Canidia, or the Witches :: :: University of Virginia Library

Because to me you did so kindly Resort,
I've took care to shew you the bravest Sport.
If you'l promise me, not to be slow,
I have but two more Stages to go.
I will provide you Fresh Horses,
When this Job's done, Fair Ladies take your Courses.

CANTO I.

I fear you'l count me Knave and Fool,
For telling Tales thus out of School.
But perhaps you may like it well,
If I tell stories out of Hell.
I say, there they are all Drunk and Mad,
Jovial, or Melancholy sad.
'Tis nothing what here you see and know,
To that which is acted here below.

Something like, but not the same,
Either for Nature or Name.
The Perfection of all that's Base,
Is demonstration of Hell's Grace.
There's roaring, Revelling and Damming,
Blaspheming, Cursing and Ramming.
'Tis beyond Limming and Painting,
To describe Infernal Ranting.

Hatching and contriving Plots,
Drawing Cuts and casting Lots,
Breaking Pates, Glasses and Pots.
Answering Spells and Conjurations,
Towards the Ruine of all Nations.
Promoting all degrees of Strife,
Taking away every Honest Life,
Wars, Plagues, Famines, Invasions,
Fires, Waters, are their Recreations.

By Evil Spirits secret lurking,
Politick Pates are set a-working.
Each beggarly, malicious Varlet,
Strives to pull down men in Scarlet.
No Ill acted Above, I trow,
But is projected close below.

For you must know, each damned Spirit
Doth a greater Wit Inherit,
Than Mortal Wights yet ever had,
Nor can they be fully so bad.
They are the Springs and Engineers,
To screw up Jealousies and Fears.
'Till they come up to th' highest pitch,
Far above all that we can call Witch.

Creating Lyes and false Pretences,
Whence all Destruction commences.
In Common-wealths and mighty States,
Amongst Princes and Potentates.
Plenipotentiaries, Masters,
Orators thence hatch all Disasters.
Lawyers Tongues are Tipt, to prate
Right or Wrong, at any rate.

Packets from Witches daily fly,
With wonderful Celerity;
To Pluto's Court Posts all about,
Come crowding through the Damned Rout.
The News in ev'ry corner Rang,
At which the meager Spirits sprang
For Joy, to hear the Mischief done
In all Places under the Sun.

At which the nimble Caitiffs prance,
And all the tatterd-Mallions dance.
Not a base Goblin but will skip,
No slavish Robin but will trip,
Frisk it brave, curveat, and cut
It handsomly with his stump Foot.

Each grizly Ghost, that er'st lookt grim,
Appears in Print, spruce, tight and trim.
Each ugly Empuse, with his Mate,
Gossips it up and down in state.
The dullest melancholy Wight,
Envy its self, comes now in sight:
And like a Gallant too will strut,
A Thin-chopt Wretch with shrunk-up-Gut.

Each horrid Fury now could plate
Her snaky Tresses 'bout her Pate,
And frizle too; each Elf was quaint,
And for a shift could skill to paint.
They know how to make bare their Breasts,
Shoulders and Back, Arms and Wrests.
They understand the Wanton-glare,
And with a rowling Eye-ball stare.

They had the right Leering awry,
The lustful glancing of the Eye.
They had the demure Simpring grace,
The Forehead high, and Brazen Face,
The scornful Flirt, the Jetting Gate,
And every idle stinking State.
They had their famous Indian Plumes,
Top and Top gallant, rare Perfumes.
Arabick Odors of the best,
Snatcht from the dying Phœnix Nest.

They had the Perewick, the Call,
The monstrous Tires, the Devil and All.
Their black Bags, Buckrom, bumbast Shapes,
Their Doublets and short Jumps, like Apes.
Chippins, Galloches, Samars, Manto's,
And all the Modes in the Curranto's.
Wanton Aerial Lawns that hover,
And do immodest Parts discover.

They had their Mufflers, Fans and Vails,
Their Masks and Busks, and Vardingals.
Their Gorgets, Points, knots and Muffs,
Pickadillo Bands, and Cart-wheel Ruffs.

‘Pardon, kind Reader, if at all
‘I some forget, or some miscall.
‘My Ladies Waiting-Maid, perhap,
‘Me in these Fopperies might trap.
‘Or her right Reverend Usher carp,
‘And swear how oft amiss I harp.
‘In all these Implements, in good Truth,
‘You do my Lady wrong forsooth,
‘But let such Fancies know, I hit
‘In general at what's fit.

They have their walking Mates on ground,
On Horse and Coach, the Foysting Hound.
The wanton witty Ape that squats,
Chatters and pisses in their Laps.
Their curious hands support the gay,
Canary Bird, or Popinjay.
They have the Monky, the Musk Cat,
To make them laugh, to make them chat.
Not a Device, but they had caught,
And, as I think, our Gallants taught.

They had the French, the Italian,
Spanish, Dutch and Polonian
Postures to a hair, Courtesie
That does belong to Cap or Knee.
They had the slovenly Dutch stop.
The Pastbord Pad, or English Crop.
The curtail'd Cloak, and the French Felt,
The Munmoth Cap, the Zodiaque Belt.
The Bilbo Blade, and Jyngling Spur,
The Monstrous Boot, and Cap of Fur.
The Antique Trunk, Scant Hose, wide Ruff,
The Wounded Doublet, and the Buff.

The Persian Cassock, the Flat,
Steeple crownd, narrow, broad-brim'd Hat.
Bands and Crevats; If I should range,
I must ransack the Exchange:
But I am drawn dry, I must give o're,
I am quite spent, I can no more.

Who ever was Companion made
To th' Elfs of Hells Infernal shade?
Who through Mare Mortuum,
Hath sail'd to fair Elysium?

Who hath as Pilgrim past along
To Styx, Cocytus, Acheron?
To Ghosts, to Furies, who hath been,
A fearful fellow-Citizen?

He may perhaps call to mind,
The Devils of every kind:
And how the monstrous horrid Lust,
Of Incubus and Succubus.
Damn'd Copulation, produce,
Or Goblin, Fairy, or Empuse.
Which appear in as many Fashions,
As are used in all Nations.

CANTO II.

Hell revels it, this day, Respite
Is granted to each ragged Wight.
Ixion's Wheel stands still a while,
Tantalus Grapes cease to beguile
His greedy Jaws, Sysiphus play'd,
When once his weighty Rowl was laid.
Next day th' old Man is at a loss,
And swears, his Stone had gathered Moss.

He for his part was laid secure,
Next Morn the old Trout was ta'ne dead sure.
Napping, rowz'd with a wholsom Jerk,
By some stern Imp, and set to work.
Tantalus had so drank his fill
O're Night, that thought he might do so still.
Ixion did so madly Reel,
That for himself, mistook his Wheel.

Prometheus's Heart was ope, poor Man,
He had soak't many a cordial Kan.
That drove the Eagle from his Heart,
‘Do she her worst, now he'l not start.
‘He Vows, more men he will Inspire,
‘And quicken Clay with new stol'n Fire.
‘Shall Jove, proud Jove, thinks he, confine
‘Solely to himself, that Power Divine?

‘Tush, tho he be this time in Hell,
‘He knows his own Power so well,
‘That none of him more Tales should tell.
‘He will for ever all Tricks quell,
‘He'l make his Art Nature excel.
‘He has such Whimsies now in Pickle,
‘Shall make Mercuries Fingers tickle.
‘To do more Feats, he has the Gift,
‘If need be, to give Jupiter a Lift.

‘He hath now more sublime Notions,
‘To operate far swifter Motions.
‘His Head is full of Crotchets now,
‘To Jade a Race-Horse by a Cow,
‘He swears he'l tell you, when and how
‘(Pledge him but this full Bowl) the Spheres
‘Shall play y' a Lesson, that your Ears
‘Shall Judge which Orb the Treble sounds,
‘And which the Mean, and Bass rebounds.

‘These warbling Globes, he at his pleasure,
‘Can tune distinctly in exact measure.
‘Do but sit down a while, and list,
‘Whip one more Cup sheer off, then whist,
‘Hear you nought yet? No, off with t'other.
‘Nor yet? quick, quick off with another.

‘Begin a fresh Health, make haste,
‘Bravely come off, you'l hear't at last.

‘And when y'have heard it, you'l turn round,
‘And dance to that melodious Sound.
‘Now cut it—Rare, unheard of strains!
‘Thanks good Prometheus for thy Pains.
It is the merriest Rogue in Hell,
This day he likes his Humor well.
And 'tis the wittiest Knave, who dare,
For choice Inventions with him compare?

All Bunglers, Hermes Self stand clear,
He scorns there should a man come near.
He's for contriving, he's so neat,
So spruce, so curious in each Feat.
A most quaint Artist, in this mood,
Pity we have no more o'th' Brood.

‘Archytas, a dull Engineer,
‘His Dove was faulty, it flew not clear:
‘It flag'd, he'l tell you, the Report
‘He knew right well; in such strange sort
‘The Spidar a small Chariot drew,
‘And the like golden Fly, which flew
‘From off her Masters Fist, the length
‘Of a large Hall, and had the strength
‘To turn, and backwards fly, nay light
‘Just there, from whence she took her flight,
‘And bad the Company, Good Night.

‘Poor Petty-foggers, what rich Prize
‘Deserve you, that thus trade in Flyes?
‘Are you not bold, that dare presume,
‘The name of Artists to assume?

‘For Spider-Molds? What credit then
‘Do we deserve, that can frame Men?

‘Proud Syracuse too much admir'd
‘Her Archymedes, 'cause h'had fir'd
‘A few weak Ships; a Toy, a Toy,
‘With Wild-fire; ev'ry little Boy
‘Could do as much, a very Ass,
‘That made the solid Heav'ns of Glass.
‘A fit resemblance, a pure Bull,
‘The Fancy of an empty Skull.

