University of Virginia Library

Antique Philosophers maintain
Nature acts not (like them) in vain;
But We will prove 'tis no such Matter,
Whate're they say, I say Negatur.
If Horace (in whate're you call it)
His Prosphonetick Ode, or Ballad,
Sagely asserts, as Quid probabile,
That the Sea is Dissociabile,—
And thence infers, it is forbidden,
That Billows shou'd by Boats be ridden;
Or Mortals foreign Market keep,
Leaving the Land, to plow the Deep;
Then Procul dubio 'tis plain,
Nature acts frustrà, or in vain.
For Disobedient Wights we find,
That box the Compass, and the Wind;
For Pelf to Distant Climates run
Of Rising, and of Setting Sun;
Unrighteous Slaves, who make no more
Of Crossing Seas from Shore to Shore
Than Scullers, when they Voyage fetch
From Temple-Stairs to Chelsea-Reach;
And plund'ring Neptune on their way,
As We his Fish, They gut the Sea.
The Warriour Sword-Fish, and the Whale,
With Rapier arm'd, and Shield-broad Scale,
Cannot with various Kind of Arms
Secure themselves from mortal Harms;
Nor can ev'n Shell-fish 'scape the Gin,
With Bones without, and Flesh within.
Not Lobsters, tho' they crusted are
In jointed Armour de la Guer,
With all their Legs (while Man's pursuing)
Can save their Carcases from Ruin.
Full oft alas! I've seen their Quarters
Fasten'd to Stake, like Smithfield Martyrs;
And after many cruel Turnings,
Expos'd to Faggot, Fire, and Burnings,
Melodiously resign their Breath,
And, Swan-like, sing themselves to Death.
Thus have I Rabble seen, intent
At Minstrel's uncouth Merriment,
Where as one Hand's swift Fingers fly,
The other spits the Harmony,
And turning 'em still one by one,
The Tunes all roast, till all are done.

Sea-faring Uncle of blind Archer,
Must grow as mad as any March-Hare,
That Man shou'd wreck his Churlish Nature
On's Scaly Citizens o'th' Water;
That He shou'd Murd'rous Laws invent
For Friday-Treats, and order Lent;
A Persecuting Popish Plot
To make his Subjects go to Pot!
Not all their Suff'rings once afforded
In Fox his Rolls to be recorded,
But deem'd unworthy of the Grace,
Among his Worthies to have Place!

If we believe what Poets tell,
Ladies and Nymphs in Ocean dwell,
And sure to Tars a goodly Sight 'tis
Nereids to see, and Amphitrites;
Nereids that sport with Triton Spouses,
And spawn Seed-Pearl in Scollop-Houses:
Lobstero thus (as often seen)
Keeps Lady, that keeps State within;
She, like the wanton Cyprian Dame,
Provokes the Gentle Lover's Flame,
And makes our amorous John Dorys
As far as Paris ride for Chloris;
Salacious 'Squires of Churning Dream,
Blowz-Dairy-Maids, and Clouted Cream.
Aloft She sits on Throne as fair,
As Cassio—in Celestial Chair,
—Peia by t' other Half-Name Height,
And shrin'd in Crystal, shines as bright;
Or Dames that ride o're Streams to Cool,
Exalted high in Cucking-Stool,
When they their Hen-peck'd Husbands wrong,
By loud Incontinence of Tongue,
And giv'n too shrilly to dispute,
Like other Fish, it makes 'em Mute
This Lady's Hospitable Seat
Is much frequented in Fish street;
Fair are the Nymphs that wait upon her,
The Fish-Wives are her Maids of Honour,
Who, as along they Warbling go,
Cry Fish above, and Sell below:
These Mermaids as Enchanting be,
And Singing charm like those at Sea;
Their Melody such Danger bears,
Ulysses-like, we stop our Ears,
Lest their Harmonious Airs, and Breath
At once should Sing, and Stink to Death.
'Tis said Cameleons make Repast
On Viands of Ethereal Blast;
And what seems stranger yet, we read
Of Creatures that by Flames are fed,
Which like bold Slaves Ensurers hire,
Or Chymist's Lungs, subsist by Fire,
(Tho' different Ways they bring't about,
The one puts in, the other out).
Thus have I seen at wond'rous Shew,
In famous Fair Hight Barthol'mew,
A Wight, that had been Satan's Prentice,
Grave Cits, his Fellow-Servants entice,
And swallow Flames, and Fire as quick
As his own Pædagogue Old Nick:
The Rabble stare to see him eat
His Chafin-Dish instead of Meat,
And grind more Charcoal than a Score
Green-Sickness Damsels can devour;
Or Madam Porcia, to go further,
First She-Professor of the Order.

