 | Mully of Montoun |  |
MULLY OF MOUNTOWN. A POEM.
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[I.]
Mountown! Thou sweet Retreat from Dublin Cares,Be famous for thy Apples and thy Pears;
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For Peggy's Butter, and for Peggy's Cheese.
May Clouds of Pigeons round about thee fly,
But condescend sometimes to make a Pye.
May fat Geese gaggle with melodious Voice,
And ne'er want Gooseberries or Apple-sauce:
Ducks in thy Ponds, and Chickens in thy Pens,
And be thy Turkeys Numerous as thy Hens:
May thy black Pigs lie warm in little Stye,
And have no Thought to grieve them till they dye.
Mountown! The Muses most delicious Theam
Oh! may thy Codlins ever swim iu Cream:
Thy Rasp- and Straw-berries in Bourdeaux drown
To add a redder Tincture to their own:
Thy White-Wine, Sugar, Milk, together Club
To make that gentle Viand Syllabub.
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To spoil the Relish of the flowing Wine.
But to the fading Palate bring Relief
By thy West-phalian Ham, or Belgick Beef;
And to compleat thy Blessings, in a word,
May still thy Soil be Generous as its Lord.
II.
Oh Peggy, Peggy, when thou go'st to Brew,Consider well what you're about to do;
Be very Wise, very sedately think
That what you are about to make is Drink:
Consider who must drink that Drink, and then,
What 'tis to have the Praise of Honest Men:
For surely Peggy, while that Drink does last,
'Tis Peggy will be Toasted or Disgrac'd.
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To make its sparkling Rays in Beauty shine,
Let thy clean Bottle be entirely dry,
Least a white Substance to the Surface fly,
And floating there, disturb the curious Eye.
But this great Maxim must be understood,
Be sure; nay very sure, thy Cork be Good.
Then future Ages shall of Peggy tell,
That Nymph that Brew'd and Bottled Ale so well.
III.
How fleet is Air! How many Things have Breath
Which in a Moment, they resign to Death;
Depriv'd of Light, and all their happiest State,
Not by their Fault, but some o'er-ruling Fate!
Altho' fair Flowers, that justly might invite,
Are Crop't, nay torn away for Man's Delight;
Yet still those Flowers, Alas! can make no Moan,
Nor has Narcissus now a Power to Groan.
But all those things which breath in different Frame,
By tye of common Breaths, Man's Pity claim.
A Gentle Lamb has Rhetorick to plead,
And when she sees the Butcher's Knife decree'd
Her Voice intreats him not to make her Bleed;
But Cruel Gains and Luxury of Taste,
With Pride, still lays Man's Fellow-Mortals waste:
What Earth and Waters breed, or Air inspires,
Man for his Palate fits by Torturing Fires.
Which in a Moment, they resign to Death;
Depriv'd of Light, and all their happiest State,
Not by their Fault, but some o'er-ruling Fate!
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Are Crop't, nay torn away for Man's Delight;
Yet still those Flowers, Alas! can make no Moan,
Nor has Narcissus now a Power to Groan.
But all those things which breath in different Frame,
By tye of common Breaths, Man's Pity claim.
A Gentle Lamb has Rhetorick to plead,
And when she sees the Butcher's Knife decree'd
Her Voice intreats him not to make her Bleed;
But Cruel Gains and Luxury of Taste,
With Pride, still lays Man's Fellow-Mortals waste:
What Earth and Waters breed, or Air inspires,
Man for his Palate fits by Torturing Fires.
MULLY a Cow sprung from a Beauteous Race
With spreading Front, did Mountowns Pastures grace.
Gentle she was, and with a gentle Stream,
Each Morn and Night gave Milk that equal'd Cream.
Offending None, of None she stood in Dread,
Much less of Persons which she daily Fed:
But Innocence cannot it self Defend
'Gainst treacherous Arts, veil'd with the Name of Friend.
With spreading Front, did Mountowns Pastures grace.
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Each Morn and Night gave Milk that equal'd Cream.
Offending None, of None she stood in Dread,
Much less of Persons which she daily Fed:
But Innocence cannot it self Defend
'Gainst treacherous Arts, veil'd with the Name of Friend.
ROBIN of Darby-shire, whose Temper shocks
The Constitution of his Native Rocks,
Born in a Place, which if it once be nam'd
Wou'd make a blushing Modesty asham'd:
He with Indulgence kindly did appear
To make poor Mully his peculiar Care,
But inwardly this sullen Churlish Thief
Had all his Mind plac'd upon Mully's Beef;
His Fancy fed on her, and thus hee'd Cry
Mully as sure as I'm Alive you Dye;
'Tis a brave Cow, O Sirs when Christmas comes,
These Shins shall make the Porridge grac'd with Plumbs,
Then midst our Cups, whilst we profusely Dine
This Blade shall enter deep in Mully's Chine,
What Ribs, what Rumps, what Bak'd, Boil'd, Stew'd and Roast?
