. These Lads made no such fus,
With Knives as broad as Hussars Swords;
But pinch'd their Heads, as we do Birds:
Took out no Gauls, nor wash'd the Tripes;
But serv'd them just as we do Snipes:
Nor do they singe the Hair: that's burnt,
They cry, before the Meat is turn'd.
They take all whole, then lay it on,
And afterwards stay till it's done.
A Moral, teaching Cooks to be
Exempt from Prodigality,
And from Impatience: (which, with ire,
A groaning Sin is near the Fire)
Not Glutton like to make Science
Of Cooking, but be plain like Giants,
Who'll often broyl ye o'er their Chats,
Fat Oxen, as our Weavers Sprats.

But now lets turn to Mercury,
Pope Jove's Legate a Latere;
Who made great haste; but, coming near
Was stopt by what the Mob calls fear;
It shew'd him Thyphon, and the Fire,
Perswaded him not to go nigher;
And now the God was at a stand,
Till, thinking on the strict Command
Of Jove, (who thought he was so stout!)
He ventur'd on, and look'd about;
And, as Men, fam'd for Eloquence,
Are seldom without Impudence,
So he, with no small stock of Brass,
Assum'd a buying Brokers Face,
And interrupting Giants noise,
Said with intelligible Voice.
Jove, who's above you, tho' you were
Thousand times bigger than you are,
Says, that you're Sawcy, Swaggring Rakehells,
Mere Reprobates; you could not make else
Such an abominable rout,
In tearing every thing about;
He says you're all of brutish Temper,
And fears you'll be iidem Semper:
But specially that ill-bred, Scurvey,
Sad Dog, (that turns all topsie-turvey
For mischiefs sake, the Devil choak 'em,
Without the least cause to provoke 'em)
That Typhon; who with Pins or Stones,
That might as well have broke our Bones;
Has mads to day more Gaps in Heaven,
Than all the Gods can stop in seven;
Batter'd the Stars, and made 'em look,
Like Pewter Plates at Shop of Cook;
Nay one, struck by the middle Pin,
Will ne'er be his own Star ag'in;
There's Goody Moon, that had her Cheek hit,
By one of 'em, won't stir this Week yet;
As for her Nose, O! its a sad one!
'T lies flat, as if she never had one.
Another, which the greatest loss is,
Threw down the side-board, and the Glasses.
Your Giantships think what you please;
But Jove won't put up things as these
I'm certain. But, if foolishly
You've only pickt this quar'l, to try
What Mettle he's made of, have a care,
You've got the wrong Sow by the ear:
Unless you think those Bolts were slight ones,
With which he overthrew the Titans;
They were no small Rogues, and their fall
Might have been warning to you all:
But either you was never whipt for
The great neglect of reading Scripture;
Or else y'apply it, which is much worse,
Not to your selves, more than a Coach-horse,
For daily you disturb the Peace,
As bad as Irish Rapparies;
And, where you know a handsome Farm is,
You take the Cattle vi & Armis;
Rob Boats, and Coaches, without fear
Of Constable or Officer,
Nor any Justice of the Coram;
If they should bid you come before 'em;
By which, and hundred other Tricks.
Your Names are famous as Old Nick's.
You're, next to Law, the plague o'th Nation,
Nay worse, tho' not so much in fashion.
And there's not one that can afford
To give the best of y' a good word:
But all the World, which is a sad thing,
Cries openly you 're good for nothing.
Yet Jove, who loves your Mother th'Earth,
Not you, who from your very birth
Han't been worth hanging, will forget
Your Sawciness, if you submit,
Repairing Losses, where you're able,
As first, that of his Side-board Table
With hundred Glasses; which is soon done,
If you but take a trip to London,
Where as fine Glass as can be seen is,
What ever others prate of Venice.
Let 'em be large enough, don't stint Glass;
And to be sure bring none but Flint Glass.
But as for general Releases,
For breaking Signs, and Stars to pieces;
And all the damage done to Heaven;
Which, as things stand, may be forgiven.
Much sooner than repair'd; the price is,
Two Hecatombs, and a few Spices;
And afterwards, to close the matter,
Repent, be quiet, and live better;
All which t'accomplish you've a Week yet;
So there's a pardon, if you seek it.
Perhaps you'll think, that bare Repentance
Will do—but pray for what acquaintance?
If you will play, and be unruly,
No reason he should lose by't truly:
It's well enough, that your Submissions
Are taken on such fair Conditions:
Remember that a Week's the most,
Which if you slip, it's to your cost.
Then now, or never, that's to say,
Whilst the Sun shines you must make Hay.

