University of Virginia Library

Satyr. [Timon]

A.
What Timon does old Age begin t'approach
That thus thou droop'st under a Nights debauch?
Hast thou lost deep to needy Rogues on Tick
Who ne're cou'd pay, and must be paid next Week.

Tim.
Neither alas, but a dull dining Sot,
Seiz'd me ith' Mall, who just my name had got;
He runs upon me, cries dear Rogue I'm thine,
With me some Wits, of thy acquaintance dine.
I tell him I'm engag'd, but as a Whore,
With modesty enslaves her Spark, the more,
The longer I deny'd, the more he prest,
At last I e'ne consent to be his Guest.
He takes me in his Coach, and as we go,
Pulls out a Libel, of a Sheet, or two;
Insipid, as, the praise of pious Queens,
Or Shadwells, unassisted former Scenes;
Which he admir'd, and prais'd at ev'ry Line,
At last it was so sharp, it must be mine.
I vow'd I was no more a Wit, than he,
Unpractic'd, and unblest in Poetry:
A Song to Phillis, I perhaps might make,
But never Rhym'd, but for my Pintles sake:
I envy'd no Mans fortune, nor his fame,
Nor ever thought of a revenge so tame.
He knew my Stile, he sword, and 'twas in vain,
Thus to deny the Issue of my Brain.
Choak'd with his flatt'ry, I no answer make,
But silent leave him to his dear mistake
Which he, by this, has spread o're the whole Town,
And me, with an officious Lye, undone.
Of a well meaning Fool, I'm most afraid,
Who sillily repeats, what was well said.
But this was not the worst, when he came home,
He askt are Sidley, Buchurst, Savill, come?
No, but there were above Halfwit and Huffe
Kickum, and Dingboy. Oh 'tis well enough.
They're all brave Fellows cryes mine Host, let's Dine,
I long to have my Belly full of Wine,
They'll write, and fight I dare assure you,
They're Men, Tam Marte quam Mercurio.
I saw my error, but 'twas now too late,
No means, nor hopes, appear of a retreat.
Well we salute, and each Man takes his Seat.
Boy (says my Sot) is my Wife ready yet?
A Wife good Gods! a Fop and Bullys too!
For one poor Meale, what must I undergo?
In comes my Lady strait, she had been Fair,
Fit to give love, and to prevent despair.
But Age, Beauties incurable Disease,
Had left her more desire, than pow'r to please.
As Cocks, will strike, although their Spurrs be gone,
She with her old bleer Eyes to smite begun:
Though nothing else, she (in despight of time)
Preserv'd the affectation of her prime;
How ever you begun, she brought in love,
And hardly from that Subject wou'd remove.
We chancd to speak of the French Kings success;
My Lady wonder'd much how Heav'n cou'd bless,
A Man, that lov'd Two Women at one time;
But more how he to them excus'd his Crime.
She askt Huffe, if Loves flame he never felt?
He answer'd bluntly—do you think I'm gelt?
She at his plainness smil'd, then turn'd to me,
Love in young Minds, preceeds ev'n Poetry.
You to that passion can no Stranger be,
But Wits, are giv'n to inconstancy.
She had run on I think till now, but Meat
Came up, and suddenly she took her seat.
I thought the Dinner wou'd make some amends,
When my good Host cryes out-y'are all my Friends,
Our own plain Fare, and the best Terse the Bull
Affords, I'll give you and your Bellies full:
As for French Kickshaws, Cellery, and Champoon,
Ragous and Fricasses, introth we'ave none.
Here's a good Dinner towards thought I, when strait
Up comes a piece of Beef, full Horsmans weight;
Hard as the Arse of Mosely, under which,
The Coachman sweats, as ridden by a Witch.
A Dish of Carrets, each of 'em as long,
As Tool, that to fair Countess, did belong;
Which her small Pillow, cou'd not so well hide,
But Visiters, his flaming Head espy'd.
Pig, Goose, and Capon, follow'd in the Rear,
With all that Country Bumpkins, call good Cheer:
Serv'd up with Sauces all of Eighty Eight,
When our tough Youth, wrestled, and threw the Weight.
And now the Bottle, briskly flies about,
Instead of Ice, wrapt up in a wet Clowt.
A Brimmer follows the Third bit we eat,