‘Jove's politick, keeps me in bands
‘For fear, tying an Artist's hands,
‘Least—but he shall know in this rare Vein,
‘I have a Project in this Brain,
‘(If lost, will ne're return again.)
‘Shall puzle all the Joves to reach,
‘Much less in practice to out-fetch.

The good man's lost, in setting forth
His Infinite conceited worth.
He's so high flown, that he out-vies,
Higher and lower Dignities.
Whole Troops, while he thus boasting sate,
Flockt round about, to hear him prate.

Tell him of Eagles now, Alas!
A poor Conceit he swears it was.
And no less base Revenge, h'had eas'd
This Flea-bite, had it but pleas'd
Him, long e're this, and can do't still;
But scorns, let Jove do't, if he will.
Since he laid't on, this is his Scoff,
He'l make him glad to take it off.

A Jolly Vein, if it would hold,
This while he sticks not to be bold,
While he is neither bought nor sold;
Of this he cares not to be told.
I doubt my Gentleman will cry
Peccavi, when he's once drawn dry.
He must to the old Trade again,
'Tis but a Folly to complain;
'Tis not his Skill can ease his Pain.

Honest Prometheus, I deplore
Thy wretched Case, when this Light's o're.
Jove's Bird, I fear, will hungry be,
Fasting so long for want of thee.
Alas, poor Man! the time is short,
'Tis but a day, I'm sorry for't.
Minerva lov'd thee, so do I,
Would I could end thy Misery.

As for that most perfidious Brood,
That compact, bloody Sister hood,
The Belides, methinks I grutch
Their Ease, a day for them's too much.
O may their Tubs for ever drill,
And they ne're have the pow'r to fill.
A Punishment for them too slight,
That slew their Husbands the first night.
And yet for these that less deserv'd,
Was the fair day of Rest reserv'd.

Stern Radamanth, whom all did fear,
Is most bucsom and debonair.
He's now as blith, that er'st did frown,
The meanest Elf in all the Town

Is not at all 'fraid of his Gown,
But at his Feet dares set him down,
And guzzle with him by his side,
Who yesterday would skulk and hide
(When he saw him in all his pride,
Among the Shades in state to ride.)
His Devils face, poor simple Wight,
And glad he could play least in sight.

Kind Proserpine, it was thy Grace,
And Princely Favour, for a space;
Freely to hurl such a Release,
And set all tortur'd Wights at ease.
They made mad Rendevouz the while,
Roaring and keeping such a coil,
Beyond all compass, as if pain
Were ne're to be renew'd again.

Pluto's vast Court eccho'd aloud,
Shaking the Earth, tossing the proud
Insulting Waves, so did they roar,
As if they never should give o're.
So did they feast, drink, smoke and shout
And keep a rascal Revel-rout;
That the Superiour World might know,
There was a Hell indeed, below.

There might you see, on the bare ground,
Kneeling, how Pluto's Health went round.
Next Proserpine's, how they stood bare,
And at the Health's end, rent the Air.
That stifling Air, with horrid sound,
As it had thunder'd under-ground.
How the Infernal Dungeon rang,
When the whole frightful Chorus sang.

Was not this a fearful Gang?
That Eccho'd such a dreadful Twang?

How lightly the trim Shades did trip,
How they did vault, curveat and skip,
In all their gambols, neat and spruce,
Not one but was complete through use.
Having pledg'd all in this low Roof,
Some they must think upon Aloof.
Some famous ones, to whom they tender
Most Love, they Vow now to remember.

The Turk, says one, then swears another,
The great Mogul he dare not smother.
A third starts up in hast, and damns,
Shall we forget the renown'd Chams;
The Crim Tartarian, or the Brood
Of Negro's for their likelyhood?
Prety black Rogues, They carouze oft,
To us, and so to them we ought.

Friar Bacon, Bungy, Faustus,
Merlin, these will ne're exhaust us.
During this Counsel, out one yalls,
And by my Name Canidia calls.
Devils, quoth he, Is there no Fame
Amongst us all of that Noble Dame?
Was't not for her, that we have had
This liberty, to be thus mad?

For shame, my Slaves, do her that Grace,
To drink her Health in the first place.
Canidia, and then they tore
Their Snakes, and 'gan afresh to roar.

They thought themselves, no doubt, to blame,
To forget that Virago's Name.
Then they began afresh to squat,
There's ne're a Fury but must ha't.

Canidia, strait they're down, all bare,
Hang Turks now, let her have her share.
First in our Bowzings, then they hatch,
And for the vastest Goblets snatch.
O, 'twere unkindness not to laugh,
'Twere horrid baseness not to quaff.
'T goes about double, to the Great Nurse,
Besides to every Health a Curse.

The Liquors, Rum, Mum, Sherbet, Brandy,
Old Hock drank by every Jack-a-dandy.
All the Sulphureous Stygian Juyces,
Ran in full Conduits and Sluces.
Where every Skullion Imp might fill his Pale,
And stretch his Gut with Nordown Ale.
Sullen Diogenes was got drunk,
And the Rogue had closely got his Punk.
Every Philosopher was a good Fellow,
Poets and Orators Brains were mellow.

CANTO III.

‘And now I have gone down to Hell, you'l see,
‘I shall conjure up Hell to me.
‘Go, Screetch-Owl, my Apparitor,
‘At Midnight loudly at an hour,
‘Rowze all the Sleepers in this Bow'r.
‘Summon all the Ghosts to appear,
‘And make their solemn Meeting here.

As in a clear transparent Air,
The glorious Sun displays his fair
Enlivening Beams, that pleasant while,
The Earth doth laugh, the Heavens do smile.
But ah! how soon 'tis chang'd? the Scale
Turns on a sudden, lo, a Gale
Breathing from the South-west, out peeps.
A sullen Cloud and small, that creeps
O're the whole surface of the Sky,
And turns all to Obscurity.

The golden lustre of the Sun,
Is choakt with Vapors now, that run
At random o're the Earth, till all
Together in a huge Deluge fall.
Or as when Æolus does pen
Each sturdy Blast within his Den.
A gen'ral Silence, not a Breath,
So much to shake a tender Leaf.

How quiet Nature is? how whist?
'Till those unruly Rebels list.
(Boreas with his surly Mates)
To burst wide ope the Prison-Gates:
And all together headlong rush,
Striving each others force to crush.
Then th' Universe, quiet before,
Is all in a confus'd uproar.

And such a Hurly-burly kept,
As if all things were to be swept
Out of all order; such a Bussling
They make, such a promiscuous Jussing.
Thus from a peaceful Air come Jars
Of Winds, from Calms, tempestuous Wars.

Then in sprang those Hags, whom had the Sun
Beheld, as well it was his hap,
To be safe lull'd in Thetis Lap.
He would have started back again,
And dowst into the Eastern Main.
When they came in, their presence made
Of Darkness an Egyptian shade.
Which to dispel large Flambo's were,
With Tapers lighted here and there.

O thou bright Sister of the Sun,
Who from thy lower Region,
Dost the most secret Deeds descry,
Of Magick and Necromancy.
Thou that art conscious to each Fact,
Which Imp or Witch did ever act.

'Tis Thee I do Invoke, thine Eye
At silent hours can espy,
When ugly Fiends assume the shapes
Of Men, of Lions, Goats and Apes,
Affrighting Mortals, thou canst tell,
When by a strong enchanting Spell,
They are call'd up, it is no News,
To see them keep their Rendevouz.

Therefore to thee I make Request,
Thou would'st be pleased to Attest
Unto the naked Truth, I write,
Of which thy Self hast had the sight.

And now because the Subject's rare,
And fearful, vouchsafe to prepare
Thy chaster Ears, kind Reader, First
Peruse, and then pronounce it Curst.

'Twas just at Midnight, when dead sleep,
Had seiz'd on Mortals very deep.
When Dogs did bark, when Wolves did howl,
When Aspects frown'd, and Heavens did scowl.
When the Night-Raven strangely hover'd,
As if she had this Rout discover'd.
When Batts did cry, when Owls did tear,
With hollow shreeks, the trembling Air.

When the Ill-boding Satyrs pranc'd
Through silent Woods, when Fairies danc'd.
When all that Melancholy Fry
Were loose, then did the Scene draw nigh.
But when the Winds and Seas did roar,
When Lightning flasht, when Thunder tore
The aged Oaks, when th' Earth did shake,
And the whole Universe did quake.
When Hells wide Jaws did yawn,
Ope flew the Scene with all the Spawn.

If you would see the Face of Hell,
And hear the Pack of Hell-Hounds yell.
Lo, here it is! Heavens be ye abasht!
And thou dull Earth, stand all agast!
Avant, and keep aloof, stand clear,
Come not I charge you, Sirs, too near!
See now, and see your last!—A mixed Fry,
Of Imps and Haggs in Kennels lye
Altogether, such a Mass,
Such a Chaos, as never was!

Stare thou bright Cynthia, thou Sun,
Drop from thy Sphere, thy Course is done.
Keep thee below, and go not on,
Nor peep above our Horizon.

Thou shalt not see't, lose not thy Raies
Th' hast kept, these Myriads of Days,
For here is that will stain them: Here
Are monstrous shapes of Wolf and Bear.

Of Bats and Toads, of Goats and Swine,
Of Cats and Tygers, Dogs and Kine.
Viper and Dragon, Rat and Snail,
Vultur and Scorpion, Ferret, Quail.
Porpuse and Sea-Horse, Tortoise, Snite,
Hedghog and Hern, Raven and Kite.
Screetch-Owl and Locust, Duck and Swan,
Crane, Goss-hawk and Pelican.
Crab, Elephant, Mouse, Goose and Gander,
Cameleon and Salamander.