Thus spoke the God of Eloquence,
And gave each word the true cadence,
Joyning his Hands to help his Brain;
As all your Orators, that fain,
When Argument's of little force,
Wou'd have you swallow their Discourse,
For fear, it should not reach the Heart,
Supply the most defective part
With Gestures, in good hopes of handing
Their feeble Sence to th'understanding;
As we hand Children over Kinnels,
Because they're weak, and might step in else.
You'll wonder, how these Sons of Riot
Would let him say so much in quiet;
And yet, if you'll believe History,
They did: tho' it's as strange to me,
That pratling Mercury held his Tongue
So soon, as that they heard so long:
They stared it's true to see a sneaking
Low Spark among 'em venture speaking;
But Bully Typhon, much surpriz'd
To hear himself so Catechis'd,
In Indignation made a Ring,
Cry'd silence, look'd as big's a King,
And kept 'em much ado from coming
Near th'Orator, tho' not from humming:
But stifled with commanding Voice
Their Murmurs, when they ris t' a Noise:
'Till having heard all paus'd a while;
Then with a forced ill-natur'd smile
Spoke thus. You little, silly Fellow,
Of Talk so full, and Brains so shallow;
What Puppy sent y'out of your way
On such a slev'less Message pray?
Extraordinary Embassador
Of Nine-pins, was it Jupiter,
That quarrels for this mighty matter?
He's old enough, sure to know better,
Then for his carelesness blame us;
For, if he e'nt an Ignoramus,
He'd put his Lanthorns up elsewhere;
Not leave 'em dangling in the Air,
And when they're damag'd make a fuss,
What are his tawdry things to us?
Tell me of Signs, and Stars, a Blockhead;
Why don't he put him in his Pocket?
Your Goody Moon, you say, I hit her;
Add one word more, a gad I'll split her.
What business has Jove here below?
Pray let him mind his own: I'll throw,
And throw again, and would fain see,
That God that dares to hinder me.
If he's too low, what need he tire
Our Brains with that? let him go higher.
But you fine Gentlemen above
Must have a dev'lish stock, that Jove,
Who kick'd his Father out of doors,
And daily fills his House with Whores,
Lays with his Sister, and strange Wives,
Dares talk of our ungodly Lives:
And you his Pimp in Ord'nary,
Had need to Preach Morality,
You theeving Cur, where all the Nation
Knows your whole Life, and Conversation.
What's come of the young Gentleman,
Your cloven-footed Bastard Pan,
Your Goatship got, but th'other day,
Upon the Chast Penelope?
'Tis we that should complain; we've reason;
T'have weath'r in May enough to Freiz'one,
And Winds, that keep the Spring so bak,
Folks think, you lost your Almanack:
We're either plagued with Drought or Flood,
And get more harm by you than good:
Nay, if on Grass for wet we pray,
You'ld send it, when w'are making Hay.
And, when 'tis hot, you give no Rain;
But what your Sly Sun steals again;
By which you often draw it up,
Before the Grownd has drank a drop:
Tho' for bare use, spight Parliament,
Your Bayliffs gather Twelve per Cent.
Tell Jove, I say, that he an Ass is,
For thincking, we should buy him Glasses;
I laugh at him; as for his Pardon,
'Twill never fetch him here a Farthing;
I fear those mighty Bolts you talk on
No more, than Gravel Stones I walk on.
The Hecatombs we don't deny,
But only for good Husbandry,
We'll eat 'em first; for its the same,
To him that only loves the Steam.
And as for your part Noble Esquire,
Thank God, y'an't thrown upon that Fire,
Which come again on such an Errant,
Will be your doom, e'er y'are aware on't.
Then clapt his Hand upon his Breech,
Said, that's for Jove, and closed his Speech.

All hollow'd, and with hideous cry
Houted, and Laught at Mercury;
Who quite dash'd out of Countenance,
And fearing further Insolence,
Said nothing; but, to shew his Wit,
Drew up his Heels, and shot the Pit.
Their Meat now almost broyl'd enough
Was turn'd once more, and taken off.
They Supp'd, and drank to't heartily,
Then went to sleep, and so will I.