The Works of Capt. Alex. Radcliffe :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Works of Capt. Alex. Radcliffe

In one Volume ... The Third Edition Augmented [by Alexander Radcliffe]

Radcliffe, Alexander (fl. 1669-1696)

[section]

Ovid Travestie, A BURLESQUE UPON Ovids Epistles.

THE RAMBLE: AN ANTI-HEROICK POEM.

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Ovid Travestie, A BURLESQUE UPON Ovids Epistles.

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The Third Edition, Enlarged with Ten Epistles never before Printed.

TO ROBERT FAIRBEARD OF GRAYS-INN, Esquire.

SAPHO to PHAON

The ARGUMENT.

Sapho was a Lady very Eminent for Singing of Ballads, and upon an a extraordinary Pinch, could make one well enough for her Purpose: She held a League with one Phaon, who was her Companion and Partner in the Chorus; but Phaon deserted his Consert for the Preferment of a Rubber in the Ba'nnio. Sapho took this so to heart, that she threatens to break her Neck out of a Garret Window; which if effected, might prove her utter Destruction. Authors have not agreed concerning the execution of her Design: But however she Writes him this loving and terrifying Epistle.

When these my doggrel Rhimes you chance to see,
You hardly will believe they came from me,
Till you discover Sapho's Name at bottom,
You'l not imagine who it is that wrote 'em:

I, that have often Sung—Young Phaon strove,
Now Sing this doleful Tune—Farewel my Love;
I must not Sing new Jiggs—the more's the Pity,
But must take up with some old Mournful Ditty.
You in the Bannio have a place, I hear;
I in my Garret Sweat as much, with Fear:
You can rub out a Living well enough,
My Rent's unpaid, poor Sapho must rub off;
My Voice is crack't, and now I only houl,
And cannot hit a Treble for my Soul:
My Ballads lye neglected on a Shelf,
I cannot bear the Burthen by my self;
Doll Price the Hawker offers very fair,
She'l Sing along with me for Quarter-share;
Sue Smith, the very same will undertake,
Their Voice is like the winding of a Jack.
Hang'em, I long to bear a Part with you,
I love to Sing, and look upon you too;

Besides, you know when Songs grow out of fashion,
That I can make a Ballad on occasion.
I'am not very Beautiful,—God knows;
Yet you should value one that can Compose:
Despise me not, though I'm a little Dowdy,
I can do that—same—like a bigger Body:
Perhaps you'l say I've but a tawny Skin;
What then? you know my Metal's good within.
What if my Shoulder's higher then my Head?
I've heard you say I'm Shape enough a-Bed:
The Mayor (God bless him) or the worthy Sheriffs
Do very often meet with homely Wives.
Our Master too; that little scrubbed Draper,
Has he not got a Lady that's a Strapper?
If you will have a Beauty, or have none,
Phaon must lye—Phaon must lye alone:
I can remember, 'fore my Voice was broke,
How much in praise of me you often spoke,

And when I shook a Trill, you shook your Ears,
And swore I Sung like, what d'ee call'em—Spheres;
You kiss'd me hard, and call'd me Charming witch,
I can't do't now, if you wou'd kiss my Breach.
Then you not only lik'd my airy Voice,
But in my Fleshly part you did Rejoice;
And when you clasp'd me in your brawny clutches,
You swore I mov'd my Body like a Dutches;
You clap'd my Buttocks, o're and o're agen,
I can't believe that I was crooked then.
Beware of him you Sisters of the quill,
That Sing at Smithfield-Bars, or Saffron-Hill,
Who, for an honest Living, tear your Throat;
If Phaon drinks w'ye you're not worth a groat:
And Ladies know, 'twill be a very hard thing
To sink from him the smallest Copper-farthing;
Avoid him all—for he has us'd me so,
Wou'd make your hearts ake, if you did but know,

My Hair's about my Ears, as I'm a Sinner,
He has not left me worth a Hood or Pinner.
Phaon by me unworthily has dealt,
Has got my Ring,—though 'twas but Copper gilt;
Yet that vexes me,—Th' ungrateful Pimp
Has stole away my Peticoat with Gimp;
Has all my Things, but had he left me any
I can't go out alone to get a Penny
Phaon I should have had less cause to grieve,
If like a Man of Sence, you'd taken leave:
That you'd be gone, had I been ne'r so certain,
We might have drank a Pot or two at parting;
Or fry'd some Bacon with an Egg; or if
Into some Steaks, we'd cut a pound of Beef,
And laugh'd a while, that had been something like
But to steal off, was but a sneaking Trick.
My Landlady can tell, how I was troubled,
When I perceiv'd my self so plainly bubbled:

I ran like mad out at the Alley-Gate
To overtake you but it was too late:
When I consider'd I had lost my Coat,
If I had a Knife I'd cut my Throat;
Yet notwithstanding all the ills you did,
I Dream of you as soon as I'm in Bed;
You tickle me, and cry, Do'st like it Saff?
Oh wonderous well! and then methinks I laugh.
Sometimes we mingle Legs, and Arms, and Thighs;
Sometimes between the sheets, methinks does rise:
But when I wake and find my Dream's in vain,
I turn to sleep only to Dream again.
When I am up, I walk about my Garret
And talk I know not what—just like a Parrot:
I move about the Room from Bed to Chair,
And have no Satifactoin any where.
The last time I remember you lay here,
We both were dry ith' Night, and went for Beer;

Into the Cellar by good luck we got,
What we did there, I'm sure you ha'n't forgot:
There stands, you know, an antiquated Tub,
'Gainst which, since that, I often stand and rub;
Only to see't, as much delight I take
As if the Vessel now were full of Sack;
But more to add unto my Discontent,
There's been no Drink ith' Celler since you went.
There's nothing but affords me Misery,
My Linet in the Cage, I fear will dye:
The Bird is just like me in every thing;
Like me it pines Like me it cannot Sing.
Now Phaon, pray take notice what I say,
If you don't bring the things you took away;
You know my Garret is four Stories high;
From thence I'll leap, and in the Streets I'll die:
May be you will refuse to come—Do—do,
Y' had best let Sapho break her Neck for you.

Your afflicted Consort, Sapho.

PHILLIS to DEMOPHOON

The ARGUMENT.

Demophoon was born in Holland, who took after his Father Theseus, pretending to the Art of Pyracy; he was cast upon Newcastle-Shore by adverse Winds (as the Dutch Commentators say) but we are inform'd he came hither by his own choice. No sooner arriv'd, but he heard that one Phillis, a single Woman, kept an Inn in the Town; There he took up his Quarters: Phillis observed him as a lusty Younker, and though his outward Habiliments were not very tempting; yet his person perswaded her so far, that she Married him, and entrusted him with all. After some time, he told his Wife that his Occasions call'd him into Holland to see his Father, who he said, was a Man of mighty Substance; He promised to Return within a Month, but hath not been heard of since. Therefore she writes to him this Letter; but whether it came to his hands or no, hath been a question to this day.

Your absence does discover your Disdain,
You've done enough to make a stone complain;

You told me you wou'd stay a Month,—no more;
But by my Nature I do find 'tis four.
I, who am Woman, and a Lover too,
Observe the change of Moons, much more than you:
Indisposition in the Head, or Back,
Informs our Sex beyond an Almanack.
Sometimes I hop'd—but soon that Hope did sink;
Sometimes I thought—I knew not what to think.
I made my—self a Liar—notwithstanding
There was no Ship—I swore I saw you Landing.
Some Curses on your Father I bestow,
That old Dutch Rogue, think I, won't let him go;
But then again, that cannot likely seem,
The Maggot bites—you're gone away from him;
What if you should be wrack't when hither bound?
No,—you're to great a Villian to be down'd.
Whom shall I blame? whom but thy self—fond Philly?
Who hast liv'd now Thirty years, and art so silly.

When first you did within my Doors set footing,
I fell in Love.—forsooth—A Pox of rutting;
The Devil sure will have that Doctor Hymen,
Who told me, that his business was to try—men.
He did believe—you'd prove an honest Man,
Marry'em said he, with all the speed you can;
The Good old Man his Substance to increase,
Would match a Helhound to a Saint for Fees:
You swore such dreadful Oaths as ne'r was heard,
By th' Belgick Lyon, and the Pirnce's Beard;
By Opdam's Ghost, and by the Dragon's Tail,
B' your Father's Head, and Mother's Farthingale;
By the great Cannons, and the Bloody Flag,
And by the Hogan Mogans of the Hague;
Your execrations put m'in such a fright,
That all the Hair about me stood upright:
If on your Head these Curses fall you've nam'd,
I must conclude, that certainly y'are damn'd;

Hearing such bloody Oaths, you would not stay,
I made all haste I could to get y'away;
I furnished you with all I cou'd afford,
Bisket and Powder'd Beef I put aboard;
A Flask of Brandy to your girdle hung,
Better I'm sure, was never tipt o're Tongue:
And when I pach'd your Sails with antient Smock,
I thought they wou'd have brought me home good luck;
But stead of that—such was my Fatal Hap,
I prov'd the Instrument of your Escape:
When you came hither in a low Condition,
Did I not stuff your Gut with good Provision:
The Suit y'had on—was destitute of stitches,
I gave you then my Brother's Coat and Breeches;
But as for that—Pox on't—I'll ne'r repent it,
What you had wanted, I had then presented;
If you had never paid—here's none would stop ye;
But I must be your Wife too—like a Puppy:

I wish to God that very day we met,
That into Gaol I had been thrown for Debt;
Then if I'd ask'd the Question—you'd have said
Thank you, forsooth, I'm not in haste to Wed.
Well, well! Myn Hier! y've caught me now 'tis true,
I hope I am the last you will undoe.
The Dutch by Paint describe each others Lives,
And draw their Neighbours Actions, and their Wives
They'l draw your Father as some petty Pirate,
Doing small things, which People wont admire at.
He has been Rogue enough, but done no Wonders'
'Has rob'd a Fisherman, of Eels and Flounders:
Perhaps he's Drawn making a Sailor drunk,
Diving in's Pockets—to equip his Punk;
These are but Trifles to what you have done,
The Father's but a Coxcomb—to the Son:
You shall be Drawn, first in your tatter'd Cloaths,
Humbly complaining, full of Lies and Oaths;

And then you shall be Rigg'd from head to foot,
And from your Mouth, this Label shall come out;
“Poor Phillis, of Newcastle upon Tyne—
“'Twas I that ruin'd—now you see, I'm fine.
What must I do? I have not Trading here,
And all my Neighbours do but laugh and fleer;
One cryes, Where is your Husband Demo—foe?
For your right Name, not one of'em does know;
Another cryes out—Hey! for Amsterdam;
What! Was'a Dutchman Phillis—or a Sham?
Thus (as they say) they throw you in my Dish;
Wou'd I cou'd have you here but with a wish,
For these Rogues sake; 'twould be good sport to see
How well you wou'd belabour two or three;
Then they'd change Tone, and cry—God bless ye both,
You are a handsom Couple, by my Troth:
No—'tis in vain to hope that you'l return,
I must continue, as I am their scorn;

But yet I can't forget the parting Day,
I thought you wou'd have hugg'd your Breath away
At last you spoke—'twas this confounded Lye,
Phil, in a Month this o're again we'll try;
But I believe that trick you're trying now
With some run-belly'd Rotterdam—U'froe:
If Phillis shou'd be talk'd on by the Dutch,
You'l say you never heard of any such.
Phillis! Who's she? Where does this Phillis dwell?
If you don't know, Demophoon, I'll tell;
“This is Newcastle-Phillis, she that did
“Once entertain you, Sir, at Board and Bed.
“Some small Remembrance Phillis hath deserv'd,
“Had not this Phillis been, you might have starv'd
“She gave you Money, like a foolish Elf;
“At last this Phillis gave away her—Self.
I am that Phillis, if I had my due,
That shou'd have Hang'd my self for Loving you:

It will not be too late to do it still,
And if I'm in a humour, 'faith I will.
Then on my Grave let these few lines be writ,
Which Phillis made her-self in Moody fit.
Here Phillis lyes,
Had she been wise,
S'had Wed a Neighb'ring Scotchman;
And then she might,
Have liv'd in spite
Of any Drunken Dutchman.

Hypermnestra to Linus.

The ARGUMENT.

There was lately a Gang of English Highway-men, all of 'em having Wives or Whores in London. Now the only means to detect 'em, was by bribing their Women. In order to which the Keeper of Newgate went to 'em all, promising them very fairly, and with all, using Arguments how serviceable they wou'd be to their Country, in Discovering them; which they might easily do, when they came home to Bed. The Women were easily perswaded, And one Night, order'd the Keeper to be there at such a time, who seized them all; but Linus was præadmonished by his Wife Hypermnestra, so he escaped away in her Cloaths; She bore the brunt in his Apparrel, and was Taken (supposed to be a man) and Committed to Newgate, and put into Irons. The rest of the Thieves were Hang'd, her Tryal was respited, being not known who she was. Hypermnestra sends him this Letter.

To thee poor Hypermnestra now complains,
Such is the Torture of my Iron Chains:
Shall it be call'd in Law, a Crime so heinous,
For being just to my own Husband Linus?

Let 'em torment me on, I do not care,
I'll not tell who Iam, nor where you are;
If they shou'd Hang me up instead of you,
To the last Gasp I swear I will be true:
I long to be reveng'd on tyose curs'd Wives,
That did betray their Friends and Husbands Lives.
Such Men were not in England to be found,
They'd bid the Devil stand, on any ground,
And all the prizes that they got, they spent
Upon those Whores; yet they were not content,
Think on that Night we did together Sup,
When all the Company were Cock-a-hoop;
That fatal Night you all came from the Pad,
Your Booty very large, your hearts were glad:
Though in my sad Condition, 'tis not proper,
Yet, I can well remember all the Supper:
A stately Loin of Veal began the Feast,
I help'd you half the Kidney at the least;

Four Turkey Poulets came next you wish'd they'd been
Four Turkey Merchants upon Mile-End-Green:
Roasted young Ducks, and Chickens fricazeed;
There was more meat than we cou'd eat indeed:
Wine in abundance—I drank none but Sack;
But all you men did ply it with Pontack:
To th' top you fill'd a Glass, and drank to th' best—
The Health as you began it, seem'd a Jest;
I took't in Earnest to my self, and knew
That I shou'd prove the best of Wives to you.
By Two a Clock you Men were almost Drunk,
Then each to bed went to his Spouse or Punk;
If they were all as kind as you to me,
Never was such a Night of Lechery:
At last you sleep securely without warning
Of the strange Alterations in the Morning:
I knew betimes the Keepers wou'd be there,
And all the Night I sweat, 'tween Sport and Fear;

At last I rose, and 'bout the Room I walk'd,
And thus at Randum to my self I talk'd;
Have I not sworn a Thousand Oaths at lest,
That I'd betray my Husband with the rest?
What must I do? 'Tis true, I am his Wife,
What! must I damn my Soul to save his Life?
Hang all the Oaths in Christendom, said I;
He is my Husband, and he must not die.
With that I drew your Breeches on in hast,
The Codpiece was so big, I was amaz'd;
I walk'd into your Coat, hanging on Peg.
I lost my head within your Perewig:
Having put on your Armour Cap-a-pee,
For by the weight, such was your Cloaths to me;
You reach'd your Arm across—had I been there,
You would have had the other bout, I fear;
I pull'd the Sheet and Blanket from the Bed,
I plainly then perceiv'd, 'twas as I said:

Rise Linus, Rise, said I, be very quick;
This is no time for any wanton Trick;
You're all betray'd—The Constable's at Door,
You must not stay a minute of an hour.
I shuffled on my Cloaths upon your back,
They did not fit—I heard my Manteau crack:
No sooner were you gone, but in they bounc'd;
They seiz'd on me, and swore I shou'd be trounc'd:
And here they have me fast with Bolt and Lock;
They know not yet that I have on a Smock.
Now you are safe, and I am here, dear Linus
Let's seriously discourse th' Affair between us:
If all the truh to them I should discover,
What can they say? 'twas acted like a like Lover;
I may be sent to Bridewel, there they'l bang me;
But all the Law in England cannot hang me.
While I lye here—I am in little ease,
But when all's told, what shall I do for Fees?

If you don't use some means to get me freed,
Within few days you'l hear that I am Dead;
And then 'tis like they'l bury me; if so
Upon my Grave this Epitaph bestow:
Here lies a Wife, who rather than she'ld fail
To save her Husband's Life, dy'd in a Jayl:
My Irons load me so, I'm fit to cry,
I would write more, but cannot; so God b'ye.

HERMIONE to ORESTES

The ARGUMENT.

Hermione was the Daughter of Menelaus and Hellen. Her Mother ran away with a young Fellow, one Paris, they went together beyond the Seas. Her Husband who lov'd her well, persu'd 'em, and after many years, found his Wife and rescu'd her from her Gallant, and without any resentment of the Injury, took her again. During their absence, their Daughter (who had an Estate left her by her Unkle) was committed to the Custody of her Grand-father, who marri'd her to a School-fellow and Cozen German of hers, by name Orestes. Her Father brought home with him one Pyrrhus a wild young Fellow, to whom he Marri'd her again, taking no notice of the first match. She silly harmless Girl; wonders at the design, and to her Husband Orestes writes this innocent Letter.

To thee I write my dear and only Cuz;
Nor will I be afraid to call thee Spouse:
Though here's a Fellow come resolv'd to swear
I am his Wife, and he will mak't appear:

He looks sometimes, as if he long'd to eat me,
Sometimes he looks so gruff, as if he'd beat me:
He says he is Achilles Son and Heir,
And bids me disobey him, if I dare;
He kisses me so hard, the strongest man;
He gets a top of me do what I can;
With all my strength my Legs together joyn,
But with one Knee, hee'l open both of mine.
I call him Rogue and Rascal, filthy Sot,
And all the beastly Names I can get out:
I'm Marry'd Sirrah, therefore don't mistake it,
I have a Husband that will thwack your Jacket:
Yet that's all one, he cares not what is said;
But by the Hair he drags me into bed:
They talk of Girls, forc'd by unruly men,
They can't be forc'd so much as I have been:
Yet all this while Orestes comes not near me,
I am afraid you do not love your Hermey;

You'l fight for Money, as you'd fight for Life,
And won't you fight a little for your Wife?
On while my Father mist my Mother Hellen,
Lord! There was such a noise, and such a yelling,
He rais'd up all the People in our Lane,
And ne'r was quiet, till she came again.
I wou'd not have you make a noise for me,
But come and kill this fellow quietly;
Give him a good sound blow, and never fear man,
It is for me, your Wife and Cozin German.
You know my Guardian marri'd me to you
When we were both so young, we could not do—
Now from beyond Sea comes my Father huffing,
And will needs marry me to this same Ruffian,
He vapours here about his Country Blood,
I guess your English Familie's as good:
He says, you've led a very wicked life,
And that you broke your Mothers heart with grief,

For talking so of you, I'd slit his Tongue,
And pull his Eyes out too, if I were strong;
'Tis something strange, we're of a Generation
Where Ravishing has been a mighty fashion:
My Grandmother was ravish'd by one Swan,
A little Couzin by another man;
My mother has been ravish'd once or twice,
And I am ravish'd now by her advice.
Must I with such a Rogue as this be match'd?
A more unlucky Girle was never hatch'd.
My mother left me here a little Wench,
Just big enough to clamber on a Bench;
She was stark mad for that young fellow—Paris,
And after him she danc'd the new Fagaries:
My Father for his life cou'd not forbear,
But ran a-catter-wawling after her;
Now they're come home, but with such alt'red looks,
As if they some were strange Outlandish fo'kes.

My Father has a Beard below his Band,
I did not know my Mother, she's so tann'd:
Toward my good, what did she ever do?
When she was gone, I larn't to knit and sow;
I use my needle now as well's another,
But 'tis no God-a-mercy to my Mother:
When she came in, she knew not who I was;
This Girl, said she, is grown a strapping Lass,
She must be marry'd or she'l grow too busie;
Look here, I have brought thee home a Husband, Hussy:
With that he threw his Paws about my Neck;
Kill him, Orestes, or my heart will break:
I draw the Curtains when he's fast asleep,
And out of Bed, soon as 'tis day, I leap;
But I do toss and tumble all Night long,
As if by Bugs and Pismires I'd been stung:
Sometimes when I'm asleep, by chance there lies,
One of myhands squeez'd close between his thighs;

I snatch't away as soon as e're I wake,
With as much speed, as if I'd felt a Snake;
To th' other side o'th' Bed, I jerk from him,
And sometimes lay one Breech upon the Beam;
Then after me, he by degrees will steal,
Pray Sir keep off, say I, I am not well;
He seems as if he did not understand,
And then he reches out his hasty hand;
I speak as plainly to him as I can,
I tell him I'm not fitting for a Man.
Pshaw, Pshaw! says he, I know you do but jest.
'Pon the whole matter he's a filthy Beast:
For God's sake Orey, Prethee-now contrive,
Some way or other that he may not live:
For here I take my Oath upon a Book,
If you don't get me off by hook or crook,
That we may do as marry'd People my,
I'll either kill my self, or run away.

