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

There's a rich Curmudgeon, lies privately lurking
In a Hole, for fear of a Satyrical Jerking.
My Satyr has took a Scent, by good hap,
And rowzes him up with a gentle Slap.
He'l not part with a Penny, at any Rate,
To ease the charge of Church or State,
This Man's an Enemy to Fate.
That rakes all for his own Flesh and Blood,
And gives nothing to the Common Good.

If I had my wishes, this Miser's Seed,
Should be all a Bastard breed.
I'de set all the Whoremasters a work,
To make him a Cuckold and a slave to the Turk,
Or the Grand Signior, should send him a black Box,
To strangle, or cut his Throat like an Ox.
And seize upon all, by Law, not stealth,
Because he would do no good to the Commonwealth.
A Rogue with a Vengeance, every body knows,
That deserves nothing but Bangs and Blows.

He sits under Hatches, down in the Hold,
Hovering o're his Bags of Gold.

Wak't out of his sleep with the noise of the Guns,
To the Deck, for fear, in all haste he runs,
As if it were at the coming of the Huns.
There he rubs his Eyes, half waken,
Asks, Do we take, or are we taken?
But puts no hand to Steerage or Tacklin,
Capston, Sails, Maintop or Jackline.
When Boatswain cries, All hands to the Pump,
He sits still upon his rotten Rump.

Every honest Saylor could afford,
To heave such a Whoreson over-board.
In a Vessel that will have no Command,
Nor offer to put the least helping hand.
'Tis all one, let the Commons sink or swim,
So it be well enough with him.
He neither Cures, nor Preaches, nor Pleads,
Nor Philosophy, nor History, nor Law reads,
Nor much regards to use his Beads.
Nor troubles himself to obey or controll,
As if, indeed, he had no Soul.

A Hog in a Sty, a Lion in his Den,
Both Devourers of Beasts and Men.
When gone, no body wishes him here agen,
So are they, that are fitter for Beasts than Men.
'Tis a lamentable thing, to have Meat, Drink, and Clothing.
Plenty of all things, and be good for nothing.
Others study, Plead, Preach, Heal, and Fight.
Trade and work for others Profit and Delight.
Do themselves and others all good and right,
And this Drone, all the while, plays least in sight.

He must be a burden to the ground,
In whom no publick Love is found.
He that deserves no good Name, live nor dead,
We may well take the Beetle and knock him i'th' Head.
If he were but left to brave Sea-Boys,
His business would quickly be done, without noise.
That has neither parts of Body or Mind,
A great Estate, and to Nothing kind.

If it were to be hang'd, let him go,
If it were to be damn'd, no body will say No.
Him that no body can endure,
No body will oblige be sure.
So he lives in the World neglected,
Neither protecting, nor deserves to be protected.
Of all men hated and suspected,
And by all the World rejected.

He pleases himself, like a Sow in the Mud,
No body can love him, bad nor good.
He's not worthy of his daily Food,
That is of such a Selfish Mood.
His Name and his Carkass alike shall rot,
And be evermore forgot.
Nay more, he lives and dyes with Curses,
For robbing Orphans, Strangers, and Widows Purses.
Robbin the Devil's a better good Fellow,
Than a dry Sullen Cur, that will never be Mellow.

There's another Busie-body, Dandiprat-Devil.
Runs about, Fawns upon all Companies, good and evil.
Insinuates into every mans Humors;
Fetches and carries all Tales and Rumors.

One of Mercury and Ganymed's Gang,
As fit as ever they were to hang,
Hebe and Cupid were of the same Tribes,
Of Lacquays and Pages, that live upon Bribes.

To set Lords and Ladies at strife,
As far as to part Friends, tho Man and Wife,
No body can lead a quiet life.
Ulysses and Sinon were damnable Lyars,
As good as e're were Spirit Tryars,
Or the old Saint Self-Denyars.
Look to your Tongues then, more than your Purses,
Have a care of Tale-bearing-Doegna-Nurses,
That do more hurt by Lyes, than Witches by Curses.

The Trojan Horse was not stufft with more Spikes and Nails,
Than an old Doegna with Lyes and Tales.
They carry Fire-brands in their Clags,
The Instrument that ever wags,
Bemoans and Howls, and makes great Brags.
Families, Cities and Kingdoms flame,
By the tip of a Tongue in the Devils Name.
Stufft with Lyes, and false Oaths of all sizes,
Enough to furnish a whole Assizes.

For Favour and Gain, he hath a plaguy Itch,
To wipe every mans Tail, and kiss every mans Britch,
What think ye, is he not worse than a Witch?
He must be found out, and perfectly hated,
And from all honest men quite separated.
None but a Fool and a Knave is able to bear him,
The Boys in the Streets will be ready to tear him.

He has infected all that come near him,
The Coblers and Tinkers fall to Jeer him.
Every one shall be Rogue, and be Jack him,
When they find there is no body to back him.

These, I suppose, are most obscure men,
But what think ye of the Suitors of Illustrious Pen?
That eat up the Estate, whor'd the Waiting Maids,
Hang'd up by their Master Ulysses, for Jades.
What was Mercury, but a Lyar and a Thief?
And Simon the Greek but a Traytor in chief?
Who, like Cupid the blind Boy,
Wrought by his Lyes the Destruction of Troy?

