Maggots :: :: University of Virginia Library

Maggots

or, Poems on Several Subjects, Never before Handled. By a Schollar [i.e. Samuel Wesley]

Wesley, Samuel (1662-1735)

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[In's own defence the Author writes]

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[In's own defence the Author writes]

In's own defence the Author writes
Because while this foul Maggot bites
He nere Can rest in quiet
Which makes him makes Soe sad a face
Heed beg your worship or your Grace
Vnsight unseen to buy it.

To the Honoured Mr. H. D. Head-Master of the Free-School in D. in the County of D.

On a Maggot.

The Maggot Bites, I must begin:
Muse! pray be civil! enter in!
Ransack my addled pate with Care,
And muster all the Maggots there!
Just at the Gate you'l bless your Eyes,
To find one of so large a Size:
'Tis true he's hardly full as tall,
As the two striplings in Guildhall;
Yet is he Jolly, Fat, and Plump,
With dainty Curls from Snowt to Rump:

The Incomparable Mr. Jordan, (quem honoris causa nomino) who has made London as famous by his Lord Mayors day Poetry, as ever Pryn did Mount Orgueil.

And struts, says Jordan what he can,
As goodly as any Alderman.

The Law of Poetry's not broke,
If, since an Horse in Homer spoke;
I steal, for my dear Worms Occasions
A scrap of Livy's fine Orations:

I suppose few Consciences but are a little too Costive in this Case, and for all Mr. Livy's Authority, are apt to believe Scævola had other things to mind than making fine speeches, and round Periods when his Fist was frying.

(And 'twill, no doubt, as much be said,
By him, as them for whom 'twas made.)
Within a Nut-shells Pulpit large,
As grave as Judge that's giving charge;
Swelling as big as Justled Bully,
Thus he holds forth like t'other Tully:

Take notice all that hither come!

The beginning of Scævola's Oration in Livy.

Romanus ego civis sum.
'Twas I my self, 'twas I possest,
Scævola's mighty Brain, and Breast;
I was the Worm in's Crown, that made,
The Hec. Porsenna's camp invade:
I did the' Heroick Jobb: 'twas I,

'Tis a known Story, when Rome was besieged by King Porsenna, Mutius Scævola went to the Camp, intending to stabb him, but mistook a Nobleman of his Train for the King, for this had his Hand broil'd over a Chaffing-Dish of Coals, (like a Pullets claw) but held it all the while unconcern'd and immovable: see the Story in Livy's Decades, Vol. 1. Book 1. p. 78.

That made his Paw, like Drum-stick fry:
'Twould make the dullest Maggot smile,
To' observe his pretty motions, while,
His Mutton-Fist did Hiz, and Broil:
Of which I an account could give ye,

For there would not be half so many prodigies in't.—He somewhere or other, makes an Oxe speak—and why not my Maggot as well?

Truer by far than Goodman Livy.

When the Spark Tarquin did prevail,
For all Lucretia's Tooth, and Nail;
And, which if true were ungenteel,
Kiss't her, poor Soul! against her will:
Was't not a very pleasant Whimm,

Lucretia's Death, the cause, and manner on't is at every School-boys fingers Ends—She kill'd her self because Tarquin's Son Sixtus had ravish'd her.

That she should kill her self for him?
When, I that saw it, durst have sworn,
She was as Innocent as Child unborn;
Pray let not Livy's Shams prevail!
I was the Worm, in Pate, and Tail:

That made the Matron bravely dye,
A Sacrifice to Chastity.
(Good Folks that Love your Necks, stand clear!

Supposing 'twere more from Lucretia to Cleopatra, yet that's a good round Number, and Poets have seldom been old excellent at Cronology.—Witness Virgil.

For I must leap five hundred Year:)
'Twas I brought down that Rampant Gypsie,

Cleopatra dissolv'd in a Draught of Wine, gave Mark Anthony a Pearl worth—I don't know what.

Whose Love and Pearls made Tony tipsie:
And, when she him no more could clasp,

To avoid her being expos'd to the Conquerers Mercy, she clapt Vipers to her Breast, and dy'd.

The Maggot bit, as well's the Asp;
I stood at the Beds-feet, Intent
On her Last Will, and Testament:
I come she cryed, I com' dear Hony!
And then kickt up with Tony! Tony:
But I'me not only bold, and valiant,
For Wit, an't please ye! too's my Talent;
And by a better Title, I
May plead for God of Poesie.
Than those whom each dull Thief abuses,
In Dogrel Phœbus, and the Muses:
When Virgil all day long did write,

Virgils Commentators mention that as his custom, to compose some 40 verses, and reduce 'em all into 8, or 10.

And lickt his pretty Cubbs at night;
I roll'd about his Brain, and there
Æneas Good, and Dido fair,
Now plac'd a Scolding, now a Billing,

This must be taken Sano Sensu. Take notice I mean Æneas for one, and Dido for t'other.

Sometimes begetting, sometimes killing.
What e're he of old Sybill prate,
'Twas I that propt his Heroes Fate;
And when Post-horses he did lack,

Æneas his descent into Hell takes up a fair Cantlet in Virgil; nor I believe, tho' the learned differ here, will any quarrel about this Circumstance; whither he rode thither on my Maggot, or Old Sybilla's Brcomstaff.

Lugg'd him to Hell a-Pick-a-Pack.

I am the very God, and like ye,
That fell in Love with Mrs. Psiche;

Let none my just pretensions scorn,
For Cupid was a Maggot born:
Then thriv'd, and grew, and by degrees,
Like his harmonious Brother-Bees,
Thrust out a Leg, and then a Wing,
And Bow, and Arrows for a Sting.

And no doubt will be as good Company there as the Fury's Snakey Worms, which they are bound to throw into every one they bewitch.

And when I please my self to Dart,
Into a ravisht Lovers Heart;
'Tis I who all their Souls inspire
With soft Wishes, gas Desire,
Melting Looks, and amorous Fire.

Hold! hold! 'tis time to grow more humble,

Who fairly broke his Neck from his Fathers Coach-box, like Crashaws Dwarf from the Pismires back.

Least I like Phaeton, should tumble;
I'll Mount no more, but here sit steady,
Since I'me a Goddikin already.

On two Souldiers killing one another for a Groat.

Full doleful Tales have oft been told,
By Chimney warm in Winter cold,
About the Sacred Thirst of Gold;
To hear 'em half 'twould mad ye.

To Jayl how many Headlong run,
How many a hopeful Youth's undone,
How many a vile ungracious Son,
For this has murder'd Daddy?

Yet those that tumble Books, may find,
Unless (as who can help't!) they're blind,
That Silver comes not far behind,
But's e'ne as bad as t'other:

For this, who'd of such luck have thought?
For this, tho' not above a Groat,
Two Valiant Souldiers lately fought,
And murder'd one the other.

Well! who can tell how soon he' may dye?
Both, as good Friends as You and I,
Their hungry Wembs to satisfie?
Scale an enchanted Castle:

Painted without some think't a kin,
To that renowned Fort wherein
Quixot the Great such fame did win,
And with fell Gyants Wrastle.

Vid. the renowned History of Don Quixot. Where the Knight was in great Peril by three dreadful Leather-Bottles of Wine, whom after a sore Battle, he at last Valiantly hew'd all to pieces.

As kind as ever in their Life,
As kind they fate as Man and Wife,
O! who among 'em scatter'd Strife;
That Petty fogging Fury?

But this is plainly prov'd by all,
Some Viper to their Hearts did crawl,
And so they'l find it if you call
An Honest Poets Jury.

—'Tis notorious how necessary Actors in any Poetical Murder, or Mischief, a Fury, and a Viper are—Vid. Virg. Ænead. B. 7. p. l. and if I may profane that great Name so much to quote it here, Mr. Cowleys Dav. B. p. l.

Virg.

Huic Dea cæruleis unum de crinibus anguem
Conjicit, inque Sinum præcordia ad intima subdit.

Cowley.

A Groat was dropt upon the Board,
This takes it up, That draws his Sword,
And tells him it must be restor'd,
Or else expect what follows!

Each gives the Lye, and at that Word
Each runs upon the t'other's Sword,
And each, stretcht fairly Under-board,
In Blood and Liquor wallows.

So Aruns, and great Brutus fell,

Livy relates it in Book 1st. Vol. p. 72. [illeg.] the first encounter, Aruns and Brutus both fell dead from their Horses, pierced quite through with one anothers Spears.

And so they fought, thoô scarce so well,
So to Elysium, or to Hell,
They sunk, I know not whether:

So on New-markets Jolly Heath,
The Hawk, and Hearn strugling for Breath
Thô not in Life yet joyn'd in Death:
Come tumbling down together.

The Custom of the Hearn when she sees the Hawk stooping at her, and no way of escape, is to turn her Long Bill upwards, upon which the Hawk not being able to stop, runs it self through, and so both often drop down dead together.

Both grin at their expiring Foe,
With Sword in Fist both Huffing go,
To fright the trembling Shades below,
Bloated with Martial Glory:

Both in the Bed of Honour rest,
With Lawrel boughs, and Garlands dress't,
Perfum'd as sweet as Phenix-Nest:
And there's an end o'th' Story.

Yet take good Counsel, Courteous Friend,
And learn by their untimely End,
Not about Trifles to contend,
Or with another grapple:

Since Carrion-Strife has often wrought,
Such mischiefs as you'd ne're ha' thought,
And murder'd for a Silver Great,
As well's a Golden-Apple.

The Story is worn thed-bare of the Golden Apple which was the cause of the Wars of Troy.

[No Monarch's Death, no fall of Prince or King]

The Argument.

A Tame Snake left in a Box of Bran, was devoured by Mice after a great Battle.

Written An. Dom. 1681.

No Monarch's Death, no fall of Prince or King,
My humble rural Muse intends to sing.
Let others strive in everlasting-Verse,
First to make Hero's, then t'adorn their Herse.
Of stranger Tragedys I will complain;
Low Subjects best befit a lowly Swain.
Immortal Maro did immortal make
The loving Gnat that sav'd him from a Snake:
The Theme's inverted now, why should not I
Give my poor harmless Worm an Elegy?
Why should not I his luckless Fate bemoan,
Wrong'd and abus'd by all, but wronging none?
Bred in the Fields, he oft was bruis'd and broke
By ev'ry cross-grain'd Traveller's cruel stroke;
At length he leaves th' unhospitable Air,
And to the Town's Asylum does repair;
There all his Tricks and all his Slights imparts,
So to revive his Patron's drooping Hearts:

Now through a Ring he'll softly gliding pass,
Now weave a thousand Circles in the Grass;
Now in a thousand folds himself he'll tye,
Which with the Oraculous Gordian Knot shall vye:
This Alexander needs not cut in twain;
Next moment finds it all dissolv'd again.
Him no proud Louvres, nor Escurial's Hide,
What has a humble Worm to do with Pride?
A little Box which his kind Master gave,
His Pallace was, and would have been his Grave;
But sacrilegious Mouths him thence did tear,
And made their Guts his loathed Sepulcher.
Epicurizing there on homely Bran,
He Gluttony upbraids in wiser Man;
As happy as a harmless Snake could be,
Happy as Cadmus or Hermione.
Erinnis saw, and foam'd, and rav'd, and griev'd,
My Snake better than her black Vipers liv'd:
Unto great Moustapha she does repair,
With leathern Wings forcing the burthen'd Air;
Moustapha, cruel, secret, bold and wise,
Redoubted Monarch of the well-teeth'd Mice,
Approaching his proud Palace, she put on
The form of Mab, Empress to Oberon:
When the stern Prince of Mice in slumber lay
Tir'd with luxurious Revels of the day,

The Fury envying him so calm a rest,
Enthrones a Vice-Roy Viper in his Breast.
Then thus accosts him,—Wake, lost King, awake,
Unless your last long Sleep you mean to take:
That Traytor who your Brother once o're-power'd,
And on yon fatal Lake his Limbs devour'd,
When with Physignathus he went to view
Legions before unknown to him and you;
The treacherous Water-Snake hard by does rest,
And will, I fear, attempt your sacred Breast:
Rise then, if you're a King, and guard your Throne,
Revenge your Brothers Quarrel, and your own.
Thus said, no longer she above abides,
But down agen, a-down to Hell the Fury slides.

Up starts the Micean Prince, and stares around,
And with his Cryes the ecchoing Walls resound:
Off from his Bed he leaps, and takes his Launce,
A piece of an old Needle found by chance;
Then with another skip he nimbly flees
To his tough Shield made of the Rind of Cheese:

A Guard he cries, with Scrieches shrill and long,
And his bold Subjects to the Presence throng,
Like walls of Brass they all around him stand:
When Silence was observ'd at his Command,
He thus bespake his Princes,—
—Shall we be
Always content with sordid Slavery?
Not Long ago stern Jove fierce Tybert sent,
Who all the Flower of our sad Nation rent;
When freed from her a while we breath'd in peace,
New Foes, new Rebbels every day increase.
And is this all the Guard my Princes keep?
Thus could you kindly let your Soveraign sleep,
Whilst a fierce Viper does in ambush lye?
Thus could you undiscover'd pass him by?
Upon yon Cliff, my Genius found him out,
With feeble—wooden Walls inscons'd about.
There needs no more, if ye are Mice, begin,
Stand to your Arms, and take the Fortress in.
That happy Mouse that brings the Traytor's Head,
With Garlands Crown'd, shall round our Streets be led,
And my Fair Daughter grace his Nuptial Bed.

A dreadful new-form'd Army strait appears,
Bright numerous Troops of eager Volunteers:
Unto the Castle their joynt Forces drew,
All Pioneers, and all Assailants too:
Its feeble Walls they madly undertake,
And quickly the too weak Foundations shake.
A spacious Breach but too too soon was made,
But my Snake knew not how to be afraid;
Rais'd his blew Crest, with Hisses fill'd the Air,
And bravely does for brave defence prepare.
Artophagus, the Young, the Fair, the Stout,
Get's o're the Rampire first of all the Rout:
But the Defendant nimbly thrusts him down,
And on a Rocky Mountain splits his Crown;
The fall does all his well-head'n bones displace,
His Brains Spurt out and stick upon the face
Of sad Sitaphagus, who was combin'd
By Friendship to him, as by Nature joyn'd:
Upon his bleeding Reliques down he fell,
Wishing for ever only there to dwell;
He'd his desire, for, crusht with a huge stone,
Even as in Life, so they in Death are one.
Their fates inrag'd the bold surviving Crew,
Who to the Breach like Bees in Clusters flew;
With Ivory Spears some lance his chequer'd Breast,
Some scaling Ladders raise, and mount, the rest;

Undermine all the avenues, and some,
Bring in Reserves, (without or Flute, or Drum)
All their Efforts as yet are spent in vain,
Unmov'd he like a Rock does still remain:
Huge weights the Ladders crack, he sees his foes,
Mangled, and crush't by their own party's blows.
Great Moustapha himself does now draw nigh,
And his glad followers voices rend the Sky;
His Janizary's to the assault he calls,
Who like themselves assail'd the tottering Walls;
Swarms of four-footed Warriours now had set
Their Arms upon a lofty Parapet:
A natural counterscarp of living store;
The Assailants strove at first to mine't, but they
Discourag'd with the Labour went away:
Here the Sly Snake swift through a Port-hole goes,
Unfear'd, unmarkt by his presumptious foes:
With various windings he attempts to shock
The now more than Half undermined Rock;
No little Prudence, and no little pain
Now loos'd the stubborn Earth which did retain

The unwieldy stone; the stone which now did bear
Innumerable Warriour, who repair
To the free breach, does on a sudden fall
And in Inevitable ruine plung'd 'em all.
Loud shreeks here scale the Heavens, and a warm flood
Springs up from the poor mangled Miceans blood.
The horrid paint press't from the reeking Dead,
Soon turns the Living's sable hiew to Red.
Heart-chilling fear, and black despair around,
The fearful, desperate Micean camp resound;
They can't for the retreats late signal stay,
He's the best Souldier thought that fastest runs away.
The Mighty Dragon he has hir'd they cry,
And raise a formidable Mutiny:
Moustapha from his Tent does hasten out,
By Love, or fear to stop the murmuring Rout;
Now he perswades, and now enrag'd does stamp,
Bidding his Guards kill all that leave the Camp.
A greater fear prevails with some to stay,
Tho' envying such as ran betimes away:
The enraged Tyrant of proud Micea's Lands,
Mounted upon a Captive Moustrap stands;

His furious Eyes sparkle with boyling Ire,
He breaths Destruction, Blood, Revenge, and Fire.
Then thus Accosts his Army.
Can it be!
How long have Micean Souldiers learn'd to flee?
Degenerate Mice! to lead you I disdain,
Throw down your Arms, and e'ne sneak home again!
Where are those Heroes who with me could dare,
And beat the Elephant, whose shoulders bare,
Without a Trope, huge Castles in the Air?
One of your Valiant Ancestors, in strife
With Man himself did save a Lyons Life,
And for his lawful Guerdon did possess
By her great Parent's Will the Lyoness;
Tho' some may his too luckless end deride,
Like Phaeton in great attempts he dy'd.
Was it indeed so long ago, when we
Took noble Arms against the Tyranny,
Of cruel Puss? (a Curse upon the Name!)
Where are your Souls? where is your dear-bought fame?
Well may the Rebel Frogs rejoyce to see
How their brave Conqu'rers poorly conquer'd be.

Well may they rise against us, well may they
Chase their poor low-soul'd, little Lords away.
Shall one weak foe or forces baffle thus,
And shall a Worm contend with Mighty us?
O Rowze your Souls, and wake your Rage and Hate,
Poor Wretch! Valiant he's not, but desperate;
See where your mangled Fellows gasping lie,
The Tryumphs of his Viperous Cruelty!
Be ready to revenge your Kindreds falls,
As soon as the too tardy Trumpet calls!
On then like Mice! the Manes of the Dead,
Call for Revenge upon his guilty Head.

A joyful Hum ran round the Camp, they shake
Their dreadful Arms, and preparation make
For General Assaults. This from on high,
The pensive wounded Snake with Grief did Spy;
His Walls were gone, his feeble Curtains rent,
His food, and all his Ammunition spent:
There's no hope; dye he must, yet e're he dyes,
Amongst his Friends he'll leave some Legacies:
His batter'd Castle which must be his Grave,
To his kind Master once again he gave.
His Bones, if reserv'd from the murdring Hand,
Of the fierce Mice, to make his Hat a Band;

His Brains, if them some generous Mouse would bring,
To them he gives who say he has a Sting:
Who'll give their sence the lye in meer despight,
Altho' they see he'l neither sting, nor bite.
This done, he scorns to sneak into his Grave,
But will at least a noble exit have;
Unto the Castle Wall he seems to grow,
Ready to meet his Death, to meet his foe:
Hundreds in Crowds over crusht hundreds come,
Some to meet Conquest, most to meet their Doom.
Weary'd with Death, and tir'd with killing now,
The Champions Body, not his Mind must bow;
Now first his Enemy's weak hopes begin,
And Floods of desparate foes all round come rolling in:
All round he glides, and be they ne're so strong,
Their Death he hasts, and does his Life prolong.
But when the still encreasing Enemy,
Like a swoln Torrent does all stops defie;
His nimble Tail about their Legs he twists,
In vain his Fury every one resists:

Then from on high a-down himself does throw,
At once expiring with the expiring foe;
Encompass't round with Trophys, there he lies,
And in the Bed of Honour bravely dyes.