CANACE to MACAREUS:

Lately translated out of OVID Now BURLESQU'D.

The ARGUMENT.

Macareus and Canace, Son and Daughter of Æolus (a Trumpeter of the Guards) being from children brought up together, at the last grew so intimately acquainted, that they made bold to lie with one another. Canace prov'd with Child by her Brother Macareus. She was deliver'd in the house; and the Nurse contriv'd to convey the Child through the Hall when Æolus was sounding his Trumpet, accompany'd with several sorts of Wind-musick; notwithstanding that noise, the shrill Cry of the Infant was over-heard by Æolus, who sent it away to be left in the Streets, and expos'd to the mercy of the Parish; and to his Daughter Canace he sent a

Halter, with this Message,—This you have deserved,—and you know how to use it. Canace hang'd her self (as you may guess) before she wrote this Letter.

Before there rude, distracted Lines you read,
Believe the unlucky Authress of 'em dead.
Ever to see me more's beyond all Hope,
One hand a Pen, the other holds a Rope:
My blustring Father's troubled with a Whim,
And I must hang my self to humour him.

But when he sees my Carcase on the floor,
Surely he'll cease to call me Bitch or Whore:
His puffing and his blowing will be in vain,
He cannot puffe me into life again:
His Mind is swell'd much bigger then his Face,
I am (he saies) his Family's Disgrace:
All his great Friends and Kindred are provok't;
What are his Friends to me when I am choak'd?

I wish that we had stifled one another
That night I clung so closely to you, Brother:
Why did you love me more then did become ye?
It had been happy, if y'ad kick'd me from ye:
When first, with pleasure, I lay under you,
Would y'ad been lighter by a stone or two.

At first I wondred what should be the matter,
I look'd like Death, and was as week as Water:
For several days I loath'd the sight of Meat,
And every night I chew'd the upper Sheet:
I'd such Obstructions, I was almost moap'd,
My Breath came short, my—were stop'd.

I call'd old Nurse, and told her how it was;
She, an experienc'd Bawd, soon groap'd the Cause:
Quoth she, for this Disease, take what you can,
You'll ne'er be well, till you have taken Man:
When I was young, I thought I was bewitch'd,
I scrach't my Belly, for it alwaies itch'd.

The Truth I will no longer hide, said I,
I must enjoy my Brother, or I die:
She tickl'd me, and told me 'twas no Sin,
Nearer of Blood, said she, the deeper in:
Both you and I approv'd what Nurse had said,
So, without more a-do, we went to Bed:
You in my belly rummag'd all about,
To find this wonderfull distemper out:
Too soon 'twould be discovered, was my Fear,
I could have let you searc'd for ever there:
But Nurse can tell how I did sigh and sob
When we perceiv'd that you had done the Jobb.

I made th' old Beldam foot it up and down
To every Quack and Mountebank in Town,
For Dendelion, and Camelions-thighs,
Spirit of Saffron mixt with Vulters-eyes:
I would have given all I had been worth,
T'have kill'd the Child, before it had come forth:

But the stronge Rogue lay fencing in my Womb,
And did those pois'nous Potions overcome:
Oh! when I saw the ninth Moon in the Wane,
Then I was in the Full—of grief and Pain;
Then, then my Throws came on m thick and thick;
I groan'd but for my Life I durst not schreik
Untill my Tortures came to such a growth
That Nurse with both her Hands did stop my Mouth:
I should have cry'd so loud, that every Neighbour
Would have discover'd I had been in Labour:
No woman yet that ever wore a Navel,
Endur'd so hard and so severe a Travel.

I curs'd your Sex, and wish'd a Rot might come
On all the Stallions throughtout Christendome
At last you came; I knew you by your tread;
I peep'd at you, though I was almost dead:

T'ward me you seem'd to have some kind Remorse
But look'd, as if you would have eaten Nurse.

You held my back-parts, you could do no more;
Would you had never felt the Parts before.

Sister, said you, you shall not die this bout,
We're both unluky, but, we'll rub it out.

To see what words from those we love can do,
(Surely the Child within me heard you too,)
For streight he sprang forth from me, and did seem
To make his passage in a flowing Stream:
'Twas hard enough: but now's a harder Case,
To hide the Business from my Father's face;
We did consult how to devise a way
Thorough the Hall our Bastard to conveigh.

My Father in Wind-musick still delighted,
And all the Gang that night he had envited:
Fellows that play on Bag-pipes, and the Fife;
The old man always lov'd a noiseful Life:

They all did sound together after Supper,
And then to carry 'em off, we thought, was proper.

Nurse, in her Apron took the little Brat,
Swath'd up in Linnin, Rushes over that;
Quite through the Hall she went her usual pace,
And, unconcern'd her self, humm'd Chevy-Chase.

Just to the door s'had safely carry'd him,
When the unlucky Wretch began to screme:
His little Organ made a shriller noise
Than all the Fluits, Recorders, or Ho-boies:
The old man prick'd his ears up, like a Hare,
And after Nurse ran nimbly, as the Air:
Whither so fast, said he, old Mother Trundle?
Pray, let us see, what have you in your Bundle:
Quoth Nurse,—'Tis Mristress Canny's dirty Smoak,
Men into Womens secerts should not look.

He puff'd away the Rushes from her Lap,
And there appear'd the little sprauling Ape:

'Zounds, saies my Father, What is here? A Kid!
My Daughter Canny's finely brought to bed?

He rais'd so great a Tempest in the House,
I thought that Hell it self was broken loose;
He rag'd so loud, the Bed shook under me;
Methought I was in some great Storm at Sea:
He rush'd into the Room, and did discover
The bloody Symptoms of a Child-bed Lover:
Our Sexes Stains by him were here discry'd
Which Women from their own dear Husbands hide:
With his own hands he did design to wound me,
But that he saw something like Murther round me:
The Bastard in the Streets he did expose,
And what will be his destiny, God knows:
The little Knave, with Tears, did seem to answer,
As who should say, I beg your pardon Gransir,
Out went old Trump; I by his Looks could find
There was some mischief hatching in his mind,

In came a Fellow of the Bag-pipe Gang
Whose very Whiskers seem'd to say, go hang;
Before his words came out his tongue did falter;
At last he spake, Canny, look here's a Halter:
Your Father saies, 'Tis this you do deserve;
If you'll not use it, you may live and starve.
His most obedient Daughter he shall think me;
If I don't hang my self, the Devil-sink me.

Since Whoreing does produce such strange effects
Would I'd been born a Monster without Sex:
Let my young Sisters all be warn'd by me,
And curb betimes Incestuous Lechery.

This I request of you, Dear Brother Mac.
That of our wretched Child some care you'd take;
If you can find him out, be not unwilling,
Towards his maintenance, to drop a shilling.

Let these my last words be observ'd by you,
As I obey my Father's:—so,—Adieu.

ARIADNE to THESEUS,

Lately translated out of OVID Now BURLESQU'D.

The ARGUMENT.

Theseus, an English Gentleman, and one who for his diversion admir'd Travelling, especially on Foot, having safely arriv'd at Calais, walk'd on easily from thence to Paris, where he had not long been but he receiv'd an unmannerly Justle from a Cavalier of France: Theseus, whose great Soul could not brook the least Affront, resented this so highly, that he challeng'd him, fought him, and after a long and skilful Dispute between 'em, fairly kill'd him: Theseus was imprison'd in the Bastile; During his Restraint he held a League with Ariadne, the Keeper's daughter: And, though the Prison was as difficult as a Labyrinth, (such is the power of Love,)

she soon contriv'd a way for his Escape by night: and he, accompany'd with Mistress Ariadne, footed it back to Calais; where, both lodging together at the Red-Hart, he very unkindly took the advantage of her Snoaring, and stole from her early in the morning; and went off with the Pacquet-boat to Dover; from whence he genly walk'd to London: Ariadne sends him These.

No savage Bear, no Lyon, Wolf, or Tyger,
Would ever use his Mistress with such Rigor;
D'ye think you don't deserve ten thousand Curses,
For leaving me in Pawn at Monsieur Forces?
I wonder what the Tavern-people think!
For here I sit, and dare not call for Drink.
While by your side I innocently lay,
You might have taken leave, a civil way:
I was half waken'd from a pleasant Sleep
By th' melancholly sound of Chimney-sweep:
I stretch'd my Leg, to find out my Bed-fellow
But I could groap out nothing but the Pillow:

Thinking t'have hugg'd you in my Arms so close
One of the Bed-staffs almost broke my Nose:
Thes. Thes. said I, I hope you are not gone:
I might as well have call'd the Man i'th' Moon:
I rent my Head-cloaths off, mortdieu! mordieu!
What will become of me? What shall I do?
I op'd the Casement as the Morning dawn'd;
And could plainly see that I was pawn'd,
With calling you I tore my Throat to pieces,
The Eccho jeer'd me with the name of Theseus:
To th' top of all the house I ran undrest;
The people thought that I had been possess'd:
At last, I spy'd you in the Pacquet-boat;
I knew it was you or so at least I thought:
Had you been walking, I had known your Stride,
And guess'd your Strutt from all Mankind's beside:
Both Seas and Winds must needs be kind to thee
Thou art so like 'em in Inconstancy.

I thump my Breast, I rage, I storm and fume;
The House desires I would discharge my Room:
Quoth one o'th' Servants, Mistress Ariadne's
Past all recovery, overwhelm'd with Madness:
Another crys, Mam'sell Com' porrez vou'?
Fetch me my Thes. said I, What's that to you.
When in the Boat I cou'd no longer see you,
Ten thousand De'ills of Hell, said I, go we' you.

They think I'm drunk, I'm sure 'tis not with Wine;
The Score's too large; and you have left no Coin.
Into a Corner I am sometimes dogg'd,
And there I cry as if I had been flogg'd:
Sometimes I roul my Self upon the Bed,
And act those postures o're that once we did:
To my own self with pleasure I repeat,
Here lay my Head, and there I put my Feet:
I often call to mind our amorous Work;
Then here, methinks I have you with a Jerk.

Sometime they talk, that Ships are safe at home:
I listen then, to hear if you are come.

Were I a Man, into the Seas I'd douse,
And after you I'd swim, and bilk the house:
If I should offer to run home again,
My Father'd keep me in an Iron-chain;
I have betray'd the old Man's Trust for you;
I may go whistle for a Portion now:
When, for your sake, I stole the Prison Keys,
I little thought to see such days as these:
Oh! when your LOVE was mounted to a pitch,
You hugg'd me as the Devil hugg'd the Witch;
You swore, with Oaths most desperate and bloody,
The Queen of France to me was but a Dowdy.
I have more Whymses then a dancing Bear,
Sometimes I dream the Constable is here:
And though the Waiters very often wheedle,
Yet I suspect that they will bring the Beadle.

Again, I fear they'll spirit me away,
And send me Slave into Virginia:
I was not bred a Drudge from the beginning,
Except it were to wash my Fathers Linnen.

Either to Sea or Land I durst not look,
To Heav'n I can't; you've stole my Prayer-book:
Your Valour made my Fortune so untoward,
I would to God that you had been a Coward:
Distressed Ariadne now complains,
Because such sprightly blood runs in her Veins:
They say we French are very Hot, 'tis true;
But yet our Sparks are Frost and Snow to you:
Curst be the time when you first learnt to fence,
(Though that does never alter Men of sence.)

I fancie in what posture you were found,
One Foot heav'd up, the other on the Ground:
As much of Warlike Grace you did discover
As any Roman Statue in the Loure.

Methinks I hear you speak to th' Cavilier,
Sa! Sa! Monsieur, I have you here and there:
But now your valiant Acts are lost for ever,
By sneaking off, like a French-Ribbon-Weaver.

Had I not drank that Brandy over night,
I cou'd have wak'd, and so have stop'd your Flight.
Curst be the Wind which was so kind to you;
Curst be the Boat, and curst be all its Crew;
Curst may I be for trusting what you said;
Curst may all Lovers be that Snore in Bed.
Poor Ariadne, thou art finely serv'd,
Thy too much Love has brought the to be starv'd:
The Servants pitty me, and say't's a hard case,
I've nothing here to pay 'em with but Carcase:
This Carcase too has wept out all its Juice,
'Tis grown so dry, 'tis fit for no Man's use.
Think, when you're rev'ling in your Cups at London,
That your Poor Ariadne here, is undone,

And when you come where people do resort,
To hear your Travels told were pritty sport:
With what tough bit of Flesh you did engage;
You thought you should be killing him an Age:
Do not forget me when you tell your Tale,
Tell'em how I releas'd y'out of Goal;
And how with you I stole on foot through Allys;
And, pray forget not, that I am pawn'd at Callais:
And, when this Tale to your Companion's told,
Imagine Ariadne stiff and cold:
When dead, they'll bury me in some back Garden,
For I can't give the Parish-Clerk a farthing.

And 'tis for you I all those Sorrows prove;
So, Mr. Theseus, thank you for your Love.

LEANDER to HERO

The ARGUMENT.

Leander an Usher of a School, and chief Poet of Richmond, having contracted a more then ordinary Acquaintance with Mistress Hero of Twitnam, a Governess or Tutress to young Ladies; such a reverential esteem had they procur'd to themselves at each place, that they could not conveniently meet without great scandal; therefore the Usher frequently swam over to his Mistress by night, but at this time the Thames was so rough, that he was constrained to convey his mind to Hero by a Waterman in these Poetical Lines, wherein Love and Learning strive to outvie each other.

Your faithful Lover sends this Bille' dou'x.
Stuff'd full of Love, but not a word of news.
Believe not, I think much of any Labour,
Cou'd I have come my self, I'd ne're sent Paper;
The Thames is rough, the Winds so hard do blow,
I scarcely got a Waterman to go.

And if I wou'd have given a thousand pound,
This was the only Fellow to be found.
I stood upon the Shoar, while he went off,
The Boat once gone, I thought 'twas well enough.
I must be careful whom I send by Water,
Our Family begins to smoak the matter:
Just as the Letter went, I had a fancy
Came in my head, I cou'd have made a Stanza:
Go Paper, go, and kiss a whiter hand,
That oft hath put Leander to a stand.
Methinks, the Nymph perfumes it with her Breath,
And bites the wax of with her Ivory Teeth:
Her Sheperd would be glad to be so bit,
Untill th' aforesaid Teeth together met.
But then think I, these whymses shee'll condemn
The hand that writes, should rather make me swim;
Bold strokes in Poetry she hardly blames,
But such bold stroaks shou'd be upon the Thames:

Methinks it is an Age since I swam o're,
I long untill each Arm, does prove an Oar.
Fully resolv'd I came to'th water side,
And thought the space between us but a stride.
I saw your house, and wish'd that I cou'd clamber
To your watch—light in the supremest Chamber:
I pull'd off Coat and doublet twice or thrice,
But then I thought,—be merry and be wise.
Thus I in Verse spake to the mighty Boreas,
Thou blustring youth—pray tell me why so furious;
Tho' amongst Winds thou art a great Commander,
Blow gently for the sake of poor Leander.
I cross no Sea (Here Thames is call'd the Sea,
Because it doth with lofty Verse agree.)
I cross no Sea to Asia or to Afrique,
Upon the Account of Sublunary Traffique:
Ingots of Gold! alas! I do not seek 'em,
Give me my Heroes Love, then omnia mecum.

Boreas himself does sometimes leave off roaring
And goes a—woing, I'll not say a—whoring.
For several uses you, your breath may spare,
Do not so fiercely move our Richmond Air.
But all was vain, Boreas was still unkind,
I did repeat my Verses to the wind.
Had I but wings, I'd soar above the People
And place my self just now on Twitnam Steeple.
I well remember that first night I swam,
That happy night I first to Twitnam came:
I put of all my cloaths, with them my fears,
And dous'd into the Thames o're head and ears.
The Moon took—care Leander should not sink,
And stole before me like a lighted Link:
I thank'd her for her Love, and thus did greet her,
As far as my poor Talent went—in meeter.
Ah gentle Moon, because thou'rt kind to me,
I wish Endymion may be so to thee:

And as with him thou hold'st a private League
With thy broad Eye, so wink at my Intrigue.
Under correction to your Heavenly sence,
Your case and mine have little difference.
A Goddess you love one of human Birth,
My Mistress is a Goddess upon Earth:
Such sort of Beauty as she wears, is given
Only to such as do belong to Heaven.
And if you are not of the self same mind,
Begging your Pardon, Cynthia, you're blind.
With such like words I got near Twitnam sands,
And nothing all the way saw I but Swans.
At last I spy'd your Candle on the top,
Aye! now all's well, thought I, there is some hope.
But when you put your head out from the Cazement,
Then was Leander struck into amazement;
For two Lights more did from the Window seem,
Which made the artificial one look dim.

Your Eyes the Moon, and Candle made just four;
I, like some Prince was lighted to the shoar.
But you're to blame, when you perceiv'd me come,
Nurse sayes, she cou'd not keep you in the room,
But in your shift you wou'd be running down;
You'l get some violent cold, and then you're gone.
But to say truth, thou art a loving Tit,
Thou hug'st me in thy arms all dripping wet:
I can but think how straingly I did look,
When you put o're my head a Holland Smock;
And hand in hand thus walking from the Thames,
We seem'd the Ghosts of two distressed Dames.
But when we came to Bed, we understood,
We were no Ghosts, but real Flesh and Blood:
We did repeat more pleasures in one hour,
Than some dull Lovers do in forty score;
Because we knew our time was very short,
We cou'd not tell the number of our sport.

Aurora does from Tithon's Bed escape,
Tithon perhaps will take the other nap,
See her Postillian Lucifer before,
And now the Bus'ness of the Night is o're;
The day appears, Leander must be jogging,
And home agen among the Boyes a-flogging.
My well beloved Amo I forsake,
And to dull Doceo now I must go back.
And Substantive I'll always be to thee,
My pritty Verb Deponent thou shalt be.
If we were in conjuction day and night,
Leander would not prove a heteroclite:
In Grammer we make Noun to joyn with Noun,
Why shou'd not Twitnam joyn with Richmond, Town?
'Twou'd make one mad to think a foolish River,
Or any surly Winds should Lovers sever:
But hold Leander, let no Seas nor Wind
Disturb the quiet Freehold of thy Mind.

When first I crost—my thought the Fish did gaze,
The Salmon seem'd to peep upon my Face;
I could hear Boatmen call from Western Barge,
What Fish is that, my thinks 'tis very large,
They'd call me Porpus, and they'd jeer and flout me;
But now by th' name of Brother they salute me:
How d'ee says one; Good morrow t'other cryes;
I civilly return them, Bona dies.
The Fishermen that bobs all night for Eel,
Now sayes, Your Servant, Sir, I wish you well:
God send you safe on t'other side the Water,
I say unto him, Salvus sis piscator.
I hope those Halcyon Nights will soon return;
For want of 'em, does poor Leander mourn.
But if such storms in Summer time does hinder,
How shall I e're get to the in the Winter?
If I do venture in, and should be drown'd,
I hope by thee my Body will be found.

Thoul't roul it up in Holland or in Bucram,
Then may I truly say—mors mihi Lucrum.
But let not this possess you I am dead,
A foolish whimsey came into my head,
We shall have many pleasant Nights between us,
I'll come and hugg my Hero ore-tenus.
Pray put these Lines up safe, for fear you loose 'em,
In that warm place where I would be, your Bosom:
And in a little time, dispute it not,
I'll come and justifie what I have wrot:
For when the wheather changes I'll not fail ye,
And untill then thou—dulce decus Vale.

HERO's Answer.

Leander , thank you kindly for your Letter,
Though if y'ad come your self it had been better;
I cannot rest, I know not what's the matter,
I'm all afire, to have you cross the Water.
We Women when we've any thing to do,
Are ten times more desirous of't than you;
Having dismist your little Boyes from School,
You can walk out i'th' the Evening when 'tis cool:
You can divert your self a hundred wayes,
I only stand upon the shoar and gaze:
You have a Green in which you bowl or bett,
And now and then three or four shillings get;
Or to the Tavern, when you please you go
And drink a Bottle with a Friend or so;

While I sit moap'd—like a neglected Cat,
And now and then with old dry Nurse I chat:
What's your opinion, Nurse, and tell me truly,
D'ye think the Wind to Night will be unruly?
What will Leander come? or keep away?
'Faith I don't know, sayes she, 'tis like he may;
Such drousie answers I do seldom miss,
D'ye think I han't a blessed time of this?
Up to my Chamber, when 'tis Night, I get,
And in the Window is my Candle set;
Perhaps I read a Play, or some Romances,
I soon grow weary of such Idles Fancies:
Then I peruse your Letter o're again,
And more and more admire your learned strain;
Then I ask Nurses Judgment in the case,
But she old Soul's, as dull as e're she was;
I make her stand uprigh (there I mistake,
She can't stand so—for sh' as a huckle back)

I mean, I set her somewhere in the Room,
And she's to act as if you just were come;
My only Joy (say I) thou'rt welcome hither,
How didst thou swim to me this stormy wheather?
Speak, let me hear some Musick from thy mouth,
Nurse nods, and says—I'm pritty well forsooth:
Thus I beguile the time till Morning—peep,
Then I go into Bed and fall asleep.
And there I do enjoy you in my dreams,
Spite of the Devil or the rougher Thames.
Methought I saw you come stark naked in,
Wet were your locks, and dropping was your Skin
I with an Apron rub'd you up and down,
And dry'd you from the toe unto the crown;
Then presently we hugg'd with such a force,
I shook the Bed, and wak'd and startled Nurse;
And finding it to be a Dream—no more,
I grew as melancholy as before.