Pismire and Camel, Mullet, Flare,
Dolphin and Shark, Lizard and Hare.
Fox and Baboon, Stork and Ospray,
Fesant, Beetle, and Popinjay.
Spider and Cock, Swallow and Pye,
Parrat and Tit, Eagle and Flye.
Monky and Squirrel, Otter, Doe,
Hyena, Crocadile and Roe.
Griffon, Leopard and Cockatrice,
Crocadile, Tygre and Lioness.

All these, with other mixed Forms
Of Antick Fowls, Beasts, Fishes, Worms:
Each in their fearful Troops are clustered,
In horrid Squadrons rang'd and mustred.

CANTO IV.

Tell me without Dissimulation,
Who e're shall read this Execration.
If a rare Martial Soul possess
Thy manly Trunk, that dares to press
Thee bravely forward, to withstand
The Forces of a mighty Band?
If thy stout-Genius could rush
Through a Wood of Pikes, and crush
Whole ordred Files of Men in Steel,
Trample whole Ranks, and never feel
The sting of Fear; if thou dar'st meet
The thundring Culvering, and greet
Whole Canon in the face, out-brave
A showr of Lead, and slight the Grave?

If thou canst do all this, then come,
I'le lead thee to Elysium.
Crown thee with Honour in those Fields
Where Death his fearful Standard wields.
Amidst a Regiment of Shades, tell
Me, if thy Courage would not quell,
When thou discern'st the Face of Hell.
Wilt meet a thousand Deaths? come on,
I'le teach thee but to meet this one.

Should Scipio or Cæsar descry
These in their Trenches, as they lye,
They'd soon remove their Siege, this Sight
Would make their hair to stand upright.
And the Commanders hearts would ake,
For horror, all their joynts would quake.

Oft have I seen in Fenny Bogs
Loathsom heaps of Toads and Frogs:
Adders and Snakes, with Rats and Fries
Of ugly Vermin, Insects, Flies.
I could not choose but admire,
To see them crawling in the Mire.
'T hath made my tender Limbs oft quake,
To see the surface of a Lake
Cover'd with Locusts; but to see
The Stygian Lake come up to me.

To see a Brood of Hellish Hag,
Crawling together in one Quag;
And I so near in the room,
Strange that my Bed was not my Tomb!
O, I did live to see it! But heed,
What drops d'you think my Heart did bleed?
Whither did my chill Blood recoil
For warmth, suppose ye, all that while?

Saw I so many Gorgons, and none
Would please to turn me to a Stone.
Merciless Mercy, to allow
The sight of Death, and not know how
To taste it, Heavens do ye bemoan
My Torments, whilst I all alone
Lay gazing on this Sight, bespread
Your sable Weeds, and strike me dead:
And in compassion of my Fears,
Let fall a doleful showr of Tears.

‘As I'm a Woman, I'le not deny
‘These Fears; but as a Witch, I defie
‘Ten thousand Hells, if I should dye

‘Ten thousand Deaths; as I am a Maid,
‘I scorn to be the least dismay'd.
‘'Tis not my Spirit to fear, but to delight,
‘At what to others were a killing sight.
‘Is it likely a Witch should fear,
‘Or a damn'd Sorceress shed a Tear?

‘No, I never did, nor never meant
‘To shrink the least, when 'twas my intent
‘To fall on any desperate Attempt.
‘To Hell I have been often sent,
‘My Courage can be never spent.

Heav'n frowns, I'm sure, and scowls to view
Dark Hell t'outface her dazling Hue.
And could it choose but stein the Air,
And blind the Sun, and smut the fair
Transparent outside of the Globe,
Mantling the Heavens with Hells black Robe.

O, had you seen what loathsom streams
Of pitchy Fogs; what lazy steams
Went rowling too and fro, and choak't
The purer Air; what stench provok't
The chaster Stars, for n'other end
Their Influences to suspend.

Phœbus then could not domineer,
Nor these Ægyptian Vapours cleer.
When with his scorching Southern heat,
His hot Solstitial Rays did beat
On these opacous Clouds, would they
To his commanding Beams give way?

No, but in scorn and base neglect,
Back to his Face they did reflect.
His now black Sooty Beams again,
Angry at which, he turns his Rein,
To drive backward his fiery Wain.
But was not able; at Mid-day
Quite lost, he could not see his way.
Wondring at this contempt, he wist
Nothing but Hell could this resist.

Wherefore, he must go on, or turn
Beyond his Tropicks, tho all burn.
'Mongst the North-Stars a Track t'enquire,
Ne're trampled by his Steeds of Fire.
At last, he ghest it was his Crime,
Perhaps to b'up before his Time.
But was mista'ne, nor he alone,
The World was out of order thrown.
During that space, the Stars next Night
Thinking to shine, had lost their light.

The Prince of Planets Purblind grew,
Glaring with a strange dusky Hue.
Cerberus, whom Hercules drew
From Hell, when he began to view
The Light, turn'd his head aside,
Sol's Beams not able to abide:
Now, Sol himself his head did shrowd,
Envelop'd in a wat'ry Cloud:
Fearing his stately glittering Grace,
With Stygian darkness to deface.

And yet some Mists in th' air did bake,
And just under his Circle Cake;

Which markt him like his Sister, fair,
But pale and speckled here and there.
Thus for a thrice succeeding Noon,
He appear'd spotted like the Moon.
In short, all things had some Translation,
During this bloody Convocation.

CANTO V.

By this the Court was forward grown,
Almost all Actions overthrown.
A thousand sev'ral Dooms, some Death,
Some Life; but hardly drawn with putrid Breath,
Exhal'd from corrupt Entrals, panting,
Better if such a Life were wanting.
Some languish daily with faint Sweats,
Others consume with extream Heats.
Some clog'd with Swinish Pursiness,
Some feeble, through Bursteness.

Some crackt, fantastick, some deep mad,
Some melancholy, dull and sad.
Some raving desp'rately, some tame,
Sporting at every Toy and Game.
Some trade in Wounds and Purple gore,
Some for Ulcers and Cancers roar.
Others had aches, grypings, throws,
Inward intolerable Woes.

Catarrhs, Cramps, Wheasings, Obstructions,
Coughs, Belching, Issues, Eruptions;
Apoplexies, Gouts, Stranguries,
Green Sicknesses, Love Maladies.

Surfets, Piles, Gangrenes, Dropsies, Tumors,
Pleurisies, sharp and brinish Humors.
Fevers, Convulsions, Scurvies, Strains,
Distorted Sinews, shrunk up Veins.
Lethargies, Palsies dead and shaking,
And all manner of Heart-aking.

Purples, Collick, Gravel and Stone,
The Disease that rots the Bone:
Neapolitan, French, or Indian Pain,
The Modish Flux, the Gentile Strain.
Quinzies, Corns, Tooth-ach, Blisters, Burns,
Scalds, Agues by fits and turns.
Kings Evil, Emeroids and Blastings,
Lungs, Kidneys, Lights and Liver wastings;
Others troubled with the Hastings.

Many a woful Wretch must Rue
For the days work, what will ensue.
For these few hours, for which whole years,
Thousands may justly shed forth Tears.
Thousands may have just cause to roar,
And their most cursed states deplore.
Each had his day, each had his hour,
Even all that came under their power.

CANTO VI.

But here's not all, A second Train
Forthwith came marching up amain.
A Regiment of Ninety two,
I told them, having less to do;
With Sagan on their head, all old
Experienc'd Witches, fierce and bold.

Foul Squalid Creatures every one,
Dreadful Harpies to look upon.

With sallow Countenances, and Hair
Dishevel'd o're their Shoulders bare:
Coal-black, and curled into Flakes,
Twining like to so many Snakes.
Grey, hollow Eyes, and Cheeks as thin
As Envies Self, and wrinkled Skin.
Lank Breasts, lean Arms, with wrizled Flanks,
And mummy Hips, and shrunk up Shanks.

But that I knew them in that form,
They had been Furies, I had sworn:
These all with Bag and Baggage chose
The same place of Rendevouze.
'Twould tyre y'in order down to set,
How these two Jovial Armies met:
What Ceremonies, and what Toys,
What Tricks they us'd t'express their Joys.

After a General Salute,
Strait these Black Regiments were mute.
And a Command proclaim'd to all,
By the Lieutenant General:
That each of every Rank and Station,
Should prepare for a Consultation.
Which done, each took him to his place,
According to his Stock and Race:
And solemnly in mighty State,
All down unto the Council sate.

CANTO VII.

By this they were compos'd, a show
Of goodly Benchers, all a row.
A deep Silence was made, all whist,
After long Pause, when the whole List
Sate looking one upon another,
Waiting who should that Silence smother.
Softly in state, rose up a Dame
Of reverend Worth, Sagan by Name.

She was of proner Body, Face
Printed with Gravity and Grace.
With lofty bending Brow, quick Eye
Sparkling forth Beams of Majesty.
Of Forehead high, of Visage lean
And long, of Feature mean.
Of Colour swarthy, darkish Cheeks,
Furrow'd all along with Reeks.

High Roman-Nose, Hair all grey,
Loosly dangling every way
Down to her Heels, her Back a Bow,
Which Age had bent, Supporters slow
And faint, Wast long and small,
Breasts limber, Body brindled all.
And yet a kind of Decency
Shone from that squalid Gravity.

