Poems consisting of Epistles and Epigrams, Satyrs, Epitaphs and Elogies, Songs and Sonnets With variety of other drolling Verses upon several Subjects. Composed by no body must know whom, and are to be had every body knows where, and for somebody knows what [by John Eliot] |
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A just Complaint to his Just as Honourable Patrones
against a Sorcerer, that by his Inchantments depraves her humblest Servant of her Grace.
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 | Poems consisting of Epistles and Epigrams, Satyrs, Epitaphs and Elogies, Songs and Sonnets |  |
A just Complaint to his Just as Honourable Patrones against a Sorcerer, that by his Inchantments depraves her humblest Servant of her Grace.
Madam,
There is a seeming Saint that haunts your table,Who by his Sorcery and Spells is able
To make the staidest man to Bedlam run,
His company, blest Lady, timely shun.
He is a great Magician, I'l maintain it,
Or else I had enjoy'd a peaceful brain yet;
My senses had been at mine own disposing:
But Madam, simple as I was, reposing
In him great trust and confidence, I went
The other day, when he came out of Kent,
Boldly unto his Chamber, when Heav'n knows
I little thought he had been one of those
That studied, as the people call it well,
That foul Black Art, taught by a Childe of Hell.
I held him for a good plain dealing man,
But out alas, simple Fool that I am,
He was too cunning for my shallow brain,
I know not how, or where he laid his train,
But suddainly your Servant was suppris'd,
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That as you may perceive by these my Rimes,
I am stark staring mad at certain times.
Nor shall it be amiss, your patience had,
To tell your Honour how I first fell mad.
One night, and 'tis most true, night's still the Baud
To Conjurors, and such as practise fraud,
This cunning man, this great Magician sent
To call me to a supper, whether I went
Fearless Heav'n knows, and when I came he had,
For he is curious too, a Table clad
With Linen white, as is the Mountain Snow,
So clean as I complain'd they foul'd it so;
For Fowl of every sort on this same cloth
He caus'd his Servants set, some swome in broth,
Some dabled in such sauces, as might make
The heavyest Fowler swim such Fowl to take,
And rather venture drowning in that Flood
Then lose the Fowl that was so fat and good.
There wanted not Anchovies and grand sallets,
In fine, things were prepar'd to please our pallets:
But then, before my Ears he would take up,
This subtill man calls for a swelling Cup
Of unctious wine, wine proud of its own wealth,
But prouder far when 'twas baptiz'd your health,
Here is quoth he, and then his Beaver cast
On ground, health to those Souls I came from last,
Health to the fairest, sweetest, chastest soul,
That ere was mentioned in such a Bowl,
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He drinks it off, and bids his servants fill
Untill the blushing grape was seen to swim,
Like a high tide, above the silver brim
Of that blest cup; for blest quoth he it is,
Whilst it contains so blest a health as this.
I sillie wretch pledg'd him without least fear
Of any poyson could be mingled there,
That done his silver head aloft he rayses,
As he were proud to speak Honoras praises;
And like a cunning Orator goes on
Mildly, till he had gain'd attention.
First he was sorry that I did not know you,
O that I had but wit his art to shew you!
And then he wishes by some happie waie
Your honour might know me, then he did play,
As skillfull Fishers do, with wanton trout,
Tickling me gently, and at last brake out,
Your daring Muse quoth he, that flyes at game,
Compar'd with her, not worthy is of name,
I would invite to Sommerhill, since there
Such quarry is, such ayr, so pure, so cleer,
As you may at one flight much glory gain;
And hence he rais'd up to a lofty strain,
Madam, of your unparralel'd deserts,
Swears that you are the Mistres of all hearts,
And gives a reason why you must be soe,
Then reckons all the graces that can flow
From God, or nature, and then he beats his breast,
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What he conceiv'd into such lively phrases
As might ornate and beautifie your praises.
Then calls for wine, and still sweetens the same,
With blest, with faire, with chast Honoras name.
Thus first he rais'd my heavie leaden braines,
Next wilde fire throwes into my frozen veins,
And still as he perceiv'd my heart to sink
He rous'd it with your praises, clad with drink:
Thus he the cunning Gipsie Madam acted,
Till with your fair fames love I grew distracted.
On him then best of Ladies lay all crimes,
That can be found in these my frantick rimes.
I need not name him Madam guilt alone
In time will make himself make known;
For if you marke him like a polliticion,
The better to avaid sharp-ey'd suspition,
This man will be the first that will appear
To speak my praises in your honours ear.
Which if he doe, heaven pardon that offence,
Since I to merit plead my innocence.
My accusations done and now againe,
Me thinks a certain tickling in my brain
Makes me break loose, new spirits do possess me,
And to the Court again I must address me.
Sit best of Ladies, do not scorne to grace
My humble Muse in her wits wild goose chase.
| Poems consisting of Epistles and Epigrams, Satyrs, Epitaphs and Elogies, Songs and Sonnets | |