There shan't one single Tripe of her be lost.
The Constitution of his Native Rocks,
Born in a Place, which if it once be nam'd
Wou'd make a blushing Modesty asham'd:
He with Indulgence kindly did appear
To make poor Mully his peculiar Care,
But inwardly this sullen Churlish Thief
Had all his Mind plac'd upon Mully's Beef;
His Fancy fed on her, and thus hee'd Cry
Mully as sure as I'm Alive you Dye;
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These Shins shall make the Porridge grac'd with Plumbs,
Then midst our Cups, whilst we profusely Dine
This Blade shall enter deep in Mully's Chine,
What Ribs, what Rumps, what Bak'd, Boil'd, Stew'd and Roast?
There shan't one single Tripe of her be lost.
When Peggy, Nymph of Mountown, heard these sounds,
She Griev'd to hear of Mully's future Wounds,
What Crime, says she, has gentle Mully done?
Witness the Rising and the Setting Sun,
That knows what Milk she constantly would give,
Let that Quench Robin's Rage, and Mully Live
She Griev'd to hear of Mully's future Wounds,
What Crime, says she, has gentle Mully done?
Witness the Rising and the Setting Sun,
That knows what Milk she constantly would give,
Let that Quench Robin's Rage, and Mully Live
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Daniel a sprightly Swain that used to slash
The Vigorous Steeds that drew his Lord's Calash
To Peggy's Side inclin'd, for 'twas well known
How well he lov'd those Cattel of his own.
The Vigorous Steeds that drew his Lord's Calash
To Peggy's Side inclin'd, for 'twas well known
How well he lov'd those Cattel of his own.
Then Terence spoke, Oraculous and sly,
He'd neither grant the Question or deny;
Pleading for Milk, his Thoughts were on Mince-Pye;
But all his Arguments so dubious were
That Mully thence had neither Hopes nor Fear.
He'd neither grant the Question or deny;
Pleading for Milk, his Thoughts were on Mince-Pye;
But all his Arguments so dubious were
That Mully thence had neither Hopes nor Fear.
You've spoke, says Robin, but now let me tell ye
'Tis not fair spoken Words that fill the Belly:
Pudding and Beef I Love and cannot stoop
To recommend your Bonny Clapper Soop;
You say she's Innocent, but what of that,
'Tis more than Crime sufficient that she's Fat,
And that which is prevailing in this Case
Is, there's another Cow to fill her place.
And granting Mully to have Milk in store
Yet still this other Cow will give us more
She Dies—stop here my Muse, forbear the rest,
And veil that Grief which cannot be exprest.
'Tis not fair spoken Words that fill the Belly:
Pudding and Beef I Love and cannot stoop
To recommend your Bonny Clapper Soop;
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'Tis more than Crime sufficient that she's Fat,
And that which is prevailing in this Case
Is, there's another Cow to fill her place.
And granting Mully to have Milk in store
Yet still this other Cow will give us more
She Dies—stop here my Muse, forbear the rest,
And veil that Grief which cannot be exprest.
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ORPHEUS AND EURIDICE. A POEM.
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As Poets say, one Orpheus went
To Hell upon an odd Intent.
First, tell the Story, then let's know,
If any one will do so now.
To Hell upon an odd Intent.
First, tell the Story, then let's know,
If any one will do so now.
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This Orpheus was a jolly Boy,
Born long before the Siege of Troy;
His Parents found the Lad was sharp,
And Taught him on the Irish Harp;
And when grown fit for Marriage Life,
Gave him Euridice to Wife,
And they, as soon as Match was made,
Set up the Ballad-singing Trade.
Born long before the Siege of Troy;
His Parents found the Lad was sharp,
And Taught him on the Irish Harp;
And when grown fit for Marriage Life,
Gave him Euridice to Wife,
And they, as soon as Match was made,
Set up the Ballad-singing Trade.
The Cunning Varlet cou'd Devise,
For Country Folks ten thousand Lies,
Affirming all those monstrous Things
Were done by Force of Harp and Strings;
Could make a Tyger in a trice
Tame as a Cat, and catch your Mice;
Cou'd make a Lyon's Courage flag,
And straight cou'd Animate a Stag,
And by the help of pleasing Ditties,
Make Mill-stones run, and build up Cities;
Each had the use of fluent Tongue,
If Dice scolded, Orpheus sung.
And so by Discord without Strife,
Compos'd one Harmony of Life;
And thus, as all their Matters stood,
They got an Honest Livelihood:
For Country Folks ten thousand Lies,
Affirming all those monstrous Things
Were done by Force of Harp and Strings;
Could make a Tyger in a trice
Tame as a Cat, and catch your Mice;
Cou'd make a Lyon's Courage flag,
And straight cou'd Animate a Stag,
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Make Mill-stones run, and build up Cities;
Each had the use of fluent Tongue,
If Dice scolded, Orpheus sung.