Catamites, Hebe and Ganymede,
Were Parasites of a baser Breed,
Yet their Lords and Ladies could make use of them for a need.
Take heed of these lofty dangerous Sirs,
Those Setting-Dogs and Blood-hound Curs,
Those Foxes that devour in counterfeit Furs.
Hyena's, Crocodiles, Allegators,
Sharks, Polypragmans, Agitators.
Vertumnus, Changling Translators,
Intolerable Make-bates, everlasting Praters.

Keep all such Rogues and Whores,
From ever coming within your doors,
Or treading on your Closet Floors.
'Tis they will make your Bed and Table a Snare,
Bring you to shame, want, and care.
They are shameless, disguised Mummers,
Trepanners of all in and out Comers.
They sound Trumpets, Fifes, and Drums,
Beat up your Quarters, and lick up your Crums.

Away with these Rascals to the Pit of Hell,
Without them the World would do all so well.
Send 'um all full and fasting,
Into Torments everlasting.

These are your Jugling Lads and Lasses,
That taste in all your Pots and Glasses.
These drop Poyson into your Cup,
Which they and their Imps must drink all up.
Wise mens Wits are not decay'd,
But Fools and Asses will be betray'd.
But if ye have Spirits rough and enough,
You shall shake them off, be they ne're so tough,
And turn them going, with a Kick and a Puff.

A Crotchet comes newly into my Crown,
Concerning the Bumkin Country-Clown.
The Shop's a cheat, the Court's a Charmer,
But no Knave's like to the Country Farmer.
His Landlord and his Parson he rides,
Spite of their Wealth and Wit besides.
His blundering clung Pate plods,
To undo both, or set them at odds.

No Reason or Religion can perswade,
To drive him from his sharking Trade.
He is of such tough devilish Mettal made,
Mettal to th' back, a Bilbao Blade.
But all won't do, he never thrives,
Tho he bury ne're so many Wives.
The Plow is an honest Calling.
But cannot keep the Knave from falling.

He that deals in Grass and Hay,
For Debt is ready to run away.

The Butcher for him is too cunning,
Cheats him, for all his Dunning.
The Grasiers and Plow-Joggers,
Are both turn'd, Jockies, and Petyfoggers.
They'l be too crafty, if they can,
For the Priest, and the Gentleman.

But the rugged rough-hewn Swain,
Is the greater Rogue o'th' twain,
He'l sell his Soul to the Devil for Gain.
He'l shave his Landlords Woods and Groves,
Cut down all the Trees in his Hedge-Rows.
Poach his Game, by Water and Land,
Venison is at his command.

Without and beyond all Reason,
Drives the fattest Land out of Season.
Leaves all barren and bare,
To starve a Cony, or a Hare.
Ruines his Houses, Orchards and Gardens,
Leaves his Children to the Churchwardens.
Curses and damns all his Betters,
Till the Jaylor keeps him in Fetters.

‘Just now another Whimsy comes into my head,
‘Not the first time I've been found with a Lord in Bed.
‘In those days I was wo'd and courted,
‘By as many Blades, as to Penelope resorted.
‘Only I entertain'd all, and bid 'um stay,
‘But she, like a Fool, sent 'um all away.

Thais and Lais, and Hellen I scorn'd,
And Venus, by whom Vulcan was Horn'd.

Cleopatra had the Fame,
Of a most delicate, charming Dame.
‘But if I had come in Mark Anthony's way,
‘I wou'd have made him more mad, I dare say,
‘For I shou'd have giv'd him fairer Play.

‘In those days, when I was brisk and gay,
‘My Beauty and Wit would Cæsar betray.
‘But I have studied hard, since then,
‘And not left to keep company with Men.
‘And have traverst the World too and agen,
‘And got more Experience, than Ulysses's ten.

‘Mark Antony did shamefully dote,
‘Upon a rank Tawny she Goat.
‘Still I gave my mind to study,
‘And held out bravely, both comly and ruddy.
‘I have got and bred up many a Hag,
‘And will, as long as I can wag,
‘And for this, I have great cause to brag.

‘By long Travel through Sea and Land,
‘I gain to practise by Hand.
‘And thereby it hath been my Lot,
‘To send thousands to the Pot.
‘Revenge is sweeter than Honey,
‘Better than Power, Honour, or Money.

‘To Learning this hath me invited,
‘By which this Satyr is endited.
‘At which Honest men must be delighted,
‘But Rogues and Rascals may be frighted,
‘For which by them I shall be spighted.
‘My business is, Baseness to reveal,
‘Not to teach men to kill or steal.

‘In their Colours I have pourtray'd,
‘Baseness, e're since I was a Maid.
‘I've many Brats, as bad as my self,
‘But, like me, none are giv'n to Pelf.
The Hollander I do bewitch,
The Jew is troubled with the Itch.
What do the French and Spaniards ail?
The Italian's always wagging his Tail,
The German loves a Pot of Ale.
'Tis Wine, pure Wine revives sad Souls,
The Scholar loves the Cheering Bowls.