A Pindaricque,

On the Grunting of a Hog.

Freeborn Pindaric never does refuse,
Either a lofty, or a humble Muse:
Now in proud Sophoclæan Buskins Sings,
Of Hero's, and of Kings,
Mighty Numbers, mighty Things;
Now out of sight she flys,
Rowing with gaudy Wings
A-cross the stormy Skys,
Then down again,
Her self she Flings,
Without uneasiness, or Pain
To Lice, and Dogs,
To Cows, and Hogs,
And follows their melodious grunting o're the Plain.

2.

Harmonious Hog draw near!
No bloody Butchers here,
Thou need'st not fear,
Harmonious Hog draw near, and from thy beauteous Snowt
Whilst we attend with Ear,
Like thine prick't up devou't;

To taste thy Sugry voice, which here, and there,
With wanton Curls, vibrates around the circling Air,
Harmonious Hog! warble some Anthem out!
As sweet as those which quiv'ring Monks in days of Y'ore,
With us did roar;
When they alas,
That the hard-hearted Abbot such a Coyl should keep,
And cheat 'em of their first, their sweetest Sleep;
When they were ferretted up to Midnight Mass:
Why should not other Piggs on Organs play,
As well as They.

3.

Dear Hog! thou King of Meat!
So near thy Lord Mankind,
The nicest Taste can scarce a difference find!
No more may I thy glorious Gammons eat!
No more,
Partake of the Free Farmers Christmass store,
Black Puddings which with Fat would make your Mouths run o're:
If I, tho' I should ne're so long before the Sentence stay,
And in my large Ears scale, the thing ne're so discreetly weigh,
If I can find a difference in the Notes,
Belcht from the applauded Throats
Of Rotten Play house Songsters-All-Divine,
If any difference I can find between their Notes, and Thine:
A Noise they keep with Tune, and out of Tune,
And Round, and Flat,
High, Low, and This, and That,
That Algebra, or Thou, or I might understand as soon.

4.

Like the confounding Lutes innumerable Strings,
One of them Sings;
Thy easier Musick's ten times more divine;

More like the one string'd, deep, Majestick Trump-Marine:
Prythee strike up, and cheer this drooping Heart of Mine!
Not the sweet Harp that's claim'd by Jews,
Nor that which to the far more Ancient Welch belongs,

'Tis the Custom of the Irish, when any thing is stoln, or other sudden accident, presently to set up that note, [Hubbubbaboo] the next that hears it does the like, and so Intelligence is conveyed swifter than by any Hue-and-Cry with us.

Nor that which the Wild Irish use,
Frighting even their own Wolves with loud Hubbubbaboos.

A Taste of whose Humour, and Harmony has been often enough presented at the Play-house by the Indian Girls.

Nor Indian Dance, with Indian Songs,
Nor yet,
(Which how should I so long forget?)
The Crown of all the rest,
The very Cream o'th' Jest:
Amptuous Noble Lyre—the Tongs;
Nor, tho' Poetick Jordan bite his Thumbs,
At the bold word, my Lord Mayors Flutes, and Kettle-Drums;
Not all this Instrumental dare,
With thy soft, ravishing, vocal Musick ever to compare.

To my Gingerbread Mistress.

Dear Miss, not with a Lie to cheat ye,
I love you so that I could eat ye.
'Tis not that Gold that does adorn
Your Bosom like the rising Morn,
When dropping dry from watry Bed
Sol shakes his Carrot-Loggerhead:
'Tis not your Gold I mean to wooe;
Alas, 'tis You, and only You.
'Tis not that Coronet which does shine
With Beams not half so bright as thine,
Which scatter Glories that excell
The Nose of Zara's Dowzabel.

Vid.—The famous and renowned History of Don Zaradel Fogo;—the Lady of whose best Affections, (a piece of purtenance as necessary to a Knight Errant, as Mambrino's Helmet, or the Parallel of this Lady [Dulcinea de'l Foboso] to Don Quixot) whose Damsel that had wofully besmitten the gentle Knight, was, after all the Parentheses, Yclept—Dowzabella,—Of whom the Poet thus,

“—Whose gallant gray Eyes, like Stars in the Skies,
“Denoted, &c.

'Tis not the Rose of lip-like hiew,
Nor Virgin-Plumb's Cælestial blew,
Nor all the Nuts that plunder'd be
From the sad Squirrel's Granarie;
Nor Pears long cramm'd in faithful store,
As yellow as the Golden-Ore;
Nor Crumpling sweet, with Cheeks divine,
Yet not so fair, my Dear, as thine;
Nor Custards stuck with Plumbs and Flies,
Nor Heart-reviving Pudding-Pyes,
Tho' queasie Stomach's them contemn,
Bake't on thyn 'own dear Granny's Wemm.

—A Scotch Oven.—A Traveller eating some Cake on the Road in Scotland, complain'd 'twere not well bake't: 'Twas reply'd, that was impossible; for't had been all night baking upon the Hostess's warm Wemm.

Ah! 'tis not, 'tis not this, nor all
The Goods in Cellar, Pouch or Stall,

Which Apple-Woman does provide
For such as make her Child their Bride:
King Harry Groats with Rust o're-grown,
And Edward Shillings more than one;
I'l say't, my Love, and say't again,
'Twas none of these that caus'd my pain:
'Twas first thy goggling, Egg-like Eyes,
Like those in Mahomet's Paradice,

Among the other pleasures in the Heaven of his own building, Mahomet's Alcoran promises the Mussal-man Bed-fellows with Eyes as big as Eggs; esteemed as great a piece of beauty, it seems, by the Asiatick's, as great Lips as most of the Africans.

Which did my Jack-with-a-Lanthorns prove,
And mir'd me up to th' Ears in Love.
Then all thy Dotes came powdring in,
Thy Mother's manly Nose and Chin,
Thy Nose which (not thy Faces Friend)
Keeps a poor Lover at Arm's end;
Thy Chin which with kind Curl doth grace
Thy n'own dear Father's Wainscot Face;
A Mouth which should with Mopsa's vye,

See the Description of charming Mopsa, in an ingenious drolling Poem at the End of Sir Philip Sidney.

Altho' Pamela's self stood by;
Lips which like Paris Casements shew,
Still opening with a Guarda vou'z;

Such as walk late at Paris, and when the Windows open with that sound, avoid not in time will soon, by their bounteous benevolence, smell out the meaning of the Allusion here.

There Caravans of Spices meet,
Not Western Civet half so sweet,

Paracelsus is reported, (with a great deal of washing you may think) to have reduced no better nor worse than a Sir—an't please ye, into an excellent Perfume—Balsamum Apoplecticum, but Assa fœvida to't,—and afterwards christen'd it by the cleanlier name of Zibetum Occidentale.

Nor mellow Ducks in Claret stew'd,
When Atoms were in Altitude.

Willis in his Book de Fermentatione, gives that account of Putrefaction of Bodies; He says, the blood, &c. ferments, and the Particles are highly agitated,—(and a great deal more, which, if you ha'n't enough for your money, you shall have in the next Edition.)

But not to stay on every Charm,
In Jar-like Leg, and May-pole Arm;
Nor how my Conquress did prevail,
And wound with every Tooth and Nail:
Ah! 'twas, as too-too well you know,
Your Hand that struck the mortal blow.

That Mutton-fist, like Bolt of Thunder,
Poor Lover fell'd as flat's a Flounder.
Under a Willow I complain,
And grunt, and cry, and roar in vain;
And, as mad Lovers use to do,
Pick straws, and—what a F--- care you?
From side to side I loll about,
Idle, ungainly, lazy Lout,
That was, e're you I saw, in sooth,
(Altho' I say't) a dapper Youth.
Here every hour with dreary Frown,
I lay my Head on Elbow down:
Help, or this Love will quite undo me!
Heark how it runs clean thro' and thro' me!
The sighs which up and downwards go,
That I am near the Rattles, show:
Think not that I false grief pretend!
Alas, I weep at either end!

My sweet Sweet-heart, how is't you are
So foolish? sure you be'n't so fair.
O be'n't so hard! what e're you grow,
The Baker sure ne'r made you so.
My Heart, not only with your stroke,
But my few Teeth will all be broke.
Melt then to cure my horrid Drowth;
O melt, altho' 'tis in my Mouth,
Which waters at you; for 'tis true,
Nothing can quench my thirst but you.

Now my cold Fit is more severe,
I shall kick up with meer Despair.

These nipping Mornings pinch, and you,
To mend the matter, freeze me too.
Dear Girl, for once, at my desire,
Prethee, from Ice be turn'd to Fire.
(What e're my Readers Judgment be,
I'm sure I here mean honestly,
Such a kind, harmless, lambent Flame,
As from Ascanius Temples came.)
O warm my Soul, for Cupid's cold-Iron-Dart,
And your more frosty frowns have kibe'd my Heart.

On the Bear-fac'd Lady.

This Story, and the Lady's Picture—appertaining thereunto,—are notorious enough about London, without Explication of the Subject in general.

Too charming Maid, whose Viznomy divine
Shoots Darts around like any Porcupine!

She's pictur'd with a Bear's-head, and consequently, her face all hairy.

Who give to Cupid's Arrows new supplyes,
Heading 'em from your Face, and not your Eyes,
Like Cleavland's Lover, Pallizado'd in,

Alluding to that in Cleavland's Souldier;

“[O let the Turn-pikes of my Chin
“Take thy Half-moon Fortress in.

And fenc'd by the sharp Turn-pikes of your Chin.

Happy the Man to whom you must disclose
The flaming Beauties of your Rain-bow Nose!
What tho' in vain t'approach your Lips he seek?
He may with leave come near, and kiss your Cheek;
If, as when Turks expect they should be heard

A late Traveller, and ingenious Observer at Constantinople, in the Relation he gives of their Customs in Devotion, has this among the rest; That when in the highest fit of Zeal, and Top of their Service, for an Amen, they are to manage their Beards, or else the work is left uncompleat.

At Prayer, you will but turn aside your beard:

All this were true, tho' Art should you disgrace
And shew her own, instead of Nature's Face.
But you discreetly choose the Russian way,

In the Description of Russia, among Struys' Voyages, he describes this for one humour religigiously observed in all their Marriages;—They never see one another till made fast.

And closely veyl it till the Wedding-day;
Not Stega-like, by too sincere a carriage,

This old Lady, in the Play, out of sincerity used to let her Courters see all her Imperfections—as her No-Teeth, No-Eyes, One-Leg, and frighted 'em all away.

Your Imperfections shew, and mar your Marriage
You are resolv'd that Faith and Stomach too
Shall meet in him who must be blest with you
And by so just a Touch-stone mean to prove
The Mettal of his Courage and his Love:
Nay, Ioan, her self, whom he'l i'th dark embrace
When the Light comes, may have my Lady's Face:
He has his Chance, it may be good enough
For all Love's but a Game at Blind-mans buff
He who to meet a Devil does prepare,

Like Spencer's Knight, &c.

See Spencer's Fairy Queen; In one of the first Canto's—instead of an old Witch, the Knight found a brisk young Lady.

Like Spencer's Knight, may find an Angel there.
Missing a Snake, he may at last prevail
To hold a fat, tho' slipry Eel by th' Tail.
When Psyche thro' the Air to Cupid rode,
She fear'd a Dragon, but she found a God.

Psyche was required by the Oracle to be expos'd to a Dragon, as Andromeda to the Whale—When in pops Cupid, like Perseus himself, sets her at liberty, carrys her home, and all that ------

Suppose the worst, a Rival's spight has sed
Here's Spouse enough, tho' she had ne're an Head.

A just proportion every where behold,
And Gold, the Cream o'th' Jest, remember Gold;
Gold! Gold! those subtle Charms must needs prevail;
Gold! Gold! enow, had she nor Head, nor Tail.
Sure this must even the flintyest Heart subdue;
Those Chains, those Pearls, those Lockets, all for you!
What if no Cubbs bless the ill-natur'd Joys?
Look, she's already stock'd with yellow Boys;
And she
May live like Etheldreda, undefil'd,

Vid. Fuller's Church-History, p. 91. This Etheldreda, would you think it, was marryed to a Prince, and a King, and yet, by her own desire, liv'd still as pure a Virgin as ever ------ her Mother was when she was born.

While you
Lye with her Coin, and get her Bags with Child.

An Anacreontique on a Pair of BREECHES.

Gently flow, my easie Strain,
Smoother than Tempe's Heav'nly Plain,
Smoother than e're Anacreon sung,
Anacreon sweet with silver Tongue,
When he by fair Bathillus lay,

See Mr. Greech's admirable Translation of Horace; Epod. 14.

“Thus soft Anacreon for Bathyllus burn'd,
“And oft his Love he sadly mourn'd.

Melting his softer hours away.
No rough harsh sounds to gagg the Voice,
Nor hoarse Pindaric's grumbling Noise,
Soft as the amorous Turtles call,
Smooth as the whisp'ring Waters fall;

Smooth as thred-bare Breeches be,
Soft as the Fustian round my Knee.

Where shall I my work begin,
And stick the Muse's Needle in?
The Muses, which if Fame says true,
Were Sempstresses and Taylors too:
Where shall I use my artful Hand;
At the Knee, or at the Band?
Fruitless labour, fruitless pain!
All my skill and time's in vain:
Never will my Trouble end,
I eternally must mend;
For one hole starts out two more,
Hydra-like, or three, or four;
Patch on patch are new lay'd on,
Till th' old, like Jason's Ship, are gone.

The Story of Jason's Ship is almost as much worn, as its Subject; which was so often mended, and vampt up again, till not one plank of the Original-primitive Wood was left; tho' neither did that suffer so many Transmutations as the old Gentlemans Knife that had had five new hafts, and seven new blades.

Match't full lawfully they've bin,
For sure none were too near a kin.
From how many a narrow Hem
Has my Botcher cabbag'd them?
Spoils of Nations far and nigh,
Meer Babel of good Husbandry!
Not the Jay could Feathers boast
From so many a different Coast.
But since Friends at last must part,
Adieu, adieu, with all my Heart;
Ill, as Friends to Poets use,
Give y'a good Name, and turn you loose.
Take your chance, your Fortune try,
Pray beg or starve, as well as I;

Trouble me with your Raggs no more,
Here's your Pass, and out of Door.

Ever honest, ever true,
You've stuck as fast as Shirt can do;
Which soon, if you no longer stay,
Will drop loose, and run away.
Long did your lean Pockets stare,
Like Camelions, fill'd with Air;
And what ever place were torn,
They be sure were ne'r o'reworn.
Generous Six-pence born with Pain,
Have often made 'em gape in vain;
Now they'l save that dreadful Charge,
They can far cheaper starve at large:

Take this Groat, and do not prate;
Take the half of my Estate:
Scamper now as well as I,
To the barren Indys fly,
And see if e're a Slave that's there,
Is Master of a lighter Pair.
Never fear where e're you go,
You're sure ne're to fall more low,
Till your selves with Earth you trust;
Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust.

A Tobacco Pipe.

In these raw mornings, when I'me freezing ripe,
What can compare with a Tobacco-pipe?
Prim'd, Cock't, and Toucht 'twould better heat a man,

The Bath Faggots are so notorious for their exceeding Littleness, that two of 'em were carry'd hence in a Gentlemans Portmantean as far as Cornwall for a Rarity, one of which, to this Day (or very lately) hangs up there for a Sign. [Scotch-warming-pan] is the Hostesses brown Daughter.

Than ten Bath Faggots, or Scotch-warming Pan:
Let others vamp their founder'd Strength and Age,
With Porringers of double brew'd Pottage!
And those who thus to charge themselves are loath,
Break-fast upon a Quart of Barley-broath?

Fire-balls of liquid flame; Death in each drop
Let others guzzle at a Brandy-shop;
Till all their moysture, all their Treasure spent,
They stand, scorcht Scheletons, their own sad Monument!
Where each of these accustom'd Cordials fails,
Let others Bite, and others blow their Nails!
I have an Universal Medicine chose,
Which warms, at once, my Gutts, and Hands, and Nose.

See the Divine Herberts Poem on Providence. “[The Indian Nut alone—Is Meat, Drink, Cordage, Sayling, all in one.]

Which like the noble Coco-Tree, is good
For Physick, or for Rayment, or for Food:

Sowse! comes the Critick with a Dilemma a top of this poor Verse; if [Experimental] quo' he; how [Men of Thought]? Why to give a civil Answer to a civil Question—The Experiments must be thought on, and scolded, and quarrell'd for too, both before and after they are made.

All you experimental men of Thought,
Who ever Whirligigs to Gresham brought;
Which London with implicit Knowledge sees,

Letters often put for References in Engins, from the Picture to the Explanation,—and here, Mr. Reader, take notice, were I in my Sobers Sences, writing Reasonable prose, I should not be so sawcy to reflect on those great, worthy Persons; But 'twill here I hope be taken only for a little Spice of Furor Poeticus.

Made up of I's, and O's, and A's, and B's;
Show me one Engine which your Stores enshrine,
That shall Pit, Box, and Gallery with mine?
When your rackt Brains to birth some Embryo bring,
That's oft for nothing Good, but mine for every Thing,
Ungrateful silly man, who makes divine

Ceres, and Bacchus worship'd in most places of the Pagan World.

Those who at first invented Corn and Wine!
Nay he's begodded too whose casual Knocks,

Vulcan, who being the god both of Fire, and all Iron-work, 'tis to be suppos'd invented that necessary piece of Houshold-stuff; at least there's as good Record for his making this as Æneas's Armour.

On the Anvil, first found out a Tinderbox.
Ungrateful Man! whose memory slips that Name,
From whom Tobacco pipes Invention came!
But his more bulky worth's too big for fame.

Whose Trump would crack with that vast work alone,
Nor any Pipe can found his praise besides his own.
His Brother-Glyster-pipe, that do's ascend,
And almost meet half-way at t'other end;
(New method for Impaling!) ne're could do,
That good of one side, which this can of Two:
My Ambodexter either way will go,
Now Struts above, now humbly creeps below;
Above its Virtues, ne're admitted strife,
Below 'tis said that once it sav'd a Life.
For, when One in that speaking Trumpet spoke,
He laugh'd so long till his Imposthume broke:
Up to its proper place we'll now return't,
(But wipe it first, or if you please, let's burn't!)
For the Tooth-ake 'tis a specifick aid,

Among other new Discoveries in Philosophy, this is universally now receiv'd—That Love is the cause of Tooth-ach.

