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For Arms to shield the Phrygian Knight,
In warm Encounters, vent'rous Fight,
Her Cuckold, Venus coax'd one Day,
The Gipsey has a winning Way,
She press'd, he melted, she was blest;
Who would not melt when Venus prest?
The blended Ore now thrice had boil'd,
The Cavern smoak'd, the Cyclops toil'd;
Work of a God! the Arms appear,
Arms! might beseem a God to wear;
But which provided Mettle sheen,
The Lemnian King, or Paphian Queen,
Is still in Doubt—
Though, if we state the Matter fair,
The Wife had sure the most to spare;
And could you think it better done,
To make, than to preserve a Son?

But waving this—the Arms were wrought,
And to the Trojan Heroe brought,
With Joy, he took the wond'rous Boon,
Made a rough Scrape, and put 'em on;
For Soldiers then (unlike these now)
Knew better how to Fight, than Bow.

Thus far, all Matters went to please ye,
Venus was merry; Vulcan easy;
For he, unless inspir'd by Drinking,
Was not addicted much to Thinking;
But soon a solemn Feast ensu'd,
For which, much Nectar had been brew'd:
Jove's Wedding-Day (O Day of Thrall!)
And now the Gods were summon'd all
To Meet, and Tipple in his Hall.
Old Vulcan came among the rest,
To raise the Mirth, improve the Jest;
Too weak his Brains were for a Drinker,
Jove, therefore, wisely made him Skinker.
With Hand unsteady, Feet unsound,
And aukard Gaite, he limp'd around.
'Twas Dian's Turn (a prudish Lass,
Who, spite of Thirst, would baulk her Glass.)
You Prudes (quoth Vulcan half in Jest)
Refuse a good Thing, tho' home-prest—
Endymion once—come, make no Rout,
But take your Cup, or all shall out.

Here (whether thro' Effect of Guilt,
Or his rude Push) the Wine was spilt:
Her mantling Blood soon spoke her Ire,
Her glowing Cheeks; Eyes darting Fire;
For why? by double Motion pain'd,
Her Rep, and Petticoat were stain'd.

Hence! hammer Arms (cry'd she, thou Dastard)
For thy lewd Wife's vile Trojan Bastard—
I own indeed—so never fret—
'Tis Justice to repay a Debt;
And sure enough God Mars, and she,
Long since, a Head-Piece made for Thee;
He scoul'd, She pouted, Venus maunder'd,
And all protested they were slander'd.
The Bowl was out, the Gods arise,
'Tis said, more merry too than wise;
And each, Salutes and Congees ended,
With Steps unsteady, homeward tended;
The moody Vulcan and his Bride,
Together pac'd it Side by Side;
In Silence sad their Pace they steer,
(He dumb thro' Rage, She aw'd by Fear)
To Lemnos-Isle, (a smoaky Place,
Dire Enemy to beauteous Face)
Arriv'd! his Anger long ypent,
Now lab'ring upwards, gain'd a Vent—
Must I for Brats!—but Talk is vain—
Look, Madam, yonder stands your Chain.
From Marriage-Vows so oft to trip—
Here! Polyphemus! bring the Whip.—

But stop, my Muse, nor be it nam'd,
How Venus' Body was profan'd;
Those who would more, let them enquire
Of that base Tribe, devoid of Fire;
Who think to court their Goddess Grace,
By Imitation of her Case;
Wretches, with Passions gross, and dull,
By Jilts, and Bawds term'd Flogging-Cull.
Suffice it, each their Weapon us'd,
She was well beaten, He abus'd:
But from that Day, with Iron sated,
Its very Name's by Venus hated.
Her Warriour's Valour, you may note,
Lies seldom deeper than the Coat;
Captains of Blood, who scorn the Guilt,
Nor e'er saw more of Sword than Hilt;
For these her Sons, without the aid
Of Spouse, new Armour she has made!
Hence the old Churl's rejected Ware,
His Brass, and Steel, are banish'd far;
Their Coat of Mail, the Gift of Love,
Is soft, and pliant as a Glove;
The interceptive Shield they bear,
Fit only too for Love to wear:
On this, no Images are plac'd,
Of Ages present, Ages past;
The Wolf-nurst-Twins, the Rise of Rome,
The ravish'd Sabines, Metius' Doom;
Were cautelously banish'd hence,
Lest the rough Surface damp the Sense:
Its Colour, as you here may view,
A dirty Yellow, bound with Blue;
Of Parent wave, from whence it came,
Still mindful, the Idalian Dame,
Ordains it shall all Sizes fit,
Provided, that it first be wet;
And, when put off to End of Time,
Should smell of Fish, and feel of Slime.

Safely the well-cas'd Warriour goes,
Thro' Squadrons of the Goddess, Foes,
The Buboe, Cordee, and Phymosis,
The Shanker, Ficus, Exostocis;
(With all the numerous Store of Ills,
St. Thomas cures, and Drury feels)
Nor need when each, or all appear,
Give back, or seem appall'd with Fear,
These Arms, preventive, render vain,
Apollo, and his idle Train;
By these defended, he lays by,
Now useless grown, each old Ally:
Lint, Syringe, Gally-Pot, and Phial,
And, Self-Protective, stands the Trial.