Canidia, or the Witches A Rhapsody. In Five Parts |
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| VIII. |
| IX. | CANTO IX. |
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 | Canidia, or the Witches |  |
50
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.
‘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.
‘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.
‘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.
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‘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.
‘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.
‘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.
‘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.
‘Last Night I heard the Dog-Star bark.
‘Devils, you may blush, to view
‘Racks, never found out by you.
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‘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.
‘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.
‘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.
‘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.
‘Cannot reach to torment the Mind.
‘But at the second hand, by Losses
‘Of Goods, and Worldly Crosses.
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‘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.
‘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.
‘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.
‘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.
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‘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?
‘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.
‘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.
‘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.
‘(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,
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‘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?
‘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.
‘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?
‘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?
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‘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.
‘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.
‘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.
‘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.
‘As to feel Death at every Blow.
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‘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.
‘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.
‘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.
‘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.
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‘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.
‘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.
‘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.
‘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.
| Canidia, or the Witches | |