For every Amorous Boy, or Lovesick Maid:
An hundred Med'cins us'd and us'd in vain,
By each Old Woman taught to' asswage the pain;
By each Old Woman, who their Vertues try'd,
Forty' year ago, when her third Husband dy'd;
Apply the Pipe! this Instrument will cure,

For the Toothach, (besides the present Remedy sold under the Exchange) some burn a Vein in the Ear—and if that fails—Out with't!

The Surgeons Fire, or Pincers scarce so sure,
Tho' they the most effectual Method take;
Cut off the Head, I'll warn't no more 'twill Ach,

This gently heals, while Chrystal streams distill,
As from the Mother-Rock some plenteous Rill,
(Tho not, like that, enough to drive a Mill.
Thence Chrstal Streams with gentle murmures flow,

This is not to be understood, without stepping into the new World of Microscopes: where amon the rest, One Mr. (what's his hard name?) Lewenhoec, a Dutchman, discovered in Rain-water Animalentes consisting of six Globubs, two horns, and a tapering Tayl; one of 'em, a thousand times less than the eye of a Fat Louse: vid. Transactions of Royal Society.—Vol. eleventh, p. 821.

Where little Nimphs may play, for ought we know,
Fine Tod-pole Nymphs soon rotten and soon ripe,
With tapring Tails like Sire Tobacco-pipe;

Like those which Virtuoso Glasses spy,
A thousand times less than a lusty Lowses eye:
Sometimes another way to work 'twill go,
Up spouts a Deluge from the Abyss below;
This Physick is more safe, (tho' not so fine,)
Than Bumpers, crown'd too oft with sprightly Wine:
A Glass is not a better cure than that,
For Care, or Toothach, both of which would kill a Cat;
But if we sad experience credit may,
The Pipe's o'th' Two by far the surer way.
No Brawls, no Wounds, nor Bangs, nor Scars appear,
With such as will discreetly frollick here:
But Wine, confounded Wine one can't miscall,
Wine on a Poets word, 's the Deel and all;
That Fiend, when conjured up, I tell you true,
Even with Tobacco-pipes can murders do.

Wine, that mad Bully, for a painted Drabb,
With these blunt swords e're now has giv'n a Stabb.
When such as use my Pipe but wisely will,
Employ its Aid to cure and not to kill;
Not Bezoar stone, nor that miraculous Horn,
Which decks the strange Invisible Unicorn:
Can deadly Poysons subtle streams, as well,
As my Tobacco-pipe, when charg'd expell.

Natural Historians report of the Hart, that by the force of its Breath, Serpents are ferretted out of their holes, on which it feeds for Physick: vid. Guillems Heraldry.

The long-liv'd Harts medicamental Breath,
Gives himself Aid, and the blew Viper Death;
So, if this Sov'raign Antidote you try,
On Spiders, streight they swell and burst, and Dye;
To what e're luckless Post the Plague advance,

At a certain City, either in Germany, or France (Tournay or Towres I think 'twas) when the Plague was begun, by the command of the Magistrate all the Guns on the Walls were several times discharg'd together, which purified the Air, and remov'd the Sickness.

'Twill chase it thence, like Tires of Ordinance:

I have heard of one, in the great Plague at London—65. That going over a pit where many of the Dead were heap't in, perceiv'd a bloomy smell to arise thence, faint, like that of White Roses—He went home, told the story, made nothing of't, but in a day or two sicken'd and dy'd of the same disease.

Tho' all around with bloomy Deaths beset,
Here is the never failing Amulet;
Tho' in the Cart with bloated Corps you lay,

His story is known to most, sure, that know London: Lying dead drunk he was thrown upon a Cart of the dead, in the Plague-time; when he woke he fell a playing, just as he was tumbling into Pit-hole, and so scape't.

Like the blind-Piper, you might rise, and play:
Fenc't but with this Tobacco-pipe,—
And when long hence you bless the welcome stroke,
Then, when the Pipe is out, your Glass is broke;
The Pipe, the immortal pipe if us'd before,
To after-Years transmits your Glorys o're;

For that can best (as you may quickly prove
Settle the Wit, as Pudding settles Love.
Twill fix your Judgment, render grave and sage,
And make the Reason overtake the Age:
For this his wondring Servants us'd to lay,

A London Lord, who every Morning made his People fill him thirty Pipes, and lay 'em for service in his Study.

Before a Lord full thirty Pipes a Day;
With this was Herebord acquainted; when
He smoakt, and writ, and spit, and smoakt again.
Poets the Glass with Fancy do's inspire,
The Pipe mounts our Philosopher far higher;
And moulds him Syllogisms, tough, and strong,
And polishes his Labours all along.
Demosthenes his works o'th' Lamp did smell,
His o'th' Tobacco-pipe, and that's as well;
And least he should be idle forc'd to stand,
When for a prop, it askt his Helping hand;
Like such a Scholar, he, with wondrous skill,

The famous Herebord is reported to be a great Friend to the Tobacco-pipe: but wanting his Hand to turn the Leaves, invented a way to rest his Pipe thro' a Hole in the Brim of his Hat.

Did a fine Hole thro' greasy Beavor drill;
And when the' Ingenious Mechanism was done,
Upon that Rest in quiet plants his Gun.

Sure when Prometheus climb'd above the Poles,
Sliely to learn their art of making Souls;
When of his Fire he fretting Jove did wipe,
He stole it thence in a Tobacco-pipe:
Which predispos'd to live, as down he ran,
By the Souls Plastic power from Clay was turn'd to Man,

And what, even now will make it seem more like,

A Tobacco-pipe strikes fire on a Cane—But that's not all—In the Translation of the Academy del Cimento, p. 159. Tobacco-pipes, broken in the Night emit sparkles like a Flint.

Some sparks remain in't still, if you'l but strike:
This had, ith' dark the smoaking Drunkard known,
That he'd so much about him of his own;
He never would for the cold Glow-worm grope,

A drunken fellow riding home by night with the Pipe in's Mouth, at last spyd a Glowworm on the ground, and when his Pipe was out, alights, and holds it to the Glow-worm to light it.

Puffing his Pipe in vain with Fire I hope!

Not only with dull usefulness content,
This Engine too is fit for Ornament:
When wooing Cockny's Locks will curl no more
Than his Good natur'd Fathers horns before;
When Christmass Box with little Wool is big,
And Barber will not trust him for a Wig:
When all means fail, what think ye in the end,
But the Tobacco-pipe must prove his Friend?
On this, till Half-asleep, with pains, and care,
Ten-times as long as at his yawning prayer,

------ Experto crede Roberto?

In dainty Frizz he twists his frighted Hair.
Hair, which would make Alecto's Vipers start,
With whose sure Ropes he'l noose his n'own sweet-heart:
Whether she rolls to Hampton in a Boat,
With gaudy-yellow-Tabby-Petticoat;

Or mounting the Exchange, she bridles in
The dainty Dewlaps of her portly Chin;
Still younkers charming, dangling Locks inspire,
Like any Squibb, whole streams of amorous fire;
And the warm wamblings of unnam'd Desire.

Peaceful Tobacco-pipes none ought to scorn,
Which can defend, and not alone adorn;
When unprovok'd 'tis true, they're soft, and tame,
And only big with calm, with Lambent Flame:
So does the Jolly Cannons cheerly roar,
On bright high-days salute the cluster'd Shore;
But in stearn war spews loads of deadly flame,
As much a Lyon now, as once a Lamb.
So these when with no other weapons sped,
Have many serv'd instead of murdring Lead;
'Twill either lead, or drive, and makes with ease,
Either a Mould, or Bullet, which you please.

When Hercules at old Evanders house,
Reform'd from cutting Throats, to keeping Cows;

See Virg. Æneads. Hercules turn'd Grazier, and fed his Cows near Cacus his Den, who ragg'd some of 'em backwards into his Hole:—Hercules, as an honest man should, very careful of his Cattle, makes a Shift to track him, by the help of the Calves. What do me Cacus but as you'l find next note.

Cacus thought it not fair one should have all,
And kindly dragg'd some of his Heard to Stall:
The Heroe swears to find his Victuals stole;
And tracks at last, the subtle Fox to Hole:

'This is the most probable conjecture to be made of Cacus his defence—'tis plain he smoak't Hercules away—'Tis very likely 'twas with a pipe of of Tobacco. See Virgil else.

[Faucibus ingentem fumum mirabile dictu,
Evomit, involvitque domum caligine cæcâ,
Prospectum eripiens oculis. ------

A very Periphrasis for Tobacco.

Whose charg'd Tobacco-pipe as soon as come,
Smoaks even his Hunter out of house and home;
This was his Sword, and this was his defence,
Frighting poor Hang-dog, Club and all from thence:

Cry ye mercy for the Pun! but I could'n for my Heart get e're another Ryme.

Heroick pipe! worthy both Pipes and Tabours!
Thou'rt Cock of Hercules and all his Labours.

And now to relish a long Winters Tale,
O for a Nut-brown Cup of Christmass Ale!
But all the craft's in getting it; 'tis froze,
And drops scarce half so fast as Moyster Nose:
The Pipe to Pot was ever kind and true,
And that or nothing must the business do;
Heat it Red hot and change it for a Tap,
'Twill quickly thro' the Chrystall force a Gap.
Now bring the Boles, drink in your own defence!
For now a new born River bubbles thence;
This ever has the safest Course been found,
To giv't a Glyster, when the Hogs-heads bound.

Let stiff Don-Diego load the lowsie Brush,
That hedges in his mouth with snotty Snush:
In vain he the far nobler smoaker mocks,
And in one Knick-knack wears both Pipe and Box,
New fangled London thus perhaps may do,
And like old Misses, leave old Friends for new:
The West is the Tobacco-pipes chief Throne,
He there like Saxon Monarchs reigns alone:

Wild-Irish-Brats, as soon as Breath they draw,
Are dos'd with a kind Cup of Usquebagh.
Discretion bids us learn where e're we can,
Since wiser Brutes have often tutor'd Man;

'Tis common in some parts of the West, for Children, no higher than their Lace-peels, to sit Working and Smoaking.

Thus Western Children, tho' not quite so ripe,
As theirs, are wean'd on a Tobacco-pipe:
This does the Sucking Bottles place supply,
'Tis Pap-Meat when they're hungry, drink when dry;
When hot this cools, this warms when they're a-cold;

Kolmacho is an hard word—(In English (all heal) given to a new invented Cordial.

A perfect Kolmacho for Young, and Old;
The Child with ne're a Tooth, and the Old Crone,
Whose two black Stumps check such as say she has none:
Who, crept thro' fourscore year, with care, and pain,
Has made a shift to grow a Child again.

The Miner there, with an Implicite Faith,

'Tis the Custom among the Spaniards, their Slaves to continue ever in the Mines. Every body knows not to the contrary of the Cornish Miners—such as do, I'd entreat 'em to hold their peace and not spoil a fancy.

Crediting what his Upper-neighbour saith;
Who seldom taking pains to Look abroad,
Believes a Sun as he believes a God:
For the Companion of his Hopes and Fears,
Takes a Tobacco-pipe, well struck in years;

Scarce ever an Hurling but some or more are lamed or kill'd—(Ware Critick here!)

Old as himself, lam'd by some Hurlers rage,
Short, and decrepid grown with nameless age,
Still like some Sea-worn Cliff, it lesser grows,
Just matcht at last to his Commodious Nose:

With this, nor was sweet Orpheus arm'd a well
With Harp, with this he sinks almost to Hell.

By some strange chance, from an old plunder'd Vein,

Here's a fair opportunity to show ones Learning and read half an hour on Barat-anack, and Casiterides, but I shall only tell such as don't know better than my self, that the Tyrians came hither for Tin, and some of their Brazen Instruments have been found in Old Mines.

Like Tyrian Pick-axe, brought to Light again:
See where 'tis fall'n among a Ring of Boys,
Who from it blow thin worlds of gaudy Joys.
Fine, soon-ripe Bubbles, Alamode, and Gay,
Dress't in the Glory's of the blooming Day:
Bright as Court-Madam, tho' they hardly be,
Perhaps as tender, or as frail as she;
Created both by Breath, both upwards born,
Proud in the Beautys of the Rainbow Morn:
And thus, when sailing thro' the heavier Skys,
By Breath 'twas made and liv'd, by Breath it dyes;
And that same Blast on which it self it rears,
Dashes the airy Jewell into Tears.
A Wondrous turn! my pipe at last (You see!)
Is Pulpit grown, and preaches Vanity;
'Tis sign he's sick—Rogues at the fatal day,
Thus curses use to' unlearn, and learn to pray:
Then from some careless Boys's loose hand he flyes,
And tumbles down, and Breaks his Neck, and dyes.

On a COW's TAIL.

Thou who didst round Cecropian Pastures rove,
Turn'd Bull, an horny and an hairy Jove!

See the Tale of Jupiter's transmogrifying his Divinity into a Bull for the love of Europa, at every Post-dawber's in Town!—but rarely described in Lucian, in a Dialogue between Notus and Zephyrus. Quære, in this case, as was said in another of the fighting Bishop: If a Butcher had here sawcily knock'd down the Bull, what had become of the God-ship?

(Tho' sure that shape had better serv'd than now,
When beauteous Io was transform'd to Cow)

Related in the authentick Chronicle of Ovid's Metamorphosis.—The Chapter and Verse you may find at your leisure.

Who a meer Brute did'st of meer Thunder make,
A four-leg'd Lover for Europa's sake;
And when thy purchase was from shore conveigh'd,
(The shining Cargo of a Royal Maid)
Did'st to a Rudder turn thy well-hung Tayl,
Whil'st her loose flowing Garments serv'd for Sayl:
Pilot my tottering Bark with Aid Divine,
Vent'ring thro' Seas far more unknown than thine!
Help me in my Cows Tail, the rest shall be
Part of a grateful Hecatomb to Thee.

This—Hecatomb is an hard Greek word, usually taken for a Sacrifice of an hundred Oxen.—But tho' mine be a Cow, every body won't see the Bull in the case.

The Tail full oft above the Head prevails,
And Heaven and Earth resound the Praise of Tails.

See where in Heaven the Dog's bright Tail does shine
A Cynosure not half so long as mine:

The Constellation call'd the little Bear, in Greek is Cynosura, which is in plain English, Dogs-Tail.

On Earth walk where you will, in every place
One Tayl or other slaps you o're the Face.
The Kingly Lyon whirls his Sceptral Train,
Roaring at the encountring Gnat in vain;
The Victor Gnat in the next Fight does fail
And drops beneath the Cow's all-conquering Tail
That Tail which kills whate'r it's force with stands
As sure's a Club,—in Hercules's hand's.
When the mad Dog-star scatters sultry Beams
And drives the tossing Herd to shades and Streams
Armys of Flys, of different Notes and Wings
Goad 'em all ore with their vexatious stings
Vainly does now the bare-dock't Horse complain
And wish for his dismember'd Tail again;
Who of his Freedom us'd before to boast,
Then gain'd, when such a Burden he had lost
(So the sly Fox, who of his Tail could make
Hook, Net and Line, at every Brook and Lake
And when too faint he the hot Hunter flyes
With pissen Tail strike out the Terrior's Eyes.

When not so well he from the Trap had fled,
But with his Tail compounded for his Head;
To scape his salt Companions Mockery,
He'd have 'em tail-less all as well as he.)

But now the Cow with brandish'd Tail falls on,
Proclaiming open War with Accaron;

The God of Flyes,—The same with Belzebub in sacred, and Muyoides, and Jupiter Apomuyns in Profane Authors. Vid. Cowley's Annotations on Plagues of Ægypt, p. 82.

“And Accaron, the Aiery Prince, led on their various Host.

Millions of Insect-Warriors at her fly,
Millions of Insect-Warriors murmuring dye.
So falls a murdering Chain-shot whizzing round,
(Amazing, like less dreadful Thunder's sound)
When thro' a Troop of Iron Horsemen born,
Beneath the Reaper's Hook so drops the Corn.
So when the scaly Lord of fruitful Nile,
The dreadful Spear-contemning Crocodile,
Is by his trembling Enemies beset,
Trusting in vain a feeble Dart or Net;
With his Tail's Whisk he long-long Ranks o'rethrows,

That Creature is reported to have a prodigious force in his Tail, with which he sweeps down whate're comes near.

And stalks in Triumph o're his prostrate Foes.

The Turks when they'll their Enemies assail,

This is a Custom common with them to the Tartar, and many other of those barbarous Nations. If I misremember not, they deduce this Custom from their great Ottoman, the top of the Oguzian Family.

For a red Flag hang out an Horse's Tail:
Unjustly done, when it must be confess't
From this, the Cow's the far more valiant Beast.
But if from cloudy Wars we start away
To downy Pleasure's happy Sun-shine day,

There the Cow's Tail does other Tails surpass
As far as the brisk Horse the lazy Ass.
This the sage Priests of mighty Apis knew,
What e'r the rude unthinking Vulgar do.
Apis is gone; heark the lamenting Crowd
Raving about, bellow his loss aloud:
Apis is gone, nor can their Tears prevail;

The Ægyptians worshipping an Oxe, is notorious; nay, that was one of their Di majorum Gentium; their Saints and little sucking Gods, were Rats, Birds, Cats; and Leeks, Onions, (Welch Deities.) But the manner of Devotion to their Oxe, under the name of Apis, Serapis, Isis, Osiris,—made even that too as extravagant as all the rest. Among other Perquisites necessary for the Election of a new God, which was every year after they had drown'd the old; one indispensable was,—Two peculiar Hairs, and no more, on the Tail;—But why no more, nor less, as Dr. Fuller says, the Devil knows. This too explains the Verse following;

Yet they'd not care, had he but left his Tail.

Priests, Prince and People search the Stalls around,
Until the happy, happy Tail is found,
Whilst every trembling Son of Nile prepares
T'adore the sacred Tail with two white Hairs.

Ovellana, and Delaplata, Two famous Rivers in the Indys.

Nor less should th' Indian this blest Relique prize,
Without whose kind support he sinks and dies.
Where Orellana's Sea-like Waters lave

Two famous Rivers in the Indys.

The steepy Banks with a resounding Wave,
Or De-la-plata's headlong Flood-gates roar,

Two famous Rivers in the Indys.

Rolling fresh Oceans down each mouldring Shore;
Where no proud Bridge dares the wild River ride,
At a Cow's Tail the Indian stemms the Tide;

Thus Peter Martyr in his Decads.—He says, 'tis common with the Indians to tye a Stick cross-ways at the Tail of a Cow, and seating themselves thereon, drive her into the water; who being used to the sport, swims very faithfully with the Cargo behind.—If any doubt of the truth on't, 'tis but stepping over for a day or two to the Indys, and they may be speedily satisfy'd.