If in a dream such tickling Joyes appear,
Much pleasanter 'twou'd be, if you were here;
I don't know what to think: you us'd to say,
Ten Thousand Devils should not stop your way:
Why should the danger at this time be more?
The Wind blows hard, and so it did before;
But now I see which way 'tis like to drive,
A Richmond Wench as sure as I'm alive;
Ah! say ye so? why then it is for her
This Storm is rais'd, Leander cannot stir.
But hang't that cannot be, I'm turn'd a fool,
Leander was and is an honest Soul:
As soon as I had said these words of you,
The Candle burn't not as it us'd to do;
Sayes Nurse, there is a stranger in the Light,
Master Leander will be here to Night;
With that she took the Brandy bottle up,
And pull'd from thence a very hearty sup,

Sayes she—if what I say should prove untrue,
I wish this blessed draught may ne're go through;
Therefore let's see you hear to night dear Nandy,
Or else poor Nurse must never more drink Brandy.
Perhaps you fancy you take double pains,
And make to great a trespass on your Reins,
To swim so far as you have us'd to do,
And after that to please a Mistress too;
Half of one half I'd ease you if I cou'd,
And meet you in the middle of the flood;
But from the latter service never flinch,
I should be loath to bait you half an inch;
But after all excusing what I'ave said,
Pray do not cross the River hand o're head;
I dream't last night, I hope 'tis no ill Luck,
A Spaniel Dog was hunting of a Duck,
There were some reads which under Water grew,
And more, perhaps, than the poor Spaniel knew.

He was entangled there, and there was found,
I came to help him, but the Curr was drown'd.
I do not tell this dream to make you tardy,
But as a Caution not to be fool-hardy.
The Wind will soon be laid, the Thames be clear,
Then you may cross it, without wit or fear;
Make much of this, for if you fail me, then
By all the Gods I'll never write agen.

LAODAMIA to PROTESILAUS,

Lately Translated out of OVID: Now BURLESQU'D.

The ARGUMENT.

In the War between England and Holland, one Protesilaus, an English Lieutenant of a Fifth Rate Frigat, being Wind-bound upon the Downs; his Wife Laodamia, hearing he was not gone off, sent him this Letter; and, like a fond Wife, gives him strict Caution to avoid Fighting.

A health to your Prosperity goes round,
And to your safe return before you're drown'd:
My Neighbour Jackson's Wife began it to me;
If I don't wish it, may it ne'er go through me:

We drink, and fancie to our selves in vain,
That the good Winds will blow him back again.
I hate the noise of a tumultuous Sea,
Give me a Tempest rais'd by you and me;
A Storm in which all Parts about us shake,
When we can hear the Bed beneath us crack.
At Gravesend, when we took our last Adieu,
The Parting Kiss, remember, I gave you:
I, like a shitten Girle, began to cry;
I had no mind, methoughts, to say, God b'w'y:
I heard Tarpaulins roar out, Hoise up Sail;
On Board, on Board; here comes a merry Gale:
In such brisk Gales poor Women don't delight,
They blow away the pleasures of the night:
As you went off, I could not bear the Loss,
A Qualm came o'er my Stomach quite-a-cross;
Old Mother Crump, a very subtile Croan,
Saw by my Looks that I was almost gone:

A Pint of Brandy presently she brought,
And made me drink a very hearty draught;
She shew'd her Love, but what great good has't done?
How can I live with comfort now you're gone?
I wake, and find no Husband by my side;
I often think 'twere better I had dy'd:
Till you return, I'll ne'er be drest agen;
I have not comb'd my head the Lord knows when:
A Glass of Wine sometimes my heart does cherish;
Wer't not for that, I fansie I shou'd perish:
Because I go so taudry, like a Punk,
Some, that don't know me, think that I am drunk:
My Neighbours often tell me, Mistress Protes—,
You go so strangely, all the Street takes notice!
Says one, You do your Husband's Friends disgrace;
For shame! Put on a Peticoat with Lace:
Why should they think that I would wear a lac'd-coat?
When my poor Husband's in a Seaman's wastcoat?

Should I adorn my Head with curles and Towers?
When a poor Skippers Cap does cover yours.

The Plaguy Dutch; that they should break the Peace,
And not submit to us in English Seas:
Though, for my own particular, I swear,
If I could once again but have you here,
Let Dutch have Liberty to fish and foul,
I would not care a Farthing, by my Soul.
Methinks I see you now, and, by your looks,
You are engaging with a Butter-box:
Methinks just now a Bullet did escape,
And hit my Neck, just in the very Nape.
But oh! I swoon, when I do think of Trump!
His Ships now giving yours a bloody Thump!
Bless us, said I, Now, you are dispatch'd!
That Dog has been at Sea 'fore you were hatch'd:
For Heaven's sake avoid him if you can,
He's certainly the Devil of a Man!

If any Ship does make up towards you,
You may say sure Van-Trump's among the Crew:
There's not a Shot does to your Vessel come,
But I receive the Pain on't here at home.
What am I better if you beat the Dutch,
And you come hither hopping on a Crutch?
How finely 'mong the Neighbourhood 'twou'd show,
To see you strut upon a timber Toe?
To rout the Foe is some great Adm'ral's Office,
In these Engagements you are but a Novice:
Your single Valours nothing on the Sea,
Your Combate should be hand to hand with me.
Would I were in the Fleet with Trump or Ruyter,
To them I would become an Humble Suitor,
And point out to them where your Squadron lay,
Directing them to shoot another way:
I'd speak t'em thus; Great Souls of Amsterdam,
Pray hear a silly Woman, as I am;

And let your Cannon my poor Husband shun,
He knows not to discharge a little Gun:
If you were Women, as you're Warelike Men,
He would perform great Actions wi' you then:
Your Fighting, Skirmishing, and Breaking Bones,
Are only fit for Men that want their Stones.

Just as you were commanded to your Ship,
Remember, at the Stairs your Foot did slip;
Think on that Slip, and, when the Dutch are shooting,
Duck down your Head, as if you wanted footing;
I wish your Captain some good Coward were.
And durst not bring the Vessel up for fear:
I wish to God he would not sail too fast;
You'l come too soon, although you come the last.
When you return, they'll ask how matters stand;
I hope you'll know no more than we at Land.

All the day long I smell no sent but Powder,
Each minute Guns go louder off and louder.

Most marry'd women long till it be night,
But, for my part, I hate the thoughts of it;
Unless, by chance, I sleep, and dream of you:
Fancy's the kinder Husband then o'th' two:
And when I wake and feel the Linnen wet,
I find, I've wept for joy upon the Sheet:
This to Enjoyment gives but half content;
When shall we meet together by consent?
Oh, how I long to hear you tell in Bed
Some strange Romantick Tale of what you did!
But when you find you can't prolong the Jest,
And, being at Stand,—kiss out the rest.

Against both Wind and Tide why will you go?
You'd scarce come home if Wind and tide said no.
You fight, methinks, about so mean a thing,
Which should have Privilege of catching Ling:
Old-Ling I hate worse than a Common Whore;
(Would you lov'd Fighting with the Dutch no more:)

I ate it once, and that against my will,
And sometimes fancy that I smell on't still.
But though thou art expos'd to Seas and Wind,
It is some ease unto my troubled Mind
To see thy comely Picture in the Hall,
Drawn to the Life with Charcoal on the Wall:
I prattle to it as if thou wert here;
'Tis late; Pr'ythee let's go to Bed, my Dear:
Methinks thou say'st, I'll humour thee for once;
Thou'lt work me at the last to Skin and Bones:
I kiss the Wall and do my Ceeks besmear,
And ope my Mouth, as if your Tongue was there.
By all the pleasant Postures of Delight,
By all the Twines and Circles of the Night,
By the first minute of our Nuptial Joys,
When you put fairly for a Brace of Boys,

I do conjure you, have a special care,
And let not saucy Danger come to near;
For when I hear that thou art knock'd o'th' head,
I'll hold you ten to one that I am dead.

OENONE to PARIS.

The ARGUMENT.

Paris was the Son of Priam a Wealthy Old Citazen and Alderman of London. When Hecuba his Mother was big with Child of him, she dream't a foolish conceited Dream, which occasion'd Old Priam to consult Lilly, who told him, That Paris in process of time would occasion his house to be burnt down. Therefore the credulous Alderman sends him into the Country far North to be dispos'd of as a By-blow. When he grew fit for Service he was entertain'd in a Gentleman's House, where he contracted a Bosom-acquaintance with Oenone a Young Wench and fellow Servant with him in the same house. His Father began to come to himself, and hearing where he was, sent for him, and own'd him as his Son; but before that, he had disengaged himself from Service, and ran away with one Hellen, who was VVife to Menelaus. Oenone being inform'd of All these proceedings, writes to him this Letter.

After my hearty Love to you remembr'd.
Hoping you are not in Body distemper'd,

More than my self at the writing hereof;
If it be so, we are both well enough:
Your Usage has been such to poor Oenone,
That none but such a fool as I would own'e'e;
I hear you're run away with Menels Wife,
I pitty her, she'll lead a blessed Life;
What mighty mischief have I done, I wonder;
You'l never have a younger, nor a sounder.
If by my means y'had met with some disaster,
Had I procur'd you Anger from your Master;
If I had giv'n you that they call a Clap,
You'd had some small Excuse for your Escape:
But now you've had your ends, away to sneak,
Come! come! these things would make a body, speak.
You were not then so Uppish—when you said,
A Dutchess was a T---t'a Servant Maid;
You were a Groom your self, you know 'tis truth,
Not all your Greatness now—can stop my mouth;

If you were able to keep house you swore
You'd marry me for all I was your Whore.
We were together on a Summers day,
Both in the Stable, on a Truss of Hay;
You can't forget some pretty pastimes there,
No body saw us but the Chesnut Mare:
You said such glorious things the very Beast
Prick'd up her Ears, and thought you were in Jest:
But I did prove th' verrier best o'th' two,
For like an Ass I thought that all was true;
Soon after—you were taken from the Stable,
To wait upon my Master at his Table;
To undertake it you seem'd very loath,
Did I not teach you then to lay a Cloath?
There's no man but must have his first beginning,
Who learnt you then to fold your Table Linnen?
Did you not often when the Cloath was spread,
Just in the middle put your Salt and Bread?

You have been threatned oft to lose your place,
Because you knew not how to fill a Glass;
You pour'd in Wine up to the very top,
I told you you should fill but to the knob.
Did I not shew you how to broach your Drink,
And tilt the Vessel when't begin to sink?
I was your dearest Honey—all that while
There was not such a Girle in Forty mile
You carv'd my name upon the Trencher-Plates,
And on the Elms before the outward Gates;
And as we see in time those Elms encrease,
So will my name grow greater with the Trees;
And any one that stands but at the door,
May see Oenone (your obedient Whore.)
You never have been well, since those three Maids
Rather those impudent and bold-fac'd Jades
Differ'd among them—selves, which it should be,
That had the cleanliest shap of all the Three.

To you they came when you were in the Close,
The Little Field that was behind the House,
Stark naked did they come from top to toe,
Paris, say they, we will be Judg'd by you.
Heavens preserve you Eye-sight—how you gaz'd,
Nor could you speak a word, you were so maz'd;
At last you Judg'd with many a hum! and haw!
Venus the finest Wench that e're you saw.
This was a Whitson Frolique, as they said,
A pretty prank to shew you all they had.
To see how naked Women are bewitching,
Since that y'have minded nothing else but bitching.
Soon after that your project was of stealing
That over-ridden Whore that Mistress Hellen:
I must be gone a little while, you said,
(Then was this Bus'ness brooding in your head.)
You kist me hard as if I cou'd not feel,
And swore that you wou'd be as true as steal:

Said you—Doubt nothing, for the case is plain,
I'm proved the Son of an Old Alderman,
And sent for home my Father's very ill,
I must be by, at making of his will;
Oh that we cou'd but bury the old Cuff,
Then marry you, all wou'd be well enough.
You may've a richer Wife, but not a better,
For I am no such despicable Creature:
Not to disparage your good Lady Mother,
I can behave my self as well's another.
No Wife like me was there in Christendom,
When you were honest Pall—Squires Sheepeard's Groom.
My Father's but a plain Old Man, 'tis true,
But's Daughter ha's been bred up as high as you.
He is an honest Man, whate'r I am,
And may be sav'd as soon as Master Priam.
Were I your Wife, my carriage shou'd not shame
Your Mother Hec.—tho' shee's a stately Dame.

What though these hands have us'd a Drippin-pan,
Yet on occasion they can furle a Fan.
Now on a little Folding Bed I lye,
(Tho' in that Bed sometimes lay you and I)
Yet I know how perhaps to hold my head,
If I were carried to a Damasque Bed.
If you had marry'd me y'had met with quiet,
What can y'expect from her but noise and riot?
You now have caught a most notorious Strumpet;
Besides 'tis known, as if y'ad blown a Trumpet;
Where e're you come you'l meet with frumps and Jeers,
Her Husband too, will be about your Ears.
In little time from you she will be budging,
She'l lye with any body for a Lodging.
When first of all we closely were acquainted,
(Which now it is too late, I have repented)
Cassandra was a Gipsey in the Town,
Who went a Fortune-telling up and down;

I gave her broken meat, which we cou'd spare,
Shee'd tell me all my Fortune to a hair:
You love (sayes she) a Man not tall nor squat,
But a good hansome Fellow, (mark ye that?)
This youth and you 'tis likely may do well,
If he escape but one—they call her Nell.
But if they two should chance to lye together,
Hee'll break the heart of you, and of his Father.
Who this Nell was, I cou'd not chuse but wonder;
But now I know who 'tis—a Pox confound her!
I'll make Cassandra 'Liar tho', in part;
You've vex'd me, but you ne're shall break my heart.
This very Whore I spaek on, ran-away
With such another Fellow t'other day,
And when her cloaths were gone, and money lavish'd,
She came and told her Husband she was ravish'd.
I'm sure I'm true, for here since you were gone,
Hath been some loving Boobyes of the Town,

One of the Fello ws surely is a Satyr,
He follows me, and swears he'll watch my water:
We have a Servant come—pretends to Physick,
He hath a Cure for any one that-is-sick;
He cures the Tooth-ach; if your Finger's cut,
A Plaister to it presently hee'l put;
Freckles i'th' face he cures, and takes off Pimples,
'Hath taught me to the use of Herbs and Simples.
But I must beg my fellow-Servant's Pardon,
'Gainst Love there is no Herb nor Flow'r i'th Garden:
For this Disease I must rely upon ye,
Come and live here again, you'l cure Oenone.

PENELOPE to ULYSSES,

Lately translated out of OVID Now BURLESQU'D.

The ARGUMENT.

There hapning a Rebellion in Scotland, in that Army which went under the Command of the Duke; Ulysses went Voluntier. The Rebels being quell'd, the Army return'd home; but Ulysses lay loitring at some Inn on the Road; which when his Careful Wife Penelope understood, she sent him this Epistle; giving him an Account how Affairs stood at home

Your poor Penelope admires that you
Should ever use a Woman as you do!

Now every Soldier's at his own aboad,
You, like a Sot, lye tipling on the Road:

You are not left behind 'em as a Spy,
T'inform, in case of second Mutiny:
The Devil of Hell will have that Fellow surely,
Who first began this Plaguy Hurly-burly,
Had it not been for this unlucky Fight,
Y'ad stuck to work all day:—to me at night.

Poor I must drudge at home all sorts of weather
And knit,—as Heaven and Earth would come together;
Twirling a Wheel, I sit at home—hum-drum,
And spit away my Nature on my Thumb:
Thus while I spin, you, like a carefull Spouse,
Go reeling up and down from house to house.
Being you staid so long I did conjecture,
You had been maul'd by Sauny, the Scotch Hector:
Old Nestor's Son, that Fool, stood just by you,
When's empty Scull, they say, was spilt in two:

And, when he dropt, for all you are so stout,
You wish'd your self at home, in shitten clout.
Yet after all, Ulysses, I am glad
You are a live, though you're a scurvy Lad.

Our Neighbours here all day do tittle tattle,
And talk of nothing else but Blood and Battle;
Were you at home, you could not chuse but laugh
To hear 'em crack and bounce, now they are safe:
Perhaps when three or four of them are met,
And round about a Kitchin-Table set,
there's such a Noise a Clutter, and a Din,
The Rebel Scots are routed o're agen.

Some with Tobacco-Pipes upon a Table,
Do valiantly demonstrate to the Rabble
The Foes chief Strength; with that another Spark
Hamilton's House describes; a third, the Park;
Another spils some Ale upon the Bench,
And, with his Finger, learns you to entrench;

One acts how fierce our valiant Soldiers ran on,
Dismounts a Can, and tells you 'tis a Cannon;
Another cries Neighbours, observe and look,
This Pot's Sir Thomas, and this Glass the Duke.
Thus while the Husband draws this bloody Scheme,
The Wives, behind their Chairs, were in a Dream;
Nay, some of 'em (I question whether 'ts true)
Do tell some mighty Deeds perform'd by you;
That, being provok'd, you like a valiant man drew,
And cut a Scotch-man's Luggs off by St. Andrew:

I'm ne'er the nearer, though they're over-come,
If you'll not mind your Bus'ness here at Home:
For my own part, I would not care a pinn
If they were still in Arms, and you in mine:
Py'thee, come home; I cannot chuse but wonder
What a God's name you can be doing yonder:
By every Post and Carrier to the North
I've sent more Paper than your Neck is worth:

I've sent to Hull, to Berwick, and to Grantham;
I might as well have sent a Post to Bantam.
Perhaps some Tapster's Wife subdues your Heart,
Or else her Drink's so strong you cannot part:
And, when you're drunk, Lord, how your Tongue does run,
That you've a House well furnish'd here in Town,
In which your Wife (or rather, Drudge) doth dwell
As constantly at home, as Snail in Shell.
(But yet, when I remember parting Kisses,
Then, then, methinks thou shouldst be true, Ulysses.)

My Father says you're drow'd i'th watry Main;
The old-Man joques, and bids me wed again;
His Counsel; like himself is still unsound,
I'd rather he were hang'd than you were drown'd.

Every day here comes a sort of Fellows,
Enow to make a foolish Husband jealous,
From Whetston's-Park, Moor-fields, or such like places,
Fellows with Cuts and Frenches in their Faces;

There are but seven Fingers amongst four,
And here they domineer, and swear, and roar:
Two of 'em say, they have been vast Commanders,
The other trail'd a Pike with you in Flanders;
There's one of 'em, they call him, Merry Robert,
He, in a merry way, broke up the Cubboard;
Here hath been Irus too, that Irish Thief,
W' hath eaten up a Surloin of Roast-Bief;
What signifies my Father or my self,
We can't secure our Meat upon the Shelf?
What great defence can Nurse or little Boy-make
Against a Fellow with a Horses stomach?
The little Rogue your Son, was almost drown'd,
Padling about he tumbled in the Pond,
But we recover'd him with much ado,
I hope he'll prove a better Man than you.

In short, If speedily you do not come,
You will be eaten out of house and home:

The old Man's crazy, we from him must part;
And I have lay'd your usage so to heart,
That I am grown so wither'd now with Grief,
I look—more like your Mother than—

Your faithful Wife, PENELOPE.

PHÆDRA to HIPPOLYTUS.

The ARGUMENT.

Theseus having made his Escape out of France with Phædra—(whose Sister Ariadne he deserted at Calais) when he came into England marry'd her, and brought her home to a Farm-House near Putney in Surrey, which he Rented of one Mr. Joves which House during his Travell, (or rather his Ramble) he committed to his Son Hippolytus, who was a great Hunter, a hansome Fellow, and a Woman—hater; for which two last Reasons Phædra his Mother after she had acquainted her self with her Neighbours, and houshold affairs, fell desperately in Love; insomuch that nothing would serve her but carnal copulation with her Son in-Law; to accomplish which she humbly entreats him by this Letter to consider her Condition.

To you my Lad, I send this amorous Scroul,
Wishing you health, with all my Heart and Soul;
Your Mother, and your Lover does beseech,
That with these Lines you wou'd not wipe your Breech:

Thank God, my Father gave his Children breeding,
And taught us all, our Writing and our Reading.
By Letters Men have News, and Women find
Which way and how their Sweet-hearts are enclin'd.
Thrice I resolv'd to tell you all I thought,
But for my Blood I cou'd not get it out:
I just began to say—My dearest Poll,
Then laugh'd, and turn'd aside, and ruin'd all;
Tho' 'tis no laughing matter, for I own
I love the very Ground thou tread'st upon.
I'll tell thee, Poll, and mark me what I say,
If Love thou Sullenly dost disobey.
Tho' he's a Boy, not half so big as you,
Yet Fairy-like he'll pinch yo' black and blew;
On a full speed your Horse he'll lead astray,
And like a Hare he'll cross you in your way.
If he assaults—you cannot beat him him off
Either with hunting Pole or Quarter-Staff.