In this so comly Equipage,
Rose up this goodly Personage;
And casting a sad sober Glance
O're the whole Round, she did advance

Her graceful Self to the full View,
And hearing of that Damned Crew.
Then with an Eye submissly thrown
Upon the ground, she fetcht a Groan:
And making a low Courtesy,
With demure simpring Majesty
She thus began ------

‘My Lords and Ladies,
‘It grieves my Soul, when I reflect
‘Upon my long careless Neglect,
‘Of that great Charge your Honours have
‘Nobly conferr'd on me your Slave.
‘Wherefore my Blood you may Command,
‘For at your Mercy here I stand.

With that, she deeply sigh'd, and wrung
Her ruful hands: ‘Alas, my Tongue,
‘And Hands, and Brain, and all's too weak
‘To do you service! Speak, ô speak
‘Your lowly Vassals Pardon; speak
‘Quickly, or my poor Heart will break.
At which she stopt, yet would have spoke
More still; but fear and sorrow broke
Her faultring Voice; the Tears distill'd
Amain, all down her Cheeks, and fill'd
Those deep Gutturs, trickling apace
Even to the Ground, in piteous case.

So have I seen a Trait'rous Wight
Behave himself, just in that plight.
With what true Tears, I know not, wetting
The Pavement where his Prince was setting:
So hath he groan'd, so hath he wrung
His too much guilty Hands, and slung

His Arms across, so hath he tore
His Locks, so could he speak no more,
Not for his life, 'til Pardon brought
Out of his Masters bosom, taught
His Treason-tainted Tongue, from hence
A thankful strain of Eloquence.

Thus was our Oratrix astound,
Thus ran she, stuck she fast aground,
And would not be fetch'd off, till one
Brought her a Relaxation
For that offence in Pluto's Name,
And the whole Bench confirm'd the same.
Which put new Courage to this faint
Matron, and made her brisk and quaint.
She that of late, seem'd quite depriv'd
Of Speech, now being re-enliv'd,
Spake to the Wonderment, and fear
Of all the Powers that did her hear.

For starting up with far more Grace,
She star'd them boldly in the Face:
Yet so, as she had not well shook
Her former Dread quite off, she took
A handful of the Hair she tore,
And standing where she did before,
Wiped her Eyes and Cheeks, all red
As they were, with Tears, all blubbered.
Then hurling the wet Fleece away,
The Cloud remov'd, out burst the day;
Fear banished, and sorrow gone,
She boldly, chearly thus went on.

CANTO VIII.

‘My Lords, quoth she, making a low
‘Obeisance to them all, I rebestow
‘My hearty Thanks, in lieu of what
‘I have receiv'd, and take you that.
‘As for your Honours thus appeas'd,
‘For these Indulgences, be pleas'd
‘Thus to take notice, that you have thrown
‘Your worthy Favour upon one
‘That hath deserv'd it: No Courtesie
‘Shall come, but it shall go from me.

‘My Spirit's high, Nay, I'le be plain,
‘I scorn to think, but ye shall gain
‘By what y'have done, and shall for me, for know
‘I am no Ideot, I tro.
‘No Meal-mouth'd Novice, 'tis not for nought,
‘That for so long a time I have sought
‘Into your Mysteries, and div'd
‘Into the Depth of Hell, contriv'd
‘So many Deaths, plotted such Woes,
‘As cruel Witchcraft could impose.

‘Am I not Mistress of my Art?
‘Can I not finely act my Part?
‘A Sagan, and not skill'd, 's a Fiction,
‘Not hurtful, 'tis a Contradiction.
‘It cannot be, but where I am
‘There must be Blood, my Name
‘Is never us'd without a Spell,
‘The whole World knows me right well.

‘It cannot be, but where I tread,
‘There should be forth with heaps of Dead,
‘To pave the Way before me, Thus ------

‘The Infant, and the Aged Sire,
‘The Stripling and the youthful Squire;
‘The Matron and the stately Dame,
‘The Widow, and the Wife of Fame;
‘The gallant Virgin, all a row,
‘At my approach down they must go.
‘And shall not I be thought a meet
‘Mate for the best? that at my Feet
‘Can level with one look a Score,
‘Let's see the best of you do more.
‘For when I come, I come like Thunder,
‘And madly tear mens Bones asunder.

‘I choak the Embryo, and from the Womb,
‘I dash the Infant to his Tomb.
‘Before he's well enur'd to Light,
‘Ile hurl him into endless Night.
‘The Child that's scourging of his Top,
‘Or trundling of his Ball, I pop
‘Next Morn into his Grave: To day,
‘He is a Lord, perchance, all gay
‘Amidst his Ladies; but to morrow
‘He dyes, to theirs and his Friends sorrow.

‘When Boys are at their Waggery,
‘If I do but by chance pass by,
‘The Youth on whom I glance, shall fall,
‘Struck dead o'th' place, before 'um all.
‘He that sate pratling at the Table,
‘So pretily, shall not be able,

‘Before an hour go about,
‘To get one Syllable distinctly out,
‘Not for a World; put him not to't,
‘He is bewitcht, he cannot do't.

‘Some have but tipt over a Frame,
‘And have been all their life-time Lame:
‘Others but stept out in a Night,
‘And ever after lost their sight.
‘And some their Wits, some have been taken,
‘And with Convulsions strongly shaken;
‘So torn and rackt, that you would wonder
‘Body and Soul flew not asunder.

‘The sprouting Stripling, that in short time
‘Would unto perfect Nature climb;
‘Whose rare Endowments have began
‘Before his time, to style him Man:
‘Then come I to prevent
‘Those over-hasty Vertues lent;
‘A powerful Charm forthwith flew
‘Towards this Mark, and hit and slew.

‘The lusty Youngster, that hath run
‘To the degree of Twenty one;
‘When commonly the Climate's hot,
‘And scorching, It shall be his Lot
‘To dye by Coals: I'le convey
‘A Julip shall that Fire allay;
‘Insensibly it shall congeal
‘The Marrow in his Bones, and steal
‘Into his Bowels, by a Trick,
‘And at last strike him to the Quick.

‘Or it shall rot his Lungs, or stop
‘The Fountain of his Blood, or hop
‘Into his Bladder, or his Reins,
‘And plague him with continual Pains.
‘His Blood that dances in his Veins,
‘And boyls with active Fire, my Strains
‘Can freez, I have such Spells at hand
‘Can finely settle and command
‘His cap'ring Spirits, no more to rise,
‘Nor keep time in his Arteries.

‘The curious Virgin, in her Prime
‘And blooming years; O then 'tis time
‘For me to blast those Roses, stain
‘The Whiteness of her Lillies, drain
‘The Channel of her sprightly Blood;
‘O this to me is precious Food!
‘To squeez the Juyce from out the Veins,
‘It serves to me for th' greatest Gains.

‘My Soul could wish, to choak
‘The Spirits Vehicles, and soak
‘The Archeus, moisture Radical to quench
‘The stock of Life without a Drench:
‘And by secret Art leisurely,
‘To pine the whole Mass, till it dye.
‘No Joy so pleasing, no Delight
‘Affects me, as does such a sight.

‘The Man whose full Consistency,
‘Spreads him in perfect Decency;
‘To shew Dame Nature's chiefest Art,
‘Fairly perform'd in every part,
‘And the whole Fabrick strong and neat,
‘Makes up a Microcosm compleat.

‘His tuned Humors in just weight
‘And measure, boyl'd up to a height;
‘And every Limb exactly knit
‘With severe Sinews, strong and fit.

‘I say, the Man, that truly may
‘Call himself so, during that stay;
‘And not before, nor after, He
‘Is the object of my Sorcery.
‘'Tis he I aim at, and I must
‘Level his Bulwark to the Dust.
‘I hate, O I cannot abide,
‘To see him strutting in his Pride.

‘Or He, or I, or both must fall,
‘I care not which, but down he shall.
‘I will deface his Glory, if I can,
‘And raze the stately Fabrick of a Man.
‘'Tis done already, he has ta'ne
‘A Dose, that shall warrant his Bane.
‘His well cemented Joynts shall slack,
‘And all his stubborn Sinews crack.

‘'Twill make his sturdy Limbs to quiver,
‘His well compacted Bones 'twill shiver:
‘It will corrode through every part,
‘And last of all infect his Heart.
‘Thus the best work Nature can frame,
‘'Tis I am able to mar the same.

‘He whose declining years begin,
‘To warn him to the Common Inne,
‘Where Clods are the best Couches, Stones
‘The softest Pillows, rotten Bones

‘The choicest and the daintiest Fare,
‘The Worms be Delicacies there:
‘Where pale Death is the courteous Host.
‘That doth his Ruful Guests accost.
‘Welcoms all Comers to his Bowr;
‘But ah, his Entertainment's sowre.

‘Yet he hath harbour'd Kings and Peers,
‘And Emperours of ancient years.
‘Ladies and Queens have not deny'd,
‘In his dark Chambers to abide.
‘His noysom Steams do not molest,
‘No Sounds disturb his quiet Rest.
‘Within those silent Cells do lye
‘The Series of Mortality;
‘The Noble and the Vulgar, All
‘Have lodg'd with him, and ever shall.

‘He then, whose Years call him away,
‘And tell him, long he must not stay:
‘Whose oft Infirmities bid come,
‘And hasten to his longest Home;
‘Where, after all his Toil he may
‘Keep Everlasting Holiday;
‘Even such an one I will not spare,
‘Though he should beg but for a bare
‘Year, Month or Day, I'le tell him, No,
‘I pity none, down ye must go.

‘Tho with his feeble Knees he wear
‘The Marble-Floor, nay, tho he tear
‘With groans and cries the yeilding Air,
‘Yet for all this I will not hear.
‘The Reverend Age I much neglect,
‘And the grey Hairs I disrespect:

‘I flout at that, which would require
‘Due Worship from a comly Sire.