Ferry'd without expence of Coin or Breath,
Safe, tho' but a hairs length 'twixt him and Death:
Safer than Damocles, when at the Board

Damocles one of Dyonisius's Flatterers, admiring the Tyrant's felicity, was by his order to taste what 'twas, adorn'd with the Royal Robes, and waited on as a Prince; but for the sharp sawce with his sweet meat, when thus in all his Grandezza, at Table, a naked Sword was hung over his Head, ty'd only by a Hair, which soon spoil'd his sport, and made him glad of liberty again.

A single Hair sustain'd the shining Sword.

Ladys by the soft Magic of their Eyes,
Like Angels, wafting thro' the scattering Skys,
Weak prostrate Mortals dazle and surprize.
From Head to Foot, their Charms, their Port and State,
A Cow's Tail to the life does imitate.
Have you e're seen a Nymph at some bright Hall,
In a Triumphant Masquerade or Ball,
Move soft and smooth like Gales of Western Wind,
Whilst her loose flowing Train sweeps far behind;
Even so, believ't, the Cow's Tail dangles down,
Like supernumerary piece of Gown:
The Ancients or Historians Lies have told,

Yellow hair was accounted a great piece of Beauty, not only by the old Romans, and that part of the World; but here in England too: Among other Receipts for finifying the face, &c. in an old English Book, there's a way to make the Hair yellow.

Pure Carrots call'd pure Threds of beaten Gold:
Tho' Goats Pulvilio's hardly ranker smell,
Nor any wrizzled Succubus of Hell:
But all which to our nicer World appear
For Marks of Beauty, all concenter here;
The Tail's Complexion is a lovely Fair,
Shaded around with charming cole-black hair.
Now, Tail right Worshipful! I'l lead thee home,
As great as conquering Scipio entring Rome;

Thee to a place of rest I'l calmly bear,
Like Turkey Rams in a triumphant Carr.

Mr. Sands and others that write of the Eastern Countrys, describe a kind of Sheep there, whose Tails weigh forty pound a piece, and are alway drawn after 'em by a little Cart.

For such as faults with my Cow's Tail have found,
Here's a fair Rump;—Genteels! you're welcom round.
Hur Cow shall now with any Cow compare;
Let any say hur Cow is hurs, that dare.

Alluding to a Story of a Welch-man who stole a Cow with a cut Tail, and brought it to Market, but artificially sew'd on anther Tail;—The owner sees it at the Market, looks wistly on't, and concludes, if it had not a Tail too much, he durst swear 'twas his own: At this hur Welch Plud draws hur Knife, cuts the Tail off above the place where 'twas sow'd on, throws t'other piece into the River, and bids him now own it if he dar'd.

The Lyar.

For Naked Truth let others write,
And fairly prove that Black's not white;
Quarrel and scold, then scratch and bite,
Till they're with Cuffing weary:

Give me a Lye, trickt neat and gay,
As fine as any Hedge in May!
Most think so too, altho' they'll say,
Perhaps, the clean contrary.

The Courtier first is counted rude,
If he's with Lying unendu'd;
Nay, when he's in his Altitude,
He gives it Oaths for Clenching:

The brisk and young sowre Truth despise,
And kick her back to th' Old and Wise;
Wenching's the Gallant's Life, a Lye's
The very Life of Wenching.

Room for the Man of Parchment next,
Whose Comments so confound the Text,
And Truth's High-road so much perplext,
One scarce can e're get at it;

With his own practice not content,
He'll either quote, or he'l invent,
He'll find or make a President,
And gravely lie by Statute.

Next the poor Scholar loaden comes
With packs of Sentences and Summs,
Scratches his Head, and bites his Thumbs,
For Truth is all his vigour;

Like Lynceus self, O who but he

This Mr. Lynceus was, you must know, a mighty quick-sighted fellow;—He could see thro' Walls, Houses,—and Ships at Sea, at the greatest distance, and—But that's enough already to believe at once.

The Essences of things can see;
When he deceives but orderly,
And lies in Mood and Figure.

Who but the Poet ought t'appear
I'th end? who should bring up the Rear,
But he who without Wit or Fear
Lays on his Lyes by Clusters?

Never of sneaking Truth afraid,
He'll her with open Arms invade,
And dreadful Armies in his Aid
Of his own Hero's musters.

Well, since on all sides 'tis confest,
A quiet life must needs be best;
Who'd think it hard to purchase rest
By such a small complying?

Let him that will speak Truth for me!
Truth the worst Incivilitie!
I'd rather in the Fashion be!
Since all the World's for Lying.

On a Hat broke at Cudgels

“And then like greasie Coraubeck,
“Pinn'd up behind—no scabby Neck
To shew Sr. ---
(The Ramble.)

No silly Frog, nor Mouse, no Snake nor Gnat,
Hag-rides my Muse, 'tis an unlucky Hat,
Whose sudden Rise, and Fall I mean to tell:
O for a Dose of the Castalian Well,

In Poetical Jargon this is only a Variation of Helicon; but the downright meaning is,—a Glass of good Canary.

The Tunbridge of Olympus! well may I
My whistle wet, for sure the Subject's dry.
At School of Hat I've made a Pitcher trim,
And suck't sweet Water from its greasit brim;

But tho' it went to th' Well so oft before,
At last 'tis crack't, alas! and holds no more.

Of all the Coverings which have e're been found,
Or black, or blew, or green, or square, or round,
Crowns lin'd with Thorns, (with Reverence be it sed,)
Beavers with Wigg, a Felt with Logger-head;
High Cap of Maintenance, low Cap of Fool,
High Cardinals Cap, low Cover of Close-stool;
Little or great, broad, narrow, course or fine,
Ne're was such an unlucky Hat as mine.
When Mr. Haberdasher was content
For many a supple Cringe and Complement,
To trust me for't at Interest twelve per Cent.
From some good-natur'd Friend, I know not who,
I made a shift to wring an Hat-band too.
Now all that see me wondring round me stand,
Like Nunckle quite disguiz'd in a clean Band.
As if to N. or M. I backwards came,
They on me stare, and ask me what's my name?
They dream I'm grown pileo donatus, free

To give the Slave liberty of wearing a Hat, was either a Token or Formality of his Freedom.

From rusty Chains of lowsie Poetry:
But all their kind surmizes were in vain;
Nature held fast, I soon grew Cat again.

Alluding to the Fable of the Cat turn'd into a Woman, who running even then after Mice, was again returned to the place from whence she came.

A Cudgel splits the Brim, new Lights surprize
The sudden Breach, and blind my dazzled Eyes;
Then lest the Fissure should a mark be sed
Of Satan's cloven Foot upon a Poet's Head;
Some gentle Lad an't please ye! overkind,
Like Bully-Hec's, buttons it up behind.
Well, he deserv'd each angry Muses Curse,
For this but made the better side the worse.
'Twas tuckt so close, My Honour seem'd to be
One of Quevedo's Knights of th' Industrie.

In Quevedo's [Buscon,] or a kind of a Spanish Rogue, he has a pleasant description of a Fraternity who honour'd another with the most Noble order of Knights of the Industrie. Among other fancies this was one;—They button'd their Hats of one side, only because the Rats had eat away all that Brim.

Thus had you seen't, you might be bold to swear,
Armies of hungry Rats had feasted there.
Since Charity saves him from just Vengeance, all
My teen on the unlucky Hat must fall,
Whose Traytorous Ancestors by Kings command,
Were with the Cardinals exil'd the Land.

In King Henry eighth's time, either an Order, or an Act was made, that none should presume, what ever figure he bare, to wear any Hat, but only woollen Caps then all in use.

Those golden days, those happy dayes of Yore,
When honest Caps the brightest Courtier wore,
May they come in agen, and quite displace,
With luckier Omens, all thy luckless race.
May'st thou, if that be possible, sink down
Below the Scandal of a Poet's Crown,

In Healths toss't up, pawn'd e're the Reckning's pay'd,
Then in the Kennel by thy Master lay'd:
Then cry'd about with an old Coat or Shoe,
Be ever travelling, like the wandring Jew!

This wandring Jew, (if there be any Truth in Ballads, as I hope none that reads this questistion) ever since the Death of Christ has been trotting round the World: For fuller satisfaction consult the Penny Chronicle of his Life.

Nor will I ever call thee back agen,
Till Poets are made Lords, or Aldermen.

A Covetous old Fellow having taken occasion to hang himself a little; another comes in, in the nick, and cuts him down; but instead of Thanking him for his Life, he accuses him for spoyling the Rope.

You Dog! y'ha' spoyl'd my Rope! 'twas strong, and tight,
And cost I'me sure a Groat but to 'ther Night;
A good substantial Rope to give its Due,
'Twould hold an hundred heavier Rogues than You.

I'll swear the Peace! I stood in fear o'my Life;
He vi & armis came; he brought a Knife;
With which, tho' I for certain cannot know't,
I doubt the Villain meant to cut my Throat.
How e're he spoil'd my Goods, the best I had,
He cut my Rope I'me sure, and that's as bad;
I'll trounce the Rogue; I'll try from Court to Court,
If there be any Law in England for't:
Must such an Arbitrary Cur as he,
Divest one of ones Right, and Property?
No—if the Judge such tricks as these allows,
A Man shan't hang himself in his own House:
And who dreads not such presidents as that?
Nay, 'tis in vain! I'll ne're referr't, That's flat.
When sweetly dangling 'twixt the Earth and Sky,
I was rappt up in Hempen-Extasie;
(Which all who view'd my lovely Snowt might know,)
When all my dreggs of Man were dropt below:
The envious wretch dragg'd back my Stareing Soul,
Just clambring up against the steepy Pole,
And when with Liberty grown free and Wild,
Chain'd it to a Corps, (an't please ye!) all defil'd,
What Soul alive for both the Indys riches,
Would e're descend to such a pair of Breeches?

Lets hang him up for saving me, and then
If e're I cut him down, e'ne hang me up agen.

The story thus—At a Clubb of Younkers, after a Frost a couple of Wild-Ducks were bought. A thaw coming the day after, these having before been frozen hard, fell in, appear'd all black, and stunk most harmoniously—yet, that nothing good might be wasted, the Purchasers dress't'em, and eat the first pretty nimbly, not staying to tast it; but by that time, Colon being a little pacifi'd, advancing to the second, it drove 'em all off, and was given a decent burial at last in the Boghouse.

On a Supper of a Stinking Ducks.

Come all you brisk Lads that have ever been seen,
At the place that you wot of hight—Clerken-well-Green!

The name of one Gentleman belonging to the Club, old excellent at Lyric verse, which you may learn from the next line.

First of all Merry Mac, come and taste our good cheer,
For our Hearts will all vibrate thy Lyricks to hear.
One and all run and Saddle your Cane, or your Beast,
And hasten full speed to the bountiful Feast!
In pow'rful Gambado's, or sinical Boot;
In a thrid-bare old Cloak, or a new Sur le tont!
Or flaming with Fringe, or meek Kid on your Hand,
With blustering Cravat, or reverent Band!
Both peaceable Hazle, and Kill-devil Steel,
Both Tory-Bamboo, and Fanatick-Brazeel!

In the ingenious Dr. Bat upon Bat—'tis thus—

“It is a Law that holds with Saint, and Sinner,
“That he that has no Knife should have no Dinner.

Remember Batts Axiom, your Curtlass prepare!
Whet Stomachs, and Knives! Here's a Bill of the Fare;

Here's Duck upon Duck, for no more you must look;
If you'll have any more you must go to the Cook.
I tell you the Truth, and I tell you no lye!
They shine and 'twere Butter, or Stars in the Sky:
Zich glorry-vatt Ducks but zildom are zean,

The Ducks were caught in a decoy-pond in Sommerset-shire, and that Country having, 'tis probable their Bellys, or Noses full of 'em, were transported to London for Sale.

Whore shou'd they be bore but about Taunton-Dean.
If they stink Mrs. Muse your nice Nose you may hold!
Disparage 'em not for they're bought, and they're sold;

Here is certainly some mistake in the Copy, and something or other is wanting to Rhyme to [Had 'em] which the Reader is desired, (if he can) to correct with his Pen.

Consider as cheap of the Poulter they had 'em,
As e're of the Higler—(the Servant!) &c.
Here Dick, Black—Bess for thy absence should frown,

For had he lookt foreright his Nose had been so egregiously affronted there could be no enduring it.

Look over thy Shoulder, and 'tweak off their Down:
But prythee deal gently, for 'twould be no Wonder,
They're so soft, and so young, if they sall all-asunder.
'Tis true I confess, if my Nostrils can tell,
They send out a kind of a Civity smell:
Yet more then a Bustard the Poulter might prize one
Like them, for their flavour like pasty Venizon.

Some will say they've a whiff like a Worm-eaten Bitch,

A Dead Horse, on which, after't has been airing in a Ditch for a Fortnight, or a Month, the Tartars will revel, as if 'twere the fattest old Barren Doe in Christendom.

Or a Tartar Ragoo, ready dresst in a Ditch:

For satisfaction in that Story consult the Poem concerning it!

Or a cleanly blue-Pig—but ne're keck honest fellow!
For they're wholesome enow, tho' a little too mellow.

A humour of theirs notorious, of whom the Poet—

“Who, in contempt, will paint the Devil White:

Tho' by his leave and mine too, whatever they think of White Devils, or White Men, 'tis certain they are old Dogs at White-Women, who, for some certain Reasons, (such as made Apuleius gracious) best known to themselves, are not behind hand in Loving them, perhaps because their Complexions differ.

They're black, but where Indians do paint the De'el White,
That colour be sure's a most heavenly sight:

'Tis the opinion of some Learned men, (too great and grave to be affronted with seeing their Names here) That Wild-fowl, Storks, Woodcocks, &c. fly away at the Winters end to the Moon, or some Islands in the Air near it; and thence at Winter return again. Who knows what may be?

They dropt from the Moon out of Breath, and the Thumps
Which they took on the Ground have discolour'd their Rumps.

One of the Company, sometimes known by that Name, was at first for giving 'em their Nunc dimittis into Boghouse.

Cozen John! 't had been better if y'had not been so sickle,
But in our Garden-Cellar had laid 'em in pickle:
Tho' the Cook says they're sweet, I'll venture engage her,
That the Ducks should ha' stunk with the T---'s for a Wager.
Pothecary's Bills have full often half broke us,

I thought I should catch you napping, cryes Mr. Critick, (or he may if he will) how long has Carduus-posset been so wonderful chargable? Ans. 1. If not chargeable Simpliciter, 'tis Secundum quid—There's a Pothecary's large bill, and Paracelsian Conscience in the Case. Is that Insufficient—why have at another of 'em—'Tis true in sensu composito, tho' not diviso, as the learned have it—thus tho' one alone be n't dear, both together may. If neither of all this pother will satisfie, why I can easily stop your Mouth with Bays's answer, which if thought on sooner might have saved all this.

“Why 'tis Sir—because Sir—why what's that to you Sir? Rehearsal.

With chargeable Vomits of Carduus and Crocus:
When these Ducks from the Bum-gut to Keckhorn would draw,
And like a Turn'd—Pudding-bag empty the Maw;
O Spirits of Arm-pits, and Essence of Toes!
O Hogo of Ulcers, and Hospital Nose!

O Devils Dung fragant, and tarrifi'd feather,
With Snuff, and with Carrion, Ana, jumbled together!

'Tis their custom to get a great Jar, and among other Ingredients, as Wine, Chamber-pots, Tobacco, Spittle, they clap in three or four good sizeable Toads—this stopt up till all is dissolv'd, is their very Nectar, with which they'l be as drunk as a Prince—a Beggar—a Tinker—a Wheel-barrow, or Davids Sow.—'Tis no Fable, but credibly related by most that write of 'em—as Baratti's Travels, Gages Travels, &c.

O Jelly of Toads! India's hasty-Pudding!
O Playsters of Issues champt down o'the sudden!
With fat blubby Pease, that are grimy all o're,
Thick butter'd with delicate matter and Gore!
Well! If these you survive, I'll believe 'tis no Fable,

Snakes are a Princely Dish in those Countreys.

That Indians gut Adders, and bring 'em to Table:
But after, if your Pest'lent Breath sally on us,
Wee'll get to the Windward, or Mercy upon us!

They were roasted in a String.

Hoyst 'em up with a Rope at the Fire! 'tis no matter,
Tho' they drop in the dripping, and crawl in the Platter;
So do's the sweet Phænix on Frankincense-Faggot,

In the Fable of the Phænix, 'tis reported, that after the old one is burnt, a Worm first comes out of its Ashes, and so—and so—and so.

Sit roasting her self till she turn to a Maggot.

To the Laud and Praise of a Shock Bitch.

And here let me tell ye, is a fair occasion to give you to understand the Author has a smatch of Latin Verses too—for some were made before these English on the same Subject: But for fear of clapping in a false Concord or Position, or so, (the very thoughts whereof will be dreadful, as long as I can unbutton my Breeches) I think e'ne best as 'tis.

Let lofty Greek and Latin go,
And Priscian crackt from top to Toe,
Since he at School full often so
Misus'd us;

From High and mighty Lines I fall,
At powerful Shock's imperious Call,
And now in downright Doggrel crawl
My Muse does.

Tho' my froze Hogs-head e'ne is burst,

See the Academy de'l Cimento, and others, about the Nature of freezing, which rarifies and dilates, not condenses or lessens the Water. Thus a Vessel stopt close, with no vent, when frozen, if precisely full, will burst out the Hoops for Enlargement.

—'Twas in the middle of the great frost they were wrote.

I'le do what none before e're durst,
And on her Praises make the first
Adventure;

O for some Album-Græcum now!
'Twould clear my musty pipes I trow;
Then would I yelp as loud as thou,

Stentor was a kind of a City Cryer in Homer,—A speaking Trumpet was but a Bagpipe to him, (for all by their Names they should be Cousins) he would lift up his voice just a loud as fifty men, not one more, nor one less.

Old Stentor!

Come hither Shock; I'll ne'r complain,
Nor kick thee from my Lap again,
Tho' other Lips thy Mouth so dain-
-ty touches;

Give me one Buss, I'le prize thee more
Than tinsil'd Lord does brazen Whore;
Or then—or then—or then—or then-
No-body.

Let lowsie Poets sit and chat
Of Money, and they know not what!
Of Love, and Honour, and all that
So silly!

Let Play-house-Hero's live or dy,
Or spew, or stink, or swear, or lye,
To court the Glance of one bright Eye
From Philly!

Let the entranced loving Ass
A Picture wooe, and buss the Glass,
Covering his Mistresses surpas-
-sing Beauty!

Then steal from Cowley, or from Don,
(Since none will miss 'em when they're gon)
Two hundred thousand Stanza's on

Just so many in Quevedo's Buscon, the Poet makes on a Pin dropt from his Mistress's Sleeve—I think sincerely a greater Maggot than all mine put together.