And so by Discord without Strife,
Compos'd one Harmony of Life;
And thus, as all their Matters stood,
They got an Honest Livelihood:
Happy were Mortals could they be
From any sudden Danger free;
Happy were Poets could their Song,
The feeble Thread of Life prolong.
From any sudden Danger free;
Happy were Poets could their Song,
The feeble Thread of Life prolong.
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But as these two went strouling on,
Poor Dice's Scene of Life was done;
Away her fleeting Breath must fly,
Yet no one knows wherefore, or why;
Poor Dice's Scene of Life was done;
Away her fleeting Breath must fly,
Yet no one knows wherefore, or why;
This caus'd the general Lamentation,
To all that knew her in her Station;
How brisk she was still to advance,
The Harper's gain, and lead the Dance,
In every Tune observe her Trill,
Sing on, yet change the Money still.
To all that knew her in her Station;
How brisk she was still to advance,
The Harper's gain, and lead the Dance,
In every Tune observe her Trill,
Sing on, yet change the Money still.
Orpheus best knew what Loss he had,
And thinking on't fell almost mad,
And in despair to Linus ran,
Who was esteem'd a Cunning-Man;
And thinking on't fell almost mad,
And in despair to Linus ran,
Who was esteem'd a Cunning-Man;
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‘Cry'd, he again must Dice have,
Or else be buried in her Grave;
Or else be buried in her Grave;
Quo' Linus, ‘Soft, refrain your Sorrow,
‘What fails to Day may speed to Morrow:
‘Thank you the Gods for what'ere happens,
‘But don't fall out with your fat Capons,
‘Tis many an honest Man's Petition,
‘That he may be in your Condition;
‘If such a Blessing might be had,
‘To change a Living Wife for Dead,
‘I'd be your Chapman, nay, I'd do't,
‘Tho' I gave Forty Pounds to boot.
‘Consider first, you save her Diet,
‘Consider next you keep her quiet;
‘For, Pray what was she all along,
‘Except the burthen of your Song?
‘What, tho' your Dice's under Ground,
‘Yet many a Woman may be found,
‘Who in your Gains if she may partake,
‘Trust me, will quickly make your heart-ake:
‘Then rest Content, as Widdow'rs sho'ud
‘The Gods best know what's for our good.
‘What fails to Day may speed to Morrow:
‘Thank you the Gods for what'ere happens,
‘But don't fall out with your fat Capons,
‘Tis many an honest Man's Petition,
‘That he may be in your Condition;
‘If such a Blessing might be had,
‘To change a Living Wife for Dead,
‘I'd be your Chapman, nay, I'd do't,
‘Tho' I gave Forty Pounds to boot.
‘Consider first, you save her Diet,
‘Consider next you keep her quiet;
‘For, Pray what was she all along,
‘Except the burthen of your Song?
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‘Yet many a Woman may be found,
‘Who in your Gains if she may partake,
‘Trust me, will quickly make your heart-ake:
‘Then rest Content, as Widdow'rs sho'ud
‘The Gods best know what's for our good.
Orpheus no longer cou'd endure
Such Wounds where he expected Cure.
Such Wounds where he expected Cure.
‘Is't possible, cry'd he, and can,
‘That Noble Creature, Marry'd Man,
‘In such a Cause be so profane;
‘I'le fly thee far as I would Death,
‘Who from my Dice took her Breath.
‘That Noble Creature, Marry'd Man,
‘In such a Cause be so profane;
‘I'le fly thee far as I would Death,
‘Who from my Dice took her Breath.
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Which said, he soon out-stript the Wind,
Whilst puffing Boreas lagg'd behind,
And to Urganda's Cave he came,
A Lady of prodigious Fame,
Whose hollow Eyes, and hopper Breech,
Made Common People call her Witch;
Down at her Feet he prostrate lyes,
With Trembling Heart, and blubber'd Eyes
Whilst puffing Boreas lagg'd behind,
And to Urganda's Cave he came,
A Lady of prodigious Fame,
Whose hollow Eyes, and hopper Breech,
Made Common People call her Witch;
Down at her Feet he prostrate lyes,
With Trembling Heart, and blubber'd Eyes
‘Tell me, said he, for sure, you know
‘The Powers above, and those below.
‘Where does Euridice remain?
‘How shall I fetch her back again?
‘The Powers above, and those below.
‘Where does Euridice remain?
‘How shall I fetch her back again?
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She smilingly reply'd, ‘I'll tell
‘This easily without a Spell:
‘The Wife you look for's gone to Hell.
‘Nay, never start, Man, for 'tis so;
‘Except one ill-bred Wife, or two,
‘The fashion is for all to go.
‘Not that she will be Damn'd ne'er fear,
‘But she may get Preferment there.
‘Indeed, she might be fry'd in Pitch,
‘If she had been a bitter Bitch;
‘If she had leap'd a-thwart a Sword,
‘And afterwards had broke her Word.
