Apollo's Maggot in his Cups :: :: University of Virginia Library

Apollo's Maggot in his Cups

or, the Whimsical Creation of a Little Satyrical Poet. A Lyrick Ode [by Edward Ward]

Ward, Edward (1667-1731)

[epigraph]

[dedication]

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To the Worshipful Dicky Dickison, Esq;

Apollo's Maggot in his Cups:

EPIGRAM.

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Apollo's Maggot in his Cups:

OR THE Whimsical Creation, &c.

I

In a calm Season of the Year,
When Winds withheld their Fury,
And Phœbus, when the Skies were clear,
Display'd his utmost Glory.

II

The Gods, upon a gaudy Day.
Resolving to be Merry,
Postpon'd the cares of heav'nly Sway,
To drink and sing Down-derry.

III

Bacchus enrich'd the Bowl of Bowls
With Nectar, fit for quaffing;
Round which, they sat like jolly Souls,
Some jesting, others laughing.

IV

Each plac'd a Goddess by his Side,
To aggrandize the meeting,
Who laid by all starch'd female Pride,
And drank without entreating.

V

Hymen, t'exhilerate the rest,
Made Mirth his sole Imployment;
And kind Apollo sung his best,
To heighten their Enjoyment.

VI

About the Tumbler rowl'd apace,
Whilst Jove, with Peals of Thunder,
Did e'ery round their Bumpers grace,
Till half the Gods knock'd under.

VII

Yet e'ery Female kept her place,
No Goddess prov'd a Sneaker,
But, like good Wives, unlac'd their Stays,
To make more room for Liquor:

VIII

Retiring now and then to seek
A Place to ease their Bodies;
For Goddesses that drink must leak,
As well as mortal Dowdies.

IX

Whence Nectar flow'd, at second hand,
On this low'r World in Showers,
Which fructify'd each Farmer's Land,
And fill'd the Meads with Flowers.

X

Made Herbs and Plants spring up apace,
Set Brooks and Dykes a flowing,
And kindly water'd e'ery Place
Poor Mortals had been Sowing.

XI

Bless'd with a Bowl immensly wide,
And deeper than the Ocean,
Each God drank kindly to his Bride,
A Gallon at a Potion.

XII

Till e'ery bright celestial Dame
Behav'd like mortal Hussies,
And, in their altitudes, cry'd shame
On their inebrious Spouses.

XIII

Thus drank the Gods, like Sots on Earth
That drown their Cares and Hardships,
Till Nectar and excessive Mirth
Had quite disguis'd their Lordships.

XIV

Some nodding sat, with drowzy Eyes,
To quit their Seats unable,
Whilst others made hard shift to rise,
And stagger from the Table.

XV

Some, now and then, pop'd out a Jest,
Some foam'd with over-speaking,
Some turn'd their Backs upon the rest
To ease themselves by leaking.

XVI

Whilst others tott'ring to and fro,
With Hickup much tormented,
Would neither tipple, stay, nor go,
But from all rule dissented.

XVII

Some squabbling here, some jossling there,
Were neither gay nor loving,
But, to be going, teas'd the Fair,
Who were not yet for moving.

XVIII

Each Goddess having right to sit;
For all celestial Powers
May drink as long as they think fit,
The Blessed know no Hours.

XIX

As Wine, on Earth, tempts our Elect
To tipple more than titting,
So, Nectar had the same effect,
At this their heav'nly Meeting.

XX

For Gods, like Gownmen at a Feast,
Reel'd Brother against Brother,
And drank so long, that e'ery Guest
Seem'd Strangers to each other.

XXI

The weaker to their Mansions stole,
When they could quaff no longer,
And left the last triumphant Bowl,
A Trophy for the stronger.

XXII

Which charm'd all those that would not move,
To fondle one another,
Till, like the Family of Love,
Each Sister bless'd a Brother.

XXIII

Thus all the Gods that staid behind,
With their immortal Spouses,
Kiss'd and drank on, till few could find
Their own celestial Houses.

XXIV

But, in their Cups, their Mantles furl'd,
Reel'd up and down the Heavens,
And left the Care of this low'r World,
At sixes and at sevens.

XXV

Apollo, in this merry Mood,
Brim full of Whims and Fancies,
Slip'd down, and on Parnassus stood,
To soberize his Senses.

