The Poet's Ramble after Riches or, a Night's Transactions Upon the Road Burlesqu'd; With Reflections on a Dissenting Corporation: Together, With the Authors Lamentation, in the time of Adversity [by Edward Ward] |
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 | The Poet's Ramble after Riches |  |
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THE POET's Ramble AFTER RICHES, &c.
I sing of neither Hogan Mogan,
Of Ancient Greek, or Trusty Trojan;
Or is my Muse dispos'd to Babble
Of some strange Antiquated Fable,
In blust'ring Strains to Boast, or Brag on,
How George for England slew the Dragon;
Or do I Sing, in flat'ring Phrases,
Fair Helen, or Queen Dido's Praises;
Or in a Whining Cant discover
The Fate of some poor slighted Lover,
Who Raves and Sighs, Laments and Wanders,
And on disdainful Phillis Ponders.
I Treat you with a merry Tale,
Spun o'er a Cup of Nappy Ale;
For Custom's sake excuse Preamble,
I'll Sing you o'er a Country Ramble;
Where I, in doleful Cogitation,
Have view'd, with mighty Admiration,
The Circled Earth, and Misty Sky,
Where Fairies Dance, and Witches fly;
And oft have heard the Country Wenches
Complain of Hags, and Fairy Pinches:
And Ralph, with Hands o'er flaming Cow-Turd,
Turn Tales and Stories inside outward;
Where Dames, whose pritty Eyes would pierce ye,
Will turn up Tales for God have Mercy,
And think no greater Obligation,
Than the sweet Tye of Copulation:
But lest I tire your kind Complaisance,
By thus Haranging on your Patience,
No more bye-Crochets will I scatter,
But come with speed unto the Matter.
Of Ancient Greek, or Trusty Trojan;
Or is my Muse dispos'd to Babble
Of some strange Antiquated Fable,
In blust'ring Strains to Boast, or Brag on,
How George for England slew the Dragon;
Or do I Sing, in flat'ring Phrases,
Fair Helen, or Queen Dido's Praises;
Or in a Whining Cant discover
The Fate of some poor slighted Lover,
Who Raves and Sighs, Laments and Wanders,
And on disdainful Phillis Ponders.
I Treat you with a merry Tale,
Spun o'er a Cup of Nappy Ale;
4
I'll Sing you o'er a Country Ramble;
Where I, in doleful Cogitation,
Have view'd, with mighty Admiration,
The Circled Earth, and Misty Sky,
Where Fairies Dance, and Witches fly;
And oft have heard the Country Wenches
Complain of Hags, and Fairy Pinches:
And Ralph, with Hands o'er flaming Cow-Turd,
Turn Tales and Stories inside outward;
Where Dames, whose pritty Eyes would pierce ye,
Will turn up Tales for God have Mercy,
And think no greater Obligation,
Than the sweet Tye of Copulation:
But lest I tire your kind Complaisance,
By thus Haranging on your Patience,
No more bye-Crochets will I scatter,
But come with speed unto the Matter.
In an Age blest with no great Plenty,
When Wit and Money both grew Scanty,
I then, with quiet mind possessing
The Poets ancient Thread-bare Blessing,
Lodg'd in a Place, I must declare it,
I think, for Neatness, call'd a Garret;
Where, as I pensively lay thinking,
One Morning, after Nights hard Drinking;
Up comes a Man with Hasty Look,
And opens me his Pocket-Book;
At that my Heart began to fail me,
I thought of nought but who should Bail me:
Good Sir, says he, I'm come to tell you,
Of an Estate of late befell you;
Your Grand-mother is, Sir, Departed;
Pleas'd with the News, then up I started:
And is my Granny Dead? quoth I;
He answer'd me, Yea, verily;
Thou may'st believe me without Swearing,
She is as dead as any Herring:
Well, if the News be true, said I,
Excuse me that I do not Cry,
Since 'tis appointed all must Dye;
For Grief, you know, will neither save,
Or call Relations from the Grave.
I lugg'd on Hose, and fell to dressing,
Few Tears let fall, small Grief expressing;
From thence we 'djourned to the Ale-House,
Where Credit seldom us'd to fail us,
And there I made the Bumpkin Fuddle,
Till Muddy Ale had seiz'd his Noddle,
And then was forc'd to call two Porters,
To lead the Lubber to his Quarters.
My Landlord, as I pass'd the Bar,
Cry'd out, Who pays the Reckoning here?
