A Sick-Bed Soliloquy to An Empty Purse In Latin and English Verse. Most humbly Submitted and Inscribed to the Right Honourable John Earl of Stair. To which is added A Curse upon Punch; In Imitation of The third Epode of Horace: Addressed to the Right Honourable Thomas Lord Visc. Kilmory. By Mr. Mitchell |
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| THE Third Epode of HORACE IMITATED. |
 | A Sick-Bed Soliloquy to An Empty Purse |  |
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THE Third Epode of HORACE IMITATED.
To the Right Honourable the Lord Visc.
Kilmory
ARGUMENT.
The Roman Poet having shewn his Dislike to an Onion that made him Sick, the English shews his to Punch, that had almost kill'd him.
Is there a Traitor, Whoremonger, or Thief,
Or Parricide, of Villains all the Chief,
Who kills his Parent, nor repents the Deed?
Be baleful Punch his Punishment decreed.
Punch! that no mortal Man alive wou'd drink,
Had he but Power or Willingness to think.
Or Parricide, of Villains all the Chief,
Who kills his Parent, nor repents the Deed?
Be baleful Punch his Punishment decreed.
Punch! that no mortal Man alive wou'd drink,
Had he but Power or Willingness to think.
O hardy Stomachs of egregious Sots,
Who pour its Poison down devouring Throats,
Set down to smoke, or standing at the Bar,
At Ashley's London, or at Ewen's Star.
Who pour its Poison down devouring Throats,
Set down to smoke, or standing at the Bar,
At Ashley's London, or at Ewen's Star.
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For me, I feel, in ev'ry Nerve and Vein,
Its latent Mischief hold tyrannick Reign;
As if it were my Lot to suffer Death
By Viper's Venom, or a Witch's Breath!
Its latent Mischief hold tyrannick Reign;
As if it were my Lot to suffer Death
By Viper's Venom, or a Witch's Breath!
Sure when Medea fix'd on Jason first,
For her Gallant, she gave him Punch accurs'd;
With which the fiery Bulls he sudden broke,
And made them tamely take a Victor's Yoke.
Steep, wash, or sprinkle, whatsoe'er you please,
The cursed Liquor murders by Degrees.
Dip but your Letter in a flowing Bowl,
Assoon as read departs its Reader's Soul.
For her Gallant, she gave him Punch accurs'd;
With which the fiery Bulls he sudden broke,
And made them tamely take a Victor's Yoke.
Steep, wash, or sprinkle, whatsoe'er you please,
The cursed Liquor murders by Degrees.
Dip but your Letter in a flowing Bowl,
Assoon as read departs its Reader's Soul.
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Not more is scorch'd an Ethiopian's Skin
With Phoebus' Beams, than I with Punch within:
Nor felt more Torments Hercules the brave,
Wearing the Shirt his Dejanira gave.
Compar'd to mine, how faint the Flames below,
Which sinful Souls of Papists undergo,
'Till, purg'd and pure, they wing towards the Skies,
Swift as from Bow a bearded Arrow flies!
With Phoebus' Beams, than I with Punch within:
Nor felt more Torments Hercules the brave,
Wearing the Shirt his Dejanira gave.
Compar'd to mine, how faint the Flames below,
Which sinful Souls of Papists undergo,
'Till, purg'd and pure, they wing towards the Skies,
Swift as from Bow a bearded Arrow flies!
If e'er your Lordship after Punch shou'd lust,
Ne'er may you buss my Lady, nor be buss'd:
And, ev'ry Time you taste it, may she cry
Foh! and, offended, your Embraces fly.
Ne'er may you buss my Lady, nor be buss'd:
And, ev'ry Time you taste it, may she cry
Foh! and, offended, your Embraces fly.
FINIS.
| A Sick-Bed Soliloquy to An Empty Purse | |