The works of Mr. Thomas Brown Serious and Comical, In Prose and Verse; In four volumes. The Fourth Edition, Corrected, and much Enlarged from his Originals never before publish'd. With a key to all his Writings |
 | 1. |
 |
A Comical Panegyrick on that familiar Animal,
by the Vulgar call'd a Louse: By Mr. Willis,
of St. Mary-Hall, Oxon; with some Additions by Mr. Tho. Brown.
|
|
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
 | The works of Mr. Thomas Brown |  |
A Comical Panegyrick on that familiar Animal, by the Vulgar call'd a Louse: By Mr. Willis, of St. Mary-Hall, Oxon; with some Additions by Mr. Tho. Brown.
Tremendous Louse, who can withstand thy Power,
Since Fear at first taught Mortals to adore?
What mighty Disproportion do we see
In Adam's Glory, when compar'd with thee?
With greater Latitude thy Patent ran,
Freely you rove o'er all the World of Man;
And almost like Almighty Jove alone,
Enjoy a Being you receive from none.
Well might the sage Philosophers of old
Their justling Atoms for authentick hold;
For what thou art, alas, we know too well,
But whence thy Being is, we cannot tell.
Nor is thy Empire meaner than thy Birth,
Thou'rt made of Mold refin'd, not common Earth.
Whether thou rul'st by a Monarchick Sway,
Or by three States, we passively obey.
The boldest Hero, whom Ambition arms,
Faces grim Death, but shrugs at thy Alarms.
Thou to their Hearts hast often nearer been
Than either their Religion or their Queen;
And hast a much more constant Harbour there
Than any thing but Villany and Fear.
The sparkish General often dreads thy sight
More than the numerous Foes he stands to fight.
And tho' his happy Standards do prevail,
E'er Night, to thee he surely turns his Tail.
Thou the Grand Seignior dost surpass in Pride,
Since thou on Christians Backs in State dost ride,
And hast such Catholick and resistless Charms,
That Prince and Prelate under thee bear Arms.
The very Noncons and the Church we see,
Tho' when they pray to God, they disagree,
Yet fight with Uniformity for thee:
And for thy sake, with Wretchedness each Day
Lavish their Blood more freely than their Pay.
Since Fear at first taught Mortals to adore?
What mighty Disproportion do we see
In Adam's Glory, when compar'd with thee?
With greater Latitude thy Patent ran,
Freely you rove o'er all the World of Man;
And almost like Almighty Jove alone,
Enjoy a Being you receive from none.
Well might the sage Philosophers of old
Their justling Atoms for authentick hold;
145
But whence thy Being is, we cannot tell.
Nor is thy Empire meaner than thy Birth,
Thou'rt made of Mold refin'd, not common Earth.
Whether thou rul'st by a Monarchick Sway,
Or by three States, we passively obey.
The boldest Hero, whom Ambition arms,
Faces grim Death, but shrugs at thy Alarms.
Thou to their Hearts hast often nearer been
Than either their Religion or their Queen;
And hast a much more constant Harbour there
Than any thing but Villany and Fear.
The sparkish General often dreads thy sight
More than the numerous Foes he stands to fight.
And tho' his happy Standards do prevail,
E'er Night, to thee he surely turns his Tail.
Thou the Grand Seignior dost surpass in Pride,
Since thou on Christians Backs in State dost ride,
And hast such Catholick and resistless Charms,
That Prince and Prelate under thee bear Arms.
The very Noncons and the Church we see,
Tho' when they pray to God, they disagree,
Yet fight with Uniformity for thee:
And for thy sake, with Wretchedness each Day
Lavish their Blood more freely than their Pay.
Nature refines, what is by Nature crude,
For thee she cooks and dresses Human Blood,
To make it to thy Palate dainty Food.
No wonder then that thou with those that fight
So much art seen, since both in Blood delight.
Or that thou should'st exert such sturdy Valour
Against thy Enemy, the Prick-Louse Taylor,
To take him every Moment by the Collar.
How many Heroes hast thou forc'd to yield,
And strip'd to own thee Master of the Field?
But tho' so many Virtues in thee shine,
That we can hardly think thee not Divine,
It wou'd be great Injustice to pass o'er,
How kind thou art, and mindful of the Poor;
Whate'er befalls 'em of Calamity,
They're certain of a Bosom Friend in thee:
How often to oblige 'em you endeavour,
Those Marks denote you list 'em in your Favour.
Nor are they quite ungrateful in return,
If any, yet clean Linens never worn;
The Cripple too finds Leggs to strole the Streets,
To beg for thee of every one he meets;
Content with thee, and Straw instead of Sheets.
As briskly too thou hast assisted those
That Ethnick Superstition did oppose,
But stuck most Orthodoxly to their Side
That for the true Religion would have dy'd.
That when the Huguenots of France came o'er,
Millions of you came swarming to the Shore.
So Jacob's Children, by the help of Lice,
Obtain'd the Canaanitish Paradise.
And you, we find, as formidable prove,
As ratling Thunder in the Hand of Jove.
Who can thy Power describe, thy Glories scan,
Thou Lord of Nature, since thou'rt Lord of Man?
In these we may thy wond'rous Value see,
The World was made for Man, and Man for thee.
For thee she cooks and dresses Human Blood,
To make it to thy Palate dainty Food.
No wonder then that thou with those that fight
So much art seen, since both in Blood delight.
Or that thou should'st exert such sturdy Valour
Against thy Enemy, the Prick-Louse Taylor,
To take him every Moment by the Collar.
How many Heroes hast thou forc'd to yield,
And strip'd to own thee Master of the Field?
But tho' so many Virtues in thee shine,
That we can hardly think thee not Divine,
It wou'd be great Injustice to pass o'er,
How kind thou art, and mindful of the Poor;
146
They're certain of a Bosom Friend in thee:
How often to oblige 'em you endeavour,
Those Marks denote you list 'em in your Favour.
Nor are they quite ungrateful in return,
If any, yet clean Linens never worn;
The Cripple too finds Leggs to strole the Streets,
To beg for thee of every one he meets;
Content with thee, and Straw instead of Sheets.
As briskly too thou hast assisted those
That Ethnick Superstition did oppose,
But stuck most Orthodoxly to their Side
That for the true Religion would have dy'd.
That when the Huguenots of France came o'er,
Millions of you came swarming to the Shore.
So Jacob's Children, by the help of Lice,
Obtain'd the Canaanitish Paradise.
And you, we find, as formidable prove,
As ratling Thunder in the Hand of Jove.
Who can thy Power describe, thy Glories scan,
Thou Lord of Nature, since thou'rt Lord of Man?
In these we may thy wond'rous Value see,
The World was made for Man, and Man for thee.
| The works of Mr. Thomas Brown | |