'Hath sworn, (tho' to your Father I am wed,)
To bind you fast, and bring you to my Bed.
'Tis true, your strength is great, his only Art,
You pitch the Bar, and he can throw a Dart,
What need I use these words? dear Polly—come
Let us embrace, your's not at home.
You know my Reputation's very great,
Whoo'd guess that You and I shou'd do the feat.
Oh how I am stung, I have as little Ease,
As if I had distrub'd a Hive of Bees.
I purre and purre, just like our Tabby Cat,
As if I knew not what I wou'd be at:
When Young, I cou'd have cur'd these am'rous stings
With Carrots, Radishes, or such like things;
Now there's no pleasure in such Earthly cures,
I must have things apply'd as warm as yours.
Where lies the blame, art thou not strong, and young?
Who wou'd not gather fruit that is well hung?

Or who can call't a Sin when we have done,
Main't I have leave to hug my Husband's Son?
Suppose our Landlord Jove, that gallant Wight,
Had a months mind to lodge with me one night;
Nay—if his Lady too should give consent,
For youl'd quit him, though hee'd quit his rent.
Since you'l not hunt in this my softer place,
Where I should get the better of the chase;
Since the large Fields and Woods you rummage through,
Disdaining my poor little Cunny—borough;
I'll follow you o're Ditches, and throu' Boggs,
And whoop and hollow after all the Dogs:
I'll speak to th' hounds so well hey! Jowler, Bowman,
That none, but you shall know I am a Woman:
I'll praise your Greyhound Delia, when you course,
She shall my Mistress be, and 'Ill be yours.
Under a hedge I'll squat down like a Hare,
And you alone shall find me sitting there.

Sometimes upon a Horse I'll get astride,
And after you, as I were mad I'll ride;
For all our Generation have been so,
When they're in Love they know not what they do
You've heard that Mistress Europe was my Grandam;
She went away with Jupiter at Random.
Pasiphae my Mother was so full
Of strange Vagaries that she suck'd a Bull.
My Husband with my Sister lay—or rather
I should have told you it was your Father.
Poor Adne was starke mad for him, and now
I am (God knows) as mad in Love with you.
So that between the Father and the Son,
There are two Sisters like to be undone.
I never shall forget with what a Grace
You drest your self in order for the chase;
Your Visage not too red, but only tan'd,
Of the same colour with your brawny hand.

An ancient Bever on your head you put,
Like a three—Pigeon Pye, in corners cut.
A little Jacket made of blewish green,
Which had the Death of many a Badger seen.
Your hair your own, which shew'd you not debauch'd,
Not nicely trim'd, for here and there 'twas notch'd.
I hate your Fellows with your powder'd Wigs,
As m' Husband us'd to say, they look like Prigs.
You'd lasting Breeches made of Buckskin Leather,
To keep the fundamental parts from weather.
But when you reach'd your hanger from the Bed,
Another Weapon came into my head.
Not all your days can give you such delight,
Or half the Sport I'll shew you in a Night,
Delia's your Joy, Delia does you bewith;
Can you neglect a Christian, for a Bitch?
Cephalus your Companion and old Crony,
Valu'd a Dog better than ready money.

Hee'd get upon a Horse, though half asleep,
Ready to hunt before the Day did peep;
But when h'ad once tasted Aurora's sweets,
He found out better Game between the sheets;
For then unless she pleas'd, he durst not say,
(Nor did he wish) that it would e're be day.
Why should not we consent to try our skill?
I'm certain you and I can do as well.
Therefore dear Poll, I offer very fair,
Under Barn-Elmes I'll meet you if you dare;
Since none but Country Sports can humour you,
I'll wrastle wi'll you there a fall or two;
Though o' my, Conscience I believe you'l throw me.
But if you shou'd, perhaps it won't undo me;
And when you have me down among the Trees,
You wanton Rogue, you may do what you please.
Wee'd no such opportunity before:
Your Father is at London with his Whore.

Therefore I think 'tis but a just design,
To cuckold him, and pay him in his coin.
Besides he ne're was marry'd to your Mother,
He first whor'd her, and then he took another.
What kindness or respect ought we to have
For such a Villain and perfidious Knave?
This should not trouble, but provoke us rather
With all the speed we can to lye together.
I am no kin to you, nor you to me,
They call it Incest but to terrifie.
Lovers Embraces are Lascivious Tricks,
'Mongst musty Puritans and Schismaticks.
Did not our Master Jove chuse him a Mistress,
Who should it be but one of his own Sisters?
There's no engendring can be truely good,
But when we fancy that we are of a blood.
Under the names of Mother and of Son,
What pretty pleasant actions may be done?

All they will say, because I'm kind to thee,
I'm Mother both in Law and Equity:
Take heart of Grace, be not afraid of Spyes,
I care not if there were Ten thousand Eyes;
I'll leave the door without the Bolt or Lock:
What if they saw us in our Shirt or Smock.
Nay I'll suppose we should be seen in Bed,
What can there to our prejudice be said?
That you came wet and dripping from the chase,
And I'd a mind to give you my warm place.
I did not think to've said so much in hast,
But Love like Murder must come out at last:
The Fort lies open, therefore scorn it not,
But come with speed, and enter on the spot;
Let us imagine now the worst can happen;
Suppose that you and I were taken napping;
And Theseus says, Begone you filthy Whore;
Away you Rogue, and so he shuts the door.

What if he does, why then for France with speed,
We shall be there supply'd with all we need.
My Father dwells at Paris in good credit,
And well to pass is he, though I have said it;
There he's as well known as Begger knows his dish,
We'll live as bravely then as Heart can wish:
Therefore make haste, dream not of any harms,
Thou'lt be secure enough within my arms.
When you go out, may you be sure of Game;
May your horse never tire nor happen lame:
At a default may the Dogs never be,
May Delia bring forth Whelps as good as she.
May you i'th' Field ne're want a draught of Beer,
Or Bread and Cheese, or such like hunting cheer;
While I sit pining for you here at home,
When I have cry'd out both my Eyes you'l come.

HYPSIPYLE to JASON.

Lately Translated out of OVID: Now BURLESQU'D.

The ARGUMENT.

Jason, a quondam Foot-man, with some others, the nimblest of the same Function, joyn'd their Stocks, and purchas'd a Silver-Bowl, which they ran for from Barnet to St. Albans, but before the day of the Match, one Medæa, a Gipsey; and Strouler in those Parts, took a more than ordinary fancy towards Jason, whom she so dieted with new laid Eggs, or what the Devil it was else, (she being suspected of Witchcraft,) that he won the Plate; and beat two famous Foot Jockeys, Whipping-Tom and Teage: Hypsipyle, his Wife, whom

he had deserted, hearing of his good success, and withall, of his Love-intrigue with Medæa, caused this Epistle to be sent to him.

From So-hoe Fields, Feb. 27. 1670—1680.

Husband,

The Neighbours in our Alley do relate,
That at St. Albans you have won the Plate.
How easie a matter had it been for you.
T'have sent poor Hyp. your Wife, a George or two?

Did I, when Flannel was both dear and scarce,
Make you Trunk-hose to your ungrateful Arse;
I sew'd so long, my Fingers still do ake,
And, in all Conscience, I deserve my Snack.

I can hear something, though I keep at home;
I hear, y'have beaten Teague and Whipping-Tom.
You ran so swift, and strong, the People say,
You bore down all that stood but in your way:

Before your foundred Fellows could come up
You won the Match, and seis'd the Caudla-Cup.
I know, y'have been a Rogue, and done me wrong;
Yet I'd hear this from your own flattring Tongue.
But why shouldst thou e'er hope for that, poor Hypsi,
Since Jason loves a Bacon-visag'd Gipsey.
As I was washing, th' other day at door,
There came a Scoundril, ill-look'd Son-of-a-whore,
Who, jeering, ask'd if I were Madam Jason?
I'd like t'have thrown Soap suds his ugly Face-on.
Said I, I'm Jason's Wife, for want of better;
Have you brought Money, from him, or a Letter?
How does he do? is he not very fine?
Come, come, let's see, I'm sure h'ath sent me Coin.
Quoth he, By God of Heaven, not a Souze;
He only bid me see you at your House.
The Fellow told m' a Tale of Cock and Bull;
At last, I ask'd about your Tawny-Trull.

He said, Medæa's your beloved Gipsey,
And that your often seen together tipsey;
But, he believ'd 'twas but a Trick of youth:
A Trick; said I, the Devil stop your Mouth.

Wound I had been lash'd and wihipt the City round
That day I marry' thee, loose Vagabond:
The Hangman in disguise read Common-pray'r
When we were match'd, a very Hopefull Pair:
Curst be the time I did admit you first,
And strove to quench your everlasting thirst:
What Plague possest me when I brought you home?
This was no place to run with Whipping-Tom,

If I had taken but my Sisters counsel,
Y'had never set your flat-foot o'er the groundsel:
She bid me exercise the Fork and Spit;
We'd then good Goods, but now the De'il a bit,

'Twas well enough a year, nay, almost two;
What Fury hath possession of you now?

Villain, remember when you went away,
How often you Damn'd your self, you would not stay;
And smoothly said, No place shall us divide;
A Curse upon your base dissembling Hide:
I was so big that I could hardly tumble,
Yet I believ'd your Oaths, and durst not grumble:
Said you, dear Hypsi. know that I am dead,
If I don't come before you're brought to bed;
You look'd like Air, with Breeches close to thighs,
I fancy'd you'd be back within a trice:
When you were gone I to the Garret crept,
To see how nimbly o'er the Fields you tript;
As swift you went, so swift return you'ld make,
But all this haste was for that Bitche's sake:
Why do I rub my windows, wash my Room,
Expecting still your Rogueship would come home?

'Twould never vex me, if you were not seen
With such a damn'd confounded nasty Quean:

100

A Witch, a Bitch, in whom the Devil dwells,
Whose Face is made of Grease and Wall-nut-shells.
Master, quoth she, e'er from this Town you stir
You'll lose, (that is Your Pocket's pick'd by her.)
A plaguy Jade, who curses Night and Noon,
And houls, and heaves her Arse against the Moon,
Contemning her as Authress of the Flowers;
Railing at all our Sex, and Poxing yours:
No Childing Women doth in Travel linger,
But tow'rds her Pain the Fiend holds up a Finger:
She'll ride a Stick; when Sow is brought to bed,
Then Pigs have no more life than pigs of Lead:
She, with the Mother, at a door will wheedle,
And, in her Infant's heart, will stick a Needle:
This I believe, what e'er of me you think,
S' hath put some Rotten-post into your drink.

'Tis strange, that I should suffer all these wrongs
From her whom I would scorn to touch with Tongs.

101

You'll lose the Name of beating Tom and Teague,
Whilst with this Whore you do continue League:
Nay, some do very confidently say't,
'Twas by her Witch-craft that you won the Plate:
Some think her Devil, others, new-laid Eggs,
Made you so fast advance your Bandy-leggs:
What can you find in such a Punck as she
Who from a Dunhill brings her Pedigree?
My Father dwells at Sign of Golden-Can,
An honest Vict'ler, a substantial Man:
'Tis true, they say, he is a drunken Sot;
What then; i'th' Parish he paies Scot and Lot:
Old Bacchus, the Wine-cooper, was my Grandsire;
Let her produce such Kindred if she can Sir:
Her Children have been gotten in a Bog.
By some large-pintled Wolf, or Mastive Dog:
My Babes were neither got nor whelp'd i'th' Streets,
I labour'd for them 'twixt a pair of Sheets:

102

That they are yours, I'm sure, you need not doubt,
For they're as like as if y'had spit them out:
Could they have gone, alone I'd made 'em amble
To your Apartment underneath a Bramble;
But I consider'd how your Whore would treat 'em,
Nay, it is ten to one, the Hag would eat 'em;
Or else, perhaps, she'd stick their tender Skins
All full of Sparables, or croocked Pins;
Since of her own s' hath murther'd many a Brat,
Would she spare mine; oh! never tell me that.
Methink I see you and the hell-born Toad
Engendring in a Tree that's near the Road:
Suppose you were pursu'd, as y'are a Thief;
Where would you fly? where would you find relief?
What if your self and yonder Devil's dam
Should come to me, and try if you could sham?

103

Sure I should make you very welcome both,
And entertain you nobly by my Troth.

I should towards you make some relenting Heart,
But 'tis my Goodness more than your desert:
And, for your Fire-brand there, that loathsome Hag,
I would contrive the greatest Pain and Plague:
Her Nose being slit, to make her look more grim,
Like a Spred-Eagle on her Face should seem:
Her coarse black Skin should from her Flesh be rent;
I'd run a Spit into her Fundament:
And, Jason, this thy Punishment should be,
Thou shouldst eat those, so oft have swallow'd thee.

But since it must not be I am contented
To let my Spleen in cursing her be vented:
May she all Sustenance for ever lack,
Untill she takes her Child from off her Back,
And puts it in her belly for a Nuncheon,
And for the Fact be thrown into a Dungeon:

104

May she be burnt to Cinders as a Witch,
And you be hang'd for loving of a Bitch.

Yours, as you have us'd her, HYPSIPYLE.

For John Jason, to be left at his Apartment, in a hollow Tree, between Barnet and St. Albans.

105

PARIS to HELLEN.

The ARGUMENT.

Paris had liv'd a great while in Obscurity, at last being own'd by Alderman Priam a Rich Old Citizen, and receiv'd as his Son—he set up for a Gentleman; but very well knowing he could not be rightly accomplish'd without a Mistress, and hearing Fame speak viva voce in the praise of one Hellen, who liv'd somewhere in the North. He was at her house receiv'd, and during the absence of Menelaus her Husband, he endeavour'd to break his Mind to her; but being not thorough-pac'd in Gentility, his Modesty got the the upper hand of his Inclination, therefore he presently had recourse to his Pen, and writes her this conceited Letter.

Freely and from my heart without compelling,
I wish all health and happiness to Hellen:
For if yur're Sick, I'm sure to suffer pain;
As I'm a Lover and a Gentleman,

106

I need not tell you that I'm off oth' hooks,
Your Ladiship discerns it by my Looks:
For you whose Eyes have such a piercing quickness,
May see I'm overgrown in the Green-sickness;
So that upon the whole and perfect Matter,
I am your servant but I seem your Daughter.
I cou'd eat walls as well as white bred crum,
But fear to eat you out of house and home.
For this distemper I've read many Cures,
But the sole power of healing must be Yours.
Your Holiness (I cannot call you less,
That doth on Earth perform such Miracles,)
Your holiness I say within few weeks,
May fetch a lively colour in my Cheeks.
But if we are to long e're we begin,
I'm apt to fear it may corrupt within.
'Tis Love, 'tis Love, that makes me toss & tumble,
And in my Entrails does like Jollup rumble:

107

'Tis as impossible you should not see't,
As 'tis to hide the Pox both small and great.
'Tis Love, You know th' effects of that disease,
Therefore pray fall to work when e're you please.
If at these Lines you do not jeer nor Jybe,
There is some hopes you may receive the Scribe.

And Madam know, I did engage the Stars,
Before I durst engage in Cupid's Wars.
This is a grand affair, I had been silly
T'ave ventur'd on't whithout consulting Lilly:
To him I went for my own happy ends,
And all the Planets he hath made my Friends,
But above all, the most pellucid Venus,
Hath promis'd there should be a Job between us:
She knoweth best what's good for you and me,
She does command our Fates and Powers d'ye see.
Without her leave no living Lover stirs,
Paris, said she, put on your Boots and Spurs.

108

She did consent I should ascend my horse,
And toward your Mansion bend my glorious course.
Never by her was riding yet forbidden,
Her Goddess-ship with pleasure has been ridden.
My heart's upon the racking trot—alas!
But she can bring it to a Gentle pace.
Next, Madam, know, your Sight was no suprize,
I lov'd you by my Ears as well as Eyes.
Your Fame hath much out-sounded the Report,
Of the great Guns at taking of a Fort.
I came not here to seek terrestial pelf,
I made this progress for your heavenly self.
The Womb o'th' Universe if I should rifle,
To your more secret parts 'twere but a trifle.
To see your ancient Pile, I do not range,
We have more lofty Fabricks near th' Exchange.
'Twas for your sake I spurr'd my stubborn Steed,
For you alone thro' thick and thin I rid.

109

You're mine, what desperate mortal dares gainsay't?
Sure I may take my Planet's word for that.
I fain would tell your Ladiship a Dream,
If it would not too great a trouble seem.
My Mother dream't, when she with me was quick,
She should bring forth a lighted Fagot—stick:
I am that Fagot-stick, I burn apace,
Oh quench me, Madam, in your watring—place.
I've taken fire at you, as a match at tinder;
Cool me, or else your Servant is a Cinder.
This was my Mother's dream, I now design,
Under Correction, to relate your mine.

I laid me down to sleep one Summers day,
Under the shade of a new Stack of Hay;
For we poor Lovers, such is our hard case,
Are glad to take a Nap in any place;
Three naked Ladies came, I well remember,
As naked as the Trees are—in December;

110

They told me they'd be judg'd alone by me,
Which was the most deserving of the Three;
The first would bribe me with a Purse of Gold;
My Judgment's neither to be bought nor sold:
The second offer'd me a Tilting Sword,
Knowing I ne're would take an angry word:
But sayes the third, and in my face she giggled,
With such poor toyes you're not to be inveigled,
But if you value me above the rest,
Then know young—man, you are for ever blest.
Within a little time you shall arrive,
Where a resplendent Country Dame does live;
First you must court her like an humble Beggar,
At last shee'll yield, and you may lay your Leg—o're;
The Prize is yours, said I, you ought to take't,
I kiss'd her lower Parts, and so I wak'd.
My Dream is out, for thus I do explain it,
You are the Countrey Dame, and she the Planet.

111

Without delay I put on my accoutring,
And with full speed, I came to you—a—suitring.
But just as I was putting Foot in Stirrup,
Drinking with Friends a parting cup of Syrrup,
My Sister came to th' door, a mad young Lass,
Her name's Cassandra, but we call her Cass;
Brother, quoth she, beware, beware, I say,
You do not meet a Fireship by the way:
A strange wild Wench, I hope she did not mean
That any where your Ladiship's unclean;
Heavens forbid, Good Soul, she meant no more
Then flames of Love, as I have said before.
Being arriv'd at this your decent house,
Whom should I meet but your Illustrious Spouse?
He brought a Tankard out of good March Beer,
Cold Pork and Butter, and such houshold chear;
He ask'd—if ever I Tobacco took,
I said I'd take a pipe—but cou'd not smoak;

112

He shew'd m' his Garden, and his fine young Trees;
His Barn; his Stable, and his house of Ease:
I said 'twas wondrous pretty—but my mind
Still ran on what my Planet had design'd.
At last you came with such a dazling grace,
I thought the Sun and Moon was in your face,
Lilly's and Roses, Pinks and Violets,
Your looks were loaded with the vernal sweets;
Your poor adorer was in such amaze,
I vow and swear I knew not where I was;
Before I spoke I fell to private pray'r,
“Planet I thank the for thy tender care;
“Now thou hast rais'd my Bliss to such a pitch,
“I humbly beg, that thou'dst go thorough stitch.
At last I spake and bow'd in seemly wise,
And paid obeysance to your sparkling Eyes;
Your Beauty's greater than your fame did boast,
So is a May-Pole taller than a Post.

113

I've heard, you once conferr'd your gracious favour
On Theseus, who was thought a cunning shaver;
With him your Ladiship has play'd some Gambols,
Froliques y'have had, and many pleasant rambles.
But, by your Leave, your Lover was a Clown,
For leaving your bright Eminence so soon;
D'ye think that Paris would have serv'd you so,
Would he have let Illustrious Hellen go?
By Stix and Acheron your Servant swears,
Rather than part with you, he'll lose his Ears;
When that hour comes for which we both were born
And soon 'twill come, or Planet is forsworn;
When we shall lye entranc'd—entranc'd I say,
Then if you have the heart to go, you may;
Hasten, forsooth, hasten the happy Job,
For till't be done—my heart will shout and throb:

114

'Tis very fit that you and I should join,
Your Family's very good and so is mine.
My Father fin'd for Alderman, long since,
He's now grown rich, and lives like any Prince.
If you wou'd once make London your aboad.
You'd hate a Village as you'd hate a Toad.
Oh how your Ladiship wou'd stare to see
Our City Dames in all their Bravery.
They've Petticoats with Lace above their knees
Of Gold and Silver, or of Point Veni-ce;
Cornets and lofty Tow'rs upon the head,
And wondrous shapes of which you never read.
How ill a Pinner with a narrow Lace,
Becomes the Beauty of so bright a Face?
A fairer Face no mortal e're laid Lips to,
And I believe there are not whiter Hips too.
Too white to mingle with a Husband's thighes,
When I but think of that, my flesh does rise.

