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

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.