‘His bald Alabaster Crown,
‘His frosty Beard, and his Fur'd Gown;
‘His Snowy Scalp, and what else Age
‘Hath in it Venerable and Sage.
‘I Jeer the hoar Grandsire, Nodding,
‘Poring upon the ground and plodding,
‘With his cramp Shoulder and his Staff,
‘To see him trudge, it makes me laugh.

‘I fleer at the old driveling Swain,
‘To see him scud to and and again:
‘To see him sit, and mump and moap,
‘And in the Chimney-corner grope.
‘Amongst a few small Embers raking,
‘The Ashes, shivering and quaking.
‘To hear him cough, and spit and spawl,
‘As he would fetch up Guts and all.

‘I'le try, if the old Mangy Knave,
‘Can't cough a little in his Grave.
‘He's just upon the brink already,
‘And is not able to stand steddy;
‘But the least touch will push him by,
‘And plunge him to Eternity.
‘He's gone, past all hopes, the poor Wight
‘Is with a Blast puft out of sight.
‘I quickly, slily gave him a Bole,
‘That sent him down to the Pit-hole.

‘The furious Captain I can tame,
‘And cool his warlike Blood, I frame

‘A mixture, that at the least taste,
‘Drives him to Limbo in all haste.
‘Let Mars, the man that's clad in Steel,
‘Take heed of me, I'le make him feel
‘That at his Heart, he ne're shall know,
‘Which way it gave him his Deaths blow.

‘Let him rage, chafe, fret and fume,
‘'Til he be weary, I presume.
‘For all his Swaggering, he is sure,
‘You'l strait perceive him as demure,
‘As calm as may be; on his Trotter,
‘Methinks I see him 'gin to totter,
‘And snatch the Reins; but all in vain,
‘Down comes the Rider and his Train.

‘The Drunken Gull, that says he's arm'd
‘With strong Juyce, and cannot be harm'd;
‘But swears and stares, as he were mad:
‘Let me alone, I'le tame the Lad.
‘I'le give him that, for all his swagg'ring,
‘Shall put him to a fit of Stagg'ring,
‘So long, till the sottish Slave,
‘Stagger at last into his Grave.

‘The soul Glutton that lies and struts
‘His gorrel'd Paunch, cramming his Guts
‘Whole days and Nights, with greazy chear:
‘I'le make him buy that at a dear
‘And sawcy Rate: That beastly Joy
‘He now conceives, shall most annoy
‘And loath his Taste, I'le spice his Pyes,
‘And season his Delicacies.

‘I'le sowce his Dainties, I'le prepare
‘For him all his Bill of Fare.
‘I'le feed his Maw, and feast his Eye,
‘I know he likes my Cookery.
‘I'le Candy and Preserve his Fruit,
‘His Marmalade and Syrups, sute
‘T'his Palate; his Sweet-meats I'le fit,
‘For if I do't, be sure 'twill hit.

‘I know his dainty liquorish Tooth,
‘His curious Appetite, forsooth,
‘None but my self can him please,
‘And when in pain I give him ease,
‘I hit his humor to a hair.
‘I make his Fire, and fetch his Chair.
‘I set his Close-stool, and his Pot,
‘Warm his Neck-cloth and Night-cap hot.

‘I wash his Dishes, clean his Plate,
‘And scowr his Spits early and late.
‘I fetch his Water for him, lay
‘Napkin and Trenchers every day.
‘I'le sweeten and I'le spice his Cup,
‘Yea, and make him drink all up.
‘I'le dip his Morsels, fill his Wine,
‘And fat him up like a Swine,
‘Cut his Throat with this hand of mine.

‘The lazy Lubbard dawb'd with Scurf,
‘That sits and smoaks him o're a Turf,
‘Poking i'th' Embers, when there lye
‘Good Faggots and Billets hard by,
‘And he like a foul lazy Cur,
‘For fear of Cold is loth to stir.

‘That in his nasty Kennel snorts
‘'Til Mid-day, with his grey Consorts
‘Crawling about him, while he shrugs
‘And rubs, and scratches, yawns, and snugs
‘O're head and ears; an ill beginner,
‘That knows not where to get his Dinner,
‘And will not rise to earn't: for these
‘Leads he a Dogs life, hunger and ease.

‘I'le drop a Spider into his Beer,
‘Or cause a Toad to creep in there,
‘That hath been bred in Corners moist,
‘By sluttish filth, I'le foist
‘An Adder to his Bed-straw, pop a Snake
‘Between the Sheets to keep him 'wake.
‘For Nastiness at Board and Bed,
‘I'le certainly have him sped.

‘The damned Lecher, with his Imp,
‘His pocky Bawd, and rotten Pimp;
‘That with his Punks at Midnight roars,
‘Cards, Dices, Gormandizes, Whores:
‘Carowses, Capers, Swears and Revels,
‘In pomp, among so many Devils.
‘I'le come among that Goatish Crew,
‘And give the muddy Trulls their due.

‘I'le plague their Mistress and Commander,
‘The mouldy Bawd, and rusty Pander;
‘With Scurvy, Gouts, and pocky Sores,
‘Tormenting all the Rogues and Whores,
‘Paying off all their old Scores.
‘As for the Gallant swagg'ring Blade,
‘I'le bind him Prentice to the Trade;

‘And I shall teach him Feats of Love,
‘How he may all Affections prove.

‘I'le dictate to the Roaring Boy,
‘Present the Gentleman a Toy,
‘Wherewith to allure his Mistress heart,
‘That she from him shall never part:
‘Nay, and it shall, to make all sure,
‘A thousand Mistresses procure.
‘All shall be toucht, all shall run mad,
‘For love of this brave lusty Lad.

‘He'l carry that about him, which
‘Shall all Beholders Eyes bewitch.
‘Walking the Streets, they shall admire
‘His Beauty, and set all a fire:
‘And crowd about him for a Kiss,
‘And happy she that did not miss.
‘In pride whereof, the Mothers Daughter
‘Shall lick her Lips a Twelve-month after.

‘Thus will I sooth him up with Pride,
‘When he shall see himself espy'd,
‘And pointed at for a rare Piece,
‘Right worthy of a Princes Niece.
‘Do not mistake me now, as tho,
‘My Noble Lords, I did bestow
‘This Boon for good upon him; No,
‘I cannot change my Nature so.

‘Tho, for a while, I touch upon
‘The brink of Good e're and anon;
‘Yet strait I verge, before I venter,
‘And keep me to my proper Center.

‘Thus then, in lieu of all his Loves,
‘I intend to handle him without Gloves;
‘In his full pride and flanting state,
‘I'le make him odious to his Mate.

‘And next, to all his Doxies; First,
‘Ile leave him nothing in his Purse:
‘No not a Doit; this ground work laid,
‘To th' full I'm sure to have him paid;
‘And by them too, who his Vassals were,
‘Whilst he fed them with dainty Cheer.
‘Then they to him all Beauty brought;
‘But now, by them he's worse than nought.

‘Before, he was a cleanly Piece,
‘But now, he swarms with Fleas and Lice.
‘Before, his more refined Clay,
‘Like Alexander's, every way
‘Did cast a fragrant Scent; but now,
‘No poyson'd ugly Carrion Sow
‘Stinks worse than He. Before, O rare,
‘Adonis was not half so Fair.

‘But now, the Scale is turn'd you see,
‘No Africk Moor's so black as He.
‘Ulysses was not half so witty
‘Before; but now, the more's the pity,
‘(So fading all our Natures be)
‘A Fool speaks better sense than He.
‘Before, Plato was not so wise;
‘But now, I speak't with weeping Eyes,
‘Politius Brain's ne're did more flote,
‘Nor Nestor's hoary Coxcomb dote.

‘Before, more valiant and stout
‘Than Hector, that would ne're give out;
‘But now, more cowardly and base,
‘Than ever Dastard Thersites was:
‘At a drawn Blade he durst not peep,
‘But shivering like a Mouse would creep.
‘In fine, he was a Gentleman,
‘Fit to accost a Curtezan.

‘But now, a clownish Robinhood,
‘A Kitchin-Wench for him's too good.
‘Erst, a Bit for a Ladies Tooth,
‘But now a Scrape-Trencher forsooth,
‘If she should meet him in her dish,
‘Wou'd scorn to foul her Fingers, pish;
‘She'd cry, No by her Troth, not she,
‘She'l have a prop'rer Man than He.

‘She'd not touch him with a pair of Tongs:
‘An old Fornicator, that longs,
‘And fain would have a Bit for's Cat;
‘I'Faith 'tis pepper'd, you know what.
‘Let him to his Companions go,
‘For I'le ha' none of him, I tro.
‘Bast him, and kick him out of doors,
‘Turn him loose among his Whores.

‘A base Whore-masterly Slave,
‘The Pox will bring him to his Grave.
‘Ha, ha, what is your Courage cool'd?
‘I'Faith you are pretily befool'd.
‘You're ev'n serv'd right enough, you're paid
‘In your own Coin. See, there's a Maid!
‘What think ye? She's a handsom Lass,
‘And sprightly too: Hei, ho, Time was.

‘Come let us see you strut it now,
‘And prank it stately, you know how.
‘Alas, he droops! fetch him a Lever,
‘Quickly, to help him cock his Bever.
‘Make him a Cawdle, strait, poor honest Man,
‘His Back is broke, lend, lend an hand.
‘His Legs will scarce support him: alack!
‘Sweet Gentleman, a Cup of Sack

‘Fetch him; 'twill do him good at heart,
‘And cherish his cold blood in part.
‘Ha, Sirrah, how now, straddle ye?
‘You pay now for your Lechery.
‘What through the Nose? or do you jeer
‘The sniveling Scismatick? stand cleer,
‘Keep off, kind Sir, for I desire
‘Not to be scorcht, you'r all afire.

