The Poetical Works of the Ingenious and Learned William Meston ... The Sixth edition |
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 | The Poetical Works of the Ingenious and Learned William Meston |  |
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.
| The Poetical Works of the Ingenious and Learned William Meston | |