‘But your Euridice, poor Soul,
‘Was a good natur'd harmless Fool;
‘Except a little Catterwawling,
‘Was always painful in her Calling;
‘And I dare trust Old Pluto for't,
‘She will find Favour in his Court:
‘But then to fetch her back, that still
‘Remains, and may be past my Skill;
‘For 'tis too sad a thing to jest on,
‘You're the first Man e'er ask'd the Question;
‘For Husbands are such selfish Elves,
‘They care for little but themselves.
‘And then one Rogue cries to another,
‘Since this Wife's gone, e'en get another:
‘Tho most Men let such Thoughts alone,
‘And swear they've had enough of one.
‘But since you are so kind to Dice,
‘Follow the Course which I advise ye;
‘E'en go to Hell your self and try,
‘Th'Effects of Musick's Harmony;
‘For you will hardly find a Friend,
‘Whom you in such a Case might send;
‘Besides there Proserpine has been,
‘The briskest Dancer on the Green,
‘Before Old Pluto Ravish'd her,
‘Took her to Hell, and you may swear
‘She had but little Musick there;
‘For since she last beheld the Sun,
‘Her merry Dancing-days are done;
‘But she has a Colt's Tooth still, I warrant,
‘And will not disapprove your Errant;
‘Then your Request does Reason seem,
‘For what's one single Ghost to them?
‘Tho' thousand Phantoms shou'd invade ye,
‘Pass on, faint Heart ne'er won fair Lady;
‘The Bold, a Way will find, or make,
‘Remember, 'tis for Dice's sake.
‘This easily without a Spell:
‘The Wife you look for's gone to Hell.
‘Nay, never start, Man, for 'tis so;
‘Except one ill-bred Wife, or two,
‘The fashion is for all to go.
‘Not that she will be Damn'd ne'er fear,
‘But she may get Preferment there.
‘Indeed, she might be fry'd in Pitch,
‘If she had been a bitter Bitch;
‘If she had leap'd a-thwart a Sword,
‘And afterwards had broke her Word.
‘But your Euridice, poor Soul,
‘Was a good natur'd harmless Fool;
‘Except a little Catterwawling,
‘Was always painful in her Calling;
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‘She will find Favour in his Court:
‘But then to fetch her back, that still
‘Remains, and may be past my Skill;
‘For 'tis too sad a thing to jest on,
‘You're the first Man e'er ask'd the Question;
‘For Husbands are such selfish Elves,
‘They care for little but themselves.
‘And then one Rogue cries to another,
‘Since this Wife's gone, e'en get another:
‘Tho most Men let such Thoughts alone,
‘And swear they've had enough of one.
‘But since you are so kind to Dice,
‘Follow the Course which I advise ye;
‘E'en go to Hell your self and try,
‘Th'Effects of Musick's Harmony;
‘For you will hardly find a Friend,
‘Whom you in such a Case might send;
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‘The briskest Dancer on the Green,
‘Before Old Pluto Ravish'd her,
‘Took her to Hell, and you may swear
‘She had but little Musick there;
‘For since she last beheld the Sun,
‘Her merry Dancing-days are done;
‘But she has a Colt's Tooth still, I warrant,
‘And will not disapprove your Errant;
‘Then your Request does Reason seem,
‘For what's one single Ghost to them?
‘Tho' thousand Phantoms shou'd invade ye,
‘Pass on, faint Heart ne'er won fair Lady;
‘The Bold, a Way will find, or make,
‘Remember, 'tis for Dice's sake.
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Nothing pleas'd Orpheus half so well,
As News that he must go to Hell.
Th'impatient Wight long'd to be going,
As most Folk seek their own Undoing;
Ne'er thought of what he left behind,
Never consider'd he should find,
Scarce any Passengers beside
Himself, nor cou'd he hire a Guide.
As News that he must go to Hell.
Th'impatient Wight long'd to be going,
As most Folk seek their own Undoing;
Ne'er thought of what he left behind,
Never consider'd he should find,
Scarce any Passengers beside
Himself, nor cou'd he hire a Guide.
‘Will Musick do't, cry'd he, ne'er heed,
‘My Harp shall make the Marble bleed.
‘My Harp all Dangers shall remove,
‘And dare all Flames, but those of Love.
‘My Harp shall make the Marble bleed.
‘My Harp all Dangers shall remove,
‘And dare all Flames, but those of Love.
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Then kneeling begs, in Terms most Civil
Urganda's Pasport to the Devil;
Her Pass she kindly to him gave,
Then bid him 'noint himself with Salve;
Such as those hardy People use,
Who walk on Fire without their Shoes;
Who on Occasion, in a dark Hole,
Can Gormondize on lighted Charcoal;
And drink eight Quarts of flaming Fuel,
As Men in Flux, do Water-Gruel.
She bid him then go to those Caves,
Where Conjurers keep Fairy Slaves,
Such sort of Creatures as will baste ye,
A Kitchen-Wench for being nasty:
But if she neatly scoure her Pewter,
Give her the Money that is due t'her.