‘Now where's your Activity become,
‘Is all your sprightly vigour gone?
‘Where are your Garters, and your Roses?
‘What Wheel divided both your Noses?
‘What Extraordinary Care,
‘Hath fetcht off your Bushy-Hair?
‘Or what hath lessened your Shanks,
‘What Rogue was that, that play'd such Pranks.

‘T'abuse a Gentleman in's Bed,
‘And leave him ne're a Tooth in's Head.
‘To stew him in a Tub, by th' Clock,
‘Then have him to the Chopping-block.
‘Mangle him in such piteous wise,
‘That he can scarce look out on's Eyes.
‘Nor hold in's hand, but dodderingly,
‘Nor tread on's feet, but gingerly.

‘So soak him, that his very Skin
‘You may perceive shrivel agen.
‘He is so soar in all his Joynts,
‘As he were prickt with Needles-points.
‘So chill, that the least breath of Air
‘Drives through and through him every where.
‘All pity you, Sir, as you go;
‘Who hath misus'd the Gallant so?

‘The Man's a proper Man, but Rogues and Whores
‘Have pickt his Pocket, turn'd him out a doors,
‘And thrown Pispots upon his Head,
‘And sent the poor Wretch sick to Bed,
‘Having long since planted Horns on's Head.
‘Some honest Body take him in,
‘Bestow a covering to his Skin.
‘Alas, none dare to entertain,
‘For fear his Pox should prove their Bane.

‘Thus he, admir'd before, is now despis'd
‘In squalid Rags walks disguis'd,
‘'Till starv'd and rot, without a Witch,
‘Ignobly he dies in a Ditch.

‘The frolick Spend-thrift, that lets fly
‘Huge Treasures by the desp'rate Dye:
‘Baffling and lavishing away
‘A whole Inheritance at Play:
‘That in a Minutes space lets go
‘Whole Patrimonies at a Throw.
‘By the turning of a Bone awry,
‘Forfeits a rich Annuity.
‘At one Throw he shall Pass ye,
‘A whole Inheritance ex Asse.

‘That at one Luckless-Cast, gives out
‘Fair Fields for forty Miles about.
‘That 'fore he will be counted base,
‘Loses whole Forrests at a Chase.
‘Hazards a Warren at a Loss,
‘Smothers a Lordship at a Toss:
‘And bandies Tenements together,
‘At random, no body knows whither.

‘A Farm, a Lease, or such a Toy or Fine,
‘He'l strike you neatly underline.
‘He knows by craft to Cog a Dye,
‘Or shift a Trump in handsomly.
‘But if the spotted Cube doth fall
‘Contrary ways, then have at all.

‘If then it chance the wrong way to lye,
‘He's surely brought to Beggery.
‘Or if the Cards amiss be thrown,
‘Strait he can call nothing his own.
‘And this you'd think were punishment,
‘For one poor Fool sufficient.

‘But I think not so, I care
‘To make him fall into Despair:
‘For fear he should repent, and thrive,
‘My labour is to deprive
‘Him of his Senses and his Wits,
‘And cast him into fainting Fits,
‘Then leave him quite, that is my Drift,
‘To the wide World, and let him shift.

‘The starcht Capricio, that keeps time,
‘In's gate, and ne're speaks, but in Rhime;

‘That stands stiff bent, as one dead,
‘Keeps all his Postures to a Thred.
‘All things about him are in print,
‘No Angle, but there's something in't.
‘With a most Artificial Grace,
‘No hair, but in its proper place.

‘And if one Lock more on one side lye,
‘It makes him hold his Neck awry.
‘His Tresses must be exactly purl'd,
‘Starcht, frizled, crisped, sleekt and curl'd,
‘Mustacho's, Ruler or Dagger-wise,
‘For too much shadowing his Eyes.
‘Men must be fain to go behind,
‘He's so perfum'd, and take the Wind.

‘He comes on ruffling, you may hear him
‘Afar off, 'fore you can come near him,
‘He is some rich Curmudgeon's Heir,
‘That scrap't it with a double care.
‘That Thred-bare went, because he would
‘Have him go in his Cloth of Gold.
‘And he performs his Fathers Will,
‘'Til he comes at last to grind in a Mill.

‘He cares not to adorn his Back,
‘Tho all his Substance go to wrack.
‘He'l wear y'a Lordship in a Band,
‘And a Fee-simple on each Hand
‘He'l for a Bonnet wear y'a Hall,
‘Or a great Castle, Tower and all.
‘He'l clasp y'a Mannor 'bout his Wast,
‘But shall do so no more in haste.

‘He'l keep y' a Court-lodge next his Skin,
‘Pardon him if he do so agin.
‘He'l wrap (pray Heav'ns he catch no harm)
‘Whole Woods about him, to keep him warm.
‘He will consume ye, in pure Gilt,
‘Ten thousand Crowns upon a Hilt:
‘And as much on a Belt and Blade,
‘Next will be, turn him to the Spade.

‘Upon one Suit, he will not care ye,
‘To spend a stately Monastery.
‘It shall be embroidered with Copes,
‘And Mitres, dawb'd with Priests and Popes.
‘Powder'd with Steeples to the knees,
‘All lined with the Churches Fees.
‘It shall be stiffened with Tithes,
‘Basted with Schools and Donatives.

‘Spangled with Sees and Deanaries,
‘And strongly sticht with Chanteries.
‘All his Coats, Cloaks, Cassocks and Gowns,
‘Are Chappels, Abbies, Cloisters, Towns.
‘This man is sure never to lack,
‘That carries his Estate on's back.
‘He still all his own Wealth commands,
‘Not trusting it in Hucksters hands.

‘But shall he thus squander away
‘So much, and all to make him Gay?
‘And will none take the pains to School
‘This same gawdy fantastick Fool?
‘Why, what serve I for then? sure,
‘My Genius will not endure
‘To see an Ass loaded with Gold,
‘Who can with patience behold?

‘Now will you see some some sport? Come trace
‘My steps, I'le lead him to a place,
‘Where he hath chanced at the Wine,
‘To meet some young Scholars of mine;
‘That for their skill, all of them dare
‘Be Tutors to the richest Heir.
‘Captains and Ladies they be all,
‘That will be ready at my Call.

‘Always appointed at a Beck,
‘Subject to my censorious Check.
‘Every one duly knows his Part,
‘They have con'd their Lessons all by heart?
‘The curious faculty of Hooking,
‘The ingenious Art of Gentile Rooking:
‘With Hocus Pocus, slight of hand,
‘To cheat a Novice of his Land.

‘To inveagle him with a Love Trick,
‘Then come aloft, Jackanapes, quick:
‘By the Virtue of a smooth-fac'd Lass,
‘Whip, come away, rise up Sir Ass.
‘These Youths now have my Peacock caught,
‘And they'l not leave him worth a Groat.
‘They'l cut his Cox-comb, pluck his Plumes,
‘Mar all his Civets and Perfumes.

‘They'l muzzle all his neat set Ruffs,
‘And quite deface his plighted Cuffs.
‘Ruffle his Garters and his Laces,
‘Tatter his Plush in twenty places.
‘Tear of his Jewels and his Rings,
‘And rob him of his costly Things.
‘And all by pure Feats of Activity,
‘Without any gross Cheatry.

‘Neat Fetches of Legerdmain,
‘Presto, Be gone Sir, Come again.
‘By the Virtue of a Smirking Girl,
‘They bejuggle him into an Earl,
‘Or a great Marquess, never fear it,
‘Noble Sir, your Estate will bear it.
‘With these, and now and then a Frown,
‘They Conjure the proud Fool up and down.

‘So they cast a Mist about him,
‘And for a May-Game jeer and flout him;
‘And he hath not the Wit to look about him.
‘What Herald's he that dare confute us?
‘You are descended, Sir, from Brutus.
‘The Conqueror's Blood runs in your Veins,
‘If you would please to take the pains.
‘Or we, for you, to search the Rowls
‘I'th' Towre; there in those very Scrowls,
‘You'l find what Feats of Chivalry
‘Were acted by your Ancestry.

‘You little think, but we have try'd,
‘How near in Blood you are Ally'd
‘Unto the Famous Warwick's Guy?
‘Nay, one that hath but half an Eye,
‘May trace your Pedigree exact,
‘From Locrine, Camber, Albanact.
‘Or if you'd be of Saxon Line,
‘Old Tuisco was a Sire of Thine.

‘'Tis Martial Blood runs in your Veins,
‘That breeds none but Heroick strains.
‘Your Arteries flush with noble Spirits,
‘O that you had but to your Merits.

‘Come, match you to a stately Dame,
‘Of Gentile Race, to advance your Name.
‘Be not so modest to deny
‘The World a Brood of Princes; Why,
‘Why should your Valour be depriv'd
‘Of Fame? Try, 'twill not be deny'd.

‘To those that from your Loyns shall come,
‘The Earth will joyfully find Room:
‘And proudly harbour such a Breed,
‘As shall from you and yours proceed.
‘With these and such like Flatteries,
‘The sottish youngster gives to prize
‘His fond conceited Worth; and in this Tumor
‘Of Pride, take him in the Humor,
‘And make him firmly plight his Troth
‘To one, whom a Sedan-Man would be loth
‘To carry to his proper Home,
‘And make the Fusty Quean his own.

‘Next day they make a quick Dispatch,
‘And in a Trice clap up the Match.
‘When he's scarce yet warm in's Geer,
‘Not having liv'd with her a Year;
‘But she has danc't the Fop a Jigg,
‘And giv'n the Gentleman a Figg.