And now, tho' wond'rous strange, I'll shew,
Lobsters by Fire are nourish'd too:
But if you say 'tis a wrong Notion,
Because no Flames are in the Ocean,
To your Objection thus I answer,
Lobster's o' Kin to Sign call'd Cancer;
And as He's of Celestial Line,
So, like his Birth, his Food's Divine:
For as the Moon her Orb does swell,
So that increases in the Shell:
Tis thus like Spiritual Jugglers seen,
All dark without, the Light's within;
But tho' they boast of Inward Light,
We all well know how they Come by't;
Since frantick Fits discover soon,
That they're enlighten'd by the Moon.
Now that within Nocturnal Shell
Pale Visionary Glimm'rings dwell,
By Demonstration I'll evince,
And Testimony of the Sense;
For when the Heav'ns (black Night returning)
For Day departed put on Mourning,
From tainted Limbs to wond'ring Eyes
Thousands of heatless Sparks arise:
Not half so scalding as the Brand
That burn'd bold Mutius in the Hand:
These Sparks are Reliques, and no more
Than Beams imprison'd there before,
In Durance kept, and close Custody,
Till interwoven in the Body.
Kind Vestals thus that ply in Street,
Which City-G'ographers call Fleet,
With inward Flames in secret glow,
Preserv'd sub Lunæ Concavo.

And lo! as if it knew 'twas hateful
To be for Boons receiv'd ungrateful,
The Lusty Food helps Female Neighbours,
Promotes their Husband's, and their Labours;
And in return much Work supplies
For that Bright Midwife of the Skies.
Lobster with Cavear in fit Places,
Gives won'drous Help in barren Cases;
It warms the chiller Veins, and proves
A kind Incentive to our Loves;
It is a Philter, and High Diet,
That lets no Lady sleep in Quiet:
'Twill Vig'rous Youth to Age restore,
And get us Twins, when turn'd Fourscore.

Nay, thy Example does support
Our Modern Politicks at Court;
V**lp*ne, and his puzling Notions
Ap'd thee in thy prepost'rous Motions,
Who by Designs perverse, and awkard,
Made our Affairs, like thee, crawl backward:
Some Gen'rals thus in One Campaign,
Fight all their Conquests back again.

A Modern Geographer, perhaps,
May of the Sea invent New Maps,
Peopl'd with Fish as various, and
In Forms as strange, as those on Land;
And his odd Project to advance,
Christens his Lobsters, Africans,
Or dubs 'em by his Learned Notion
The Moors, and Negroes of the Ocean.
Now, as on Land, there is no Creature
But is express'd by Fish in Water;
So Crabs, and Lobsters stil'd may be
The Bums, and Catchpoles of the Sea:
For if there be, as sure there is,
The Thing call'd Metempsychosis,
The Souls of Bums departed dwell
Within the Hollow of their Shell;
Hence, Warranted by Nature's Laws,
They carry Grinders in their Claws,
And treach'rously Arrest, and Catch
Whatever comes within their Reach.

