 | Poems Lyrique Macaronique Heroique |  |
116
Mock SONG LXVIII,
To --- I pry'thee don't Fly me, &c.
[Pox on thee! get from me]
1
Pox on thee! get from me,This does not become thee,
I cannot abide,
One un-frenchefi'd,
A Curse on your Gaffers and Johns!
Your mopps, and your mowes!
With your half legg'd shell'd Shoes,
Your Gammers and Dames
With such rustical Names!
And a full mouthed Oath,
As a Cifre, to both,
You may keep for the Clownes, and their Sons;
For aspiring (at first) to have been all as one
The Devil's foot was Cleft for a destinction.
2
Abatements Degrading,Are for men of Trading,
Who since have forgon
By Birth, what's their own
And their souls are disposed thereafter;
117
To be call'd God knows what,
Sir, Richard's of Fame,
Above any Nick-name,
That sounds halt or lame
And is like a May-game
To provoke all the hearers, to laughter,
He that bears a base mind, or Mechaniquely lives
Reverts, his own Armes, or a Batoun he gives,
3
I Love those Contrivements,Of noble Atcheivements,
Where Argent, and Or
Prefer men before
The Vulgar, for Wisdom and breeding;
For why should a Fool,
The Wiser, or'e Rule
Who's Lord of the Soyle
But untill'd, the while,
As to Manners or Arts,
Though a Gyant in Parts
And is better worth hanging, then feeding
Clounisme is dross, and course flesh, but rust is,
'Tis common (though unclean) to be both Clark and Justice.
118
4
For why should we be,Of the new Paritye,
'Cause there are a few,
Of the Levelling Crew,
Who would have us all equal & brothers
Such turbulent Spirits,
May they have their Demerits
Loose health, wealth & blood
With their Countries good
And be condemn'd fit,
To pay, for their Witt,
And hang out oth' reach of all others:
Pesantry's base, and who's born to't must wear it,
But Honour is the Merit of the Persons, that bear it.
5
Were I Prince, for my part,Let others, go try for't,
I'de soberly Rule,
And smal ones befool,
Who squander their times, out in Drinking,
I'le not Intoxicate,
With Canaries, my Pate;
The Scout, I'le assure ye,
And every Mercury,
With each book of News,
I will so far use,
To Furnish Discourse after Thinking:
119
And he is but a Fool, that relies not upon her.
| Poems Lyrique Macaronique Heroique | |