XXVI

As thus his Godship's Presence crown'd
The lofty barren Mountain,
He 'spy'd the Muses sporting round
The Heliconian Fountain.

XXVII

Fair Ladies, quoth the God, I find
You're all at present Idle,
And seem not in the least inclin'd
To handle Pipe or Fiddle;

XXVIII

Therefore, Sweethearts, if you think fit
To lend assistance to it,
We'll form a little snarling Wit,
And call the thing a Poet.

XXIX

Not that we'll be so bold or vain
To give him human Stature,
But 'twixt a Monkey and a Man,
Just hammer out the Creature.

XXX

What if we knead the Dirt awry,
Or that he warps in baking;
He will not be the only Toy
That has been spoil'd in making.

XXXI

If so it happens, then we'll stuff
The Pigmy with ill-nature,
And give him Pride and Wit enough,
To teaze the World with Satyr.

XXXII

The Muses standing side by side,
Each dizen'd like a Slattern,
We're at your service, all reply'd,
Most wise and noble Patron.

XXXIII

We'll exercise our utmost Arts
In e'ery gross Material,
And leave to you the nobler Parts,
That must be more Æthereal.

XXXIV

Fond of the Work, they took their turns,
No pains were thought fatiguing,
But run and fill'd their nectar'd Urns
With Rubbish got by digging.

XXXV

And when they'd fetch'd sufficient Muck,
To raise up this new wonder;
For want of Tools, with Hands they broke
The sundry'd Clods asunder.

XXXVI

Clio, the Eldest of the Nine,
For Arts and Science noted,
Seem'd highly pleas'd with the design
Apollo had promoted;

XXXVII

And taking much delight in true
Historical Relation,
Resolv'd to minute down this new
Attempt of a Creation.

XXXVIII

Discreet Thalia, who restrains,
At e'ery publick Meeting,
Poets, from torturing their Brains,
By drinking more than fitting,

XXXIX

Went soberly to Work, among
The rest, but never prated;
Because much Liquor or much Tongue,
The prudent Sister hated.

XL

Her biggest Harp, Euterpe brings,
Most kindly condescending,
To skreen the Dirt between the Strings,
And fit the Mass for blending.

XLI

Melpom'ne, her assistance lent,
And so did Polyhimny,
Whose crabbed Name would nee'r consent
To any Rhime but Chimny.

XLII

Calliope, Terpsichore,
Erato and Urania,
All join'd and made up three times Three,
To punish poor Britannia,

XLIII

In raising up a new Tom Thumb,
To mortify her Poets,
Whose lofty Genius should become
A terror to all Low-wits:

XLIV

For plaguing a contentious Age,
With Party-Lyes and Verses,
And foisting on the British Stage,
Dull Madrigals and Farces.

XLV

Apollo, in this drunken fit,
Provok'd by these Abuses,
To raise a bold reforming Wit,
Thus exercis'd the Muses.

XLVI

Who had no sooner skreen'd the Soil
From Bodies hard and knotty,
And made it fit, by Care and Toil,
For temp'ring into Putty.

XLVII

But they their Hose and Shoes pull'd off,
Tuck'd up their Coats much shorter,
First leak'd and wet, than trod the Stuff,
As Lab'rers do their Mortar.

XLVIII

Thus all harmoniously agreed
To work up this foul Matter,
And as the jumbl'd Mass had need,
To blend it with Maid's Water.

XLIX

But Maidens they, alass, had none,
Each Muse had been a Mother,
Were therefore forc'd to use their own,
Which did as well as t'other.

L

But e'er the Jades had wrought their Starch
Into a right consistence,
The Gods beheld, from Heav'ns high Arch,
Apollo at a distance.

LI

And wond'ring what the Game could be
That he was there pursuing,
Descended in a Train to see
What Bus'ness he was doing.

LII

Jove ask'd Apollo what those fine
Delicious Dames were treading,
That frisk'd about, as if all nine
Were dancing at a Wedding.

LIII

Apollo, with a silent Mouth,
Stood blushing for a Moment,
At last pop'd out the naked Truth,
Without Excuse or Comment.

LIV

To which, Great Jove made this reply,
Affecting Godlike Passion,
Apollo, know you not that I
Am Lord of the Creation.