Urganda's Pasport to the Devil;
Her Pass she kindly to him gave,
Then bid him 'noint himself with Salve;
Such as those hardy People use,
Who walk on Fire without their Shoes;
Who on Occasion, in a dark Hole,
Can Gormondize on lighted Charcoal;
And drink eight Quarts of flaming Fuel,
As Men in Flux, do Water-Gruel.
She bid him then go to those Caves,
Where Conjurers keep Fairy Slaves,
Such sort of Creatures as will baste ye,
A Kitchen-Wench for being nasty:
But if she neatly scoure her Pewter,
Give her the Money that is due t'her.
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Orpheus went down a narrow Hole,
That was as dark as any Coal;
He did at length some glim'ring spy,
By which, at least, he might discry
Ten thousand little Fairy Elves,
Who there were solacing themselves,
That was as dark as any Coal;
He did at length some glim'ring spy,
By which, at least, he might discry
Ten thousand little Fairy Elves,
Who there were solacing themselves,
All ran about him, cry'd, ‘Oh dear,
‘Who thought to have seen Orpheus here,
‘'Tis that Queen's Birth-day which you see,
‘And you are come as luckily:
‘You had no Ballad, but we bought it,
‘Paid Dice when she little thought it;
‘When you beneath the Yew Tree sat,
‘We've come, and all danc'd round your Hat;
‘But where-abouts did Dice leave ye?
‘She had been welcome, Sir, believe me.
‘Who thought to have seen Orpheus here,
‘'Tis that Queen's Birth-day which you see,
‘And you are come as luckily:
‘You had no Ballad, but we bought it,
‘Paid Dice when she little thought it;
‘When you beneath the Yew Tree sat,
‘We've come, and all danc'd round your Hat;
‘But where-abouts did Dice leave ye?
‘She had been welcome, Sir, believe me.
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These little Chits wou'd make one swear
Quoth Orpheus, 'twixt Disdain and Fear;
And dare these Urchins jeer my Crosses,
And laugh at mine, and Dice's Losses,
Hands off; the Monkeys hold the faster;
Sirrah's, I am going to your Master.
Quoth Orpheus, 'twixt Disdain and Fear;
And dare these Urchins jeer my Crosses,
And laugh at mine, and Dice's Losses,
Hands off; the Monkeys hold the faster;
Sirrah's, I am going to your Master.
Good Words, quoth Oberon, don't flinch,
For ev'ry time you stir, I'll pinch;
But if you decently sit down,
I'll first equip you with a Crown;
Then for each Dance, and for each Song,
Our Pence a piece the whole Night long.
Orpheus, who found no Remedy,
Made Virtue of Necessity,
Tho' all was out of Tune, their Dance
Would only hinder his Advance.
Each Note that from his Fingers fell,
Seem'd to be Dice's Passing-Bell.
At last Night let him cease his Crupper,
Get on his Legs, to go to Supper.
For ev'ry time you stir, I'll pinch;
But if you decently sit down,
I'll first equip you with a Crown;
Then for each Dance, and for each Song,
Our Pence a piece the whole Night long.
Orpheus, who found no Remedy,
Made Virtue of Necessity,
Tho' all was out of Tune, their Dance
Would only hinder his Advance.
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Seem'd to be Dice's Passing-Bell.
At last Night let him cease his Crupper,
Get on his Legs, to go to Supper.
‘Quo' Nab, we here have Strangers seldom,
‘But, Sir, to what we have you'r welcom.
‘But, Sir, to what we have you'r welcom.
‘Madam, they seem of light Digestion,
‘Is it not rude to ask a Question?
‘What they may be, Fish, Flesh or Fruit?
‘For I ne'er saw things so Minute.
‘Is it not rude to ask a Question?
‘What they may be, Fish, Flesh or Fruit?
‘For I ne'er saw things so Minute.
SIR,
A roasted Ant that's nicely done,
By one small Atom of the Sun.
These are Flies Eggs in Moon-shine poach'd,
This a Flea's Thigh in Collops scotch'd,
'Twas hunted Yesterday i'th' Park,
And like t'have scap'd us in the dark.
This is a Dish entirely new,
Butterflies Brains dissolv'd in Dew;
These Lovers Vows, these Courtiers Hopes,
Things to be Eat by Microscopes:
These sucking Mites, a Glow-worm's Heart,
This a delicious Rainbow-Tart.
By one small Atom of the Sun.
These are Flies Eggs in Moon-shine poach'd,
This a Flea's Thigh in Collops scotch'd,
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And like t'have scap'd us in the dark.
This is a Dish entirely new,
Butterflies Brains dissolv'd in Dew;
These Lovers Vows, these Courtiers Hopes,
Things to be Eat by Microscopes:
These sucking Mites, a Glow-worm's Heart,
This a delicious Rainbow-Tart.