115

When towards me sometimes a Glance does pass,
Your poor Adorer looketh like an Ass.
For if I should return you Look for Look;
I fear your Husband will begin to smoak;
And I'll be hang'd, if ever Menelaus,
By any am'rous Look of mine, betray us;
Were it not at your Table I'd abuse him,
For thrusting his great Paw into your Bosom:
That Watry Fist between your Breast does seem
Like a brown George dropt in a Bowl of Cream.
I'm mad to see him draw his Chair so close,
And kiss, and hugg you underneath my Nose.
Then I go out, pretending to make Water,
Seeming to take no notice of the matter:
To all true Hearts I drink a Cup of Wine,
A Health that does imply both yours and mine,

116

Then seeming drunk, I tell some strange Romance,
And lay the Scene in Italy or France;
Of some bright Lady, and her brisk—Gall—ant;
By which two Lovers, you and I are meant.
But, Madam, to write more of this were nonsence,
My Planet has contriv'd the bus'ness long-since;
By curious search I something can discover,
'Tis in your Blood—you're born to be a Lover.
What think you Lady, of your Father Jove?
Shew me a Town-bull h'as been more in Love.
Your Mother, Læda, too, who gave you suck,
H'as she not been as good as ever struk?
When s'had a lusty Youth between her thighs,
What d'ee think? would Læda cry to rise?
Your Parents being as right as ever pist,
If you should be precise, you wou'd be hist.

117

But if you must be constant to one Man,
With me to London make what hast you can.
There wee'll provide a little Winter House,
And you shall pass for my renowned Spouse.
By what I see your Husband does approve,
That in your Absence here I should make Love.
Or wou'd he else have gone,—under pretence,
To buy a Horse—a hundred miles from hence?
The Bus'ness seems to me, as plain a case,
As is the Noise upon your beauteous face.
To let you know that I should be no clog,
Did he not say, Love me and love my Dog?
Nelly, said he, be kind unto my Guest,
And let his entertainment be the Best.
I presently his meaning understood,
If yours be not the Best—then nothing's good.
You see your Husband orders our affairs,
Therefore, dear Madam, do not hang an Arse,

118

But let's away to London—Crop does wait,
Saddled and bridled at the Garden—gate;
Crop's a good Natur'd Beast—and carries double,
And will not think your Ladiship a trouble.
Strike while the Iron's hot, my Love is fervant,
Get up, and ride behind—

Your humble Servant Paris.

119

HELLEN's Answer to PARIS

The ARGUMENT.

Hellen having receiv'd his Letter, at first seems wonderfully displeas'd at his Impudence, in attempting a Lady of her unspotted fame; who was bred and born in the Town where she liv'd, and was never call'd Whore. At length the Storm's over, and she Tacks about, giving him an assurance of her readiness to comply, but doubts her Gallent wo'not be constant. In plain English She's as willing as He.

Your Letter's wrot in such a filthy stile,
I did not think an answer worth my while,
Till I considere'd you might offer vi'lence,
And take advantage of a Woman's silence.
I'm sure you have not wanted drink or food,
I wonder in my heart you'll be so rude.

120

'Tis fine y'faith—because you come from London,
You think a Country Body must be run down.
You of your Entertainment here may brag,
You were not us'd as if you'd had the Plague.
My Husband did receive you as a Friend,
And wou'd you to his Wife now prove a Fiend?
Perhaps you'll say of me, when you are gone,
Hellen! a Lady!—Hellen's but a clown.
I'll one the name, since you can say no more,
I'd rather be a Clown, then call'd a Whore:
Yet for all that, though I keep Cows and Daries,
I can behave my self as well as Paris.
Tho' I don't fleer like a young wanton Girle,
Yet you shall seldom see me frown or snarle.
Tho' you such breeding, and such manners own,
Let me deal plainly w'ye—I think you've none.
Or could you else believe me so untrue,
To leave my Spouse and run away with you?

121

Because a Fellow once did pick me up,
You think I'm to be stoln by every Fop.
He knew not whether I was Man or Woman,
But you conclude from thence that I am common.
When he perceiv'd that I was none of those,
He very fairly brought me to my house.
And since I'm gotten quit of Master Theseus,
Our Paris wou'd be nibbling too, God bless us!
Though by my Trooth I cannot blame your Love,
If I were sure that you wou'd constant prove,
Dy'e think I should not be in dainty pickle,
If I should run away with one that's fickle?
You urg'd to me th' example of my Mother,
As if the Daughter shou'd be such another.
You don't consider Læda, was betray'd,
By one that courted her in Masquerade.
She thought sh'ad met a harmless plum of feather,
But at long-run he prov'd a Stallion rather.

122

His Famili's the best in all the County,
All that you live by's but a Tradsman's bounty.
But that's all one, whereever love prevails,
Money's no more than pairing of my Nails.
Sometimes I think you love me when you look
With Eyes unmov'd, just like a Pig that's stuck.
And dabble with your fingers in my Palm,
And use to call the moisture of it,—Balm.
If in the Glass I leave a little drop,
You'd say I'll drink your snuffs—and suck it up.
Hellen you carv'd with Penkife on the Gate,
And I wrot Paris just a top of that.
These are shrewd signs of Love, and without doubt,
You'd give a Leg or Arm to have a Bout.
Tho' you are not the first Man by a hundred,
That has seen me, and lov'd and gaz'd and wondred.
If you at first had come into our Town,
And courted Hellen in a Grogram Gown,

123

When I was but a silly Soul, God knows,
You might have made a Bridge of Menel's Nose.
Now he commands in chief your Suit is vain,
To all true Lovers Marriage is a Bane.
But why should Paris for a Mistress long,
Since in your Sleep your Fancy is so strong?
You can see three stark naked at a time,
And take your choice of Beauty's in a dream:
Yet you left Honour, Wealth, and God knows what.
And all for me—a pretty fancy that.
I know 'tis wheedle,—but if all were true,
It is no more than I would do for you.
You guess my want of Skill, by being so plain,
For I'am not us'd to write to any Man,
Except t'a Millener, (my Husband's Cozen)
Who sends me Gloves,—and Ribbands by the dozen.
Well—since it must be so—let's be discreet,
Let not our Town take notice that we meet;

124

For they suspect already you're a Wencher,
There is not such a place on Earth for Censure
Yet I can't see, why we should be so nice,
I like you—by my Husband's own advice.
I cou'd not chuse but laugh to hear him say,
Pray Love your Guest when I am gone away:
And all the while that Menelaus tarries.
You are committed to the charge of Paris.
The charge! Let us examine well the word,
Whether he meant your charge at Bed and Board;
Why should he not mean both as well as one?
He knows—how much I hate to lye alone.
In my weak Judgment, 'tis an easie Case,
You are in all things to supply his place.
But for the Mastership you're like to tug
Before you have me at the closest hug.
'Twill seem to me, if you some force do use,
As if I had a Maidenhead to lose.

125

Lord! how I write; if I were to be damn'd,
I cou'd not say't—I should be so asham'd.
If I consent I'll hold you any Money,
You'll serve me as you did you'r dear Oenone.
She hop'd she should be wedded in the Church,
Instead of that you left her in the Lurch.
But if we now were toward London jogging,
'Tis ten to one some Puppy would be dogging,
Or else some Neighbour on the Read wou'd stay us,
And ask me after Mr. Menelaus.
Or we shall hear the Country-people say,
Would you believe that she should run-away?
Marry not hansome Wives by this Example,
Since pretty Mistress Hellen's on the Ramble
I'm strangly afraid of seeing Mr. Priam,
How I shall tremble when he asks whom I—am.
Tho' for my Life I shall not hold from Laughter,
If Hecuba, should say Your Servant, Daughter

126

But above All 'tis Hector that I dread,
That Hector certainly will break my Head.
Who'd think you two from the same Mother came,
He's like a Lyon, you are like a Lamb.
Let Hector proser with his senseless huffing,
'Tis knowing nothing now that makes a Ruffian.
While Paris shall be skill'd in Lovers Arts,
And dive into our Sexes secret Parts;
Now you begin to think 'tis ten to one,
Your Suit is granted, and the Bus'ness done.
But not so fast,—consult my Friend Clymene,
No doubt—you'l make the Bus'ness up between ye
I'm loath to say't my self, she knows my mind,
And she can tell you how I am enclin'd.
When she informs you what must be transacted,
With too much Joy, I fear, you'l run distracted.

FINIS.

THE RAMBLE: AN ANTI-HEROICK POEM.

Together with Some Terrestrial Hymns and Carnal Ejaculations.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE, JAMES Lord Annesly.

POEMS.

News from Hell.

So dark the Night was that old Charon
Could not carry Ghostly Fare-on;
But was forc'd to leave his Souls,
Stark stript of Bodies, 'mongst the Shoals
Of Black Sea-Toads, and other Fry,
Which on the Stygian Shore do lie:
Th' amazed Spirits desire recess
To their old batter'd Carcases;
But as they turn about, they find
The Night more dismal is behind.

Pluto began to fret and fume
Because the Tilt Boat did not come.

To the Shore's side he strait way trudges
With his three Soul-censuring Judges,
Standing on Acherontic Strand,
He thrice three times did waft his Wand:
From gloomy Lake did strait arise
A meager Fiend, with broad blew Eyes;
Approaching Pluto, as he bow'd,
From's head there dropt Infernal Mud;
Quoth he, Atenebris & luto
I come—'Tis well, quoth surly Pluto.
“Go you to t'other side of Styx,
“And know why Charon's so prolix:
“Surely on Earth there cannot be
“A Grant of Immortality.
Away the wrigling Fiend soon scuds
Through Liquids thick as Soap and Suds.

In the mean while old Eacus,
Craftier far than any of us;

For mortal Men to him are silly;
Besides he held a League with Lilly;
And what is acted here does know
As well as t'other does below:
Thus spake, “Thou mighty King of Orcus,
“Who into any shape canst work us;
“I to your Greatness shall declare
“My Sentiments of this Affair.
“Charon you know did use to come
“With some Elucid Spirit home;
“Some Poet bright, whose glowing Soul
“Like Torch did light him cross the Pool:
“Old Charon then was blithe and merry,
“With Flame and Rhapsody in Ferry.
“Shou'd he gross Souls alone take in,
“Laden with heavy rubbish Sin;
“Sin that is nothing but Allay;
“'Tis ten to one he'd lose his way.
“But now such Wights with Souls so clear
“Must not have Damnation here;

“Nor can we hope they'l hither move,
“For know (Grim Sir) they're damn'd above;
“They're damn'd on Earth by th' present Age,
“Damn'd in Cabals, and damn'd o'th' Stage.
“Laureat, who was both learn'd and florid,
“Was damn'd long since for silence horrid:
“Nor had there been such clutter made,
“But that this silence did invade:
“Invade! and so't might well, that's clear:
“But what did it invade?—an Ear.
“And for some other things, 'tis true,
“We follow Fate that does pursue.

A Lord who was in Metre wont
To call a Privy Member C---
Whose Verse, by Women termed lewd,
Is still preserv'd, not understood.
But that which made 'em curse and ban,
Was for his Satyr against Man.

A third was damn'd, 'cause in his Plays
He thrusts old Jests in Archoe's days:
Nor as they say can make a Chorus
Without a Tavern or a Whore-house;
Which he to puzzle vulgar thinking,
Does call by th' name of Love and Drinking.

A fourth for writing superfine,
With words correct in every Line:
And one that does presume to say,
A Plot's too gross for any Play:
Comedy should be clean and neat,
As Gentlemen do talk and eat.
So what he writes is but Translation,
From Dog and Patridge conversation:

A fifth, who does in's last prefer
'Bove all, his own dear Character:
And fain wou'd seem upon the Stage
Too Manly for this flippant Age.

A sixth, whose lofty Fancy towers
'Bove Fate, Eternity and Powers:
Rumbles i'th' Sky, and makes a bustle;
So Gods meet Gods i'th dark and justle.

Seventh, because he'd rather chuse
To spoil his Verse than tire his Muse.
Nor will he let Heroicks chime;
Fancy (quoth he) is lost by Rhime.
And he that's us'd to clashing Swords
Should not delight in sounds of words.
Mars with Mercury should not mingle;
Great Warriours shou'd speak big, not jingle.

Amongst this Heptarchy of Wit,
The censuring Age have thought it fit
To damn a Woman, 'cause 'tis said,
The Plays she vends she never made.
But that a Greys Inn Lawyer does 'em,
Who unto her was Friend in Bosom.

So not presenting Scarf and Hood,
New Plays and Songs are full as good.

These are the better sort I grant,
Damn'd onely by the Ignorant:
But still there are a scribling Fry
Ought to be damn'd eternally;
An unlearn'd Tribe, o'th' lower rate,
Who will be Poets spite of Fate;
Whose Character's not worth reciting,
They scarce can read, yet will be writing:
As t'other day a silly Oafe
Instead of Jove did call on Jofe:
Whose humble Muse descends to Cellars,
Or at the best to Herc'les Pillars.
Now Charon I presume does stop,
Expecting one of these wou'd drop;
For any such Poetick Damn'd-boy
Will light him home as well as Flambeau.

Eacus just had made an end,
When did arrive the dripping Fiend,
Who did confirm the Judges speech,
That Charon did a Light beseech.
They fell to Consultation grave,
To find some strange enlightned Knave.
Faux had like t'have been the Spark,
But that his Lanthorn was too dark.
At last th' agreed a sullen Quaker
Should be this business Undertaker;
The fittest Soul for this exploit,
Because he had the newest Light:
Him soon from sable Den they drag,
Who of his Sufferings doth brag;
And unto Heel of Fiend being ty'd,
To Charons Vessel was convey'd.
Charon came home, all things were well;
This is the onely News from Hell.

As concerning Man.

To what intent or purpose was Man made,
Who is by Birth to misery betray'd?
Man in his tedeous course of life runs through
More Plagues than all the Land of Egypt knew.
Doctors, Divines, grave Disputations, Puns,
Ill looking Citizens and scurvy Duns;
Insipid Squires, fat Bishops, Deans and Chapters,
Enthusiasts, Prophecies, new Rants and Raptures;
Pox, Gout, Catarrhs, old Sores, Cramps, Rheums and Aches;
Half witted Lords, double chinn'd Bawds with Patches;
Illiterate Courtiers, Chancery Suits for Life,
A teazing Whore, and a more tedeous Wife;
Raw Inns of Court men, empty Fops, Buffoons,
Bullies robust, round Aldermen, and Clowns;

Gown-men which argue, and discuss, and prate,
And vent dull Notions of a future State;
Sure of another World, yet do not know
Whether they shall be sav'd, or damn'd, or how.

'Twere better then that Man had never been,
Than thus to be perplex'd: God save the Queen.

Have a care what you do.

I

While Men endeavoured to adorn
The guilded Crest of bloudy Mars,
Poor Love met with contempt and scorn,
Nor had he one Rag to his Arse.

II

His Wings were clogg'd with melting Snow,
Hardly supported by his Legs:

He had no string left to his Bow,
His Arrows too had lost their Pegs.

III

I who had always seen him gay,
Wondered to find him thus distrest;
I told him if with me he'd stay,
He might be welcom to my Breast.

IV

With a faint Smile he shew'd his joy,
And softly to his Lodgings crept,
Where some design disturb'd the Boy,
He prattled all the time he slept.

V

With a large Sigh his Soul I fill'd,
Which made a rumbling in his Guts;
Into his mouth I Tears distill'd,
Tears bigger far than Hazzle Nuts.

VI

His strength return'd to every Limb,
I let him round about me play;
I thought my self secure of him,
Not dreaming he wou'd run away.

VII

But this base perfidious Elf
Ungratefully from me did part,
Not onely stole away himself,
But took along with him my Heart.

VIII

To Cælia then I did repair
With peremptory Hue and Cry,
Being assur'd this stolen Ware
Must light into her custody.

IX

She own'd it with obsequious art,
And drew on me this dire mishap,
'Stead of returning me my Heart
She gave me a confounded Clap.

A Hard Case.

When trembling Pris'ners stand at Bar
In strange suspence about the Verdict:
And when pronounc'd they Guilty are,
How they're astonish'd when they've heard it!

When in a Storm a Ship is toss'd,
All ask, What does the Captain say?
How they bemoan themselves as lost,
When his Advice is onely, Pray!

And as it was my pleasing chance
To meet fair Cælia in a Grove;
Both Time and Place conspir'd t'advance
The innocent designs of Love.

I thought my happiness compleat.
'Twas in her power to make it so:
I ask'd her if she'd do the feat,
But (silly Soul!) she answer'd, No.

Poor Pris'ners may have mercy shewn,
And shipwreck'd men may have the luck
To see their Tempests overblown,
But Cælia I shall never

The Canary Mistress.

Fondling forbear, 'tis Heresie to think
There is a Mistress equal to thy Drink;
Or if in love with any, 't must be rather
With that plump Girl that does call Bacchus Father.
Thou mayst out-look, arm'd with her warm embrace,
Ten thousand Volleys shot from Womans Face,
Who wou'd withstand without this Aid Divine
Ten thousand times as many Tears of thine;
As many Sighs and Prayers would be her sport,
Exalted she so long maintains her Fort.
But when Diviner Sack hath fir'd thy Bloud,
Creating Flames which cannot be withstood;
To which is added Confidence as great
As his, that aim'd at Joves Celestial Seat;

Boldly march on, not granting her the leisure
Of Parly; 'tis the Speed augments the Pleasure.
If she cry out, with Kisses stop her Breath;
She cannot wish to die a better Death.
Tell her the pleasant passages between
The God of War and Loves more gentle Queen.
When feeble Vulcan came, and in a fear
Lest they wou'd not continue longer there,
He chain'd 'em to the sport, with an intent
To keep such Lovers for a Precedent;
Glad to behold a tempting pleasure that
His weak Endeavours never could create.
Then stroke her Breasts those Mountains of Delight,
Whose very Touch would fire an Anchorite.
Next let thy wanton Palm a little stray,
And dip thy Fingers in the Milky Way:
Thus having raiz'd her, gently let her fall,
Loves Trumpets sound, Now Mortal have at all.

A happy end thus made of all your sport,
Lead her where every Lover shou'd resort,
Where Madam Sack's enthron'd, the tempting'st
That e'er was seated in a Venice Glass.
Last, that this sense of Pleasure may remain, Lass
Cast away Thought and fall to Drink again.
Drink off the Glasses, swallow every Bowl,
And pity him that sighs away his Soul
For that poor trifle Woman, who is mine
With one small Gallon of Immortal Wine.
To get a Mistress Drinking is the knack;
Love's grand existence is Almighty Sack.

What are you mad?

I'll mount my thoughts to Giant height,
I'm Constellation in conceit.
I'll pluck down Sol, and mount his Sphere;
Then sullen Daphne shall appear,

And seeing me grasp Phœbus Rays,
Shall cringe and crown me with her Bays.
I'll rape the Moon, it shall be said,
Cynthia hath chang'd the name of Maid;
Her twinkling Girles shall all be ta'en,
No Virgin left to bear her Train.
Thus conquering Sun, Moon, and Stars,
'Gainst Gods themselves I'll levy Wars.
Or if on Earth my Mind can rest,
I'll be a Monarch at the least.
Our dull Plebeians shall grow quicker,
Rincing their muddy Brains in Liquor.
The Miser then shall scatter Cash,
For Wine shall change his Balderdash;
And sing and drink, and drink and sing,
Till every Subject turns a King.
The conquer'd Gods shall make us Legs,
Intreating they may sip the dregs.
Thus will we tipple till the World
Into Oblivion is hurld:

And when we feel old Age does come,
We'll post into Elysium;
And there our chiefest Joys shall be
To think of past Felicity.

Money's All.

Beauty is Nature's quaint Disguise,
A Covert for the Game we hunt;
Being pinch'd but once or twice it dies,
And leaves behind a slimy

Honour's the pleasing Cheat of Men,
The White that does discover Blots;
Like to the Plague at height, which then
Produceth gawdy purple spots.

Wisdom the Souls grave penury,
Which he that owns dares not be brave;

But with dull Morals must comply,
Lest the fond Age should call him Knave.

But he whose Wealth ne'er knew a measure,
May be truly termed free;
For while he rules alone in Treasure,
He commands the other three.

Several Late SONGS Burlesqu'd or Varied.

As Amoret and Phyllis sate, &c.

As Tom and I well warm'd with Wine
Were sitting at the Rose,
In came Sir John with dire design
To ply us in the close.

The threatning Bumpers to remove
I whisper'd in his Ear;
Ah Tom, a bloudy Night 'twill prove,
There is no staying here.
There is no, &c.

None ever yet had such an art
In filling to the Brim;
Nor can you e'er expect to part,
If once engag'd with him.

Fly, fly betimes, for at this rate,
We certainly are sunk:
In vain (said Tom) in vain you prate,
I am already drunk.
I am already drunk.