LV

How durst you mimick human Shape?
Or give a Pigmy Reason?
To Coin, like Man, a little Ape,
'Gainst Heaven is High-Treason.

LVI

However, having some regard
For an immortal Brother,
I'll let you form one Monkey Bard,
But ne'er attempt another.

LVII

Apollo bowing, did reply,
O pardon this Transgression!
We'll never more offend you by
A counterfeit Creation.

LVIII

When thus the great celestial King
The Secret had discover'd,
The Gods and Goddesses took Wing,
And o'er the Muckhill hover'd.

LIX

Some laughing till they drop'd their sweet
And soft perfuming Ichor,
Which falling at the Muses Feet,
Still made their Paist the thicker.

LX

At length, when wrought as stiff as Clay
That bungs a Brewer's Barrel,
To make it bind, instead of Straw,
They mix'd it with chop'd Laurel.

LXI

Then humbly squatting o'er the Mass,
They open'd both their Sluces,
Thro' which was drop'd, by e'ery Lass,
A tincture of the Muses.

LXII

When thus the Soil, both thick and thin,
Most carefully was blended,
Envy arose, just piss'd therein,
And then again descended.

LXIII

The jumbl'd Matter now in trim,
For their design'd formation,
Each took a Lump to make a Limb,
And mould it into fashion.

LXIV

Some form'd an Arm, and some a Leg,
Regarding not Proportion,
Which prov'd too little or too big,
All ending in Distortion.

LXV

Like Claws the Fingers and the Toes,
The Muscles soft and flabby,
Knotted the Joints, and weak as those
Of ricketty poor Baby.

LXVI

When these were hung to dry for use,
Upon some Crabtree Branches,
To frame the Trunk, made e'ery Muse
Scratch both her Head and Haunches.

LXVII

Till Goody Hunx, a neighb'ring Scold,
But notable old Puzzle,
Lent 'em a Hog-Trough for a Mould,
Where Swine were us'd to guzzle,

LXVIII

But hollow'd by some rural Lout,
The Bottom prov'd unlevel,
Which caus'd the Back to belly-out,
Skew-waw upon a bevel.

LXIX

To this wry Trunk the Limbs they join'd,
Some crooked and some straighter,
Which made the Muses blush to find
Their Workmanship no better.

LXX

The God then carefully survey'd
The poor unfinish'd Figure;
I wish, said he, it had been made
More perfect and much bigger.

LXXI

Besides, my Dames, in this your Work,
There's one Neglect that vexes,
You've quite forgot the middle Mark
That should distinguish Sexes.

LXXII

For what Anatomist can tell,
By this poor thingless Body,
Whether you mean it for a Male,
Or for a Female Dowdy.

LXXIII

'Tis strange you Mistresses of Art,
With Love so well acquainted,
Should quite forget that noble Part,
For your delight appointed.

LXXIV

The Muses blush'd at this Reproof,
B'ing modest, young and tender,
So dab'd on just an Inch of Stuff,
Enough to shew the Gender.

LXXV

For Wits are very rarely blest
With an extensive Label,
The am'rous Fool is always best
Adorn'd below the Navel.

LXXVI

Besides, they proving thus unkind
To this our rhiming Brother,
Discover'd plainly they'd no mind
He should beget another.

LXXVII

Once more the God their Work survey'd,
With this new Emendation,
But shook his Tresses and his Head,
To shew disapprobation.

LXXVIII

I hop'd, said he, I should have prais'd
A pritty little Fellow,
Instead of which, you've only rais'd
An aukward Punchionello.

LXXIX

But since you've cast, with so much pains,
So odd a dumpling Creature,
I'll form the Head and stuff in Brains
Sufficient for a Satyr.

LXXX

Then humbly stooping to the Ground,
He gave his Hands the trouble
To take a Lump, so squeez'd it round,
As Youngsters do a Snowball.

LXXXI

When modell'd to his Mind, the God
Blow'd twice or thrice upon it,
And thus inspir'd the little Clod,
With Satyr and with Sonnet.

LXXXII

When, with much pleasure and success,
The God had made this trial,
He dab'd the Clay against a Face
That grac'd his brazen Viol,

LXXXIII

Which such a fine Impression made,
Well tinctur'd with the Mettle,
That, to this day, adorns the Head,
And shines like any Kettle.

