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

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.