‘Alas, how loath was he to leave her,
‘Her sweet Man dy'd of a Fever.
‘He's dead and gone, Heavens rest his Soul,
‘But ne're had Wife more cause to Howl,
‘For such a dear Husbands loss.
‘O, she'l follow him by Weeping-Cross.
‘He shall be her last Husband, he shall,
‘To find him she would lose Life and all.

‘Some good kind Body she would fain,
‘Quickly to put her out of her Pain.
‘For Pity's sake, in this Distress,
‘Dispatch her, she can do no less.
‘If not, her Self will do't; Come Death
‘And welcom, haste to stop my Breath.
‘Thus she deceives the World, Dejected,
‘A Mourner false, by none suspected.

‘She has no Issue, all's her own,
‘She's on a sudden Wealthy grown.
‘Now she's alone, but many a Lad,
‘For her sake, in warm Plush is clad.
‘With her together the Estate sharing,
‘Like Lords deliciously faring.
‘But she must spend her days in Tears,
‘Those few days that remain in Cares.

‘The managing of All, committing
‘To her good Friends, as they think fitting:
‘She'l lead a private Life, tho she
‘I'th' mean time, ne're so Publick be.
‘She'l take a Chamber, hire her Food,
‘And so mourn out her Widow-hood.
‘I will not say, She there lies Leager,
‘'Till she can find another, eager
‘Upon the Business, some hot Shot
‘That has a mind to go to th' Pot:
‘And then this Widow will not stick
‘To play you such another Trick.

CANTO IX.

‘Did y'ever see a Rav'nous Kite,
‘Or Towring Hawk, with fiercer Flight
‘Seize on a tender Dove, whose Pat
‘Posts him to the ground down Flat,
‘Or hath it ever been your Lot,
‘To see a trembling Leveret shot
‘Stark dead, unawares: Or for to view
‘A Harmless Lamb, first bid Adieu
‘T'his watchful Dam, and then to meet
‘With grizly Wolves, that sadly Greet
‘Their welcom Guest, the strongest Treats him
‘So kindly, as he means to eat him.

‘After this grim Salute, he fasts
‘His Claws t'his Sides, and down him casts.
‘He's ta'ne, he's sure, in vain to cry,
‘Too late to strive now, he must dye:
‘But not as yet, the Wolf will play,
‘And sport a while with his Prey.
‘At length, he chops upon the same,
‘At Maw, so ends the deadly Game.

‘Dallying himself thus out of Breath,
‘He Jests his Play-fellow to Death:
‘And having stufft his pamper'd Guts,
‘Licking his Chaps, away he struts.
‘Ladies and Sisters to me Heark,
‘Phœlanis Ghost, grim Nero's Mark.
‘'Twill make your pale Shades blush, to see
‘Your so far out-stript Cruelty.

‘Nor wonder I to see, at all,
‘An Ass under a Lion fall.
‘They are their proper Preys to push,
‘And at their liberty to crush.
‘These are Brute-beasts, yet in Man's Brest,
‘That Sacred Cabinet, may rest
‘Such Cruelty to their own kind,
‘As in Brutes you shall never find.

‘Women are Witches, there's a Hell
‘Of all she Devils; Heark, they yell:
‘So do they chafe, and frown and stare,
‘And foam and fret, and tear their Hair.
‘So do they whisper, and hide
‘In Cells from all the World beside.
‘So they disturb men in their sleep,
‘Like Franticks roar, howl and weep.

‘For no Offence, for no Sin,
‘At Innocents they squint and grin.
‘All this Flattery, be sure,
‘Is but like Harpies, to allure
‘Infants to Pluto's lustful Bed,
‘And to leave Changlings in their stead.
‘So they're amaz'd, as they that spye
‘Spectrums and Ghosts, which forthwith hy
‘To clasp them in their Claws, and soop
‘Them through the Air, riding Cock-a-Hoop.

‘To frightful Stories, Mortals hark,
‘Last Night I heard the Dog-Star bark.
‘Devils, you may blush, to view
‘Racks, never found out by you.

‘It may ravish your cruel Hearts,
‘To see Witches of such rare Parts,
‘Your selves out-done in your own Arts.

‘Thy help, Calliope, and yours Divine
‘Apollo, with the Sisters Nine.
‘Fill me a Draught of Helicon,
‘To quicken my Invention;
‘And let a Pitcher stand me by,
‘Which thou, my Muse, when I am dry,
‘Present, that I may drink up all,
‘The Virtue of which Liquor, shall
‘Advance my Genius, and create
‘A Shoal of Raptures sublimate.

‘Which shall infuse, dictate, inspire,
‘Teach me in a Poëtick Ire,
‘To shoot at Baseness; Here, O here,
‘You'l find it acted; Sirs, Come near.
‘Come all the World, and follow me,
‘'Tis I shall make Discovery.

‘You fancy Millions of Woes,
‘To be in Hell amongst your Foes;
‘But of what kind, no body knows.
‘Understand I would fain,
‘Where there's no Flesh, where lyes the Pain?
‘I'le grant, in the Soul is Guilt and Grief,
‘Horrour, Despair, and no Relief.

‘But we use Flesh and Bones to grind,
‘Cannot reach to torment the Mind.
‘But at the second hand, by Losses
‘Of Goods, and Worldly Crosses.

‘For this we ransack all the Weeds,
‘Grub up Roots, and rake up Seeds.
‘All venom'd Juyces serve our Needs,
‘Our Faith's in them more than our Creeds,
‘By which many a Patient bleeds.

‘A thousand poyson'd Simples meet,
‘In one Compound each other greet,
‘Joyning their forces in a Faction,
‘To make one strong united Action;
‘One, that for its mixture rare,
‘May with Medeas Drugs compare.
‘The Sybil, or Ciræan Fry,
‘For Poysoning, I dare defy.

‘For your Fancy you may take leave,
‘Freely Chimæra's to conceive.
‘Suppose a Naked Soul weltring in Blood,
‘And wallowing in Dirt and Mud;
‘Stuck with a thousand Darts, half dead,
‘With Ulcers all embroidered;
‘Abut whom a thousand Vipers cling,
‘And fasten many a poysonous Sting;
‘Gnawing his Heart, sucking his Blood,
‘And preying on his Flesh, for food.

‘Who can withstand a Sentence past,
‘Seeing his Execution haste?
‘Or what escape can he invent,
‘That sees his cruel Hangman sent.
‘A fearful Messenger of Death,
‘With a strict Charge, to stop his Breath?
‘The Law against him must proceed,
‘There's no Reprieve, he must bleed.

‘I am the Judge, with my own Hand,
‘I'le execute my own Command.

‘The most careful Shepheard Swain,
‘That sees his tender Kid half slain,
‘Cannot ransom from the Wolfs Jaws,
‘Or from the Mastiffs cruel Paws.
‘The Ass is in the Lions Den,
‘What hopes of Life can there be then?

‘Who sees a Murderer on the Rack,
‘And hears his Joynts in sunder crack;
‘That can choose but commiserate,
‘And bemoan his dying state?
‘Or who with dry Eyes can behold,
‘A Living Wretch in Chains extoll'd,
‘'Twixt Heaven and Earth, for every Crow
‘To peck at, flying too and fro.

‘A woful Spectacle to view,
‘How ev'ry hungry croaking Crew
‘Of Ravens, flutt'ring Night and Day,
‘Await his Carkass for their Prey.
‘What Crystal-Eye that sees him there,
‘Will not dissolve into a Tear?
‘When wanting Food, for to refresh
‘His dying Spirits, he eats his Flesh.

‘And here and there strives to bereave,
‘(So far as Chains will give him leave,)
‘His Breast and Shoulders of their poor
‘Lean Covert, gaping still for more.
‘It needs must wound a tender Soul,
‘To hear him shriek, to hear him howl,

‘For what none dare befriend him, Bread
‘And drink, till he be struck stark dead.

‘O, these are woful Objects, these
‘Are harsh to them that sit at ease.
‘To them that feel no pain, these Woes
‘Must needs be pity-moving Throes.
‘For tell me, Hardest-hearted can,
‘(But tell me first, thou art a Man.)
‘I say then, Can you choose but melt
‘For them that have such Torments felt?

‘Art flesh, frail flesh and bone,
‘And canst thou hear them sigh alone?
‘Mortal, and canst not afford one,
‘No, not the Echo of a Groan?
‘Why know, hard Sir, there's not a Rock
‘So Stony, but that it can mock
‘A Throb; there's not a Flint
‘So dull, but that it will give a Hint,
‘At least, of a true doleful Noise,
‘And strive for a shift to feign a Voice.

‘The very Marble, could it hear,
‘Would answer a Sob with a Tear.
‘And canst thou be so stupid, what
‘Not once to move, no not a jot,
‘At him that on the Gridiron lyes
‘And broils, at him that rosts and fryes?
‘What, canst not let one sad drop slip
‘From thy dry Eyes, be't but to drip
‘His scorched Limbs withal, or slake
‘The raging heat, canst thou not quake?

‘At him, that 'fore a Furnace turns
‘Upon a Spit, and roars, and burns?
‘At him that in a Fatt of boyling Lead,
‘Rowls him about till he be dead?
‘'Twere fit some Phalaris would try,
‘And teach thee Slave, the way to dye.
‘'Twere fit thou shouldst be taught to lull
‘I'th' Belly of some brazen Bull.
‘Put Fire and Anvil to thy Steel,
‘To try if thou hast sense to feel.

‘I wrong the Sex, in Woman kind,
‘It may be a good chance to find
‘A Creature, that can act, and see
‘With dry Eyes, such a Tragedy,
‘Which dire Erynnis would be shy
‘To view, and turn her head awry.
‘Nay, every twining Snake would hiss,
‘At such a base Revenge, as this.