Small Bear, becomes our drink, and Wine, our Meat.
The Table was so large, that in less space,
A Man might safe, Six old Italians place:
Each Man had as much room, as Porter, Blunt,
Or Harris, had, in Cullens, Bushel Cunt.
And now the Wine began to work, mine Host
Had been a Collonel we must hear him boast
Not of Towns won, but an Estate he lost
For the Kings Service, which indeed he spent
Whoring, and Drinking, but with good intent.
He talkt much of a Plot, and Money lent
In Cromwells time. My Lady she
Complain'd our love was course, our Poetry,
Unfit for modest Eares: small Whores, and Play'rs
Were of our Hair-brain'd Youth, the only cares;
Who were too wild for any virtuous League,
Too rotten to consummate the Intrigue.
Falkland, she prais'd, and Sucklings, easie Pen,
And seem'd to taste their former parts again.
Mine Host, drinks to the best in Christendome,
And decently my Lady, quits the Room.
Left to our selves, of several things we prate,
Some regulate the Stage, and some the State.
Halfwit, cries up my Lord of Orrery,
Ah how well Mustapha, and Zanger dye!
His sense so little forc'd, that by one Line,
You may the other easily divine.
And which is worse, if any worse can be,
He never said one word of it to me.
There's fine Poetry! you'd swear 'twere Prose,
So little on the Sense, the Rhymes impose.
Damn me (says Dingboy) in my mind Gods-swounds
Etheridge, writes Airy Songs, and soft Lampoons,
The best of any Man; as for your Nowns,
Grammar, and Rules of Art, he knows 'em not,
Yet writ Two talking Plays, without one Plot.
Huffe, was for Settle, and Morocco, prais'd,
Said rumbling words, like Drums, his courage rais'd.
Whose broad-built-bulks, the boyst'rous Billows, bear,
Zaphee and Sally, Mugadore, Oran,
The fam'd Arzile, Alcazer, Tituan.
Was ever braver Language writ by Man?
Kickum for Crown declar'd, said in Romance,
He had out done the very Wits, of France.
Witness Pandion, and his Charles the Eight;
Where a young Monarch, careless of his Fate,
Though Forreign Troops, and Rebels, shock his State,
Complains another sight afflicts him more.
(Videl.) The Queens Galleys rowing from the Shore,
Fitting their Oars and Tackling to be gon
Whilst sporting Waves smil'd on the rising Sun.
Waves smiling on the Sun! I'm sure that's new,
And 'twas well thought on, give the Devil his due.
Mine Host, who had said nothing in an hour,
Rose up, and prais'd the Indian Emperor.
As if our Old World, modestly withdrew,
And here in private had brought forth a New.
There are Two Lines! who but he durst presume
To make the old World, a new withdrawing Room,
Whereof another World she's brought to Bed!
What a brave Midwife is a Laureats head!
But pox of all these Scriblers, what do'e think.
Will Souches this year any Champoone drink?
Will Turene fight him? without doubt says Huffe,
When they Two meet, their meeting will be rough.
Damn me (says Dingboy) the French, Cowards are,
They pay, but the English, Scots, and Swiss make War.
In gawdy Troops, at a review they shine,
But dare not with the Germans, Battel joyn;
What now appears like courage, is not so,
'Tis a short pride, which from success does grow;
On their first blow, they'll shrink into those fears,
They shew'd at Cressy, Agincourt, Poytiers;
Their loss was infamous, Honor so stain'd,
Is by a Nation not to be regain'd.
What they were then I know not, now th'are brave,
He that denies it—lyes and is a Slave
(Says Huffe and frown'd) says Dingboy, that do I,
And at that word, at t'others Head let fly
A greasie Plate, when suddenly they all,
Together by the Eares in Parties fall.
Halfwit, with Dingboy joynes, Kickum with Huffe
Their Swords were safe, and so we let 'em cuff
Till they mine Host, and I, had all enough.
Their rage once over, they begin to treat,
And Six fresh Bottles, must the peace compleat.
I ran down Stairs, with a Vow never more
To drink Bear Glass, and hear the Hectors roar.