 | Poems By John Hall |  |
17
Upon the Kings Great Porter.
Sir, or great Grandsire, whose Vast bulk may beA burying place for all your Pedegree:
Thou moving Colosse, for whose goodly face
The Rhyne can hardly make a Looking-glasse;
What piles of victualls had thou need to chew,
Ten Woods or Marrets throats were not enew:
Dwarf was he whose wifes bracelet fit his thumb,
It would not on thy little finger come:
If Jove in getting Hercules spent three
Nights, he might spend fifteen in getting thee:
What name or title suits thy greatnesse, Thou,
Aldiboronifuscophonio?
When Gyants warr'd with Jove hadst thou been one,
Where others oaks, thou wouldst have mountains thrown;
Wer'st thou but sick what help could ere be wrought,
Unlesse Physicians posted down thy throat;
Were thou to die and Xerxes living, hee
Would not pare Athos for to cover thee;
Were thou t'embalme the Surgeons needs must scale
Thy body, as when Labourers dig a whale:
18
Wee'l weigh thee by Ship-burdens not by'th' stone;
What tempests mightst thou raise, what whirle-winds, when
Thou breaths, thou great Leviathan of men:
Bend but thine eye, a Countreyman would swear
A Regiment of Spaniards quartered there:
Smooth but thy brow they'l say there were a plain
T'act York and Lancaster once o're again!
That pocket Pistoll of the Queens might be
Thy pocket Pistoll, sans Hyperbole;
Abstain from Garrisons, since thou may eat
The Turks or Mogulls titles at a bit:
Plant some new Land, which ne're will empty be
If she enjoy her Savages in thee:
Get from amongst us since we onely can
Appear like skulls marcht o're by Tamberlane.
| Poems By John Hall | |