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 |
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| II. | [Part II.] |
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 | The works of Mr. Thomas Brown |  |
226
II. [Part II.]
From Bully Dawson to Bully W---
[The Gods on a day when their Worships were idle]
The Gods on a day when their Worships were idle,Met all at the Sign of the Half-Moon and Fiddle;
Old Bacchus and Venus did lovingly joyn,
And swore there was nothing like Women and Wine:
They drank till they all were as merry as Grigs,
And wallowed about like a litter of Pigs;
Till their Heads and their Tails were so little apart,
That the breath of a Belch, mix'd with that of a Fart;
But as it fell out, poor unfortunate Mars,
Just nodded his Nose into Venus's Arse;
Why how now, says Mars, ye old Jade d'y' suppose,
Your Arse was design'd as a Case for my Nose?
Then pulling his Head from her Bumb, fell a swearing,
Her Honour smelt worse than a stinking Red-Herring.
240
A SATYR against Fly-Blows.
By Mr. W---
Ye
worst of Vermin that our Isle affords,
Spawn of curs'd Flies, engender'd first in T*rds,
Ye nitty Off-spring of a winged Plague,
That swarms in Mutton from the Rump to th'Crag:
Tormentors of our Cooks, all England's Foes,
From rural Gluttons, to our London Beaus.
In ev'ry cloven Joint thy Mother's blow,
Where if not crush'd, you will to Maggots grow,
Raise your black Heads, and crawl about our Food,
And poison what was eatable and good;
Pollute that Flesh which should our Lives maintain,
To Dogs condemn what was design'd for Man.
Ye Eggs of Mischief that in Clusters dwell,
Hateful to the Eyes, and nauseous to the Smell,
Ill Omens of a worse succeeding Harm,
That makes good Housewives blush, the Husbands storm.
241
More Salt, you Slattern, crys the angry Dame,
And then the Falchion-Ladle goes to work:
I'll teach you, Jade, to salt the Beef and Pork.
May Showers of Brine each Powdering-Tub o'erflow,
Pepper and Salt in every Orchard grow;
Then may each Hand to seas'ning be employ'd,
That thy curs'd Race may be at once destroy'd.
Your Humble Servant, W---
| The works of Mr. Thomas Brown | |