Hail to the Myrtle Shades, &c.

Pitty the private Cabal,
Ah pitty the Green Ribbon Club;
They've cut off poor Strephon's Entail,
And Strephon has met with a rub.

Strephon has still the same Creatures,
Who fill him with many a doubt;
But Strephon won't stoop to his Betters;
Ah Strephon, ah why so stout!

Strephon once caper'd and pranc'd;
Who but Strephon at Masks and at Balls!
Strephon the Saraband danc'd,
But Strephon now leads up the Brawls.
Strephon who ne'er had the skill
To use either Figure or Trope;
For Strephon has no lofty Style,
Nor e'er was cut out for a Pope.

Strephon though not by his Tongue
Has drawn to him Parties and Factions,
People that make the day long
By buzzing of private Transactions.
Strephon has little to say,
But laughs at the Lord knows what;

But the Club meets every day,
And sits with eternal Chat.

The Poor Whore's Song, in allusion to the Begging Souldier, Good your Worship cast an Eye, &c.

Good young Leacher cast an Eye
Upon a poor Whores misery:
Let not my antiquated Front
Make you less free than you were wont.
But like a noble Rogue
Do but disembogue,
And you shall have our constant vogue;
For I am none of those
That a bulking goes,
And often shows
Their Bridewell blows,

Or New Prison Lash,
For filing of Cash,
Or nimming Prigsters of their Trash.

But I at Court have often been
Within the view of King and Queen;
A Guiney to me was no more
Than Fifteen Pence to a Suburb Whore:
And when he did tilt,
I did briskly jilt,
And swallow'd Pego to the Hilt.
A Pox was very near,
For Bubo did appear,
Had not my Surgeon then been there.

Once at the Bear in Drury Lane
The Bullies left me for a Pawn;
But I made my party good,
To Fifteen Guinneys and a Broad.

Oh you wou'd little ween
How that I have been
As great a Jilt as e'er was seen.
But if Mother Bennet came
With a Wheedle or a Flam,
She'd tell you how I cut the Sham.

From thence I march'd to Creswels House,
Under the name of a Merchants Spouse;
And there I play'd the secret Lover,
Lest jealous Husband shou'd discover.
Oh then came in the Rings,
And such like things,
Which eldest Prentice often brings.
But now my poor—
Contrary to its wont,
Must pocket any small Affront.

Now Now the Fight's done, &c.

Now Now the Heart's broke,
Which so long has complain'd;
And Clarinda triumphs
In the Conquest sh'as gain'd.
Love laughs at the sight,
At the mischief does crow;
For a Love-wounded Heart
Is to him a fine Show.
He plays up and down, and he sports with the Heart,
And he shews it about on the point of his Dart.

But since the coy Nymph
So disdainful is grown,

The power of her Charms
We'll for ever disown;
We'll slight the fond Brat,
Love no longer shall wrack us,
We'll shake off his Chains
For the pleasures of Bacchus.
Then fill us more Wine, fill the Glass to the brim;
Thus we'll patch up our Hearts, they shall last our Life-time.

Tell me dearest pr'ythee do, Why thou wilt and wilt not too, &c.

Tell me, Jack, I pr'ythee do,
Why the Glass still sticks with you:
What does Bus'ness signifie,
If you let your Claret die?

Wine when first pour'd from the Bottle
All its strength and vigour flies;
So says ancient Aristotle.
If it stand
In your hand,
It will then disband
All its Spirits in a trice.
Who dares then refuse to swallow
All the Wine that out he puts,
Will find some heavy Judgments follow,
Vinegar,
Single Beer,
Or such dismal Gear,
To torment his wambling Guts.

Since to all subduing Wine
Lofty Arguments resign;
He wrongs himself that sits and prates
Of grave Matters or Debates.

Talk not then of Merchandizes,
Or what Interest may accrue
By Taxes, Subsidies, Excises,
Liberty,
Property,
Or Monopoly;
'Slife 'tis enough to make one spue.
Be as you were ever jolly,
Let it not stick at your door;
Bus'ness is the greatest folly.
Here's a Glass,
Let it pass,
He's a formal Ass,
That e'er talks of Bus'ness more.

Mr. Drydens Description of Night.

All things were hush'd as Nature's self lay dead,
The Mountains seem to nod their drowsie head;
The little Birds in Dreams their Songs repeat,
And sleeping Flowers beneath the Night dew sweat.
Even Lust and Envy slept, &c.

Thus Burlesqu'd.

All things were hush as when the Drawers tread
Softly to steal the Key from Masters head.

The dying Snuffs do twinkle in their Urns,
As if the Socket, not the Candle, burns.
The little Foot-boy snoars upon the Stair,
And greasie Cook-maid sweats in Elbow Chair.
No Coach nor Link was heard, &c.

Disdain, yet still I will love thee; Nothing, &c.

Fill't up, yet still I will take it;
Fill't up, I'll ne'er forsake it:
Although
My doom I know,
This Glass another will usher,
Good faith it must be so,
Though drinking of this Brusher,
I shall neither stand nor go.

Now at last the Riddle is expounded, &c.

Old Beelzebub was Father of Sedition;
Pride and Arrogance began division
In Religion,
And taught men to combine.
Fetch up the t'other double Bottle,
I will wash away design;
Bring a Spinster, though she have a hot Tail,
No Kingdom is enflam'd by Love or Wine.

The busie Party are the idle Fellows,
Fools that are suspicious and too jealous,
Let Hell loose,
The Devil's in 'em sure.
While he that drinks de die & in diem,
And all night hugs a Whore;

What Treason or Rebellion can come nigh him,
Since he's employ'd each minute of an hour?

To the Tune of Per fas per nefas.

A pox o' these Fellows contriving,
They've spoilt our pleasant design;
We were once in a way of true living,
Improving Discourse by good Wine.
But now Conversation grows tedeous,
O'er Coffee they still confer Notes;
'Stead of Authors both learn'd and facetious,
They quote onely Dugdalo and Oats.

A Traytor still gives a denyal,
When a Glass is fill'd up to the best:
By drinking we know who is Loyal,
A Brimmer's the onely Test.

He that takes it's untaunted of Treason,
He from all Impeachment is freed;
He may lose his Feet for a season,
But never shall lose his Head.

An Epitaph upon the Worthy and truly Vigilant, Sam. Micoe Esq

Here Honest Micoe lies, who never knew
Whether the Parish Clock went false or true.
A true bred English Gentleman, for he
Never demanded yet Quel heur est il?
He valued not the Rise of Sun or Moon,
Nor e'er distinguish'd yet their Night from Noon.
Untill at last by chance he clos'd his Eyes,
And Death did catch him napping by surprize.

But first he thus spoke to the King of Fears,
Have I in Taverns spent my blooming years,
Outsate the Beadle nodding in his Chair,
Outwatch'd the Bulker and the Burglarer;
Outdrank all measure fill'd above the Seal,
When some weak Brethren to their Beds did reel;
And there when last nights Bottles were on board,
When Squires in Cloaks wrapt up in corners snoar'd;
I onely clad in my old Night Campain,
Call'd for more Wine and drank to 'em again?
Have I made Sir John Robinson to yield,
Sent haughty Langston staggering from the Field?
And unto meager Death now must I sink,
Death that eats all without a drop of Drink?
You steal my Life (grim Tyrant) 'cause you knew
Had I sate up I'd kill'd more men than you.

Quoth surly Death, Statutum est, sic dico;
Sat vigilasti—Bonos Nochios Micoe.

Upon Mr. Bennet, Procurer Extraordinary.

Reader beneath this Marble Stone
Saint Valentine's Adopted Son,
Bennet the Bawd now lies alone.

Here lies alone the Amorous Spark,
Who was us'd to lead them in the dark
Like Beasts by Pairs into the Ark.

If Men of Honour wou'd begin,
He'd ne'er stick out at any Sin,
For he was still for Sticking't in.

If Justice chiefest of the Bench
Had an occasion for a Wench,
His reverend Flames 'twas he cou'd quench.

And for his Son and Heir apparent,
He cou'd perform as good an errand
Without a Tipstaff or a Warrant.

Over the Clergy had such a lock,
That he could make a Spiritual Frock
Fly off at sight of Temporal Smock.

Like Will 'ith' wisp still up and down
He led the Wives of London Town,
To lodge with Squires of high renown.

While they (poor Fools) being unaware,
Did find themselves in Mansion fair,
Near Leic'ster Fields or James's Square.

Thus Wotthy Bennet was imploy'd;
At last he held the Door so wide,
He caught a cold, so cough'd, and dy'd.

To a late Scotch Tune.

Thomas did once make my Heart full glad,
When I set him up to rule at the Helm:
But Thomas has prov'd but a naughty Lad,
For Thomas I fear has betray'd my Realm.

I gave him a House, I gave him Grounds,
I gave him a hundred thousand pounds,
I gave him the Lord knows what Gadzounds:
But Thomas, &c.

The finest Courtier that e'er was seen,
He prais'd my Port, and he prais'd my Meen,

He prais'd all the Ladies at Court but the Q---
Yet Thomas, &c.

I gave him all Christian Liberty,
I let him sometimes lig by me,
I let him feel my Duchesses Knee,
Yet Thomas, &c.

Upon a Bowl of Punch.

The Gods and the Goddesses lately did feast,
Where Ambrosia with exquisite Sawces was drest.
The Edibles did with their Qualities suit,
But what they shou'd drink did occasion dispute.
'Twas time that old Nectar shou'd grow out of fashion,
For that they have drank long before the Creation.

When the Sky-coloured Cloth was drawn from the Board,
For the Chrystalline Bowl Great Jove gave the word.
This was a Bowl of most heavenly size,
In which Infant Gods they did use to baptize.

Quoth Jove, We're inform'd they drink Punch upon Earth,
By which mortal Wights do outdo us in mirth.
Therefore our Godheads together let's lay,
And endeavour to make it much stronger than they.
'Twas spoke like a God,—Fill the Bowl to the top,
He's cashier'd from the Skies that leaveth one drop.

Apollo dispatch'd away one of the Lasses,
Who fetch'd him a Pitcher from Well of Parnassus.

To Poets new born this Liquor is brought,
And this they suck in for their first Mornings draught.

Juno for Limons sent into her Closet,
Which when she was sick she infus'd into Posset;
For Goddesses may be as squeamish as Gipsies,
The Sun and the Moon we find have Eclipses.
These Limons were call'd the Hesperian Fruit,
When vigilant Dragon was set to look to't.
Six dozen of these were squeez'd into Water,
The rest of the Ingredients in order come after.

Venus, th' Admirer of things that are sweet,
And without her Infusion there had been no Treat,
Commanded two Sugar-loaves white as her Doves,
Supported to th' Table by a Brace of young Loves.

So wonderful curious these Deities were,
That this Sugar they strain'd through a Sieve of thin Air.

Bacchus gave notice by dangling a Bunch,
That without his Assistance there could be no Punch.
What was meant by his signs was very well known,
So they threw in three Gallons of trusty Langoon.

Mars a blunt God, who car'd not for dis-course,
Was seated at Table still twirling his Whiskers:
Quoth he, Fellow Gods and Celestial Gall-ants,
I'd not give a Fart for your Punch without Nants;
Therefore Boy Ganimede I do command ye,
To fill up the Bowl with a Rundlet of Brandy.

Saturn of all the Gods was the oldest,
And you may imagine his Stomach was coldest,
Did out of his Pouchet three Nutmegs produce,
Which when they were grated were put to the Juice.

Neptune this Ocean of Liquor did crown
With a hard Sea-Bisquet well bak'd by the Sun.

The Bowl being finish'd, a Health was began;
Quoth Jove, Let it be to our Creature call'd Man;
'Tis to him alone these Pleasures we owe,
For Heaven was never true Heaven till now.

Upon the Pyramid.

[_]

To the Tune of Packington's Pound.

I

My Masters and Friends, and good People draw near,
For here's a new Sight which you must not escape,
A stately young Fabrick that cost very dear,
Renown'd for streight body and Barbary shape;
A Pyramid much high'r
Than a Steeple or Spire,
By which you may guess there has been a Fire.
Ah London th' adst better have built new Burdellos,
T'encourage She-Traders and lusty young Fellows.

II

No sooner the City had lost their old Houses,
But they set up this Monument wonderfull tall;
Though when Christians were burnt, as Fox plainly shews us,
There was nothing set up but his Book in the Hall.
And yet these men can't
In their Conscience but grant,
That a House is unworthy compar'd to a Saint.
Ah London, &c.

III

The Children of Men in erecting old Babel,
To be saved from Water did onely desire:
So the City presumes that this young one is able,
When occasion shall serve to secure them from Fire.

Blowing up when all's done
Preserves best the Town,
But this Hieroglyphick will soon be blown down.
Ah London, &c.

IV

Some say it resembles a Glass fit for Mum,
And think themselves witty by giving Nicknames:
An Extinguisher too 'tis fancied by some,
As set up on purpose to put out the Flames.
But whatever they shall
This Workmanship call,
Had it never been thought on 'thad been a Save-all.
Ah London, &c.

V

Some Passengers seem to suspect the grave City,
As men not so wise as they shou'd be, or so;
And oftentimes say, 'Tis a great deal of pity
So much Coin should be spent and so little to show.
But these men ne'er stop
To pay for going up,
For all that's worth seeing is when y'are atop,
Ah London, &c.

[vi]

But O you proud Nation of Citizens all,
Supposing y'had rear'd but onely one stone,
And on it engrav'd a stupendious Tale,
Of a Conflagration the like was ne'er known:
It had been as good
T'have humour'd the Croud,
And then y'had prevented their laughing aloud.
Ah London, &c.

Upon a Superannuated Couple lately married.

I

An Aged Couple have combin'd,
And stock of years together joyn'd,
To vie with Time 'tis now design'd.

II

Old Emblem with thy Sythe and Sand,
Thy canker'd power they do withstand,
Nor Fate it self shall here command.

III

In vain will all their Projects be;
Great Time, they must acknowledge thee,
When they endeavour Rem in Re.

IV

They represent (each tedeous night,
When they their feeble force unite)
Methusalem th' Hermaphrodite.

V

Of the grave Posset made with Sack
A holy Sacrament they make,
Which they with like devotion take.

VI

The dancing Guests like Lightning flew,
This venerable Brace mov'd too
As Cripples in the Jovial Crew.

VII

While Musick play'd this solemn Pair
Kept time to every sprightly Air,
With deep-mouth'd Cough and hoarse Catarth.

VIII

And now their wishes are complete,
With chaste desires in Bed they meet;
The Wedding seems a Winding sheet.

IX

There let us leave them, there they're safe,
The next remove is to their Grave;
Epithalamium proves their Epitaph.

On the Protestants Flail.

In former days th' Invention was of Wracks,
To dislocate mens Joynts and break their Backs:
But this Protestant Flail of a severer sort is,
For Lignum-vitæ here proves Lignum mortis.

The Narrative.

I

Come prick up your Ears, if they are not gone,
For this Deponent hath lost his own;
His Neck goes next 'tis forty to one,
Which no body can deny.

II

Now this Deponent doth depose,
That he was once one of the Kings Foes,
But now he thanks God he's none of those:
Sure our Deponent will lie.

III

He swears that once there was Harry the Eighth,

Who was divorc'd from's first Wife Kate,
And that he cut off anothers Pate,
Which no body can deny.

IV

Even so (quoth he) I can witness bring,
That the Q--- did consent to the death of the K---
But we are inform'd there was no such thing;
For our Deponent will lie.

V

He swears that before the Tower of Babel
Kain knock'd out the Brains of his Brother Abel;
Here he swears to a Truth and not to a Fable;
Which no body can deny.

VI

Even so (quoth he) some bloudy work

Was carried on by his Brother of Y---
But His Highness is neither a Jew nor a Turk
For our Deponent will lie.

VII

He swears that once in Noah's time,
There was a great Floud that brought a great Stream,
And all were drown'd that cou'd not swim;
Which no body can deny.

VIII

And now (God bless us) we're all in a fright,
For we had like t'have been ruin'd quite,
Our Throats should all have been cut in the night;
But our Deponent will lie.

IX

Further he swears that S. Peter from Heav'n,

Had such an absolute power given,
That whom he pleas'd were condemn'd or forgiven,
Which no body can deny.

X

Even so (saith he) Commissions went out
From the Pope to raise both Horse and Foot,
That whom he pleas'd he might slash and cut;
But our Deponent will lie.

XI

Some where or other S. Paul does aver,
That an Oath puts an end to all bustle and stir,
By which he confirms it is lawful to swear;
Which no body can deny.

XII

There was foolish swearing in former days,

But our Deponent has alter'd the case,
For 'has made more mischief than ever there was,
For our Deponent will lie.

The fourteenth Ode of the Second Book of Horace.

Eheu fugaces, Posthume, Posthume,
Labuntur anni ------

See, Posthumus, how years do fly;
Nor can the smoothest Piety
Fill up one wrinkle in the Face,
Or stop Old Ages certain pace,
Or quell Mortality.

When dying if thou shouldst design
To offer up at Pluto's Shrine,

As many Bullocks fat and fair,
As th'are days in every year,
One hour would not be thine.

See the thrice bulky Geryon stand,
Shackled in Ropes of Stygian:
On 't'other side the doleful Pool
See the extended Tityus roul,
Where all Mankind must land.

This irksom Shore must entertain
The greatest Prince that e'er shall reign:
As great a welcom shall be there
Made to the meanest Cottager;
Distinctions are in vain.

In vain we shun the chance of War,
Where the most frequent dangers are.

In vain we do secure our selves
From troubled Seas, or Sands, or Shelves,
Or a cold Winter fear.

By all the Human Race at last
Muddy Cocytus must be past;
Where th' impious Daughters fill a Sieve,
Where Sisyphus in vain does strive
To stick the Rowler fast.

We bid Farwell to Land and House,
To th' joys of an untainted Spouse;
And to the silent Groves and Trees,
Whose Height and Shade at once do please:
But there sad Cypress grows.

Then shall rich Wines brought from Campain,
Which you with Locks and Bolts detain,

Be by your worthy Heir let loose,
To give a Tincture round the House,
Where he does entertain.

The tenth Ode of the second Book of Horace.

Rectiùs vives, Licine, neque altum
Semper urgendo ------

That thou mayst steer thy course with greater ease,
Plunge not far amidst the deepest Seas:
Or fill'd with horror when the Ocean roars,
Press not hard upon unequal Shores.

Who ever does admire the Golden Mean,
Is not pent up in Cottages unclean;
Inhabits not obscure and sordid Cells,
Nor courts the lofty Hall where Envy dwells.

The Pine Tree's vex'd by winds because 'tis tall;
The higher the Tower, the greater is its fall.
By Heavens Artillery are Mountains shook,
And mightiest Hills are soonest Thunder strook.

In adverse Times a well prepared Mind
With reason hopes a better change to find;
In prosp'rous days wishes no further good,
But modestly does fear Vicissitude.

Heaven doth disfigure Earth with Winters Rain,
And the same Heaven guilds the Earth again.
If at one instant things succeed not well,
There follows not an everlasting Ill.
From Bow and Dart Apollo doth retire,
And sometimes takes in hand his charming Lyre,
And by soft Notes excites the Female Quire.

When in some dangerous Straits your Barque shall ride,

Let never failing Courage be your Guide:
But if your Fortune blow auspicious Gales,
Let Wisdom then contract your strutting Sails.

Horace's well wishes to a scurvy Poet gone to Sea, Epode 10. in Mævium.

Mala soluta navis exit alite,
Ferens olentem Mævium, &c.

With an unhappy Freight that Ship is stor'd,
That took the fulsom Mævius aboard.
Auster remember what you have to do,
'Tis in your power to split the Ship in two.
Eurus the Black, this your Command shall be,
To spoil the Tackle, and disturb the Sea.

Aquilo rise, and be your Fury shown,
As much as when you Trees have overthrown.
And in dark night no friendly Star appear,
As when Orion leaves the Hemisphere.
Nor more of Calm at Sea let him enjoy,
Than conquering Grecians when they sail'd from Troy;
When Pallas to avenge the sin of Fire,
By water made Ajax's Crew expire.
What sport 'twoud be t'observe the Sailers sweat,
And see thy Earthen Face look paler yet!
To hear thy Howlings and unmanly Cries,
In vain beseeching angry Deities!
Or let the Southern Winds drive thee away
Into the bellowing Gulph of Adria.
But if thy Carcase should be cast on shore,
That Cormorants the Carrion may devour:
To th' Tempests then a Holyday we'll keep,
By offering up a Ram or some black Sheep.

A Call to the Guard by a Drum.

Rat too, rat too, rat too, rat tat too, tat rat too,
With your Noses all scabb'd and your Eyes black and blew,
All ye hungry poor Sinners that Foot Souldiers are,
Though with very small Coyn, yet with very much Care,
From your Quarters and Garrets make haste to repair.
To the Guard, to the Guard.