LXXXIV

This done, he fix'd the Costard on,
Between two rising Shoulders,
Then top'd it with a laurel Crown,
To th'Joy of the Beholders.

LXXXV

The lifeless Image thus compleat,
Breath only now was wanting,
To animate this unborn Wit,
The God had been inventing,

LXXXVI

He therefore for old Vulcan sent,
Who with him brought his Bellows,
And plac'd 'em to the backward Vent,
As modern Authors tell us,

LXXXVII

There blow'd, till the cornuted Cuff,
With Air, had fill'd each Organ,
Which kind suppository Puff
Gave Life to little Durgen;

LXXXVIII

Who skip'd as nimbly as a Flea,
And danc'd like any Fairy,
Which pleas'd Apollo much, to see
His pigmy Son so airy.

LXXXIX

The God then took him to himself,
And warm'd him in his Bosom,
But found the Breath of this new Elf
Prov'd very strong and loathsome.

XC

Come, come, said he, my little Son,
There's some defect within you,
But my approv'd Catholicon
Shall gently purge and clean-you.

CXI

Then snatch'd him up into a Cloud,
There doctor'd him with Physick,
But left some Humours in his Blood,
That turn'd to Spleen and Phtisick.

XCII

When thus the God had done his best,
To serve his little Creature,
And taught him to excel the rest
That live or starve by Meter;

XCIII

Adorn'd him as a fav'rite Son,
With many quaint Devices,
He gently drop'd him down upon
The Banks of Thame and Isis,

XCIV

Where the kind God, to shew his Love,
As with his Son he parted,
Wanting to imitate Great Jove,
Instead of Thunder, farted.

XCV

Then bounding from the Earth at once,
To show his Godlike Nature,
He this kind Blessing did pronounce
Upon his darling Satyr:

XCVI

Thy Body, tho' deform'd and lean,
Yet, great shall be thy Merit,
Lofty thy Muse, sublime thy Pen,
And very proud thy Spirit;

XCVII

Tho' little, thou shalt sing aloud,
Be famous, tho' thou'rt homely,
Grow old and gray before thou'rt good,
And bald before thou'rt comely.

XCVIII

The Ladies that admire thy Strains,
When they behold the Poet,
Shall laugh in Scorn behind their Fans,
But thou, alass, not know it.

XCIX

Thy own Defects thou shalt not see,
Yet find out Faults in others,
And shalt Flogmaster-Gen'ral be,
O'er all thy rhiming Brothers.

C

When thus the God of Wit had said,
Returning to the Heavens,
He left the little dough-bak'd Blade,
At sixes and at sevens.

CI

Where like a River-God he sits,
Fenc'd round with Flags and Bushes,
There reigns as King of modern Wits,
Upon a Throne of Rushes.

CII

His Royal Scepter is a Pen,
His Kingdom only Paper,
His Treasure a distemper'd Brain,
His Power empty Vapour.

CIII

Adore your Prince, ye scrib'ling Rakes,
As Tyrant of all Satyrs,
Who when he Rails, no diff'rence makes,
'Twixt Fools and Men of Letters.

CIV

But Hedge-hog like, wrapt up in Down,
As soft as that of Thistles,
He sleeps secure, and to the Town
Turns nothing but his Bristles.

CV

Whilst other Wits, in muddy Streams,
He plunges as he pleases,
And dawbs 'em in his dirty Dreams,
That rise from his Diseases.

CVI

Sonif'rous Words he greatly loves,
Is gravely supercilious,
And, to his Brethren, always proves
A snarling Terræ-filius.

CVII

Ill-humour'd Pride and Self-conceit,
Join'd with a restless Spirit,
Prompt him t'abuse all Men of Wit,
And Women that have Merit.

CVIII

No Sex or Quality escape
The fury of his Lashes,
And what he fears to say, the Ape
Supplies with Stars and Dashes.

CIX

Since, in foul Calumny, we own
He greatly does surpass us,
Fleet-ditch shall be his Helicon,
And Bridewel his Parnassus.

CX

There shall the Blue-coats flog his Back,
Till he's much better natur'd,
And dip him in the Ditch, till black
As those he has bespatter'd.

CXI

Then shall the little dirty Bard,
From Pleasure-Boat and Chariot,
Be ship'd to Monkey-Land like W---d,
And there reign Poet-Laureat.

FINIS.