The London-Spy Compleat In Eighteen Parts :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Introduction, shewing the Design. A Tavern Barkeeper and Drawers Describ'd. The Spy entertain'd at Dinner by some Town-Sharpers. A Character of the Company. A Description of a Coffee-House. The Character of a Vertuosa. Observations on Mens growing Rich by Burying of their Wives, with Reflections on some Apothecaries. The Character of a certain Bookseller. Of the East-India Company. A Story of a Person of Quality, who Courted a Poor Woman. A Poet's Song against Musick. A Musician's against Poetry. A Copy of Verses to a Lady, with her Answer. The Madmans Flight.

A Song against Musick.

Musick 's a Crotchet the Sober think Vain;
The Fiddle's a Wooden Projection;
Tunes are but flirts of a Whimsical Brain,
Which the Bottle brings best to Perfection.
Musicians are Half Witted, Merry and Mad;
The same are all those that admire 'em;
They're Fools if they Play, unless they're well Paid;
And the others are Blockheads to Hire-'em.

Chorus.

The Organ's but Humming
Theorbo but Thrumming,
The Viol and Voice
Is but Jingle and Noise.
The Bagpipe and Fiddle,
Goes Twedle and Diddle,
The Hoit-boy and Flute
Is but Toot a Toot Toot;
Your Scales and your Cliffs, Keys, Moods, and dull Rules,
Are fit to please none but Madmen and Fools.

A Song by a Musician against Poetry.

Poetry 's Fabulous, Loose, and Prophane;
For Truth you must never depend-on't;
It's Juvenal Froth of a Frenzicall Brain,
Hung with Jingling Tags at the end-on't.
Poets are poor, full of Whimsie and Flight,
For Amorous Fops to delight-in;
They're Fools if they write, 'less they get Mony by't,
And they're Blockheads that pay 'em for Writing.

Chorus.

Their soft Panegyric
Is Praise beyond Merit
Their Lampoon and Satyr
Is Spight and Ill-nature;

Their Plays and Romances,
Are Fables and Fancies;
Their Drolls and their Farces,
Are bald as our Arses.
Their Figures and Similies only are fit,
To please the Dull Fool that gives Money for Wit.

[Madam how great and good your Vertues are]

Madam how great and good your Vertues are,
I can't well tell, nor truly do I care;
Nor can that Wit which you from Plays have stole,
Admired be by any but a Fool;

Who may perhaps thro' his weak Judgment own
That you have Sense, 'cause he himself has none;
Believe I no such wrong Opinion hold,
I can discern false Metal from true Gold.
Your Ill-tim'd Jests, so sharp in your Conceit,
Are spoil'd, for want of Judgment to Repeat;
Like an Unskilful Play'r, who Lames each Line,
Which by the Poet Read or Spoke, is fine.

If you have Wit, which you can boast your own,
Let it in some Return to this be shown;
Or I (Proud Lady Fair) shall justly think you've none.

[Two lively Figures in one piece you've shown]

Two lively Figures in one piece you've shown,
A True-bred Poet, and an Ill-bred Clown;
Vertues, not understood by you, I boast;
Such that in our weak Sense are valu'd most;
As Truth, Good-Nature, Manners, tho' not Wit,
Graces that never Crown'd a Poet yet.
To Rail at a weak Woman, is a strain,
Does little Merit in its Wit contain;
It may be like a Scribler, but unlike a Man.
A Self Opinion from your Lines I'll raise,
And Fancy you discover'd in my Face
Vertues beyond your Reach, and so above your Praise.
As envious Beggars spightfully disdain,
And rail at Blessings which they can't obtain.

Tho' I'm abus'd, yet I'll good Natur'd be,
And beg for once you'll take Advice by me,
Much rather let your Wit in Silence rest,
Than lose a Friend, or Mistress for a Jest:

Mix Manners and Good Nature with your parts,
And you'll deserve more Thanks and win more Hearts.

The Madmans Flight.

Could I the Scepter of Heaven sway,
And make Dame Nature my Commands obey,
The Ocean I'd unbound, and Quench the Fiery Day.

Fearing no Thunder could from Jove be hurl'd,
I'd then in Darkness Ravage thro' the World:
Till met by Devils in Amazing throngs,
Who Poking stand with their Infernal Prongs:
Shrieking like Souls opprest, I'd bid 'em come;
And stare so fierce I'd brazen out my Doom;
Knowing my Soul is too Divine an Air,
For Fiends or Devils to torment or tear;
I'd forwards press, and to repulse their Aim,
Would drive those Hellish Tribes from whence they came.

Then mount to Heaven, and kindle up the Sun,
To see what Mischiefs I on Earth had done,
Bebold, like Cruel Tyrants with Delight,
The Crimson Ills that stain'd the sable Night.
My Power, like theirs, I'd Build on others Fate,
And Glory in Black Deeds that made me Great.
When I thro' all these Purple Crimes had run,
That cou'd be by unbounded Greatness done,
Then the bright Chariot of the Sun I'd Seize,
And drive it where my God like Soul shou'd please.
The Moon wou'd I compel to be my Guide;
Thus splendidly thro' Heaven wou'd I ride,
There huff and strut, and kick the Gods aside.
In my Careir, my Fury to Expose,
I'd cast down Stars upon the Heads of those,
Whom either Fate or Choice had made my Foes.

And then the Demons of the Air to scare,
The Clouds in sundry pieces wou'd I tare,
And puff 'em up like Bubbles in the Air:
I'd jostle Clouds, Heavens Harmony Confound,
And make each Flaming Orb march nimbly round.
If any Bold Olympian Cent'nel dare,
Question my Office, or my Business there,
Or if against me offer to Rebel,
I'd grasp his Air, and strike him down to Hell.

Thus by Degrees wou'd I the Gods Unthrone,
Till Heaven shou'd at last become my own.

Then to demolish Earth's Infernal Crew,
I'd Damn this Old World, and Create a New.