‘The Furies are no Furies; No,
‘There is a Fury that I know;
‘I mean my self, for Cruelty
‘Surpassing far the Sisters Three.
‘The Panæ too, are very fair
‘In their Conditions, they will spare
‘A half-worn Thred of Life, and spin
‘It strong over again.
‘But take a bewitching Nurse,
‘(That Name can't pass without a Curse.)
‘I say, She, when she strikes, she strikes home,
‘Death at each stroke is felt to come.

‘It was the Tyrants Order, to strike so,
‘As to feel Death at every Blow.

‘Romes Firebrand, Nero, all compos'd
‘Of Blood and Mud, was so dispos'd:
‘In his own person, he set Knife,
‘To rip the curst Womb that gave him life.
‘So Sagan can Spectatrix be,
‘And Actrix of her Butchery.

‘What my Tongue pleases to command,
‘I'le strait perform with Bloody-hand.
‘But why spend I my Spirits to express
‘The Mirror of a Murderess.
‘In brief, I am, and I am all
‘That I can Damn'd or Cruel call.
‘I speak all this, while of my Self,
‘Not as I'm a Woman, but as I'm an Elf.

‘What think ye of those, that take Leaps
‘From Rocks Tarpeian, or Gemonian Steps?
‘Rowl in Barrels stuck with Spikes,
‘Stak'd on Crosses, Gall'd with Stripes;
‘Clos'd in a Trough, save Head and Feet,
‘Cram'd with most luscious Drink and Meat;
‘Dawb'd with Honey, blown with Flies,
‘Eat up alive with Worms and Lice.

‘Broyl'd on Gridirons, Fryed in Pans,
‘Prest with Weights, and choak'd with Bands.
‘Degraded, forfeited of Lands,
‘Sear'd with hot burning Brands.
‘Flesh torn with Pincers, rac'd with Hooks,
‘On Dunghills rot, pickt up by Rooks.
‘Draughts of Lead pour'd down their Throats,
‘Open Pipes for dying Notes.

‘In Ashes and Cynders rak't,
‘Bray'd in Mortars, in Ovens bak't.
‘Ugly, nasty, felonious Brungeons,
‘Kennel'd in dark Holes and Dungeons.
‘Drawn forth one by one, by Lot,
‘'Till all by Judgment go to Pot.
‘Sowst in Pickle, froz'n with Ice,
‘Eaten up with Vermin, Rats and Mice.

‘Joynts rackt and crackt upon a Wheel,
‘Battered with Bars of Steel,
‘A torturing, lingring Death shall feel.
‘A poyson'd Needle, from Steel-Bow,
‘Pricks you, whence you cannot know,
‘Nor how you receive your fatal Blow.
‘A glance from a bewitching Eye,
‘From Arteries to Heart shall fly.

‘A Glove, a Saddle, or Cloth,
‘Or a dram slipt into Broth,
‘An Odor, or perfum'd breath,
‘Shall occasion your death.
‘We learn from the Moor and Jew,
‘Ingredients the World never knew.
‘All of them exactly true,
‘To give every one his due.

CANTO X.

‘There was but lately sent from Hell,
‘A Scroll, containing such a Spell,
‘As rarely did Epitomize
‘What e're Pluto's Wit could devise.
‘With that a Shirt of Lawn, dy'd red,
‘And all over Charactered.
‘It was a Present from a Fiend,
‘Sent up to me, as a True Friend.

‘Th' inchanted Clout was for a Boy,
‘A Shirt to wear a Prety Toy.
‘Nessus his Shirt was such which caus'd the Wo,
‘Which Hercules did undergo.
‘Upon this in the dead of Night,
‘Most solemnly I did Recite
‘The Magick Spell, with whisp'ring Voice,
‘Seconded with so fierce a Noise,
‘As if the just then tottering World,
‘To its first Chaos had been hurl'd.

‘As if the Elements together russel'd,
‘To their first Matter had been jussl'd.
‘Then with an Ointment I bespread
‘The Fatal Cloth, and moistened
‘The same with a Heart-scorching Oil,
‘Mumbling and Mutt'ring all the while.

‘After this dire Conjuration,
‘These Magick Drugs eftsoon began
‘To shew their strength; the Wretch shall feel
‘In his heart, like hot burning Steel.

‘When it clings close 'bout him, it shall Sear
‘To th' Bone the broiled Flesh all rear.
‘Forthwith I bath it with tart Wine,
‘Suppling it now and then with Brine.

‘Sowst in this Pickle, poor Wights lay
‘Soaking many a live-long Day.
‘With leaden Wings then Time shall fly,
‘And seeming, the Worlds glorious Eye
‘Stand stone-still, staring, and loytered
‘His Journey t'wards his Western-Bed.
‘Sol's Royal Sister does display,
‘A tedious Night prolonging Ray.

‘And sporting in Conjunction,
‘With some more lusty Planet, run
‘Beyond her wonted bounds of Night,
‘Encroaching on her Brothers Right.
‘Then give a Drink that does restore
‘The Flesh as perfect, as before.
‘An Icy Julip, I dare reveal,
‘Shall make the boyling Blood congeal.
‘Thus adverse Tortures both meet,
‘The last of Cold, the first of Heat.

‘When Children are by me Accurst,
‘Distracted, and ready to burst.
‘They stretch their Throats with woful crying,
‘While in their Cradles they lye dying,
‘And could they, thus they would have spake,
‘Mother, do not make our Hearts ake.
‘Dearest Mother, pray forbear,
‘Be, O be mov'd with this one Tear.

‘This brinish Tear, that trickling-streams
‘About our Rosy-Cheeks; these Beams
‘That from our blubb'ring Eye-balls dart,
‘O let them pierce thy very Heart;
‘Or it into Compassion melt,
‘Let it suffice what we have felt.
‘O spare our Lives, we humbly crave,
‘And make us every one your Slave.

‘We cannot speak, our Looks they plead,
‘Good sweet Nurse, do not make us bleed.
‘List to the language of our Eyn,
‘See how our hands express our Mind.
‘Our looks beg thus, and not our Tongue,
‘Then do not poor dumb Infants wrong.

‘Did y'ever hear a Captive Slave,
‘More earnestly for Freedom crave.
‘And that he might but see the Light,
‘Once more, before Deaths endless Night
‘Approach, that the Dungeon Cave
‘Might not, alas, be made his Grave.

‘Or have you heard poor Pris'ners yawl
‘At Passengers, with lowder Call,
‘To force their Charity; or sing
‘A New-Gate sadder Tone; or ring
‘Their Shackles, with a noise more shrill
‘Than these poor Creatures will.
‘All to no purpose, all in vain,
‘I'le make them have more cause t'complain.
‘They strive and cry, all does no good,
‘The Horse-Leech longs to suck more Blood.

‘Alas, no Mercy, I forgo it,
‘Compassion, I, I never show it,
‘I care not, if all the World know it.

‘O were we banish'd out from Men,
‘Thrust into a Wolf or Tygers Den;
‘We should find more Mercy sure,
‘And lesser Torments endure.
‘'Tis Death we every moment fear,
‘No comfort is to be found here:
‘Yet Death denying still to come,
‘We are still cheated by its Ludibrium.

‘But is this all? No, nor the thousand part
‘Of what I could repeat, by roat of heart.
‘In Graves, and ev'ry Charnel Hall,
‘Was our delight, and ever shall.

‘But, Oh I faint, I'm out of breath,
‘If I go on, I meet with Death.
‘My strength now will not bear it,
‘Nor your Patience, to hear it.

‘My Lords o're all the World admir'd,
‘To serve you we shall be re-inspir'd.
‘Now you may make a full Report
‘Of Witchcrafts, to the Infernal Court,
‘To whom my Duty; Fare ye well,
‘I hope to meet you all in Hell.

Dixi.

Canidia.
‘Thanks Sister, for your pains due to you,
‘Satis fecisti Officio Tuo.
‘Now, my Lords, I as President,
‘By my Authority, not Complement,

‘Dissolve this Council: Go your ways,
‘We shall study all your Praise.

‘But bare Words shall not suffice,
‘We'l fit you with a Sacrifice.
‘We have exchang'd a Noble Boy,
‘Left in his room an Ideot Toy;
‘Him we devote, by Instigation,
‘For a Magick Propitiation.
‘And when you are all fixt in Hell,
‘This Odor from our Altars you shall smell.

Dixi.

‘So, now they're gone, and I ha'done,
‘For this Job, my Web is spun.
‘Sisters, my Charge to you is, When enrag'd
‘For deep Revenge, you stand engag'd.
‘You have your Commissions, you know,
‘From the Illustrious States below:
‘And because they are at large,
‘I give you this special Charge.

‘You know my mind, Go strip the Lad,
‘Whom you in safe Custody have had.
‘Dig a Hole in the ground, put him in,
‘Bury him close up to the Chin.
‘Regard not his Cries nor Tears,
‘For fear you should stop close your Ears.
‘That you may do him the utmost spight,
‘Set Delicacies in his sight;
‘Let him smell, not taste, pine day and night.
‘When all's consum'd to Skin and Bone,
‘Favour him not to dye alone.

‘Take him up alive, and roast the Brat,
‘As you would do a Dog or Cat:
‘But save his Liver, Lungs and Heart,
‘Keep them safe in an Urn apart,
‘Beat them to Powder, serve them up
‘In a Lovers Spiced Cup.
‘Burn the Carkass, for a Perfume
‘To Proserpina's Dining-Room.

‘So I dismiss you, I am tyr'd,
‘As a Hackney in a Bog bemir'd.
‘Get you gone you Mischievous Jades,
‘Go, keep your Shops, and follow your Trades.

Dixi.