Said I, pray take it not amiss,
Remember I must pay you this:
Said he, pray, to prevent mistakes,
Will you remember what this makes;
Landlord, let no Ill Thoughts be harbour'd,
I'll soon be rubb'd from off your Bar-board;
I'll pay you in a little time;
I doubt, says he, 'twill be in Rhime,
For whatsoe're we Trust a Poet,
Our Bar for seven years may show it;
And then if Dunn'd, all that they say to't,
Poh, that Debt's Cancell'd by the Statute.
From thence I went to th'City Crest,
In Pasty-Nook, to hire a Beast,
Where one I got on Reputation,
To prevent tedious Ambulation;
Girt with a Sword, which in old Wars,
Made many Bloody Wounds and Scars,
Whose Blade was so experiencive,
Of't self it knew to be defensive:
A pair of Boots then on I Garters,
The Owner said had been King Arthurs,
With Spurs, whose inlaid Gallantry
Were Types of great Antiquity:
Thus mounted I my Noble Steed,
In this brave order to proceed;
But by the way, my Muse intent is,
To Sing my Horse's Excellencies;
A short Encomium on his Paces,
With all his Comely Looks and Graces.
When Wit and Money both grew Scanty,
I then, with quiet mind possessing
The Poets ancient Thread-bare Blessing,
Lodg'd in a Place, I must declare it,
I think, for Neatness, call'd a Garret;
Where, as I pensively lay thinking,
One Morning, after Nights hard Drinking;
5
And opens me his Pocket-Book;
At that my Heart began to fail me,
I thought of nought but who should Bail me:
Good Sir, says he, I'm come to tell you,
Of an Estate of late befell you;
Your Grand-mother is, Sir, Departed;
Pleas'd with the News, then up I started:
And is my Granny Dead? quoth I;
He answer'd me, Yea, verily;
Thou may'st believe me without Swearing,
She is as dead as any Herring:
Well, if the News be true, said I,
Excuse me that I do not Cry,
Since 'tis appointed all must Dye;
For Grief, you know, will neither save,
Or call Relations from the Grave.
I lugg'd on Hose, and fell to dressing,
Few Tears let fall, small Grief expressing;
From thence we 'djourned to the Ale-House,
Where Credit seldom us'd to fail us,
And there I made the Bumpkin Fuddle,
Till Muddy Ale had seiz'd his Noddle,
And then was forc'd to call two Porters,
To lead the Lubber to his Quarters.
My Landlord, as I pass'd the Bar,
Cry'd out, Who pays the Reckoning here?
6
Remember I must pay you this:
Said he, pray, to prevent mistakes,
Will you remember what this makes;
Landlord, let no Ill Thoughts be harbour'd,
I'll soon be rubb'd from off your Bar-board;
I'll pay you in a little time;
I doubt, says he, 'twill be in Rhime,
For whatsoe're we Trust a Poet,
Our Bar for seven years may show it;
And then if Dunn'd, all that they say to't,
Poh, that Debt's Cancell'd by the Statute.
From thence I went to th'City Crest,
In Pasty-Nook, to hire a Beast,
Where one I got on Reputation,
To prevent tedious Ambulation;
Girt with a Sword, which in old Wars,
Made many Bloody Wounds and Scars,
Whose Blade was so experiencive,
Of't self it knew to be defensive:
A pair of Boots then on I Garters,
The Owner said had been King Arthurs,
With Spurs, whose inlaid Gallantry
Were Types of great Antiquity:
Thus mounted I my Noble Steed,
In this brave order to proceed;
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To Sing my Horse's Excellencies;
A short Encomium on his Paces,
With all his Comely Looks and Graces.
