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 |  |
But all this good advice was lost,
The stripling quickly took his post.
And, O! but he was wondrous fain,
With eager hand to snatch the rein;
Then to his father made a bow,
First said, gramercie, then adieu.
“Poor Phaeton you are demented,
“Quoth Sol, e'er sun-set you'll repent it.”
Mean time the steeds began to neigh,
The coach-man clack'd his whip, cry'd jee.
With this the hackney-jades first started,
And then, well fed with corn, they farted.
Then up the path they trot and hobble:
But Phaeton, like a young noble,
Now seated in his father car,
Look'd ev'n as big as Muscow's Czar:
The stripling quickly took his post.
And, O! but he was wondrous fain,
With eager hand to snatch the rein;
Then to his father made a bow,
First said, gramercie, then adieu.
“Poor Phaeton you are demented,
“Quoth Sol, e'er sun-set you'll repent it.”
Mean time the steeds began to neigh,
The coach-man clack'd his whip, cry'd jee.
With this the hackney-jades first started,
And then, well fed with corn, they farted.
Then up the path they trot and hobble:
But Phaeton, like a young noble,
Now seated in his father car,
Look'd ev'n as big as Muscow's Czar:
As ships, that bear him sail then ballast,
Slinger before the very smallest
Unequal blast, so is he driven,
Jolting and jumbling up to heaven:
Nor was his father half so wise,
As his light-headed son to poise,
Which in horse-races is the practice,
Where still the rider's weight exact is;
And if but one of all the number
Of riders is too light, with lumber,
Or baggs of sand, this is corrected;
But this by Phoebus was neglected.
Nor need you much at this to wonder,
The best of wits will sometimes blunder.
The coach, near empty, swiftly reels,
And glides away on easy wheels.
The steeds perceiv'd it moving light,
And wanting of its usual weight,
Which made them first begin to amble,
And then through thick and thin to ramble;
O'er hedge and ditch with speed they fly,
Slinger before the very smallest
Unequal blast, so is he driven,
Jolting and jumbling up to heaven:
Nor was his father half so wise,
As his light-headed son to poise,
130
Where still the rider's weight exact is;
And if but one of all the number
Of riders is too light, with lumber,
Or baggs of sand, this is corrected;
But this by Phoebus was neglected.
Nor need you much at this to wonder,
The best of wits will sometimes blunder.
The coach, near empty, swiftly reels,
And glides away on easy wheels.
The steeds perceiv'd it moving light,
And wanting of its usual weight,
Which made them first begin to amble,
And then through thick and thin to ramble;
O'er hedge and ditch with speed they fly,
And quit forsake the King's high way.
And now, our poor young charioteer
Was seized with a panick fear;
At once confounded and amaz'd,
He sweat, he trembled, star'd and gaz'd;
He knew not where the way did ly,
Nor would the vicious jades obey:
O'er crags and cliffs his coach-wheels rattle,
Which scar'd and scorch'd the heavenly cattle.
The bull truss'd up his tail on rig,
Prick'd, and ran round like whirlegig.
The lion soon began to roar;
And now, our poor young charioteer
Was seized with a panick fear;
At once confounded and amaz'd,
He sweat, he trembled, star'd and gaz'd;
He knew not where the way did ly,
Nor would the vicious jades obey:
O'er crags and cliffs his coach-wheels rattle,
Which scar'd and scorch'd the heavenly cattle.
The bull truss'd up his tail on rig,
Prick'd, and ran round like whirlegig.
The lion soon began to roar;
With heat the great and little boar,
To find some cooler shade, or hole,
Ran even to the artick pole.
The dog, stark mad, began to snarle
To find some cooler shade, or hole,
Ran even to the artick pole.
The dog, stark mad, began to snarle
At poor Bootes, an old carle,
Who ran away with his wheel-barrow,
So fast, he almost sweat his marrow.
The serpent, in this hurly-burly,
Benum'd with cold before, look'd surly.
The fishes swam away with speed,
I cannot say but they had need,
Nor could Aquarius relieve them,
His boiling water more did grieve them;
Parboil'd they lay now in the gutter,
They'd made good sauce, had there been butter.
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So fast, he almost sweat his marrow.
The serpent, in this hurly-burly,
Benum'd with cold before, look'd surly.
The fishes swam away with speed,
I cannot say but they had need,
Nor could Aquarius relieve them,
His boiling water more did grieve them;
Parboil'd they lay now in the gutter,
They'd made good sauce, had there been butter.
| The Poetical Works of the Ingenious and Learned William Meston | |