Her Shoo-ty!

All other Fairs avaunt, avaunt,
For Shock's sweet praise my Muse must chaunt,
And sweat, (ah, wou'd she wou'd!) in Rant

Once more, lest you should forget it, 'twas very cold weather when this was on the Anvile.

Extatic.

'Tis Shock alone is my desire,
She does my addled pate inspire,
As much as any Muse, with Fire
Poetic.

View every Limb in every part,
From Head to Tail, from Rump to Heart,
You'll find she not one Pin from Art
Has gotten;

When Courtly Dames so gawdy, tho'
They dress their mouths in pimlico,
A Dog won't touch 'em, they are so
Ripe-rotten.

Muse, what d'ye mean? what Flesh can stay,
And dive in Helicon to day,
Or swim in any Streams but A-
qua-vitæ?

Put up your Pipes, to dinner go,
Whilest I dismiss the Guests below:
You're welcome Gentlemen! and so,
Good-buy-t'y'e!

An ELEGY On the untimely and much lamented Death of Poor Spot, as loving a Bitch as ever went upon two Legs, who departed this Life,

An. 1684.

O Spot! how dull a Dog am I,
That cannot for thy Murder cry,
Nor whimper?

Tho' thou full oft on thankless me,
Now from the ground, now from my knee
Didst simper.

How e're, accept this grateful Verse,
To pin on thy untimely Herse
Provided.

Even so Renowned Bat of old,

Bat Kempster of eternal memory,—who has in like manner—(as Sternhold says) immortaliz'd the memory of Captain Narbourn's Dog, which now must live as long as Bat in spight of Envy.

A poor good-natur'd Hound condol'd,

Good-natur'd, because,—because,—'Tis but looking in the Book, and you'll know all better than I can tell you.

As I did.

Tell me, O tell me, you that know,
How Spot the higher Powers so
Offended?

What was the pretty Traytor's Crime,
That her fair Dayes in Beauty's prime
Were ended?

She, ever vigilant and brisk,
Her nimble Tail around would whisk,
Like Fan. Sr.

With Umph she never went away,
But, by her mumping mean'd to say
Anan Sr.

She was not ugly, rank, nor old;
Tho' she ne'r sung, she was no Scold
Uncivil:

Sweet-Hearts she had, Him, Him, and Him,
O Envy! Envy! O thou Limb
O th' Devil!

With Mouth and Tayl, come when you will,
She smil'd, and would endeavour still
To please ye;

Altho' 'tis true, she was not Fair,
Her Cheeks ne'r shin'd, her Muzzle ne're
Was greasie.

One fault alone in her we find;
Were she not pleas'd, she must be kind
To Neighbours;

Which brought poor Tray to a sad pass,

Tray was one of Madam Spot's most obsequious and most humble Servants, but by being so complaisant and obliging, had almost kill'd himself. This is no Tale, but a sad, Truth,—Ask all the Neighbours else.

When he, to please the Love-sick Lass,
O're-labours.

Well, gone she is, and who can help't?
Ah! gone she is before she whelpt;
Ah cruel!

Let none at too just Sorrows scoff,
Now cross-grain'd Fate has robb'd us of
Our Jewel!

But since poor Spot must go and buss
For our brisk Lord, old Cerberus

My Lord was Tray's Successor: Of him self more, and Spot too, in the (Carmen Cynegeticon.)

So musty;

Come Lads, let's bid her all adieu,
And own ne're dy'd a Bitch more true,
And trusty!

Go Spot, to the Elysian Plain,
Go Spot, and meet thy Tray again
Far kinder!

What tho' Erynnis on thee scowl,
And make her Snakes about thee howl?
Ne're mind her.

There Spot, be ever brisk and gay;
There thou, without the Bans forbid, thy Tray
May'st marry;

In Fields gilt o're with many a Flower,
In Walks as fine as those of our
King Harry.

A Box made like an Egg, was between Jest and Earnest, between Stoln and Borrow'd; but at last, (see the Honesty!) after a Year's Possession, restor'd with this in the Belly on't.

As an Egg is Full of Meat,
So, in sooth, am I of Sorrow,
That your Box so fine, so neat,
I without your leave should borrow.

Now I sigh, and now I groan,
O're and o're the Crime repented;
Moan and sob, and sob and Moan,
To my very Guts tormented.

How did I in Doggrel Rhymes,
Mind my fault, and wail and grieve it?
Should I tell you twenty times,
Ne're the sooner you'd believe it.

But since your Box has, fie upon't!
Brought me to so much Confusion;

To the lawful Owner on't
Thus I make a Restitution.

Down to Dinner now they call,
Gizzard now begins to grumble;
Pray my Service unto all,
So I rest,
Your Servant Humble, &c.

The Beggar and Poet.

I confess I can't very well get clear of a Tautology in this place: But for the defence of my Title; tho' many will tell me 'tis some kin to Idem per Idem, and that Beggar and Poet. are the stark-self-same-specifical-numerical thing: Yet let 'em consider 'em as I do, (sub diversos formales conceptus) as the Learned have it; and then all's well agen.

Happy the Man who free from Care and Strife,
With Dog and Bell gropes thro' the Road of Life!
Beggar at large, without or Fear, or Shame,
He'll all the World his Benefactors name.
He, like the famous ancient Scythian Race,

The manner of living practised by the old Nomades, and the Tartars, their now Successors, is much alike, if not the same: In olden times they used to remove Bag and Baggage from Post to Pillar, as often as the Pasture was eaten by their Retinue. Some of the Fathers that have travelled into Tartary of late Years to make one Proselite, give just the same description of their Manners.—See Hackluit's Voyages.

Shifts not himself as often as his place.
Tir'd with the pillage of one fruitful Plain,
He and his Cattle soon decamp again:
He with a proud Repulse when warmly vext,
Throws you a hearty Curse, and tries the next.
No long Harangues to squeeze the stubborn Pence,
No Oratorical Impertinence,
Nor grateful murd'ring both of Truth and Sense.

He'll in two Lines compendiously impart
The System of his truly Liberal Art;
Pray Sir, the Gift: And when the Farthings stir,
I hope you'll never live to want it Sir!
When Beadle Death does him at last attend,
Let him go where he will, in this he's sure to mend:
Death kindly Land and House provides him, more
Besides the Cage, than e're he had before.

Thrice miserable they whom want and Fate
Eternal Mumpers made at Learning's Gate:
Their Souls indeed they cram with notions high,
But let poor Colon live by Sympathy:
To Honourable Beggars they give place,
Lean younger Brothers of the lowsie Race.

In plain, sober, earnest English, [Aristotle feeds more than Alexander.] Which is to be prov'd.

Plures aluit Aristoteles quam Alexander.

So call'd from the Story of the Pyrate, who being taken by Alexander's Captains, and brought and accused before him, answered undauntedly, that Alexander was the greater Thief of the two, who robb'd with whole Armies, when he himself only with two little Ships.

The Great Grecian Robber of his Household was careless,
Compar'd to his bountiful Tutor old Arles,
Whose Barns, 'tis no wonder, grow fatter and faster
Than his, since their Diet was Meat for his Master.

See Quintus Curtius's History. He lead 'em over vast Desarts to the Conquest of the Indys.

An hungry starv'd Army o're Desarts and Stones,
This lead till he fought 'em to nothing but Bones.
But far more are the Slaves whom his Tutor does fetter;
And you'll see by and by how he feeds 'em far better.
Like Tantalus, One his poor Souldiers did mock,
And fed 'em with nothing but a Bit and a Knock:
Sure they leapt at a Crust, since to frighten poor Strangers,

When Alexander had conquer'd the Indys, at his departure he built Mangers for his Horses as high as a man could reach, and other things proportionable, to amuse posterity, and make 'em conceive a nobler Image of him and his Army: tho', as one says wittily, if his horses had eat no Oates but out of those Mangers, they would not have been very fit for Service; for such feeding would soon have starv'd even Bucephalus himself.

He built up their Cupboards as high as their Mangers.
Thô 'tis true, they as well as their Captain did fare;
He forsooth was a God, and could live upon Air!
When his Army's all mortal, and poor hungry Sinners,
Must eat up their Foes if they'll get any Dinners.
A hunting lean Glory thro' the World he does roam,
While the subtle Phylosopher batters at home;

The Funeral-pile; it being the Custom of the Ancients to burn, not bury their Dead.

Nor had all his Souldiers, tho' they scap'd from the Faggot,

One Mouthful of Flesh to oblige a poor Maggot.
But Learning, tho' Envy unjustly does charge her,
Crams all her coopt Houshold, tho' a thousand: times larger:
He could not afford all his Army one Suttler,
She makes the fat Stagyrite both her Cook, and her Butler.
See what a large Drove, which his Power confesses,
Humbly gape at his Hatch for Commons and Messes!
He kindly provides gaudy-dayes all the year,
And this is a Bill of their prodigal Chear.

Either the Egg made with the Scrapings of the Egg-shell, Bread and Butter, &c. or that appointed to the Schollar, who proving two Eggs were three;—One and one's two, and one and two's three,—had only the third allotted him for his share.

A Scholar's light Egg pickt as clean as a bone,

Or a worse than a Scholar's, a Logical one:
Chymerical Pullets, digested too soon,

Aristotle's own Fire, (which since he found, he is like to keep) dreamt of in Concavo Lunæ.

Dress'd at his own Fire by the Man in the Moon.
Such Dishes as these, 'tis confess'd, are design'd
For Stomachs abstracted, and Palates refin'd.
For your poor duller Mortal other Provenders found,
And Coquus, if he's able, will please 'em all round.

Broath which for meer Element one may mistake,
'Tis smaller than Tiff, and as lean as a Rake;
So pure, and so clear, that 'twould Christal disgrace,
If you heave't to your Nose, you may see all your Face.
When at last the whole Hogs-head of Porridge is o're,
And Colon still swears and grumbles for more,
Sometimes you've a Commons, and sometimes you've none,
The fat greasie Flap, or the Prentice's bone.
When they've serv'd out their time, and at last are got free,
Their Table advances, as does their Degree:
There's Pudding, and Pudding, and Pudding, and then

Æsop feasted his Master with nothing but Tongues, when order'd to buy the best and the worst of Meats.

Like Æsop's Tongues, Pudding, and Pudding agen.
Let no man then envy the Schollar's renown,
Since fewer are fed by the Sword, than the Gown;
Since the more they're the merrier, as ever they were,
(Tho' the less there be of 'em, the better they fare.

I think I may venture to pronounce this purely a Maggot, and so others that know no better may be apt to think too; but I can assure 'em the Foundation of the Story is as infallibly true, as any in—Lucian's true History.

A King turn'd Thresher.

Farewell ye gay Bubbles, Fame, Glory, Renown!
Farewell you bright Thorns that are pinn'd to a Crown,
Your little Enchantments no more shall prevail;
Look, look where my Sceptre is turn'd to a Flail!
O who can the Bliss of a Monarch discern,
Whose Subjects are Mice, and whose Palace a Barn?
In spight of curs'd Fortune he Kings it below,
While he looks all around him, and sees not a Foe.
The groans of the murder'd in Death and Despair,
Ne'r reach his calm Kingdom, but dye in the Air:
Fierce Battles roar on; but too weak is the voice,
For he threshes and threshes, and drowns all the Noise.

When his Envy could not be sated on the Christians, he left the Empire in Discontent, and retir'd to the Salonian Gardens,—as Cowley.

The Soul of Domitian sunk into a Clod,

That Tyrant driven from his Kingdom, travelled into Greece, and set up School-Master; where his Cares are here affirm'd as heavy as when a King.

Dyonisius his Scepter was as light as his Rod;

Charles the fifth Emperour of Germany, who after as great a Rufflle in the World as has been made this several Centuries; after War, not only against most of Europe, but Argiers, in Africa too; at last on some discontent, or the unpleasing face of his business, resigned the Empire, and retired to a little House and Garden, which he cultivated with his own hand, and there liv'd and dy'd.

And the Little-Great-Charles with his Shovel and Spade,
Dug a hole, and lay down in the Grave he had made.
But a thousand times brighter my Stars do appear,
And I ne'r was a Monarch in earnest till here:
On a heap of fresh Straw I can laugh and lye down,
And pity the man that's condemn'd to a Crown.
No Armyes of Frogs here croak by my Throne,
I can rise, I can walk, I can eat all alone:
Reliev'd from the Siege of importunate men,
I enjoy my Original Freedom agen.
Scarce peeps out the Sun with a blushing young Ray,

Meaning Chaunticleer,—as Gransire Chaucer has it; or in new English, no better nor worse than a Cock,—that Baron Tell-Clock of the Night,—as Cleveland christens him.

E're my brisk feather'd Bell-man will tell me 'tis day;
Proud with his Serallio behind and before,
He cheerly triumphing, struts along by the Door.
Here's an honest brown George which my Scrip does adorn,
Here's a true Houshold Loaf of the hiew o' my Corn;

Here's a good Rammel-Cheese, but a little decay'd,
As fat as the Cream out of which it was made.

The common old Proverb here meant, is, that—There's no Fence against a Flail.

When Death shall cross Proverbs, and strike at my Heart,
When the best of my Flails is no fence for his Dart;
I'le open my Arms, not a Groan, not a Sigh,
Drop't soft on the Straw, with a smile I will dye.

On a Discourteous Damsel that call'd the Right Worshipful Author—(an't please ye!) Sawcy Puppy.

A PANEGYRIC.

Ugly! ill-natur'd! impudent, and proud!
Sluttish! nonsensical! and idly loud!
Thy Name's a ranker Scandal to my Pen,
Than all thy words could be spew'd up agen.
Yet will I do thy Ugliness the grace,
To touch thee, tho' I'm forc'd to turn my face;
Touch thee as Surgeon touches rotten sores,
Touch thee as Nurses T---, or Beadles Whores.

Belch of a Toad whom Hell to Mortals sends,

Not much more honourable than the Rehearsal's Parthenope.—

—Whose Mother, Sir, sells Ale by the Town-Walls.

Vampt up from Bottle-Ale and Candles-ends.
Hadst thou no Dick with whom thou mightst be free,
Thus to let fly thy Whetstone-jeers on me?
What Skip-kennel without his eyes offence,
Taught thee all this Dog-and-bitch Eloquence?

Monsieur Ragoo, an Officer in a Troop of Horse, having taken occasion to step aside a plundering, was to be hang'd a little: But however the chance turn'd, he had choice given him, either to take a vertuous Lady call'd Doll Troop, to be his Wedded Wife, or else to snickle up: after deep consideration upon the case, and weighing the Circumstances, &c. he resolv'd to cast Lots; the Lay was so even, to decide what himself could not do, and so got the worse end of the staff, without Redemption to be all-to-be-marry'd.

Thou for Doll Troop, hadst ended Ragoo's strife,
He'd hang'd, and never ventur'd such a Wife.

That thick deformity which daubs thy Snowt
Would make a Hell-soul'd Ravisher devout.
An Incubus from such a Face would flee;
'Twould baulk a Satyr more deform'd than thee.
E'ne get a Mask, or with thy Visage daunted,
The Londoners will swear their Streets are haunted:
Below the Plague, below the Pox and Itch,
Take your own Farewell, You're a sawcy Bitch.

100

On a CHEESE.

A Pastoral.

Pinguis & ingratæ permeretur Caseus Urbi.
Virg.

Amoret and Strephon lay
On a Couch of downy Hay,
In the wither'd Age of Day:
Blest that one the other sees,
Blest with a spicy western Breeze,

(Rammel) is a word, I think not much used about London, but common in the West, oppos'd to Skim-Cheese. Thus you find it pretty often in Mr. Creeches Theocritus.

Blest with a noble Rammel Cheese.
Each at t'other darts their Eye;
Each at the glittering Treasure by.
A sight that Strephon's passion moves;
Scarce Amoret he better loves:
To Amoretta's Heart so near,
Strephon's self was scarce more dear:

101

Scarce the Pride o'th' blooming Vale,
Woven around her May-day Pail;
Nor could either prove ungrate
For such a Gift to smiling Fate:
Oft with Vows and Flowers they ran
To smiling Fate, and smiling Pan;
Thus they pray, and thus they sing,
While all the answering Valleys ring.

Strephon.
Sprinkle all the dappled Mead!
Round the Turfy Altars lead!
Every Nymph and Fawn invite
To laugh and revel here at Night!
Jolly Toasts shall never fail,
Quite drunk with nappy nut-brown Ale:
Here's a Cheese would make a Feast
Where a King might be a Guest.

Amoretta.
Stay my Strephon! 'tis in vain;
Too low and humble is your strain:
You the Gift must higher raise,
Or you'll Satyr while you praise.
Let stiff Princes dream alone
On their steep unenvy'd Throne!
Our brighter Cheese out-shines their Crown,
And weighs the gilded Bauble down:
Well a nobler Note begin;
Call and rouze the God within!

102

Sing the Cheese, and by his Aid,
Whence it came, and how 'twas made.

Strephon.
Each Flower that e're in Garland grew,
Amoretta! move for you,
And every Herb that sipps the Dew;
Each their distant Influence joyn
To an Invention so Divine:
The Daisy's pretty twinkling Eye,
The Infant Violet blooming by;
Primrose of refreshing smell,
And the Cowslip's spotted Bell.
Fragrant Tyme, and new-born Grass,
Where no rude Feet did ever pass;
All their Essences combine
To an Invention so Divine:
Each of these transfus'd, agrees
First in Milk, and then in Cheese;
In the Cow's Alembyc wrought,
Whence, when to perfection brought,
Amoretta's whiter hand
Springs of Nectar can command;

Hony soit qui mal y pense.

Cataracts which oft prevail
To overflow the largest Pail:
And when the laughing Virgins come
With their new-found Treasure home,
Amoretta shall declare
How the Miracle they rear.

103

Amoretta.
Soft as Wooll, and white as Lambs
Lickt by their Officious Dams;
White as those fair Lillies grow
In our Copps,—white as Snow,
Next the Creamy Curds arise,
And with calm Glories greet the Eyes:
He that sees 'em dawning, sees
The Image of an Embryo Cheese.

Prometheus, being 'tis likely used to build Castles, and Dirt-pyes in his Youth, when he came to Age, set up the Trade of a Man-founder, for which Jove was so angry (as well he might, when to ther took his work out of his hands, without ever serving without ever serving his time to the Trade) that, what do me he but trusses him up, rivets him on Mount Caucasus, and sent an unconscionable Vulture to tear out the Heart of him.

See more in Tobacco-pipe. Read the story in Lucians Dialogues, Book 1. p. 48.

So from Clay Prometheus can
Mould the mighty Form of Man:
So the rising Vision shows,
As when the World from Chaos rose.
Then 'tis bruis'd, and prest till all
The pale Tears around it fall.
Thus when Jove intends to mould
A Hero out of purer Gold,
Hee'll shut him up in pain and Care,
And like Alcides, pinch him there;
'Till he by kind Afflictions trod,
Emerges, more than Half-a-God.

