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

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.