Durgen Or, A Plain Satyr upon a Pompous Satyrist. Amicably Inscrib'd, by the Author, to those Worthy and Ingenious Gentlemen misrepresented in a late invective Poem, call'd, The Dunciad [by Edward Ward] |
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 | Durgen |  |
From sultry Regions, in the road to Hell,
Where Parrots talk, and Apes and Monkeys dwell,
Where Blacks and Whites in scorching Valleys sweat
Between stupendious Mountains cleft with heat;
By help of restless Winds and rowling Seas,
My Muse arriv'd in London, numb'd with ease,
After sh'ad long been lazily confin'd
'Twixt floating Planks by Art together join'd,
Which, like a Cradle, rocking on the deep,
Quite dull'd her Genius with immod'rate sleep,
And lull'd her hourly into frightful dreams
Of Storms, Sea-monsters, and a thousand Whims,
Besides the real Dangers, which her Eyes
Beheld around her, to her great surprise;
Bacchus, 'tis true, sometimes would make her shine,
But, Morpheus still prevail'd, in spight of Wine,
With leaden Hands depriv'd her of her sight,
And made her often change the Day to Night,
Pent in a Cabbin of a Coffin size,
Till Thirst or Hunger forc'd her to arise:
And thus, my Muse, returning from afar,
Her Jacket, like John Taylor's, stunk of Tar;
To air her Weeds, from which offensive scent,
A Boat she call'd, and up the Thames she went,
Where briskly did her Slaves their Oars imploy,
And, as they row'd, cry'd Twick'nham, Twick'nham, hoy;
My Muse, delighted with the flowing Tyde,
And Osiers bowing from the River side,
Her old neglected Harp anew she strung,
And, as the Boat danc'd forward, thus she sung.
Where Parrots talk, and Apes and Monkeys dwell,
Where Blacks and Whites in scorching Valleys sweat
Between stupendious Mountains cleft with heat;
By help of restless Winds and rowling Seas,
My Muse arriv'd in London, numb'd with ease,
After sh'ad long been lazily confin'd
'Twixt floating Planks by Art together join'd,
2
Quite dull'd her Genius with immod'rate sleep,
And lull'd her hourly into frightful dreams
Of Storms, Sea-monsters, and a thousand Whims,
Besides the real Dangers, which her Eyes
Beheld around her, to her great surprise;
Bacchus, 'tis true, sometimes would make her shine,
But, Morpheus still prevail'd, in spight of Wine,
With leaden Hands depriv'd her of her sight,
And made her often change the Day to Night,
Pent in a Cabbin of a Coffin size,
Till Thirst or Hunger forc'd her to arise:
And thus, my Muse, returning from afar,
Her Jacket, like John Taylor's, stunk of Tar;
To air her Weeds, from which offensive scent,
A Boat she call'd, and up the Thames she went,
Where briskly did her Slaves their Oars imploy,
And, as they row'd, cry'd Twick'nham, Twick'nham, hoy;
My Muse, delighted with the flowing Tyde,
And Osiers bowing from the River side,
3
And, as the Boat danc'd forward, thus she sung.
| Durgen | |