Madam, I find, they're very nice,
And will digest within a trice;
I see there's nothing you esteem,
That's half so gross as our Whipt-Cream.
And I infer from all these Meats,
That such light Suppers keep clean Sheets.
And will digest within a trice;
I see there's nothing you esteem,
That's half so gross as our Whipt-Cream.
And I infer from all these Meats,
That such light Suppers keep clean Sheets.
But Sir, said she, perhaps you're dry;
Then speaking to a Fairy by,
You've taken care, my dear Endia,
All's ready for my Ratifia.
Then speaking to a Fairy by,
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All's ready for my Ratifia.
SIR,
A drop of Water newly torn
Fresh from the Rosie Finger'd Morn.
A Pearl of Milk that's gently prest
From blooming Hebe's early Breast;
With half a one of Cupid's Tears,
When he in Embrio first appears;
And Honey from an Infant Bee
Makes Liquor for the Gods and Me.
Fresh from the Rosie Finger'd Morn.
A Pearl of Milk that's gently prest
From blooming Hebe's early Breast;
With half a one of Cupid's Tears,
When he in Embrio first appears;
And Honey from an Infant Bee
Makes Liquor for the Gods and Me.
Madam, says he, ant' please your Grace,
I'm going to a Droughty place;
And if I an't too bold, pray charge her,
The Draught I have be somewhat larger.
I'm going to a Droughty place;
And if I an't too bold, pray charge her,
The Draught I have be somewhat larger.
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Fetch me, said she, a mighty Bowl,
Like Oberon's capacious Soul,
And then fill up the burnisht Gold
With juice that makes the Britains bold.
This from seven Barley Corns I drew,
It's Years are seven, and to the view
It's clear, and sparkles fit for you.
Like Oberon's capacious Soul,
And then fill up the burnisht Gold
With juice that makes the Britains bold.
This from seven Barley Corns I drew,
It's Years are seven, and to the view
It's clear, and sparkles fit for you.
But stay,—
When I by Fate was last time hurl'd,
To act my Pranks in t'other World,
I saw some Sparks as they were Drinking,
With mighty Mirth, and little thinking
Their Jests were Supernaculum,
I snacht the Rubies from each Thumb,
And in this Crystal have 'em here,
Perhaps you'll like it more than Beer.
When I by Fate was last time hurl'd,
To act my Pranks in t'other World,
I saw some Sparks as they were Drinking,
With mighty Mirth, and little thinking
Their Jests were Supernaculum,
I snacht the Rubies from each Thumb,
And in this Crystal have 'em here,
Perhaps you'll like it more than Beer.
51
Wine and late Hours dissolv'd the Feast,
And Men and Faries went to rest.
And Men and Faries went to rest.
The Bed where Orpheus was to lie,
Was all stuff'd full of Harmony;
Purling of Streams and Amorous Rills,
Dying Sounds that never kills:
Zephyrus breathing, Love delighting,
Joy to Slumber soft Inviting:
Trembling Sounds that make no Noise,
And Songs to please without a Voice:
Were mixt with Down that fell from Jove,
When he became a Swan for Love.
Was all stuff'd full of Harmony;
Purling of Streams and Amorous Rills,
Dying Sounds that never kills:
Zephyrus breathing, Love delighting,
Joy to Slumber soft Inviting:
Trembling Sounds that make no Noise,
And Songs to please without a Voice:
Were mixt with Down that fell from Jove,
When he became a Swan for Love.
52
'Twas Night, and Nature's self lay dead,
Nodding upon a Feather-bed;
The Mountains seem'd to bend their Tops,
And Shutters clos'd the Mill'ners Shops,
Excluded both the Punks and Fops.
No ruffl'd Streams to Mill did come,
The silent Fish were still more dumb;
Look in the Chimney, not a spark there,
And Darkness did it self grow darker.
Nodding upon a Feather-bed;
The Mountains seem'd to bend their Tops,
And Shutters clos'd the Mill'ners Shops,
Excluded both the Punks and Fops.
No ruffl'd Streams to Mill did come,
The silent Fish were still more dumb;
Look in the Chimney, not a spark there,
And Darkness did it self grow darker.
But Orpheus could not sleep a wink,
He had too many things to think:
But in the dark, his Harp he Strung,
And to the Listening Fairies Sung.
He had too many things to think:
But in the dark, his Harp he Strung,
And to the Listening Fairies Sung.
53
Prince Prim, who pity'd so much Youth
Join'd with such Constancy and Truth,
Soon gave him thus to understand;
Join'd with such Constancy and Truth,
Soon gave him thus to understand;
Sir, I last night receiv'd Command
To see you out of Fairy Land,
Into the Realm of Nosnotbocai;
But let not Fear or Sulphur choak ye;
For he's a Fiend of Sense and Wit,
And has got many Rooms to lett.
To see you out of Fairy Land,
Into the Realm of Nosnotbocai;
But let not Fear or Sulphur choak ye;
For he's a Fiend of Sense and Wit,
And has got many Rooms to lett.