From your sorry Straw Beds and bonny white Fleas,
From your Dreams of Small Drink and your very small ease,
From your plenty of stink, and no plenty of room,
From your Walls daub'd with Phlegm sticking on 'em like Gum,
And Ceiling hung with Cobwebs to stanch a cut Thumb,
To the Guard, &c.

From your crack'd Earthen Pispots where no Piss can stay,
From Roofs bewrit with Snuffs in Letters the wrong way;
From one old broken Stool with one unbroken Leg,
One Box with ne'er a Lid to keep ne'er a Rag,
And Windows that of Storms more than your selves can brag,
To the Guard, &c.

With trusty Pike and Gun, and the other rusty Tool;
With Heads extremely hot, and with Hearts wondrous cool;
With Stomachs meaning none (but Cooks and Sutlers) hurt;
With two old totter'd Shooes that disgrace the Town Dirt;
With forty shreds of Breeches, and no one shred of Shirt,
To the Guard, &c.

See they come, see they come, see they come, see they come,
With Allarms in their Pates to the call of a Drum;
Some lodging with Bawds (whom the modest call Bitches)
With their Bones dry'd to Kexes, and Legs shrunk to Switches;

With the Plague in the Purse, and the Pox in the Breeches,
To the Guard, &c.

Some from snoring and farting, and spewing on Benches,
Some from damn'd fulsom Ale, and more damn'd fulsom Wenches;
Some from Put, and Size Ace, and Old Sim, this way stalk;
Each mans Reeling's his gate, and his Hickup his talk,
With two new Cheeks of Red from ten old Rows of Chalk,
To the Guard, &c.

Here come others from scuffling, and damning mine Host,
With their Tongues at last tam'd, but with Faces that boast
Of some Scars by the Jordan, or Warlike Quart Pot,
For their building of Sconces and Volleys of Shot,
Which they charg'd to the mouth, but discharg'd ne'er a Groat,
To the Guard, &c.

They for Valour in black too, the Chaplain does come!
From his preaching o'er Pots now to pray o'er a Drum.

All ye whoring and swearing old Red Coats draw near,
Like to Saints in Red Letters listen and give ear,
And be godly awhile ho, and then as you were,
To the Guard, &c.

After some canting terms, To your Arms, and the like,
Such as Poysing your Musquet, or Porting your Pike;
To the right, To the left, or else Face about;
After ratling your Sticks, and your shaking a Clout,
Hast your Infantry Troops that mount the Guard on foot,
To the Guard, &c.

Captain Hector, first marches, but not he of Troy,
But a Trifle made up of a Man and a Boy;
See the Man scant of Arms in a Scarf does abound,
Which presages some swaggering, but no bloud nor wound;
Like a Rainbow that shews the World shan't be drown'd;
To the Guard, &c.

As the Tinker wears Rags whilest the Dog bears the Budget,
So the Man stalks with Staff whilest the Footboy does trudge it

With the Tool he should work with (that's Half Pike you'll say;)
But what Captain's so strong his own Arms to convey,
When he marches o'er loaden with ten other mens Pay?
To the Guard, &c.

In his March (if you mark) he's attended at least
With Stinks sixteen deep, and about five abreast,
Made of Ale and Mundungus, Snuff, Rags, and brown Crust for,
While he wants twenty Taylors to make up the cluster,
Which declares that his Journey's not now to the Muster,
But to the Guard, &c.

Some with Musquet and Belly uncharg'd march away,
With Pipes black as their Mouths, and short as their Pay;
Whilest their Coats made of holes shew like Bone-lace about 'em,
And their Bandeliers hang like to Bobbins without 'em,
And whilest Horsemen do cloath 'em, these Footscrubs do clout 'em,
For the Guard, &c.

Some with Hat ty'd on one side, and Wit ty'd on neither;
Wear gray Coats and gray Cattle, see their Wenches run hither,
For to peep through Red Lettice and dark Cellar doors,
To behold 'em wear Pikes rusty just like their Whores,
As slender as their Meals and as long as their Scores,
To the Guard, &c.

Some with Tweedle, wheedle, wheede; whilest we beat Dub a Dub;
Keep the base Scotish noise, and as base Scotish scrub:
Then with Body contracted, a Rag open spread,
Comes a thing with red Colours, and Nose full as red;
Like an Ensign to the King, and to the Kings Head,
Towards the Guard, &c.

Two Commanders come last, the Lieutenant perhaps,
Full of Low Country Stories and Low Country Claps.
To be next him the other takes care not to fail,
Powder Monkey by name that vents stink by whole sale,

For where should the Fart be but just with the Tail
Of the Guard? &c.

And now hey for the King Boys, and hey for the Court,
Which is guarded by these as the Tower is by Dirt;
These Whitehall must admit and such other unhouse ye,
Each day lets in the drunk, whilst it lets out the drowsie,
And no place in the world shifts so oft to be lowsie.
Thank the Guard, &c.

Some to Scotland-Yard sneak, and the Sutlers wise kisses;
But despairing of Drink till some Countryman pisses,
And pays too (for no place in the Court must be given)
To the Can-office then, all a Foot-Soldier's Heav'n,
Where he finds a foul Fox, soon, and cures Sir—
On the Guard, &c.

Some at Sh---house publick (where a Rag always goes)

At once empty their Guts and diminish their Clothes.
Though their Mouths are poor Pimps (Whore and Bacon being all
Their chief Food) yet their Bums we true Courtiers may call,
For what they eat in the Suburbs, they sh--- at Whitehall,
For the Guard, &c.

Such a like Pack of Cards to the Park making entry,
Here and there deal an Ace, which the Jews call a Centry,
Which in bad Houses of Boards stand to tell what a clock 'tis,
Where they keep up tame Redcoats as men keep up tame Foxes,
Or Apothecaries lay up their Dogs Turds in Boxes.
Oh the Guard, &c.

Some of these are planted (though it has been their lucks
Oft to steal Country Geese) now to watch the Kings Ducks;
While some others are set in the side that has Wood in,
To stand Pimps to black Masques that are oft thither footing,

Just as Housewives set Cuckolds to stir their Black Pudding.
Oh the Guard, &c.

Whilest another true Trojan to some passage runs,
As to keep in the Debtors, so to keep out the Duns;
Or a Prentice, or his Mistress, with Oaths to confound,
Till he hyes him from the Park as from forbidden ground,
'Cause his Credit is whole, and his Wench may be sound,
And quits the Guard, &c.

Now it's night, and the Patrole in Alehouse drown'd,
For nought else but the Pot and their Brains walk the round;
Whilest like Hell the Commanders Guard-chamber does shew,
There's such damning themselves and all else of the Crew,
For though these cheat the Men, they give the Devil his due,
On the Guard, &c.

Whilest a Main after Main at old Hazard they throw,
And their Quarrels grow high as their Money grows low;

Strait they threaten hard (using bad Faces for Frowns)
To revenge on the Flesh, the default of the Bones,
But the Blood's in their Hose, and in Oaths all their Wounds.
Like the Guard, &c.

In the Morning they fight, just as much as they pray;
For some one to the King does the Tidings convey
For preventing of Murder; Oh 'tis a wise way!
Though not one of 'em knows (as a thousand dare say)
That belongs to a dead man, unless in his pay
For the Guard, &c.

With their Skins they march home no more hurt than their Drums,
But for scratching of Faces, or biting of Thumbs;
And now hey for fat Alewives, and Tradesmen grown lean;
For the Captain grown Bankrupt, recruits him again,

With sending out Tickets, and turning out Men
From the Guard, &c.

Strait the poor Rogue's cashier'd with a Cane, and a Curse,
Fall from wounding no Men, now to cut ev'ry Purse:
And what then? Man's a Worm; these we Glowworms may name:
For as they'r dark of Body; have Tails all of flame.
So tho' those liv'd in Oaths, yet they die with a Psalm.
Farewell Guard, &c.

Dr. Wild's Humble Thanks for His Majesty's gracious Declaration for Liberty of Conscience, Mar. 15. 72.

No not one word can I of this great deed
In Merlin or old Mother Shipton read!
Old Tyburn take those Tychobrahe Imps,
As Silger, who would be accounted Pimps
To the Amorous Planets; they the Minute know
When Jove did Cuckold old Amphytrio,
Ken Mars, and made Venus wink, and glances
Their close Conjunctions and Midnight Dances;
When costive Saturn goes to stool, and vile
Thief Mercury doth pick his Fob the while;
When Lady Luna leaks, and makes her Man
Throw't out of Window into th' Ocean.
More subtil than th' Excisemen here below,
What's spent in every Sign in Heaven they know.

Cunning Intelligencers, they will not miss
To tell us next year the success of this;
They correspond with Dutch and English Star,
As one once did with CHARLES and Oliver.
The Bankers also might have (had they gone)
What Planet govern'd the Exchequer known.
Old Lilly, though he did not love to make
Any words on't, saw the English take
Five of the Smyrna Fleet, and if the Sign
Had been Aquarius, then they'd made them Nine.
When Sagittarius took his aim to shoot
At Bishop Cosin, he spied him no doubt;
And with such force the winged Arrow flew,
Instead of one Church Stag he killed two;
Glocester and Durham when he espy'd,
Let Lean and Fat go together he cry'd:
Well Wille Lilly, thou knew'st all this as well
As I, and yet wouldst not their Lordships tell.
I know thy Plea too, and must it allow,
Prelats should know as much of Heaven as thou.

But now, Friend William, since it's done and past,
Pray thee give us Phanaticks but one cast,
What thou foresawst of March the Fifteenth last;
When swift and sudden as the Angels fly,
Th' Declaration for Conscience Liberty;
When things of Heaven burst from the Royal Brest,
More fragrant than the Spices of the East.
I know in next years Almanack thou'lt write,
Thou sawst the King and Council over night,
Before that morn, all sit in Heaven as plain
To be discern'd, as if 'twere Charles's Wain.
Great B, great L, and two great AA's were chief,
Under great Charles to give poor Fan's relief.
Thou sawst Lord Arlington ordain the Man
To be the first Lay-Metropolytan.
Thou sawst him give Induction to a Spittle,
And constitute our Brother Tom Dolittle.
In the Bears Paw, and the Bulls right Eye,
Some detriment to Priests thou didst espy;

And though by Sol in Libra thou didst know
Which way the Scale of Policy would go;
Yet Mercury in Aries did decree,
That Wooll and Lamb should still Conformists be.
But hark you Will, Steer-poching is not fair;
Had you amongst the Steers found this March-hare,
Bred of that lusty Puss the Good Old Cause,
Religion rescued from Informing Laws;
You should have yelp'd aloud, Hanging's the end,
By Huntsmens rule, of Hounds that will not spend.
Be gone thou and thy canting Tribe, be gone;
Go tell thy destiny to followers none:
Kings Hearts and Councils are too deep for thee,
And for thy Stars and Dæmons scrutiny.
King Charles Return was much above thy skill
To fumble out, as 'twas against thy will.
From him who can the Hearts of Kings inspire,
Not from the Planets, came that sacred Fire
Of Sovereign Love, which broke into a flame;
From God and from his King alone it came.

To the King.

So great, so universal, and so free!
This was too much, great Charles, except for thee,
For any King to give a Subject hope:
To do thus like thee would undo the Pope.
Yea tho his Vassals should their wealth combine,
To buy Indulgence half so large as thine;
No, if they should not onely kiss his Toe,
But Clements podex, he'd not let them go:
Whilest thou to's shame, thy immortal glory,
Hast freed All Souls from real Purgatory;
And given All Saints in Heaven new joys, to see
Their Friends in England keep a Jubilee.
Suspect them not, Great Sir, nor think the worst;
For sudden Joys like Grief confound at first.
The splendor of your Favour was so bright,
That yet it dazles and o'erwhelms our sight:
Drunk with her cups my Muse did nothing mind,
And untill now her Feet she could not find.

Greediness makes prophanness i'th' first place;
Hungry men fill their bellies, then say Grace.
We wou'd have Bonfires, but that we do fear
The name of Incend'ary we may hear:
We wou'd have Musick too, but 'twill not do,
For all the Fidlers are Conformists too:
Nor can we ring, the angry Churchman swears
By the Kings leave the Bells and Ropes are theirs;
And let 'em take 'em, for our Tongues shall sing
Your Honour louder than their Clappers ring.
Nay, if they will not at this Grace repine,
We'll dress the Vineyard, they shall drink the wine.
Their Church shall be the Mother, ours the Nurse;
Peter shall preach, Judas shall bear the purse.
No Bishops, Parsons, Vicars, Curates, we
But onely Ministers desire to be.
We'll preach in Sackcloth, they shall read in Silk;
We'll feed the Flock, and let them take the Milk.
Let but the Blackbirds sing in Bushes cold,
And may the Jackdaws still the Steeples hold.

We'll be the Feet, the Back, and Hands, and they
Shall be the Belly, and devour the prey.
The Tythe-pig shall be theirs, we'll turn the Spit;
We'll bear the Cross, they onely sign with it.
But if the Patriarchs shall envy show
To see their younger Brother Joseph go
In Coat of divers colours, and shall fall
To rend it 'cause it's not Canonical;
Then may they find him turn a Dreamer too,
And live themselves to see his Dream come true.
May rather they and we together joyn
In all what each can; but they have the Coyn;
With prayers and tears such Service much avail;
With tears to swell your Seas, with prayers your Sails;
And with Men too from both our Parties; such
I'm sure we have can cheat or beat the Dutch.
A thousand Quakers, Sir, our side can spare;
Nay two or three, for they great Breeders are.
The Church can match us too with Jovial Sirs,
Informers, Singingmen, and Paraters.
Let the King try, set these upon the Decks
Together, they will Dutch or Devil vex.
Their Breath will mischief further than a Gun,
And if you lose them you'll not be undone.
Pardon, Dread Sir, nay pardon this course Paper,
Your License 'twas made this poor Poet caper.

ITER BOREALE.

These for his Old Friend Doctor Wild, Author of the Humble Thanks, &c.

SIR,

Had I believ'd report, that said
These Rhymes by Doctor Wild were made,
I long before this time had sent
Some symptoms of our discontent.
For since y'have left off being witty,
Your humble thanks deserves our pitty.

I can't imagine what you'l do,
Your Muse turn'd Non-conformist too?
And will not easily dispence
With the old way of writing sence!
She hath receiv'd, if that be true,
As much Indulgence then as you.

Surely (Dear Sir) you did not pray
Since you convers'd with Tycho Brah.
Jove play'd the wag, and Luna pist,
Do these things with Free-Grace consist?

Celestial Signs serve to express
The good man's heav'nly mindedness;
There are but Twelve of them in Heaven,
Yet he'll name one by one eleven;
And if you're not in too much hast,
'Tis ten to one, he names the last.

You had been horribly put to't,
If Sagittarius could not shoot:
Aquarius and the Smyrna Fleet,
I'll swear, a very good conceit.

But, Doctor, let us know, why will ye
Thus vex your self at William Lilly?
'Tis true, he could not find it out,
That March would bring all this about;

But on that day you well might gather
That there would be some change of weather:
And change of weather in a Nation
Portends a kind of alteration.

This favour, you do say, did come
Fragrant and full of all perfume,
Like Eastern Spices (it should seem)
This had done rarely in a Theme.
To the next Column—let us see
How you discourse His MAJESTY.
Where every solemn Epithite
Does look like Grace before you eat,
Which being said, as rudely you
Do take the Boldness to fall to,
With Rhymes most reverently sent
About Pope Clement's Fundament,
And Puns that would provoke the hate
Of any under Graduate.

Peter Non-con (it seems) must pray,
And Judas Church must take the Pay.
Some angry men would call him rude Ass,
That calls the Church of England Judas,
You'l be no Bishop, nor no Curate,
'Tis only Minister that you're at.
Minister! It sounds, methinks,
Like Pastor Clark of Bennet Fynks.

These Favours which the King doth heap
Upon your Head, hath made you leap.
And since y'have found your feet again,
The Gout's got up into your Brain:
If cap'ring be so fine a thing,
Pr'ythee come over for the King.

Your humble Servant, OBEDIAH.

[Ill Painters when they make a Sign]

Ill Painters when they make a Sign
Either of Talbot or of Swine,
To satisfie all Persons rogant,
That they might make a Hog or Dog on't;
Do never think it any shame
To underwrite the Creature's Name.
WILD made some Verses you must know,
ITER BOREALE is below.

THE RAMBLE.

While Duns were knocking at my Door,
I lay in Bed with reeking Whore,
With Back so weak and P--- so sore,
You'd wonder,

I rouz'd my Doe, and lac'd her Gown,
I pin'd her Whisk, and drop't a Crown,
She pist, and then I drove her down,
Like Thunder.

From Chamber then I went to dinner,
I drank small Beer like mournful Sinner,
And still I thought the Devil in her
Clitoris,

I sate at Muskats in the dark,
I heard a Trades-man and a Spark,
An Atturney and a Lawyer's Clark,
Tell Stories.

From thence I went, with muffled Face,
To the Duke's House, and took a place,
In which I spu'd, may't please his Grace,
Or Highness;

Shou'd I been hang'd I could not chuse
But laugh at Whores that drop from Stews,
Seeing that Mistris Marg'ret—
So fine is.

When Play was done, I call'd a Link,
I heard some paltry pieces chink
Within my Pockets, how d'ee think.
I' employ'd 'em?

Why, Sir, I went to Mistriss Spering,
Where some were cursing, others swearing,
Never a Barrel better Herring,
per fidem,

Seven's the main, 'tis Eight, God dam 'me,
'Twas six, said I, as God shall sa' me,
Now being true you cou'd not blame me
so saying,

Sa' me! quoth one, what Shamaroon
Is this, has begg'd an Afternoon
Of's Mother, to go up and down
A playing?

This was as bad to me as killing,
Mistake not Sir, said I, I'm willing,
And able both, to drop a shilling,
Or two Sir:

Goda'mercy then, said Bully Hec—
With Whiskers stern, and Cordubeck
Pinn'd up behind, his scabby Neck
To shew Sir.

With mangled fist he grasp'd the Box,
Giving the Table bloody knocks,
He throws—and calls for Plague and Pox
T'assist him;

Some twenty shillings he did catch,
H'ad like t'have made a quick dispatch,
Nor could, Time's Register, my Watch
Have mist him.

As Luck would have it, in came Will,
Perceiving things went very ill,
Quoth he, y'ad better go and swill
Canary,

We steer'd our course to Dragon Green,
Which is in Fleetstreet to be seen,
Where we drank Wine—not foul—but clean
contrary.

Our Host, y'cleped Thomas Hammond,
Presented slice of Bacon Gammon,
Which made us swallow Sack as Salmon
Drink water,

Being o'er-warm'd with last debauch,
I grew as drunk as any Roch,
When hot-bak'd-Wardens did approach,
Or later,

We broke the Glasses out of hand,
As many Oaths I'd at command
As Hastings, Sabin, Sunderland,
Or Ogle,

Then I cry'd up Sir Henry Vane,
And swore by God I would maintain
Episcopacy was too plain
A juggle.

But oh! the damn'd confounded Fate
Attends on drinking Wine so late,
I drew my Sword on honest Kate
O'th' Kitchin,

Which H---'s Wife would not endure,
I told her tho' she look'd demure,
She came but lately I was sure
From Bitching.

A Club there was in t'other Room,
I bolted in, being known to some,
Such men are not in Christendom
For jesting,

They use a plain familiar stile,
Appearing friendly all the while,
Yet never part without a Broil
Intestin.

The first as Steward did appear,
A strange conceited Barrister,
Who on all Matters will infer
His Reading,

A Band 'had on, that's very plain,
A Velvet Coat, a shining Cane,
Some Law, less Wit, and not a grain
Of Breeding.

The Company were in a fit
Of talking News about Maestricht,
How that the Prince's leaving it
Was sudden,

Quoth he, (because they should say
That he knew less of this than they)
Just such a case I read this day
In Plowden.

An angry Captain that was there,
Could Indignation not forbear,
'Zounds, sayes he, did Man e're hear
Such Non-sence?

We talk of Sieges, Camps, and Forts,
This Fool's a keeping Country Courts,
With musty Law and dull Reports,
Damn'd long since,

Go bolt your Cases at the Fire,
From Plowden, Perkins, Rastal, Dyer,
Such heavy stuff does rather tire
Than please us:

Tell not us of Issue Male,
Of Simple Fee, and Special Tail,
Of Feofments, Judgments, Bills of Sale,
And Leases.

Can you discourse of Hand-Granadoes,
Of Sally-Ports and Ambuscadoes,
Of Counterscarps and Pallizadoes,
And Trenches,

Of Bastions, blowing up of Mines,
Or of Communication Lines,
Or can you guess the great Designs
The French has?

The Barrister began to start
To hear such bloody terms of Art,
And did desire with all his heart
A Farewel;

Till younger Member of the House,
Resenting this as an Abuse,
Thought it convenient to espouse
His Quarrel.

This was a spruce young Squire that
Knew the true Manage of the Hat,
And every morning ty'd Cravat
With Project:

One that was sure he knew the Town,
To men of Fringe and Feather known,
'Mongst whom all Law he wou'd disown,
And Logick.