Strephon.
Thence in happy Triumph born,
Like groaning Loads of Welcome Corn,
On a cleanly shelf 'tis plac'd,
With so rich a Burden grac'd;
Or, lest the Foes its Walls attacque,
On a well-munited Rack.

104

A gawdy Magical Pallace in Orlando Furioso, which cost Poet and Painter, and at least Engraver, a great many fine strokes to express it. The Louvre, or Escurial are but Hog-styes to't, as any body may be satisfi'd that will but take the pains to compare 'em.

Like Atlante's Palace fair,
Towring high in yielding Air,
By Ariosto built aloft,
All the Walls of costly Thought,
Or that sturdy Indian Rock

A Fortress long besieg'd by Alexander, in Sagitiana, I think 'twas, but 'tis good to be sure, and therefore ask Quintius Curtius, who knows better than any of us!

Which Ammon's Son so long did mock;
There it reigns, and there defies
Feeble Hosts of Rats and Mice:
Up they squint, but all in vain,
Up they leap with fruitless pain,
Down they drop, a-down again.
Reynard so with longing Eyne
Views the Cluster'd loaden Vine;
So when the Wolf a Fold has found,
Fenc't with Quick-set—Turn-pikes round,
About he stalks, and grinns, and scowls,
About he stalks, and vainly howls.

Amoretta.

Qu. Pray Mr. Author why is your Shepherdess so learned here, and in other places? how comes she to talk against decorum in Pastorals, and to fly upon the high ropes at this rate?

Answ. Because all things were are designed to be alike extravagant—let this serve once for all; for I'll trouble my self no more about it!

So the Titans hizzing fell,
When of old they dar'd rebell:
Olympus they on Ossa pack,
Both on Pelions craggy back;
And, against the Thunder hurl'd
Half his own dismantled World:

Any one may discern this is a stroke of Lucretius, alluding to that first Principle of the Epicureans, so well express'd by that Poet, and so much better made English by Mr. Creech—thus.

“For what so ere's divine must live in peace,
“In undisturb'd, and everlasting ease, &c.

I have forgot the rest, but you shall have it all as soon as I can get it my self.

On the calm Couch of golden peace,
In undisturb'd eternal ease;
He scorns their Plots, and laughs above;
So sits my Cheese, and so sits Jove.

105

Strephon.
This dear day the happy birth
Of Amoretta bless't the Earth;
All the Lads of Mirth and Song,
O're the Plains shall Dance along:
And he that best can sing each Grace,
In my Amoretta's face,
Shall have the present Jove has given,

The Ancile was a certain very holy Relique among the Romans, being the very handy-work of Jupiter himself: but least this precious business should be stole from the Temple, while Gods and Men were asleep, two more were made so exactly like the right, and one another, that a Thief must have very good luck to be able to distinguish the original from the counterfeit. In the safe keeping it, they believ'd the Cityes safety consisted.

Shall have the Ancile dropt from Heaven.
This prais'd, this lov'd, this envy'd Cheese,
For a Reward shall all be his.

107

A Full and True Account of a Journey with its Appurtenances.

The Journey was at the beginning of Summer, after a great Rain.

Now Heav'ns jolly Carman left weeping and whining,
Scrubb'd up Sunday face, and fell fairly a shining;

108

The Cits are alive, and to --- they run,
As Flyes from a Cow-turd will swarm in the Sun.
Spouse Rampant takes Arms, Coucht Cuckold she tells,
He must get her a place to go visit the Wells;
Not a Pothecaryes Wife that is leaving the Town,
But will pawn all her Glyster-pipes for a new Gown.
'Tis the Devil that drives, and needs Travel they must;
Along comes the Coachman with Bring out your Dust!
So sweet is his Load, and so neat, and so pure,
You'd swear he was under-commission'd i'th' Sewer.
Not a Fop of the Pit, or a Jilt o'the Box,

There's many a true Word spoke in jest.

But dresses, and crawls to the Wells with a Pox;
So throughly the Waters have purg'd all the City,

Very good news, if it be'n't too good to be true.

That they're strangely reform'd, and grown civil, and Witty.
Least the Dunns my poor Carcass to pieces should tare,
I'll ene like my Betters take Sanctuary there;
For melting, or getting, or spunging a Penny,
As poor, and as dull, and as sawcy as any.

109

But the walks were bepester'd with Cravat, and Fan,
And Beaver, and Wigg, and sometimes a Man:
For curing old Aches, and getting new pains;
For cooling and heating the blood and the reins.
Old Sol from Aurora's Alcove newly peeping,
While more than three Quarters lay grunting and sleeping:
When routed Cravat-string, and Ruffles I'd rally'd,
From Dog-hole of Lodging one Morning I sally'd,
I walkt, and I strutted along like the rest,
And I thought hard of nothing as well as the best;
Till a Bevey of Ladys swum hastily by,
All finer than fippence, they dazzl'd my Eye.
I follow the Track, and the Vision pursue,
Meditation farewel, now the Game is in view:
Tho' I quickly got up they were enter'd before,
And cruelly shut the unmerciful Door.
Tho' my Eyes kept a Fast, yet my Ears I could treat,
And yours shall take part while the Tale I repeat.

110

But Madam, sayes one, while they're chatting together,
If one may be so bold, pray what Wind blew you hither?
She replyes, with a Sigh drawn up to her Chin,
'Tis a weakness, Obstructions, and weakness within.
My Husband's as likely a Man as you'll see,
A Man every Inch of him, take it from me!
Ay and I'll assure ye ------ &c.
Nay! never despair, Madam, 'tis not too late:
Your changing of pasture may make you grow fat;
I speak by experience, stay here but a Little,
And I warn't you return as round as a Kettle.
No doubt on't, says one, but if ever she will,
She must take a good dose of a Soverain Pill,
That cured me—Hold there says the next, I deny't t'ye;

The Dispensatory wherein that Cordial is to be found, is,—2d part of the Souldiers Fortune.

I was helpt by some drops of Specimen vitæ.
They stirr'd, and I fled for my Ears, and my Eyes,
Since a noble Retreat with a Victory vyes!
I retired in spight of my Foes and my Fears,
And bravely brought off both my Eyes and my Ears.

111

Now Reader, by a Figure which Poets may use,
Pray suppose it is Evening!—If you wont you may chuse.
As Lasses and Lads do advance in Decorum,
When Crowder at Christmass hops squeaking before 'em;
So Tag-Rag, and Bob-tail to dancing do throng,
And th' Flower of --- come flaming along.
Here a Hell-full of Hogo's comes driving just on us,

In the Plague time, in London, people would tack about one another to get to the Wind-ward, lest that should bring the Disease on them by the breath of any infectious.

Let's get the wind side on't, or Mercy upon us;
A Plague's on the Green, and it newly arose
From—Some-body's—powerful Armpits and Toes.
Have a care of the Lad with his hair in his Hat,
As you value his anger touch not his Cravat!
Pray keep your distance, with Reverence stand,
If you ruffle his Ruffles, his Cane is at hand.
Sirrah Jack! rub my Shoes with the Napkin, with Care,
Your Master commands you, refuse if you dare:

112

Unmannerly Winds the sweet Curls to displace
Of so pretty, so lovely, so charming a Face!
But hang a good Face, that's a womanish toy,
Give me such a shape as this Lad does enjoy!
But speak not a word as you value your life,
Of his Buttocks and Shoulders, and the thing call'd his Wife!
If you love your own Ribs, stand further good Friends,
Room, Room for a Pudding ty'd up at both Ends!
Whose goodly large Belly struts crowding before him,
No less than a Lady behind does adore him.
Make much of him, Madam, and use him in haste,
Or quickly his Service alas will be past;

Some persons have been reported of that vast and irregular bigness, that they ha'nt been able with one part of their Body to relieve t'other.

For if half an inch further his Paunch does but come,
You must e'ne be content with the deaf and the dumb.
Here creeping and cringing to a thing of a Fortune,
That weighs fifteen thousand, stands hopeful young What-d'ye-call-him!
And e're he does live on the Land, 'tis but reason
If he take for Security Liv'ry and Seisin.

113

A Knighthood comes next with a finical face,
And a couple of Arms which he moves with that Grace,
That he thinks his deserts will ha' cursed ill hap,
If some Lady Fair don't fall in his Lap.
Now the sport is all over, all travel that can
To the place whence they came, with their Whore and their Man;
And I when my Guinys and Credit were spent
Sneakt home in the Crowd, like a Fool as I went.

114

The Leather Bottle.

Mr. Jove! tho' your Chittiface Ganymed skink,
I scorn to exchange or my Plate, or my drink;
For without fear or wit the Immortals will hector,
When out of thy Bole they are fuddled with Nectar.
Whatever your Cronys the Poets have spoke,
Your Godship, when here, were a notable Soak;

115

And when from your Gang you were spirited up,

A Constellation call'd the Cup.

In the midst of the Stars you planted your Cup.

A famous Story.—When one Lady had shown the other all her Jewels and fine things, she carries her home, and for her Jewels, shows her her Children.

As a Lady of Rome, in a great deal of State,
Produc'd all her brats for her Cupboard of Plate;
So if for the sight of my Treasures you call,
Here's my dear Leather-bottle, my one and my all.

See the Notes on the Souldiers Duel.

Gigantic Borrachio's Sir Quixot did fright,
And maugre poor Squire, made an Ass of the Knight;
Had my Bottle been there, 'twould ha' been more compliant,
For he ne're could mistake such a Dwarf for a Gyant.
My Vessel tho' little, dim Envy may see,
Is as neat and as pretty as pretty may be;

The great Tun of Heidleburg, with a Ladder of many rounds to ascend it.

When the Heidleburg Tun is an ill-contriv'd Sloven,
Tho' its Vent-hole's as big as the mouth of an Oven.
How cool and how sweet is the Liquor that's here,

I have taken care that should be set in other Characters, as a most considerable Flower borrow'd from my good friend John Bunnyan.

It dribbles down daintily, lively and clear!
Not Ice can preserve it as well from the weather,
Nor Water, nor Sand, as a Bottle of Leather.

116

The Spirit of Ob, Webster and his Followers say, was only a Bottle, &c.

Oraculous Bottles inspir'd of old
Each worm-eaten Witch that Wonderments told:

See the famous History of the Tempest, or the Inchanted Island, where this is explained.

This Engine curst Sycorax her self could subdue,
And this did a Viceroy out of Trincalo hew.
When the Sun does with Thirst the poor Hay-maker throttle,
And tann all their Faces till they look like the Bottle;
'Tis this sets 'em right, 'tis as speedy and handy
As old Mother Midnight's kind Bottle of Brandy.
Let others plod on, till they'r crazie and brain-sick,

'Tis reported an ingenious Man had at Dantsick, (or somewhere thereabouts, te'n't much odds) a Glass which after he had drunk, he would throw on the ground, bulge it, and hammer it out agen.

For malleable Glasses, like the Consuls of Dantsick:
Let this fall where you will, all its thumps are in vain,
You may bulge it, and bulge it, and out with't again.
My Bottle besides is old Dog at Dispute,
And can Suarez, and Scotus, and Occham confute:
Nay, his own Couzin Bellarmin too must go down,
And if e're he get up, he will have him by'th' Crown.

117

When Semele in Lightning and Thunder did fry,
Jove feather'd her Bastard, and sheath'd it in's Thigh:
But no doubt but he thriv'd in that Climate far worse
Than if in a Bottle he had put him to Nurse.
Some Pigmy Diogenes here might retreat,
And make it his spacious and worshipful seat;
One Room of a Floor, for a Cellar he might spare it;
'Tis needless, as well as a Chamber or Garret.
Like Maggot in Nutshel he might revel with glee,
And none be so happy, so happy as he:
Nor need he to fear that he there should be Foxed,
Tho he drank up at once both the Cellar and Hogs-head.

119

'Tis paraphrastically done; tho I dare undertake, the Original is followed (at least) as close by the Transverser, as Truth by the Author.

Out of Lucian's true History, Part the First.

Lucian and the Ships Crew had taken a Voyage to the Land i'the Moon, (without the help either of Domingo's feathery, or others Christal or Brazen Chariot, or so much as the French Smith's Wings;) and after many strange Adventures met with (you need not question) in so strange a place, is now just bound for Earth and Sea agen.

—And now on a fair star-light Noon
Our Ship launch'd off, and gently left the Moon.

Apollo's pretty Hostess, whom he uses a-nights to call in to;—But they are both very civil persons, and certainly mean no manner of harm in the World.—I forgot to tell you her Name is Thetis.

So stoops the Sun to kiss his watry Fair,
And with bright Foot-steps paints the ambient Air.
Boreas had lockt his Bullys in their Cave,

These are a kind of Creatures the Poets have had the happiness to discover, as Harpys, Chymæra's, &c. when all the other less inquisitive, or less lucky part of the World know nothing of 'em. They are said to brood on the Sea at a set time in the year; and Neptune while they are hatching, is so complaisant to give 'em all fair weather. If any would see any more of 'em let 'em enquire at Lucian's true History, Second Part, and they shall know farther.

And Birds of calm brood o're the marble wave.
But ah! how treacherous are the smiles of Fate!
How slippery treads the blest and fortunate!
Twice the kind Sun had warm'd the chearful Skys,
Nor does less bright the third black day arise.
All dreadful bright it rose, the Air was spread
Far, far around with ominous gloomy Red.
Sad hollow Voices by the Pilot past,

Two Lights appearing on the Ship in a storm, are counted good Omens, one single, bad.

And one pale Light glar'd o're the trembling Mast.

120

When such dark Bodings call'd for Aid Divine,

As common an Offering to Neptune of old, as now a wax Candle to my Lady of Loretto.

We vow'd a Bull on Neptune's oozy Shrine:
Tho' Fate was cross, yet he so far did hear,
We were no longer rackt with doubtful fear.
For fee!
Whole Heards of Whales make the white Ocean roar,
New Seas they spout, and drive new Seas before.
The Tide they brought had washt us far away,
But one Leviathan's Charibdis made us stay.
He, like some Tyrant-Gudgeon, floated by
Amidst the little Minews trembling Fry:
Like Lacquys by with finny feet they ran,
Lean Poets all the rest, he some fat Alderman.
And when the vast Abyss around him curl'd,
They seem'd but Mountains, he alone a World:
We took his Latitude when sailing in,

I quote my Author: I have it from Lucian himself; and we must say of him here, as he a little before of Aristophanes, [that he speaks like a learned Man, and would not tell a lie for all the World.]

Full fifteen hundred Leagues from Fin to Fin:
His dreadful Jaws, for our destruction bent,
Had Teeth, each larger than the Monument,
And sharp as Needles near in Crooked-Lane,

One of those Phaery Islands the Whale might know, tho' we don't.

Set on some Diamond Island of the Main:
And now there's not so much as room for Pray'r,
The last sad refuge of the Mariner.

121

These, O my Wife, these, O my Children cry!
Then all shake hands, and drink, and bid Good-b'w'y'!
Here, had we been with such Provision stor'd,

As is the Custom for Mariners when a Whale is near.

We should have thrown some Hogs-heads over-board:

Delos being their Free-land, settled in the Sea on purpose for the Birth-place of Apollo and Diana.

But here tho' we had robb'd the Moon and Sun,
An hundred Delos's had hardly done:
The Monster gapes, unfinisht shrieks begin;
We sink, we sink, his Whirl-pool rolls us in!
Oceans are after Oceans on us hurl'd,
We shoot the Gulph, and down we sail to view the under World.

123

An Elegant Letter, with a Copy of fine Verses by a London Wit, in answer to a Lampoon.

125

How doth the learned Critic stand,
Pensive and mad, with Pen in hand,
Fraighted with store of amorous Wares,
Which many an Author owns for theirs!

He is a Fool that thinks it good
To laugh at all that's made of Wood;
And eke in time may lifted be
Unto the fatal wooden Tree.

For this block of a Lover, Poet, Scrivener, &c was by Occuptaion a Joyner, or some such wooden Trade, of which he had a touch in a former Lampoon.

126

DIALOGUES.

I. Dialogue, Between a Thatcher and a Gardener, for Precedency, on occasion of a Pot of Ale with this Inscription; Detur Digniori.

Thatcher.
Down, down to the Clod out of which thou art made
Nor with Tinder-box-hoof my Ladder invade
The Pot shall be mine in spight of thy Spade

Gardener.
And dares the poor Thatcher with the Gardener vye
Sure his Noddle's grown giddy with sitting so high
Let our Titles be try'd by the next that comes by

127

Thatcher.
Content! (Gardener,) And content; and look over the plain,
Where Cuddy the Shepherd comes trotting amain:
Who but he should decide which is best of the twain?

Thatcher.
Tho' a Shepherd may be partial, he's honest and true,
He's old, and he's grave, and he Justice will do,
And Cuddy will be equal to me and to you.

Gardener.
But look, he's just here: pr'y thee tell him the Tale;

Thatcher.
Stay, Cuddy, and judge whether Trade must prevail,
For the best of our two wins a Pot of good Ale.

Cuddy.
I'll stay while I can, but then quickly begin,
As either expect the Honour to win!
For my Landlord in haste has sent for me in.

Gardener.
Once straining of Complements now would be vain,
The eldest and noblest of Trades I'le maintain;

Thus demonstrated.—Cain built a City before any Iron-work was invented; he could not therefore have Tiles to cover it:—Ergo, 'twas done with Thatch, or somewhat equivalent.

Gardener was Adam, but a Thatcher was Cain.

130

Thatcher.
Not so fast Mr. Gard'ner! with Reeds and with Boughs
His Father before him had cover'd a House

Dubartas in his Poem of the Creation, describes Adam's rude draught of building in that manner.

Sure you dare not deny what Dubartas a vows

Gardener.
The Hero's from Gardens and Solitudes came
And sallying from thence fill'd the World with their Name
But who ever heard of a Thatcher of Fame?

Thatcher.

Epicurus his Study and Schools being in a Garden, was so notorious, that his Principles are thence call'd,—The Doctrine of [the Garden.]

Epicurus indeed from a Garden did rise,
But Atheism never can a Thatcher surprize,

This even the Epicureans confess a strung Inducement to the belief of a supream Being, the Author of the World; and therefore give their Followers a Caution against it. So Lucretius, Book 5. p. 141.

For even those few exalted Souls that know
The Gods must live at ease, not look below;
Free from all medling Cares, from hate and love;
If they admire, if view the World above,
They wonder how those glorious Beings move.
They are entrap'd, they bind their slavish Chain,
And sink to their religious Fears again.

Mr. Creeches Translation.

Since he alwayes is viewing the Sun and the Skys.