As quick as Thought, by Glow-worm glympse,
Out walk the Fidler and the Prince.
They soon arrive; find Bocai brewing
Of Claret for a Vintner's stewing.
I come from Oberon, quoth Prince Prim.
Out walk the Fidler and the Prince.
They soon arrive; find Bocai brewing
Of Claret for a Vintner's stewing.
54
'Tis well, quoth Bocai, what from him?
Why something strange; this Honest Man
Had his Wife dy'd; now, if he can,
He says he'd have her back again,
Had his Wife dy'd; now, if he can,
He says he'd have her back again,
Then Bocai smiling, cry'd, D'ye see,
Orpheus, you'd better stay with me.
For, let me tell you, Sir, this Place,
Altho it has an ugly Face,
When to its Value 't shall be sold,
Is worth ten thousand Tun of Gold;
And very famous in all Story,
Call'd by the Name of Purgatory.
For when some Ages shall have run,
And Truth by Falshood be undone,
Shall rise the Whore of Babylon.
And this same Whore shall be a Man,
Who by his Lies and Cheating can
Be such a Trader in all Evil,
As to outdo our Friend the Devil:
He and his Pimps shall say, that when
A Man is dying, thither then,
The Devil comes to take the Soul,
And carry him down to this Hole;
But if a Man have store of Wealth,
To get some Prayers for his Soul's Health,
The Devil has then no more to do,
But must be forc'd to let him go;
But we are no more Fools than they,
Thus to be bubbl'd of our Prey.
By these same Pious Frauds and Lies,
Shall many Ministeries rise.
Fryars shall get good Meat and Beer,
To pray Folks out that ne'er came here;
Pans, Pots and Kettles, shall be given,
To fetch a Man from hence to Heaven.
Suppose a Man has taken Purses,
Or stolen Sheep, or Cows, or Horses,
And chances to be Hang'd, you'd cry,
Let him be Hang'd, and so good by.
Hold, says the Fryar, let me alone,
He's but to Purgatory gone;
And if you'll let our Convent keep
Those Purses, Cows, Horses and Sheep;
The Fellow shall find no more Pain,
Than if he were alive again.
Orpheus, you'd better stay with me.
For, let me tell you, Sir, this Place,
Altho it has an ugly Face,
When to its Value 't shall be sold,
Is worth ten thousand Tun of Gold;
And very famous in all Story,
Call'd by the Name of Purgatory.
55
And Truth by Falshood be undone,
Shall rise the Whore of Babylon.
And this same Whore shall be a Man,
Who by his Lies and Cheating can
Be such a Trader in all Evil,
As to outdo our Friend the Devil:
He and his Pimps shall say, that when
A Man is dying, thither then,
The Devil comes to take the Soul,
And carry him down to this Hole;
But if a Man have store of Wealth,
To get some Prayers for his Soul's Health,
The Devil has then no more to do,
But must be forc'd to let him go;
But we are no more Fools than they,
Thus to be bubbl'd of our Prey.
56
Shall many Ministeries rise.
Fryars shall get good Meat and Beer,
To pray Folks out that ne'er came here;
Pans, Pots and Kettles, shall be given,
To fetch a Man from hence to Heaven.
Suppose a Man has taken Purses,
Or stolen Sheep, or Cows, or Horses,
And chances to be Hang'd, you'd cry,
Let him be Hang'd, and so good by.
Hold, says the Fryar, let me alone,
He's but to Purgatory gone;
And if you'll let our Convent keep
Those Purses, Cows, Horses and Sheep;
The Fellow shall find no more Pain,
Than if he were alive again.
57
Here Orpheus sigh'd, began to take on,
Cy'd, cou'd I find the Whore you speak on,
I'd give him my best Flitch of Bacon:
I'd give him Cake and Sugar'd Sack,
If he would bring my Dice back.
Rather than she should longer stay,
I'd find some lusty Man to pray.
And then poor Dice, let him try her,
I dare say would requite the Friar.
Cy'd, cou'd I find the Whore you speak on,
I'd give him my best Flitch of Bacon:
I'd give him Cake and Sugar'd Sack,
If he would bring my Dice back.
Rather than she should longer stay,
I'd find some lusty Man to pray.
And then poor Dice, let him try her,
I dare say would requite the Friar.
Great Nosnotbocai smil'd to see
Such Goodness and Simplicity.
Then kindly lead them to a Cell,
An outward Granary of Hell;
A filthy place that's seldom swept,
Where Seeds of Villany are kept.
Such Goodness and Simplicity.
Then kindly lead them to a Cell,
An outward Granary of Hell;
58
Where Seeds of Villany are kept.
Orpheus, said he, I'd have you take
Some of these Seeds here, for my sake;
Which, if they are discreetly hurl'd
Throughout the parts of t'other World,
They may oblige the Fiend you sue to,
And fill the Palace of Old Pluto.