Captain, quoth he, I'll tell you thus:
You are mistaken much in us,
With dint of Sword we can discuss;
'Tis true Sir,

You trail'd a Pike, or some such thing,
In Holland, here you huff and ding:
And all the Town (forsooth) must ring
Of you, Sir.

I can remember you at Lambs,
Whither you'd come with forty shams;
And swore you wou'd renounce all Games
But Tennis:

Last night (such luck ne'r man had yet)
You play'd with Countess at Picquet,
And that she did (by Jesus) get
Twelve Guinnies;

Nay worse—just parting with my Lord,
He fancy'd much your Silver Sword,
And you wear his not worth a Turd—
—A Bawble;

But for the Hilt he's like to pay,
For you will have his Iron Grey:
A swifter Nag is not this day.
In stable.

And all the great design of this
Is but to borrow half a Piece,
Or be excus'd (if Ready miss)
From Clubbing:

The Captain swell'd, yet did not know
Whether the Youth would fight or no,
Or if 'twere safe to give the Foe
A drubbing.

Company's here, and for their sake,
Quoth he, some other time I'll take,
For I did never love to make
A Bustle,

Even when you please, quoth Younker, then
I'm every Evening to be seen
'Mongst witty Coffee-drinkers in
Street Russel.

One that was Doctor, Rook, and Quack,
With whom the Captain us'd to snack,
Because he'd make the first attack
On Bubble.

Did think it fit to do him right,
Altho' he knew he would not fight,
Yet Cully he would sore affright
And trouble.

Therefore the Captain's part he took;
Home Lad, quoth he, unto your Book,
If Letters fail, Go Bully-rock
The Carrier,

For here you must not vent your stuff,
We understand you well enough:
You must not think to rant and huff
A Warrier.

I knew when Animal and Ens
Was once the chief of your pretence,
But now you think y'ave sprucer Sense
And Knowledge.

When first this Town y'arriv'd unto,
The only Bu'sness y'ad to do
Was to enquire out those that knew
Your Colledge.

Certainly Mortal never saw
A thing so pert, so dull, so raw,
And yet 'twou'd put a Case in Law,
If they wou'd,

Then it began to visit Playes,
And on the Women it wou'd gaze,
And looked like Love in a Maze,
Or a Wood.

Into Fop-corner you wou'd get,
And use a strange obstreperous Wit,
Not any quiet to the Pit
Allowing:

100

And when my Lord came in, you'd spy,
If toward you he cast an Eye,
Y'had lucky opportunity
Of bowing,

At last you got a swinging Clap,
Which ran upon you like a Tap,
And lay for Cure of this mishap
At Tooting,

Then you writ Letters of Advice
To Parent, for some fresh supplies,
Pretending to the exercise
Of Mooting:

At length you understood a Dye,
Carry'ing in Fob variety
Of Goads, of Bars, of Flats, of High
And Low-Dyce.

101

But when you hear the fatal doom,
That Father shall remand you home,
It hardly will appear you come
From Studies.

The Youth was just a throwing Glass
Of Wine into the Doctor's Face,
When Barrister took Heart of Grace,
And courage:

Doctor, sayes he, you are a Cheat,
A greater Knave walks not the Street,
A verrier Quack one shall not meet
In our Age.

Doctors of Physick we indeed
Do most abominably need:
If you are one, that scarce can read
A Ballat,

102

You serv'd a Doctor,—true, from whom
You stole Receipts, being his Groom,
Or waiting on him in his Room,
As Valet.

On Serving-men you us'd to cut,
Giving 'em the high Game at Put,
And made the Fellows still run out
Their wages,

With Chamberlain you quit old scores,
Ruin the Tapster at all Fours,
And still observe the Carriers hours,
And Stages.

T'Apothecary next you go,
To whom your stollen Receipts you show,
That y'ave no Learning he does know,
And small Parts:

103

Yet for Advantage does proclaim
You as the eldest Son of Fame,
And swears your Cures have got a Name
In all Parts.

Then take your Lodgings at his House,
With care and secrecy to chouse
Those Fools incurable, that thus
Are minded,

If y'are desir'd to write a Bill,
Your Eyes have a defluxion still,
That if you do but touch a Quill,
You're blinded.

'Mongst gilded Books on shelves you squeeze
Old Gallen and Hippocrates,
For such learn'd men (say you) as these
I'll stickle.

104

Tho' what they were you cannot tell,
Giants they might have been as well,
Or two Arch-Angels, Gabriel,
And Mich'el.

In short, you are an empty Sawse—
Before this word quite out he draws,
The Doctor struck him cross the Jaws,
God bless us!

The Student then propos'd a slap,
Which on Quack's best of Eyes did hap,
With might and main—on Youth fell Cap-
tain Bessus.

I'th' Room was Justice Middlesex,
Who understanding Statute Lex,
Being unwilling to perplex
A Riot,

105

Softly as he could speak, did cry,
(Which no Body observ'd but I)
My Friends, in Name of Majesty,
Be quiet.

The Youngster first desir'd a Truce,
Because Cravat from Neck hung loose,
Captain, quoth he, your Weapon choose,
I'll fight 'ee:

Nay then, thought I, if so it be,
You're very likely to agree,
There's no Diversion more for me,
Good night t'ee.

And having now discharg'd the House,
We did reserve a gentle Souse,
With which we drank another rouse
At the Bar:

106

And good Christians all attend,
To Drunkenness pray put an end,
I do advise you as a Friend,
And Neighbour.

For lo! that Mortal here behold,
Who cautious was in dayes of old,
Is now become rash, sturdy, bold,
And free Sir;

For having scap'd the Tavern so,
There never was a greater Foe,
Encounter'd yet by Pompey, No
Nor Cæsar.

A Constable both stern and dread,
Who is from Mustard, Brooms and Thread,
Preferr'd to be the Brainless Head—
O'th' Poople,

107

A Gown 'had on by Age made gray,
A Hat too, which as Folk do say,
Is sirnam'd to this very day
A Steeple;

His Staff, which knew as well as he,
The Bus'ness of Authority,
Stood bolt upright at sight of me;
Very true 'tis,

Those louzy Currs that hither come
To keep the King's Peace safe at home,
Yet cannot keep the Vermin from
Their Cutis.

Stand! stand! sayes one, and come before—
You lye, said I, like a Son of a Whore,
I can't, nor will not stand,—that's more—
D'ye mutter?

108

You watchful Knaves, I'll tell what,
Yond' Officer i'th May-pole Hat,
I'll make as drunk as any Rat,
Or Otter,

The Constable began to swell,
Altho' he lik'd the motion well:
Quoth he, my Friend, this I must tell
Ye clearly,

The Pestilence you can't forget,
Nor the Dispute with Dutch, nor yet
The dreadful Fire, that made us get
Up early.

From which, quoth he, this I infer,
To have a Body's Conscience clear,
Excelleth any costly cheer,
Or Banquets;

109

Besides, (and 'faith I think he wept)
Were it not better you had kept
Within your Chamber, and have slept
In Blanquets:

But I'll advise you by and by,
A Pox of all advise, said I,
Your Janizaries look as dry
As Vulcan:

Come, here's a shilling, fetch it in,
We come not now to talk of Sin,
Our Bus'ness must be to begin
A full Can.

At last, I made the Watch-men drunk,
Examin'd here and there a Punk,
And then away to Bed I slunk
To hide it,

110

God save the Queen,—but as for you,
Who will these Dangers not eschew,
I'd have you all go home and spue
As I did.

The Lawyers Demurrer argued.

[_]

By the Loyal ADDRESSERS (the Gentlemen) of Grays-Inne, against an ORDER made by the Bench of the said Society.

[_]

To the Tune of Packington's Pound, Or, The Round-head Reviv'd.

I

Dear Friends, and good People, with Gowns, and with none;
I'll tell you a Tale of a parcel of Whiggs,
The Spawn of some Rebells in year Forty One,
Who, like their damn'd Sires, pursue their Intrigues:

111

It occasions amazing,
That some Members of Grays Inn,
Turn Tail to their King, from whom they'd their Raising:
You Mortals of Law be confounded for ever,
Who refuse an Address made to your Law-giver.

II

By a musty old Custom, call'd Order of Pension.
Giving Thanks to the King was judg'd an Affray,
And straight they Decreed, 'twas just to Disbench One,
For shewing himself more Loyal than they:
So thus the Dom. Com.
Speak loudly for some,
But propose the King's Int'rest the word shall be Mum.
You Mortals of Law be confounded for ever;
Who refuse an Address made to your Law-giver.

112

III

Men of the Sword they say make a Division,
And militant Lawyers their Wisdoms disown,
So that from the King to have had a Commission,
Does not consist with a tatter'd old Gown:
These men make pretence,
Both to Law and to Sense,
Yet say the Law's broke, if you fight for your Prince,
You Mortals of Law be confounded for ever,
Who refuse an Address made to your Law-giver.

IV

From th' Ancients (they urge) this Order comes out,
And therefore expect a ready Obedience,
But how can that be, since their Masterships doat,
And they themselves have forgotten Allegiance:
Therefore let's pray,
Both by Night and by Day,
That they may Conform, and then we'll Obey.

113

You Mortals of Law be confounded for ever,
Who refuse an Address made to your Law-giver.

V

But wou'd it not move a Heart made of Flint,
To think that a House must continue no longer,
Since the grave Gubernators refus'd to consent,
Except 'twere propos'd by a Bar-Iron-monger;
Or else by a Brewer,
Who serves them with Beer,
So small, that they'r fill'd with Suspicion and Fear.
You Mortals of Law be confounded for ever;
Who refuse an Address made to your Law-giver.

VI

Now some of the younger disconsolate fry,
As if they'd been still at—Quæso Magister,
Under such strange Apprehensions did lye,
They desir'd to consult the Chappel-Minister,

114

One of the young men,
Wou'd not handle a Pen,
For my Lord and my Father won't take me agen.
You Mortals of Law be confounded for ever,
Who refuse an Address made to your Law-giver.

VII

The number of those who refus'd to subscribe,
Are fitly compar'd to the days of poor Job,
Few and Evil—and of a Satanical Tribe,
Who scandalize all the rest of the Robe;
Those of the Bar-mess,
Who cry'd—No Address,
Found their Party of Faction were two to one less:
You Mortals of Law be confounded for ever,
Who refuse an Address made to your Law-giver.

115

VIII

Now you have heard of these Lawyers Demurrer,
And how their weak Arguments are over-rul'd,
Without all Dispute will think an Abhorrer,
Of them and Petitions, are loyally bold.
For such Impudence,
Both at Bar and at Bench,
Proceeds from those Men who their King would Retrench;
You Mortals of Law be confounded for ever,
Who refuse an Address made to your Law-giver.

116

The SWORD's Farewell, upon the approach of a Michaelmas-Term.

Health to my Friends, a terror to my Foes,
Revenging Wrongs, impatient of blows,
Couragious Metal, truest of all Steels,
Sure to thy Master, always at his heels;
Ready to jog him by the Elbow, when
He is confronted by the Sons of Men.
Soul of my Weapon, thou shalt take thy Rest;
And acquiesce within thy Sable Nest,
One Month must fix thee in a certain Station,
Thy Master's Term must prove thine own Vacation:
Till that's expir'd (his Honour be thy Pawn)
Though here thour't hang'd yet thou shalt not be drawn,
Thou shalt not now too late at Night appear,
T'incense the King's Almighty Officer,
Nor vex his Watch, lest by his great Command,
They knock thy Master down, and bid him stand:

117

Nor fly at Mortal wight, though ne're so tall,
Who passing by Surrenders not the Wall,
Nor push at Bayliffs stout denouncing War:
We know no Sergeants now but at the Bar.
They're fix'd (but with such moveable devotion,)
Come when you will, you'l find them in a Motion.
Not willing any Man should be opprest,
'Tis only Judgment that they would Arrest.

Thou shalt not now be bare, when Hector cloaths,
And backs the Lye with rags of swelling Oaths,
Now such great words admit a Period,
He must speak only truth, so help him God;
The Stile is chang'd, (the Season so will have it)
If he will swear, 't must be by Affidavit.

Thou must not now come forth in view, as once,
To fright a Rev'rend Bawd, and build a Sconce,
Nor make a Drawer stand all Night to Skink
Full cups, and watch to fill thy Master Drink,
To rubisie his Cheeks, though when he will,
He can take out a Fieri Facias still.
Or Presidents (if common Writs do fail,)
Direct to me a special Writ of Aile.

118

(Whilom at such a Sign conven'd the Wits;
But now no Sign is known except for Writs)

Thou must forbear a while at Inn and Inn,
T'out-brave whom thou suspectest like to win:
No jogging chance must now blind mortal Eyes,
We'll find fresh Bail of Men and not of Dice.
Pray for an Action now, and not an Ace,
Let every Deuce Produce a Debtor's case:
And in the stead of every Trey that's thrown,
So many Tryals may we call our own.
To cast a Quatre now we must forget,
And call to mind a Quare Impedit.
Each Cinque a Capias, and for every Size
Wish that a Scire Facias may arise.
Now we must think Hazard brings little gain,
Throw a Mandamus rather than a Main;
On certainties 'tis safest to rely,
More's gain'd by Bill, than gotten by the By.
To Play-Houses thou now shalt bid adieu,
Although the Farce be gay enough and new,
Ne're before Acted, brings thee not among
Those that sell Two and Six-pence for a Song.

119

No Idle Scenes fit busie times as these,
Instead of Playes we now converse with Pleas;
And 't's thought the last do savour more of Wit,
For those have Plots to spend, but these to get.

(Give way, Great Shakespear, and immortal Ben,
To Doe and Roe; John Den, and Richard Fen.)
Farewel (dear Sword) thour't prov'd, and laid aside;
Thy youngest Brother, Penknife, must be try'd;
That thou art best, needs but a thin dispute,
Thou woundest skin of Man, he skin of Brute,
'Tis pity such an Urchin long should Reign
To raze a Line, when thou can'st prick a Vein.
'Tis thou can'st make such horrid bloody work
Will fright the Pope, and scare the biggest Turk;
Thy very name will make a Cripple run
Swift as a Courtier from a City Dunn.

Now Tom (in Acres rich, is come to Town)
To change the Title of a Yeoman's Son,
Thou bid'st him kneel, and stroak'st his empty Skul,
And mak'st him rise Sir Thomas Worshipful:
Thus thou mak'st special Knights of common men,
When he hath made his best 'tis but a Pen;

120

Yet such a Pen, that when't has learn't it's Trade,
It may undo the Knight which thou hast made.

That thou art monstrous valiant is too certain,
For instance this, in fine (as saith Sir Martin)
Th' hast kill'd—But soft, some wiser are than some,
I should Marr-all if I discover whom.
In point of Honour this, (deny't who can)
Thou never turn'dst thy Back to any Man:
The short and long on't's thus, I'll safely say,
Though thou should'st break, thou would'st not run away:
Yet 'twould not wound thy credit long, for when
The Term is done, I'll set thee up agen.

Cedant ARma togæ, concedat laurea linguæ.

121

Wrote in the Banquetting-House in Grayes-Inn-Walks.

Here Damsel sits disconsolate,
Cursing the Rigor of her Fate,
Till Squire Insipid having spy'd her,
Takes Heart of Grace, and squats beside her.
He thus accosts,—Madam, By Gad
You are at once both fair and sad.
She innocently does submit
To all the Tyrants of his Wit.
The Bargain's made, she first is led.
To the three Tuns, and so to Bed.

But yonder comes a graver Fop,
With heavy Shoe, and Boot-hose-top;
To him repairs a virtuous Sir,
Whose Question is, What News does stir?
With Face askrew, he then declares
The probability of Wars:

122

And gives an ample satisfaction
Of English, French, and Dutch Transaction.
Thus chattering out three houres Tale,
They tread to th' Mag-pye, to drink Ale.

Death and the old man.

[_]

A Paraphrase upon one of Æsop's Fables.

A poor old man, who had by cleaving wood,
Full threescore years procur'd a livelihood;
He never ran the various risques of Fate,
Each day his shoulders bore an equal weight,
Till now at last of Age he did complain,
And thought each Load did weigh as much again.

One Evening coming home he made a stop,
And wanting strength, he let his Burden drop;
Then sate upon it, with a proud neglect,
And ner'e till now did on himself reflect.

What Being's this call'd Man, and what am I?
One of the Drudges of Mortality.

123

I've cut down Wood enough, now Death attend,
And to my Life and Labour put an end:
With that the Grisly Skelleton appear'd,
And the old man was from his Senses scar'd:

Quoth Death, Old fellow, if you'd speak with me,
I'le give a period to your misery:
Oh No, sweet Sir, quoth the amazed Grandsire,
I wish it not, as I'me a living man Sir;
I only did desire, because I'me weak,
And cannot lift this Burthen to my Neck,
That you'l be pleas'd, to lend a helping hand,
And I'am yours, hereafter, to command.

Moral.

Silly old Wretch, who living art opprest,
Yet dar'st not venture on Eternal rest.

124

Upon the Death of Edward Story, Esq; Master of the Pond, and Principal of Bernards-Inn.

Let all that read these Lines in Tears be drown'd,
Since Story's dead, the Master of the Pond;
What idle Tales fantastick Poets feign
About God Neptune, and his stormy Main,
That his Dominion's great, 'tis no such matter,
What great Command can there be over Water?
To Story's power 'twere Non-sence to compare it,
For he was Master of a Pond of Claret:
And he this Scarlet Sea, like Moses,—did
To all his Club of Israelites divide:
And when too late at night some came in doz'd,
The Pond o'er them, as o'er th' Egyptians clos'd.

This Pond was Helicon, where Story sate
Like mighty Phœbus, in his Chair of State:
His Tongue made Musick like Apollo's Lyre,
Which when he us'd, he silenc'd, all the Quire;
He had his Muses too, but more than Nine,
Besides, they're of the Gender Masculine:

125

Of different Subjects every Muse did sing,
Which they from Johns, or Grays-Inn Walks did bring.
Some Foreign Matters sang, another Muse,
In humble Stile, sang of Domestick News;
Some sang of bloody Plots against the Throne
And Government; another sang of none;
Till by some sign his pleasure was exprest,
Then all were quiet while he told a Jest.

And as this witty Club he kept in awe,
He headed too, a Body of the Law;
Yet for all that, as skilful as he was,
Death brought his Action without shewing Cause.
And ran him to the Utlary with such speed,
He had not time enough to supersede.
With all Mankind Death must his Interest clear,
But to call in the Principle's sovere.

126

Upon the Memory of Mr. John Sprat, late Steward of Grayes-Inn.

Can any man in reason think it fit
That Death should eat a Steward at a Bit?
And in one long Vacation should devour,
What, in all Conscience, might have serv'd for four?
Had it been Term-time he'd have taken course
To have repell'd both him and all his Force.
Villainous Death! he would have plac'd a Chop
With every Dart that thou hast in thy Shop:
Thou durst not then attempt him (meager Glutton)
When he and's men were arm'd with Beef & Mutton;
Thou wert afraid to nibble at John Sprat
While Barrel-Cod and Whitings were in date,
His Voice disbanded thee, and all thy Troop,
When gracefully he gave the word, Serve up.
'Twas cowardly to take him, when Raw Fruits,
When Turneps, Cucumbers, and Cabbedge Roots
Had chill'd his Blood: he had defi'd being sick,
Had he surviv'd the time they call Tres Mich'.

127

But why had not thy hungry Maw been eas'd,
If Tosborough or Taylor thou hadst seiz'd;
Those single parts of Middle-piece and Rump,
Insatiate thou! to fall upon the Chump.
Since busie Sprat (our Lives Trustee) is dead,
The Bottled Joyes of Norfolk too are fled:
The Thetford-Ale, which won the hearts of Youth,
And made them chant his praise with open mouth:
Whom afterwards he'd greet in friendly sort,
Your Chamber, Sir, I think's in Coney Court.
When will't be opportune—to bring my Bill?
D'slife, ne'r talk of that man; when you will.
Then he (good man) who alwayes knew his time,
To Chamber-door would in the Morning climb.

Now trusty Sprat is gone, there will not come
So Generous a Steward in his Room:
He would in younger Brothers still confide:
Whose Parents do in Foreign Lands reside:
He entertain'd them well; yet did not know
Whether their Friends were living there or no.
They scorn'd to come as Commoners to eat,
But took it as the Noble Steward's Treat.

128

Ah cruel Hag! (though Muse be out of breath,
Yet see! she'l have one parting blow at Death)
Were there not equal Standers of the Hall,
That thou didst call Sprat in a private Call?
And, which is worse, by Tyrannous permission,
He did go out before he did petition.
Some Presidents 'tis likely we shall find
Upon the Roll of Commons left behind;
Which his surviving Friends (without a Bribe,
It is believ'd) are willing to transcribe:
Therefore 'tis hop'd (lest Youth should be perplext)
That his Executors may Go out next.

His Epitaph.

Beneath this Stone, Reader, there lieth flat
Upon his Back the trusty Steward Sprat:
Disturb him not, for if he chance to stir,
He'll say, When shall I wait upon you, Sir?

FINIS.