Gardener.
From the tops of their Houses Ægyptians must own

If the Gardener puts a fallacy on the Thatcher, let him look to it himself; I only am to explain his meaning thus far,—That in Ægypt, from the tops of their houses the Ægyptians frequently used to view the Heavens, living in a Champain Countrey.—Hence Astronomy, and as some say, Idolatry.

To the rest of the World Idolatry's flown
And too many Gods are scarce better than none

Thatcher.
If you're driven into Ægypt, and fly from the Greek
Very far from your Lodge, one need not go seek

Part of the worshipful God-heads of Ægypt, which, tho' of the two more tolerable than the Crocodile; yet, had Horace liv'd there, or many others, they had certainly, as to that point of the Compass, turn'd Atheists.

To find out the omnipotent Onion and Leek

131

Gardener.
Their Trophies Kings, Captains and Emperors bring,
And all over-board for one Shovel they fling;
But who ever heard of a Thatcher a King?

Thatcher.
The Gallows and Garden when all other means fails!

When Dyonisius the Tyrant of Sicily was expell'd, he went to Corinth, and there set up School-master.

Thus Dennis when scap'd from Sicilian Jayls,
Fell from cutting of throats to cutting of tails.

Gardener.
Each Beggar the name of the Thatcher can tell,
For nothing you're fit but a Cottage and Cell;
I with Princes and Lords by their Palaces dwell.

Thatcher.
Thatch keeps out all Care as well as all Cold.
Besides by my Grandsire I've often been told,

The Church of Glastenbury, the ancientest certainly in England, if the Monks do'nt lie, was built, the sides with Hurdles, and thatcht with Straw.

That Straw has been Cov'ring for Churches of old.

Gardener.
Scarce once in a Moon you mount from the ground,
And another Trade too, or you'll starve, must be found,
I ha' still pleasant work that holds all the year round.

Thatcher.
No doubt on't; and Winter must never infest
Your fortunate Regions with Summer still blest,

132

Nor fix you like a Cuckow clung up in his Nest!

Cuddy.
Brave Boys, both! so well you each other abuse,
There's hardly between you a halter to chuse
I judge that to make one another amends,
I drink off the Ale, you shake hands and be Friends.

135

The Second Dialogue, Between the Herring, and Whale.

First and formost, (and before I tell you by what Art I make these Gentlemen speak) 'tis the part of an Honest man to acknowledge, and repay what he has borrow'd. This Line is but little alter'd from that in Rehearsal.

“I am the bold Thunder—the brisk Lightning I.

In the next place—By what Art Magick can I perswade Fishes to speak, who are mute to a Proverb, and no more enclin'd to prating than Fryer Bacon's Brazen-Head? Why, first take notice that's a Vulgar Errour, and a scandal on the free Citizens of the Ocean: they are silent indeed when dragg'd into our Element, nor should we much, I believe, be more enclin'd to Oratory, if Head and Ears covered in theirs. Again, 'tis plain they have a voice, prov'd from the Whale, who is his Battle with the Sword-fish and Thrasher, describ'd below, roars with such an audible voice, he may be heard three Leagues off. If all this ben't enough, I'me sure they may as well pretend to speech as Lucians Bed, and Lamp; by which Figure I shall introduce Chamberpot and Frying-pan, two or three pages hence.

Whale.
I am the bold Whale.

(Herring:)
—And the brisk Herring I.

Whale.
Thro' the Ocean I roll.

(Herring.)
O're the Shallows I fly.

Whale.

By this Verse you may learn, if you understand Logick—first that the Whale understands Latin; and secondly that he's Proctor of the Ocean.

Per fidem be gone from my presence! How dare
The ridiculous Mouse with the Mountain compare?

Herring.
Take my Honour, take my Life! to my Post I'll abide,
Now I find such Authority plain o'my side,
Tho' you swell, yet, unless the Rehearsal do's lie,

“I'd sooner have a Passion for a Whale,
“In whose vast bulk tho'store of Oyl do's lie,
“We find more Shape, more Beauty in a Fly.

There's ten times more Beauty and Shape in a Fly.

Whale.
Tho' with ease I could breath thee to nothing again,
Or spout thee a Mile, to thy Enemies, Men;

134

Once upon a time Phæbus having nothing else to do (perhaps when Jupiter gave him a Holiday) descended to some Wake or other, and undertook the Fidler for a Wager; but being like to be baffled, he had no remedy but to call his Godship in, and fright the Poor fellow so (whose name I should have told ye was Marsyas) that he made him leapt out of his Skin.

Like Phæbus I'll stoop from my glittering Throne,
And even descend to dispute for my own;
A couple we'll chuse, who the Umpires shall be,
The Dolphin is mine.

(Herring)
—The Shrimp my Referee.

Whale.

How should the Whale know that piece of Philosophy? Why might not Aristotle teach him when he leapt into the Water, as wisely as Empedocles into Fire? But 'tis contrary to his Hypothesis, who denied a beginning of the World, and consequently the Chaos, &c. Why, then Arion when cap'ring on the Dolphins back, instructed that Dolphin, that Dolphin his Son, and so down to the Whale.—and there's the short and the long on't.

When in the Abyss I no longer did sleep,
But kind Mother Nature call'd me out of the deep;
What a Gulph did I leave i'the space whence I came?
What a Cantlet of Chaos was spent i'my frame!
When Nature the Whale into Being did bring,
She smil'd, and she cry'd—He is made for a King.

Herring.
Tho' a World of dull Bullion your essence do's hold,
Scarce an Atom of Soul was cast into the Mould,
Room enough, and to spare lavish Nature allows,
But provides not a Tenant to suit with the House:
As for me, tho' she veils me with Flesh, and with Skin,
Yet my Form's little else but pure Spirit within:
And in vain you your Bulk for your Monarchy bring,

'Twas the custom among the Goths to chuse a little man for their Prince.

For if the Ocean were Goth-land who but I should be King.

135

Whale.
Not alone on my Bulk I intend to rely;
My Strength, and my Courage with my Magnitude vye:
My side is too thick for a Spear or a Dart;

If you wo'n't take the Whales word, 'tis but stepping to Rumford Road, or the Physick-Garden in Oxford, where a couple of Whales Ribbs are to be seen, neither inferiour in bigness to a lusty Rafter.

Huge Rafters of Ribs barricado my Heart.
Even Neptune himself is afraid when I roar,
And his quiv'ring Court dive away to the Shore.
With a courage undaunted I'll a Navy assail,
And disorder whole Squadrons by a brush with my Tail.

Herring.
Your strength and your Valour must needs be Divine,

One way of Whale-fishing is striking at him with an Iron fasten'd to a long Rope, then letting the Rope loose, the Whale beats up and down till it for loss of blood yieldeth up the Ghost.

When you're caught, like a Gudgeon with a Hook, and a Line:

By this compar'd with what went before, 'tis probable that tho' the Whale was for the Neotericks, the Herring keeps close to the old Philosophy, and according to that, holds the Moon to be the cause of Tides.

When spite of Dame Luna, at Ebb 'twill be flood,
And you make a Spring-tide all around with your Blood.

Whale.
The Laws of hard Nature forbid to withstand,
That Forreigner Man, the fierce Tyrant o'th' Land:
'Tis the Sea is my Kingdom, and the Waters must own,
At home I have ever been Monarch alone.

Herring.

The Story is thus. The Thrasher and Sword-fish are two Fish, the Whales implacable Enemyes. The Sword-fish having a sharp bone in his Head, gets under his soft Belly, and makes him rise to the Top of the Water; where the Thresher with his Wash-beetle Tayl, beats him down again, and between them both they Thump him so unconscionably, that he crys murder so loud you may hear him three Leagues off.

Yes, as oft, as the Sword-fish, and Thrasher will please
To leave off their Sport, and allow you some ease:

138

On your Noddle and under your Paunch they are set,
While one Reyns you in, 'tother makes you Curvet;
Then Neptune indeed may shake when you roar,
Tho' you're Nine-mile at Sea, they can hear you ashore.

Dolphin.
All to Arms! all to Arms! while we scolding sit here,
Look! look where the Enemyes fleet do's appear:
The Fishermans Navy with sail, and with Oar,
That has often among us made Havock before.

Shrimp, Herring.
I boyl—and I broyl till my Jerkin do's crack.

Whale.
And I feel barbed Irons like a Grove on my back:
'Tis in vain with such Odds for the Combat to stay,
All shift for your selves, and I'll lead you the way.

142

The Third Dialogue, Between Chamber-pot and Frying Pan.

Chamber-pot.
Stand off! nor with rude Smut disgrace

Hence take notice, to the Honour of the Poet, 'twas a Pewter Chamber-pot, and to the Honour of the Maid, 'twas newly scoured.

The Glories of my brighter face!

Frying-pan.
Tho not so glib my Face be seen,
Yet all I'me sure's as sweet within.

Chamber-pot.
You in the Kitchin drudge alone,
None handles you but greasie Joan!

Frying-pan.
I always lend, but you receive;
Which is most brave, to take, or give?

Chamber-pot.
Oft Maid and Mistriss fetch me out,
To wash their their Lilly-hand and Snowt.

Frying-pan.
You're civil sure, and use I hope
With Water to allow 'em Soap.

143

Chamber-pot.
Yes, such as ne're, at worst, indures
To scowre so foul a Mouth as yours.

Frying-pan.
O what a fragrant Hogo rose
But now, to twinge a swounding Nose?

Chamber-pot.
Such as when you were made a Tool,

A known story of a Lords Cook and Fool.

To Fry the Break-fast for the Fool.

Frying-pan.
All bulg'd and yellow you must fall
At last behind some ruin'd Wall;
Or melt, and to your Masters loss
Leave both at once your stink and dross.

Chamber-pot.
Take then, since me you'll thus Incense,
These marks of my Benevolence:
Such Water as if Fame says true,
Diana on Acteon threw;
Which as some learned men surmize,
With flap of Fox put out his Eyes:
And least of Rary show he brag,

Diana, on his viewing her Dimensions, and the rest of her Virgins, as naked as ever they were born, sprinkled him with some of her own Holywater, and turn'd him into a Stag.

Bewitcht poor Hunter into Stag.

142

Against a Kiss.

A PINDARIC.

1.

Charming Destroyer! whither wilt thou roll,
The tumbling Soul?
When Sylvia smiles with all her Sexes Arts,
And Angles for loose wandring Hearts;
Sweet lovely Poyson from her Lips she breaths,
Soft subtle Darts,
And dear bewitching Deaths;
Smiling Plagues she throws,
Golden Granado's sowes,
And into Air the tortur'd Soul with Loves white-powder blows,
Presents with painted Vipers gay, and crownd,
And scatters Heavenly Hells around.

143

2.

A Kiss! there's Magick in the Name,
What Amulet against its force can Arm;
The willing Letters of themselves forbidden sounds compose,
And leap into a charm,
And plunge the Hearer in blew Waves of Flame,

At the Eruptions of that famous Sicilian Volcano, the melted Minerals broke down all opposition, and ran for many Miles a continual stream of Fire; when it came to any Houses, it burst all down tho' never so strong, and buryed the very Walls in heaps of Pumice Stones, and such kind of matter.

Such sulph'rous liquid flame as flows,
From Ætna's everlasting Womb:
Which oft e're now over proud Towns weak Walls arose,

And brought to Cities, and to men, both Death and Tomb;
Where Christal Lakes for long long Ages stood,

Among many other learned mens, 'tis the immortal Cowleys opinion, that under, or in the middle of the Earth, there is a Fund of Concreated water (as well as Fire) call'd—[The Fountains of the great deep.]

Supplyd from the Abyss with an eternal flood,
For long unnumbred Ages past,
Scarce Ice more cold, or chast;
There, over all the mouldring Banks red Surges pour;
There do's hot Vulcan ravish all, and all devour,

Vitrification is the last degree of Heat, in plain English turning into Glass.

And even vitrifies the Mud.
With much ado, to their great Fund some stragling drops retire,
Close at the Heels pursu'd by swift prepost'rous Waves of Fire.

3.

A Lip's the Devils Tinderbox,
Whence by soft repeated stroaks

146

Lusts lurking Lightning flyes,
And blasts the unhappy Soul that pryes,
With rash unwary Eyes.
A downy Pillow where the firmest Heart is broke,
(Be't Heart of Flint, or Heart of Oak!)
With a sly never-smarting stroke:
A Kiss that Traytor in an Angels dress,
From bad Good-offices will never cease,
But ever seems to bring fair Overtures of Peace,
When its Commission speaks of nothing less.
At the Mouths tot'tring Gate it parlys Sin
Slides thro' a strong reserve,
To invested Lust, which else must quickly starve,
And gives Intelligence to every Enemy within.

4.

'Tis Death, 'tis Poyson all!
Slow, sure Italian poyson, 'twill

Some of the Italians are reported so skilful at the hellish Art of Poysoning (well reckon'd together, if not sometimes the same, with Witchcraft) that they'll kill ye a man to any precise time, as certainly as a Clock; and temper the potion so devilishly exquisite, it shall till such a time suspend its operation.

To a Year, an Hour, a Minute kill;
Dead without Hope the infected Wretches fall:
One Kiss will raise

The Tarantula is a Spider found in Apulia in Italy, whose Poyson is so peculiar, that the Person bitten by it falls incessantly a Dancing, nor is to be cured but by ------

More Frenzies than a score Tarantula's.
The tickling Venom thro' each secret path will run,
Till its mortal Errand's done,
The pungent Atoms search the Body o're,
Infect each drop of putred Gone,

147

And chase the quivring Soul thro' every winding Pore:
And see the curst Enchantress smiling by,
Glares with a sharp unlucky eye,
Hind'ring the very wish of Remedy.

Which dissipates the Venom, and makes 'em, (I can't tell how) sweat it out again.

Musick the common countercharm,
Can only here increase the Immedicable Harm:
And raise ten thousand Devils more,
To all the unumber'd Legions revel'd there before.

147

On a certain Nose.

Room for a Nose (think what you will,
'Tis true) as High as—High-gate Hill:
Turn't to a Bridge, 'twill ease the Feet,

Why Fryday Street? 'Tis reason enow if it fills up the Verse.

And reach from thence to Fryday-street;
(If you'll set under for a stay
The man in Chains at Holloway.)
Steeple crown'd Nose, who thinks it scorn
To be by any Spire o're-born;

Alluding to that Dragon which is the Vane of Bow-Steeple.

(Fell Dragon-nose held up you know,
Disdainfully a top of Bow;
A Nose which would not be content
If meted by the Monument;
So scorns the May-pole in the Strand
To measure with a Fishing-Wand:
This with the Top of old St. Poll
Had easily stood Cheek by Joll.
(Tho' neither of their cloudy Spires
Were proof against invading Fires:)
Nor now is it afraid to show

The four Towers, to be joyn'd together, like that at Wool-church.

For bigness with the Cupulo;
Bright Gorgeous Nose, which stoopeth not
To that of the Rhinocerot.

150

And, if some Mad-man were his Friend,
Would yield as much by Candles-end:
But, ah! unless it self 'twould come,
One Fleet could never lug it home;
Unless packt up in several Loads,

The Colossus at Rhodes was broken down and carryed away by degrees. 'Twas of that vast bulk that Ships sail'd into the Haven between its Legs.

Like the fat Stradling God at Rhodes.
A Voice it has; a Voice so swingeing,

The speaking Trumpet, invented by Sir Sam. Moreland.

It drowns with ease Sir Morelands Engine,

One of these Trumpets had words pronounc'd by it at Gresham Colledge, which were heard distinctly and wrote down, a'tother side the water.

And may be heard to Red'riff Shore,
In spight of bawling Scull or Oar.

Thence larger fall, and louder Streams
Than those of roaring-Through-Bridge-Thames.
A Boat; a Boat! or I am drownded,
I'th' Eddy of its Wave confounded;
Land me! that I may see my Dearest,
Land me at Queen-hithe!—sure that's the nearest.
Where I'll to Nose compar't agen,
In Head of Neighbour Saracen;
And sure the Painter could not erre,
Who Copy'd Face and all from Her.

152

In Praise of Horns.

Assist ye gentle Powers that can,
Assist some blind good natur'd Man,
All the Nines aid I'd now refuse
For one kind smile from Jordans Muse.

'Tis done! 'tis done! and by her power,
At Feet of Prince, or Emperour,
Transform'd, with voice, and visage mild,
I sit like any Pageant Child:
First mannerly I bow'd my Head,
Then perkt it up again, and se'd:

First Wheat and Barley shall be sown,
And sprout again on London-stone;
First Cure for Corns! i'th' Stillyard range,
And Thro-bridge-hoa! roar round the Change
And Guild-hall cross the Thames be born,
E're I forget renowned Horn:
When late with Ribbons all bedresst,
So gandy, at the Cockney's Feast,
Each little-Master struts along,
Shouted by the Blew-apron'd-Throng,
Which of the pretty Lads confess't
Amongst 'em all their Fathers Crest?

153

Tho' many a One his Glory owes
Unto the Sweat of Mothers brows;
Who by the Childrens looks could find
She ever was to others kind?
(The Calf is still without it born,
Tho' Parent-Bull wears dreadful Horn;)
His Wardrobe, when set out in State
Drops from his Fathers fertile Pate;
Which does whole Cornucopia's shed,
To finifie him, round his Head.

What glorious Things! what Trinkets rare,
In Forrest Cart when joulted there,
Are yearly bought at Charlton Fair.
Horn-fair that better Tricks can shew!
Than Green-goose, or than Bartlomew.
When Mistress drinks, and John does thank her,
At the Kings-head, or the Blew-Anchor;
How harmless does she smiling come,
To bring best Husband Fairings home!
Fairings to make him fine and gay
Against next Training Holyday?
Which more than Silver Head-piece grace
His brazen brow, and Copper Face:
Natural Half-pikes which more adorn
Than that upon the Unicorn;
None such famous feats can do,
What Miracles are found in Two?

154

Two, grafted in the place of frontlets,
A Princely pair of large Brow-antlets:
Which if the Herauld plays his part,
And draws his Hatchment out with Art;
Tho' Fields of Gules should overwhelm it,
Must peep at Top of Argent Helmet:
The Motto—Decus & Tutamen,

If this seems a little of the dullest, consider what Muse I'me thro' all this Copy inspired with.

And I'll for Rhime, write under
—Amen.

Advice to Monsieur Ragoo, who had his choice either to be Hang'd or Married.

Take Courage poor despairing Lover!
Walk up! walk up, and e'ne turn over!
Who Mounts the Bridal Bed is madder
By far, than him that Mounts the Ladder.

155

What Man in's Wits wo'n't rather chuse
The Hempen, than the Marriage Noose?
Or in so plain a Case would faulter,
And take the Ring to leave the Halter;
Since you perhaps slight my Authority,

Doll-Troop, or Doll-Common, Laundress; (and somewhat into the Bargain) to a Troop of Horse: her Mr. Ragoo, when condemn'd for Plundering, was to marry, or be hang'd.