Some of these Seeds here, for my sake;
Which, if they are discreetly hurl'd
Throughout the parts of t'other World,
They may oblige the Fiend you sue to,
And fill the Palace of Old Pluto.
Sow Pride Seed uppermost, and then above
Envy and Scandal plant Self-Love.
Here, take Revenge, and Malice without Cause,
And here Contempt of Honesty and Laws
This hot Seed's Anger, and this hotter Lust,
Best Sown with breach of Friendship, and of Trust:
These Storm, Hail, Plague and Tempest Seeds,
And this a Quintessence of Weeds.
This the worst sort of Artichoke,
A Plant that Pluto has himself bespoke;
Nourish it well, 'tis useful Treachery.
This is a Choice, though little Seed, a Lye:
Here take some now from these prodigious Loads,
Of tender things that look like Toads.
In future Times, these finely drest,
Shall Each invade a Prince's Brest;
'Tis Flattery Seed, tho thinly Sown,
It is a mighty Plant when grown,
When Rooted deep, and fully Blown;
Now see these things like Bubbles fly,
These are the Seeds of Vanity.
Take Tyrant Acorns which will best Advance,
If Sown in Eastern Climates, or in France;
But these are things of most Prodigious Hopes,
They're Jesuit Bulbs ty'd up with Ropes,
And these the Devil's Grafts for future Popes,
Which with Fanaticism are join'd so clean,
You'd scarce believe a Knife had past between:
False Witness Seed had almost been forgot,
'T may be your making, should there be a Plot:
And now dear Orpheus, scatter these but well,
And you'll deserve the Gratitude of Hell.
Envy and Scandal plant Self-Love.
Here, take Revenge, and Malice without Cause,
And here Contempt of Honesty and Laws
59
Best Sown with breach of Friendship, and of Trust:
These Storm, Hail, Plague and Tempest Seeds,
And this a Quintessence of Weeds.
This the worst sort of Artichoke,
A Plant that Pluto has himself bespoke;
Nourish it well, 'tis useful Treachery.
This is a Choice, though little Seed, a Lye:
Here take some now from these prodigious Loads,
Of tender things that look like Toads.
In future Times, these finely drest,
Shall Each invade a Prince's Brest;
60
It is a mighty Plant when grown,
When Rooted deep, and fully Blown;
Now see these things like Bubbles fly,
These are the Seeds of Vanity.
Take Tyrant Acorns which will best Advance,
If Sown in Eastern Climates, or in France;
But these are things of most Prodigious Hopes,
They're Jesuit Bulbs ty'd up with Ropes,
And these the Devil's Grafts for future Popes,
Which with Fanaticism are join'd so clean,
You'd scarce believe a Knife had past between:
61
'T may be your making, should there be a Plot:
And now dear Orpheus, scatter these but well,
And you'll deserve the Gratitude of Hell.
Quoth Orpheus, you shall be obey'd,
In every thing that you have said,
For Mischief is the Poets Trade,
And whatsoever they shall bring,
You may assure your self I'll sing;
But pray what Poets shall we have,
At my returning from the Grave?
In every thing that you have said,
For Mischief is the Poets Trade,
And whatsoever they shall bring,
You may assure your self I'll sing;
But pray what Poets shall we have,
At my returning from the Grave?
62
Sad Dogs! Quoth Bocai,—let me see—
But since what I say, cannot shame 'em,
I'll e'en resolve to never name 'em.
But since what I say, cannot shame 'em,
I'll e'en resolve to never name 'em.
But now, says Bocai, Sir, you may
Long to be going on your Way,
Unless you'll drink some Arsenick Claret,
'Tis Burnt you see, but Sam can spare it.
Long to be going on your Way,
Unless you'll drink some Arsenick Claret,
'Tis Burnt you see, but Sam can spare it.
Orpheus reply'd, Kind Sir, 'tis neither
Brandy nor Whets that brought me hither
But Love, and I an Instance can be,
Love is as hot as Pepper'd Brandy;
Yet, Gentle Sir, you may command
A Tune from a departing Hand;
The Stile and Passion both are good,
'Tis the Three Children in the Wood:
He Sung, and Pains themselves found Ease,
For Griefs, when well exprest can please;
When he describ'd the Childrens Loss,
And how the Robbins cover'd them with Moss;
To hear the Pity of those Birds,
E'en Bocai's Tears fell down with Orpheus Words.
Brandy nor Whets that brought me hither
But Love, and I an Instance can be,
Love is as hot as Pepper'd Brandy;
Yet, Gentle Sir, you may command
A Tune from a departing Hand;
63
'Tis the Three Children in the Wood:
He Sung, and Pains themselves found Ease,
For Griefs, when well exprest can please;
When he describ'd the Childrens Loss,
And how the Robbins cover'd them with Moss;
To hear the Pity of those Birds,
E'en Bocai's Tears fell down with Orpheus Words.
FINIS.
| Mully of Montoun | |