If we'll trust Catholick Recorders,
There was a Lobster once in Orders;
And ever since upon his Back
Canonically he wears Black,
Tho' not to Cassock form'd or Gown,
Like tatter'd Crape that strolls the Town;
This Truth in Legend will appear
Of Missionary Saint Xavier.

Once Windy Boreas in a Frolick
Let fly, and gave the Sea the Cholick;
Neptune sore grip'd, cry'd, Gods! it is hard
What Grumblings feel I in my Gizzard!
His Crucifix the good Apostle
Let down to cure Intestine Bustle;
It well the Wonder did perform,
But sinking vanish'd with the Storm;
Much disappointed at the Loss
Of Holy Talisman his Cross,
He to retrieve it first applies
To Heav'n his lifted Hands and Eyes,
Then rattles many a Magick Bead,
Which guides to Bliss by Clue of Thread,
And thrice three times an Ave said;
Seeing mean time a Lobster crawl
He laid on Hands Episcopal,
And so Ordain'd him—not to preach,
But to hold forth his Claws, and fetch;
Tho' driv'n by Winds that bluster'd high,
That faster crawl'd than Ship could fly;
Lobstero thus, which in Quandary,
The Saint had taught to fetch and carry,
Prov'd like th' Apostle, Emissary.
And as it is in Story plain,
Brought him his Crucifix again.

But O! ye Learn'd brimful of Knowledge,
Ye Nat'ralists of Gresham-College,
Expound to me, if you are able,
How Lobster, that alive is Sable,
When in his Liquor, puts on Red,
And throws his Mourning off, when Dead:
Among You all there is not One
Can solve me this Phænomenon:
But I, who sip no Learned Coffee,
And rarely muse on Philosophy,
Ill-vers'd in Pliny's Nat'ral Hist'ry,
Will soon unriddle this Dark Myst'ry:
If Ferguson turns Renegade,
Leaves Kirk, and quits the Canting Trade,
Righteously changing Sword Eternal,
The Spirit'al, for Tilter Carnal;
Deserts the Sober Weed of Scholars,
And runs (true Turncoat) from his Colours;
While Scarlet, lists the Errant Saint,
Dragoon of the Church Militant;
Why may not Black-Coats of the Water,
Tho' Creatures of inferior Nature,
Observe the self-same Holy Rules,
And turn their Sables into Gules?
Since Man was sure created best,
To give Example to the rest:
Besides the Godly sure must grant,
'Tis good to imitate a Saint:
The Saints who, to support the Cause,
Trim with Divine and Human Laws,
They are God's Children, so too weak
Th' Almighty's Ord'nances to break;
And when they see a Civil Storm,
They can Occas'onally Conform;
Thus while there is a Fellow-feeling
'Twixt Party-Lawyers, and false Spelling,
Indictments will have Gaps, and Flaws
For them to Mesh through, and the Laws.
As Brethren of Militia-Sword
By Exercising keep the Word,
And fortify'd in County-Buff,
Are Basket-Hilt, and Cudgel Proof;
Yet, in Obedience to Command,
Turn, and Return to Either Hand:
So Presbyters that still have on
A Buff-coat Conscience of their own,
Perversly move contrary quite,
And turn—but never to the Right.
They are of the Spread-Eagle Kind,
With Face before, and Face behind,
On Popish Church-Lands Gospel-Spies,
That, like the Beast, are full of Eyes,
And whirl 'em round which way you list,
They still look tow'rd their Interest:
And as a Dog, that plies the Wheel,
Turns oft, and treads the same Place still;
So which way e're the World goes round,
They with it move,—and keep their Ground.

And now, altho' there were no more said,
We may perceive by the aforesaid,
How Juggling Non-Cons change their Coats,
Leave Mangling Texts for Cutting Throats;
The Word is weak, but Sword is strong,
And Pow'r was never in the wrong:
Th' Evangelists with Them have no Spell,
But trusty Pike, and Gun are Gospel.