Look back! look back on beauteous Doroty!
Who often without Wit or Fear,
Bids a whole Troop-Come on if they dare!
Come on! she crys, nor should they scare me,
Tho' Xerxes 'twere and all his Army.
There's Doll: who knows what mischief follows?
Here's nothing but a single Gallows.
His prudence who would not admire,
That leaps from Frying-pan to Fire?
See if you dare, you quiv'ring Booby,
Those Lips of Pearl, that Snowt of Ruby:
Within, (I would not do her wrong)
There hangs a Clapper-alias-Tongue,
It shakes the Church, and rives the Steeple,
And when it Rings—beware good People!
Then, tho' perhaps you'll at it wonder,
Sowres all the Neighbours Ale like Thunder:
As Lyons roar to Mouses squeaking;

The Jesuits relate at Pequin in China is a Bell weighing twelve hundred thousand pound weight.

So Christ-church Tom, and Tom of Pequin
(Tho' we in this the Jesuits anger,)
Are both but Saints-bells to her Twanger:
To Hell she scorns to be beholding,
She deafs the Devils Dam with scolding;
Her face still Lavers when she washes,

The Proboscis is the Trunk, or Nose of an Elephant.

Her Face which sneaks behind Proboscis.

156

Bring the Commissioners o'th' Sewer,
And e're you Kiss her let 'em view her:
They'll fifty Dung-carts round her place,
To clear the Kennel of her Face;
But all in vain since all too late,
The Dirt is now concorporate:
Inveterate Dirt of sev'n years standing,
That scorns to wagg for their commanding;
And all her Frame you now may call
Without a Figure—One Mud-wall.
Which this great Rule to'th' Life expresses,
'Tis Uniform—In Uglinesses.
But O! what Sea-weed may compare
With her strong Onion-Ropes of Hair.
Step back a little! call the Thatcher,
No Peruke-maker e're could match her:
No Nets are they, no Cupids fetter,
But Halters plain; nor worse, nor better.
If thus her upper features show,
Thy Mermaid sure's meer Devil below;
If all this in her Wast-coat's noted,
O how is she Be-petticoated!
Now of two Ills chuse you the least,
(And which that is may soon be guest)
Woo you the Rope, and not the Beauty,
And bid the Hangman do his Duty.

157

On a pretended Schollar that would have had some Verses he had stoln from another Book inserted into the Maggots.

Ha! then 'tis Time! affronted Muse begin!
Rouse each ill-natur'd sleeping Thought within:

158

Purse thy dark Brow! thy trembling Sinews strain,
And swell the angry blood in ev'ry Vein!
Has Fortune dragg'd thy Vengeance from her Throne,
Crusht out thy wonted Sting, and call'd thee Drone?
No! here's a Pen do's manly spite revive,
Jogs me, and lets me know my Soul's alive;
And tells the wretch that urg'd a Poets frown,
He has rouz'd a Lion that will rend him down.
Was I so easie grown, so tame a Tool!
Had fate the power to cramp me into Fool?
That this to me? and was my Stock so low,
I must for scrapps of Wit a Mumping go?
What! Thief at second hand! doubly the world abuse,
And robb that Spittle of thy hungry Muse!
Since one good turn another do's require,
Industrious Hackney these shall be thy Hire:
This Load of Curses which would make thee crack,
Tho' vampt with Porters, or with Camels back.

What Colledge Sir? where took you your Degree?
Bridewell or Bedlam—University?
No doubt thou there wert bless't with due applause,
For decent beating Hemp, and picking Straws;

159

In one of them (you see I dont collogue
With Friends) commencing Fool, in to'ther Rogue;
But ah! at last the better party fail'd;
The Fool went down, the Rampant Rogue prevail'd.
Long thou in Bridewell with fell fate didst wrastle,
Like Hudibras, lock't in enchanted Castle;
What Devil against the Gates a Whirlwind hurl'd,
And let thee out agen to Plague the World?
Of old ye out-ran the Constable, 'tis true,
But sure my Verse can run as fast as you:
What tho' unknown? I dare thy shade arraign,
For Poets are not Prophets call'd in vain:
Here take this Pass e're we for ever part,
Then run, and then Farewell with all my Heart.

The Poets pride, and Beggery, and Lies,
The Cits kind Wife, and fear, and avarice:
The Lawyers yelling in their feign'd debate,
And the fleec'd Clients wisdom all too late;
The keeping Cully's Jealousie, and Care;
The slighted Lovers Maggots, and Despair;
A Womans Body every day to dress,
A fickle Soul, little as theirs, or less.
The Courtiers Business, th' Impudence 'o'th' stage,
And the Defeated Politicians rage;
A Clock-work Spouse, with loud eternal Clack,
A Shop i'th' Change, still damn'd to What d'ye lack!

160

Worse than these Last, if any Curses more,

Ovids curses on Ibis, and Oldhams on the Woman who ruin'd his Friend.

Ovid e're knew, or fiercer Oldhams store:
Till not one part in Body, or Soul be free,
May all their barbed Vengeance shower on Thee;
Press't with their weight long mayst thou raving lye,
Envying an Halter but not dare to dye,
And when condemn'd thou dost thy Clergy plead,
Some frightful Fiend deny thee power to Read.
Madness, Despair, Confusion, Rage, and Shame,
Attend you to the place from whence you came;
To Tyburn thee let Carrion Horses draw,
In jolting Cart without so much as Straw.
Jaded may they lie down i'th' road, and tir'd,
And, (worse than one fair hanging) twice be mir'd:

The Sexton of St. Sepulchres Church, makes a kind of a preachment to such as go by to be hang'd.

Mayst thou be maul'd with Pulchers Sexton's Sermon,
Till thou roar out For Hemp sake drive on Carman!
Pelted, and curst i'th' road by every one,
E'ne to be Hang'd mayst thou the Gauntlet run!
Not one good Woman who in Conscience can
Cry out—'Tis pity Troth—a proper Man!
Stupid and dull mayst thou rub off like Hone
Without an open, or a smother'd Groan.

161

May the Knot miss the place, and fitted be
To plague, and torture, not deliver thee!
Be half-a-day a dying thus, and then

One that was hang'd twice.

Revive like Savage to be hang'd agen!
In pity now thou shalt no longer live,
For when thus satisfi'd, I can forgive.

A Pindaric Poem On Three Skipps of a Louse.

1.

Queen of all harmonious Things!
Cap'ring Words, and frisking Strings,

162

What Hang'd Hero wilt thou sing?
What lowsy Rogue to equal Glories bring?
Ah! what could man do more? I strove
To teach my Strings of Thundring Jove;
Of long-nail'd Juno, Scold Divine,
Of Cerberus and Proserpine;
But all in vain, for in a Trice
My mighty Hero's dwindled down to Lice:
Go Charioteer! the Coach prepare!
(Or call a Coach if any's there!)
My Muse forsooth must take the Air;
And we intend to rove
Beyond the narrow Bounds of Nature, and of Jove.
We'll take a race
Where light-cloath'd Nothings, and thin fantoms dwell,
Beyond the narrow Bounds of time and place,
Beyond the out-strecht Line of Earth, of Heaven, and Hell.

2.

Pindaric Pegasus! advance
Now with the lofty Barbary proudly waving prance,
And amble now
Like a Galloping Cow!
But if thy Cross-grain'd Ladies will not lend
Their winged Saddle-nag to 'blige a friend,

163

If they lock up their Cellar all-divine,
And will not spare one soop of Aganippe-Wine,
Tell 'em I'll get assistance nigher
That soon shall mount me higher;
In Bedstaffs-twinkling I'll be gone

The New Waters discover'd there the last Summer.

To better Streams at Islington,
Inspir'd from Sadlers Pump I'le do, and dare
As much as any motly drunken Doctor there,
There boles of Helicon my Horse and I'll carouse,
And for the founder'd Jade mount my curretting Lowse.

3.

So rides the great Mogul in State

Agra is one of the Great Moguls Royal Cities; he uses to ride on a white Elephant.

When at proud Agra's trembling Gate,
Met by each humble, as a Potentate;
VVith Flow'rs the Roads are pav'd, with Flow'rs the houses crown'd,
And bruitish Mirth, and barb'rous joy runs all-along,
Whilst he uplifted high
Like a New Tit-an, scales the Sky.
From that wild Mount of Flesh, whose Shoulders bear,
Better than Æsops Eagles, Castles in the air.
So a tall Ant in days of yore

Read the story, thus ingeniously describ'd in Mr. Crashaw.—

“High mounted on an Ant, Nanus the Tall,
“Was thrown alas! and got a deadly fall:
“Under the unruly Beasts proud feet he lies,
“All torn; with much ado before he dyes,
“Yet strains these Words—Base envy do! laugh on,
“Thus did I fall, and thus fell Phaeton.

A Bold adventurous Pigme bore.
So, on my fair-neckt Louse securely set

A couple of expeditious Gentlemen (as well mounted as the Witch in Paudæmonium) Astolfo in Orlando Furioso on a Griffith: Pacolet in the famous and renowned Chronicle of Valentine and Orfon, on a Wooden Horse.

Like great Astolfo, or little Pacolet,
With Spur and Switch I make my Steed curvet.

164

Hold, hold! I'me gone! I'me gone! that leap has lost us:
So Old-Nick sored away with Doctor Faustus.

4.

Beyond th' attraction of dull Earth we're born,
Near the purple chambers of the Morn;
Now less, and less the lengthen'd Species grow;
Now, credit me,
We hardly see
Athos and Tenariff, and Michaels Mount below,

You see Reader, other folks have had their Maggots as well as your Humble Servant. Two Bishops have wrote expressly of this new Plantation, and the way to sayl thither. One by making a Globe of Glass, or Brass lighter than the Atmosphere, which must therefore naturally ascend: The other by a way perhaps as practicable as the former, by harnessing a certain number of Fowl, called by the Spaniards [Ganza's] on which he makes Signior Domingo hoisted thither.

In Glass or brazen Chariot scarce so soon,

Nor with Domingo's Ganza's had we reach'd the Moon.
There we discover
Over and over

Two famous Astronomers, one in France, the other in Denmark.

VVhat e're quick Azant or Hevelius saw;
VVithout their Glasses
Her Lunatick Faces,
Ætna's, and Land, and Sea, we in a Map could draw.
But my poor Lowse more of its kind
Above could find,

Vid. Where you can find it, this account. When any of the Woodcocks remain behind, the main body returning at Summer to the Land of the Moon, they are reported to be all lowsy.

For all the Lowsie Woodcocks still were left behind,
And therefore calmly dives to Earth again;
So Angels think themselves down thro' the airy Main.

165

5.

O'er Hedge and Ditch, a Scholars, or a Hunters pace
VVe run our hare-brain'd Race.
From Post to Pillar I'm like Epicurus hurl'd
By all the Flaming Limits of the VVorld.
VVhere e're we go
By Friend, or Foe,
We my Majestic Lowses Subjects found;
Armies of Beggars gay
In Endless Sun-shine play,
And Lice, as blithe as they
In jolly Squadrons dance around.
Thus did the Sprightly Youth, but those whom hoary age
Had form'd more wise and sage
Upon a Captive Comb plac'd round in State
Declaim among the unexperienc'd Fry
The Nitty Auditory listning by;
And all their Great Forefathers Deeds in greater Verse relate.

6.

Then to my Lowses Pallace we draw nigh,
(For sure by all this it may with ease be understood,
Mine was a Lowse of princely blood)
Where he in tryumph still remains
Dragging Pilgarlick Death in Chains,
And even in Church-yards obtains the Victory.

166

When pale Death with harpy claws
(And huge unconscionable Jaws)
To the Sick the Curtain draws.
And the Nurses softly tell
Sad enquiring Friends-He's well,
They to the Church-yard follow him, and there
With him they bury all their Love, and all their Care.
My kind Lowse more kind and bold
Hectors Death, and keeps his Hold,
Keeps his Hold, or what's as fair,
Comes agen, and finds him there.
Drives Sir Rawbones from the Stone,
Claims the Marble all his own;

A vulgar observation—that dead Bodies in time turn all to perfect Lumps of Lice.

In his own Substance quickens mouldring Men,
And makes 'em live, at least an Animals Life agen.

7.

Now Heaven and Earth survey'd a dreadful leap we take
Over the Sooty Stygian Lake;
My Lowse my Sybill was, and all as well
I know not how

Both which are necessary to one that intends a visit to the Infernal Regions—ask Virgil else.

Without a half-penny, or a Golden bough,
I like Æneas travell'd Hell.
We lookt, and lookt again,
And lookt, and lookt with Care,
But lookt, and lookt in vain,

167

Nor could we find one House of Purgatory there:
Those old descriptions fail
Whose realms are chang'd
And in another Method rang'd;
We Mountains find where we expect a flowry vale.

8.

Into the Gulph at last my Palfray plung'd, t'explore
Secrets to none but great Quevedo known before.
So brave Empedocles at Ætna's flaming Hole
(The sight enough to melt a common Soul)
Leapt smiling in, with this undaunted Cry,
To be a God 'tis worth the while to die.
So when the hungry Earth gap't wide
And let in hateful Light,
The trembling Ghost to fright
In their own Realm of Night;
Curtius all arm'd to the black breach did ride;
He saw, and smiled with an unbroken mind
Where all the quaking City fled, and scarce durst look behind:
In sprung the noble Youth with this undaunted Cry,
So Rome but live, and flourish,—Thus let Curtius dy.

168

9.

Where am I now? Bugbears, and sprights are there:

See Dr. Casauban's account of those Spirits with whom Dr. Dee and Kelly had contracted so intimate a Correspondence. Very good natur'd Devils it seems, for they perswaded the Conjurers to swop Wives, as a necessary Ceremony in their Magical operations.

Here Kelly's Devils buz round me,
Here Doctor Dees dumfound me;

A Thundering Devil that, Dr: Faustus's familiar. See his Life.

Here's Mephistophilus with Tail, and Horns, and Hair,
And each foul Fiend in Bartlomew Fair;
Sights which a stouter man than me might scare,
But worse, far worse than Devils at the Gate,

Scarce any body but has read Quevedo's Visions of Hell, nor can any that have read 'em sure forget how over-stockt he makes the sooty regions with that kind of Cattle.

Bands of Quevedo's hungry Taylors wait;
From Atropos each stole a pair of Sheers,
And gladly now to ensure his Head I'd give my Louses Ears:
Horridly gay their Teeth, and Nails were painted ore
With flesh confus'd, and Skin, and Brains, and mingling Gore.
Hunger, as well as Anger weapons makes;
His Bodkin this, and this his pond'rous yard, and this his Thimble takes:
The Cannibals in dreadful order stood
To murder and devour even their own Flesh and Blood;
To murder and devour my Louse, so wise, so great, so good:
So conqu'ring Indians feed, and hope to find
In their brave enemyes broil'd Corps the Vertues of his Mind.

169

10.

Yet my undaunted Louse can scorn 'em all,
He rears his strong Proboscis high,
And does the unmanly rage defie
Of each unequal enemy,
And like himself intends to fall.

No Creature in the world so testy as a Lowse. In a Microscope, one drop of Blood is seen passing up and down very nimbly in the nature of a pulse.

His Martial Soul peeps thro' his Alablaster Skin,
The bloody drop moves quick, and beats a point of War within.
Their tedious trembling Troops he do's to Combat call,
Waits for each mortal blow, contemns each fatal pass,

I would entreat any that know that hard-named Gentleman's right Name to keep silence, for 'twould spoyl the Rhyme sadly if this should be blotted out, and that inserted.

And cryes, Pound on! 'tis but the husk of Anaxagoras.
Whilst quaking Hell do's with concern the event attend,
Least the sharp Conqu'rors should too rav'nous be,
And in the Carrage swallow me,
I durst not stay the fight—but waked—and there's an end.

FINIS.

University of Virginia Library

[In's own defence the Author writes]

On a Maggot.

On two Souldiers killing one another for a Groat.

[No Monarch's Death, no fall of Prince or King]

The Argument.

A Pindaricque,

On the Grunting of a Hog.

2.

3.

4.

To my Gingerbread Mistress.

On the Bear-fac'd Lady.

An Anacreontique on a Pair of BREECHES.

A Tobacco Pipe.

On a COW's TAIL.

The Lyar.

On a Hat broke at Cudgels

A Covetous old Fellow having taken occasion to hang himself a little; another comes in, in the nick, and cuts him down; but instead of Thanking him for his Life, he accuses him for spoyling the Rope.

To the Laud and Praise of a Shock Bitch.

An ELEGY On the untimely and much lamented Death of Poor Spot, as loving a Bitch as ever went upon two Legs, who departed this Life,

An. 1684.

A Box made like an Egg, was between Jest and Earnest, between Stoln and Borrow'd; but at last, (see the Honesty!) after a Year's Possession, restor'd with this in the Belly on't.

In plain, sober, earnest English, [Aristotle feeds more than Alexander.] Which is to be prov'd. Plures aluit Aristoteles quam Alexander.

I think I may venture to pronounce this purely a Maggot, and so others that know no better may be apt to think too; but I can assure 'em the Foundation of the Story is as infallibly true, as any in—Lucian's true History. A King turn'd Thresher.

On a Discourteous Damsel that call'd the Right Worshipful Author—(an't please ye!) Sawcy Puppy.

A PANEGYRIC.

On a CHEESE.

A Pastoral.

A Full and True Account of a Journey with its Appurtenances.

The Leather Bottle.

'Tis paraphrastically done; tho I dare undertake, the Original is followed (at least) as close by the Transverser, as Truth by the Author. Out of Lucian's true History, Part the First.

An Elegant Letter, with a Copy of fine Verses by a London Wit, in answer to a Lampoon.

DIALOGUES.

I. Dialogue, Between a Thatcher and a Gardener, for Precedency, on occasion of a Pot of Ale with this Inscription; Detur Digniori.

The Second Dialogue, Between the Herring, and Whale.

The Third Dialogue, Between Chamber-pot and Frying Pan.

Against a Kiss.

A PINDARIC.

1.

2.

3.

4.

On a certain Nose.

In Praise of Horns.

Advice to Monsieur Ragoo, who had his choice either to be Hang'd or Married.

On a pretended Schollar that would have had some Verses he had stoln from another Book inserted into the Maggots.

A Pindaric Poem On Three Skipps of a Louse.

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

In plain, sober, earnest English, [Aristotle feeds more than Alexander.] Which is to be prov'd.

Plures aluit Aristoteles quam Alexander.

I think I may venture to pronounce this purely a Maggot, and so others that know no better may be apt to think too; but I can assure 'em the Foundation of the Story is as infallibly true, as any in—Lucian's true History.

A King turn'd Thresher.

'Tis paraphrastically done; tho I dare undertake, the Original is followed (at least) as close by the Transverser, as Truth by the Author.

Out of Lucian's true History, Part the First.