Don Quixot's Steed ne'er mov'd so nimble,
When he advanc'd against the Windmill;
And as for Shape, mine far surpasses
The Courser of Sir Hugh de Brasses;
He was, if I am not mistaken,
As fat as any Hock of Bacon;
He'd all his Ribs, I'll boldly Swear on't,
I told them, they were so apparent;
No Curb he needed, whose will ride him,
Instead of that, a Thread would guide him;
For thus much in his Praise I'll say,
I never knew him run away;
Three Legs he'd Gallop, like a Racer,
But still the fourth would be a Pacer;
Yet when he Pac'd, as sure as could be,
That self same Leg a Trotter would be;
What Pace so e'er he'd into enter,
One Foot would still be a Dissenter,
Which makes me apt to think, Plague Rot him,
Some Presbyterian's Cart-Horse got him;
With Whip and Spur he might be beat up
Into a Canterbury Tit-up;
But then on's Knees, he was so humble,
Each other step would be a Stumble;
Then would I Spur, Whip, Curse, and Mumble,
And he, poor Jade, so Groan and Grumble,
That 'twould have made you laugh to've seen us,
Such work sometimes there was between us:
He ne'er would Sweat, or Tired be,
Confound him, but he Tired me;
Hail, Rain, or Shine, he'd in all Weather,
Trot, Stumble, Gallop, altogether;
So fierce he'd look, when he was Prancing,
With Pendant Ears, and Tail advancing,
And through both thick and thin would trudge it,
As fast as Ass with Tinkers Budget;
He'd rarely serve some Country Parson,
To clap his Laziness's Arse on;
Or truly to exchange my Notion,
He'd finely fit a Spaniard's Motion;
For Whip and Spur at any rate,
Will never make him change his Gate:
Poor Poet ne'er was mounted thus
Sure, on so Damn'd a Pegasus.
And Madam Fortune, she to double,
Like an Old Purblind Bitch, my Trouble,
And that my Case might be amended,
My little Coin was all expended:
Thus on I Travell'd, Hey Je Dobbin,
Exempted from the fear of Robbing,
Till it grew late, and to be short, Sir,
I forced was to take up Quarter,
Where I put up my Steed in Stable,
Who scarce to crawl to th'Rack was able:
Then, to look Big, I Cockt my Caster,
And bid the Hostler call his Master,
Who when he came, cry'd Wellcome, Sir,
You're wellcome into Leicester;
Here, Jack, Tom, Harry, Will, who's there?
Pray set the Gentleman a Chair:
What News, I pray, Good Sir, from London?
Then I reply'd, King J---s was undone;
For that our Royal, Brave King William,
He did so hack, so hew, and kill 'em,
That lest he soon was reconcil'd,
He'd slay them every Mothers Child;
And that some Troops, near Inneskillen,
Had drown'd themselves for fear of killing;
Nay, and King James, by his Men forsaken,
But that they mist him, had been taken:
My Host reply'd, Marry, Good speed,
This is rare, dainty News indeed!
Here, Thomas, take four Cans and fill 'em,
Ifac, well drink thy Health, Brave William;
And if, good Sir, you will permit me,
I with a Can or two will Treat ye:
I thankt him—
When he advanc'd against the Windmill;
And as for Shape, mine far surpasses
The Courser of Sir Hugh de Brasses;
He was, if I am not mistaken,
As fat as any Hock of Bacon;
He'd all his Ribs, I'll boldly Swear on't,
I told them, they were so apparent;
No Curb he needed, whose will ride him,
Instead of that, a Thread would guide him;
For thus much in his Praise I'll say,
I never knew him run away;
Three Legs he'd Gallop, like a Racer,
But still the fourth would be a Pacer;
Yet when he Pac'd, as sure as could be,
That self same Leg a Trotter would be;
What Pace so e'er he'd into enter,
One Foot would still be a Dissenter,
Which makes me apt to think, Plague Rot him,
Some Presbyterian's Cart-Horse got him;
With Whip and Spur he might be beat up
Into a Canterbury Tit-up;
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Each other step would be a Stumble;
Then would I Spur, Whip, Curse, and Mumble,
And he, poor Jade, so Groan and Grumble,
That 'twould have made you laugh to've seen us,
Such work sometimes there was between us:
He ne'er would Sweat, or Tired be,
Confound him, but he Tired me;
Hail, Rain, or Shine, he'd in all Weather,
Trot, Stumble, Gallop, altogether;
So fierce he'd look, when he was Prancing,
With Pendant Ears, and Tail advancing,
And through both thick and thin would trudge it,
As fast as Ass with Tinkers Budget;
He'd rarely serve some Country Parson,
To clap his Laziness's Arse on;
Or truly to exchange my Notion,
He'd finely fit a Spaniard's Motion;
For Whip and Spur at any rate,
Will never make him change his Gate:
Poor Poet ne'er was mounted thus
Sure, on so Damn'd a Pegasus.
And Madam Fortune, she to double,
Like an Old Purblind Bitch, my Trouble,
And that my Case might be amended,
My little Coin was all expended:
9
Exempted from the fear of Robbing,
Till it grew late, and to be short, Sir,
I forced was to take up Quarter,
Where I put up my Steed in Stable,
Who scarce to crawl to th'Rack was able:
Then, to look Big, I Cockt my Caster,
And bid the Hostler call his Master,
Who when he came, cry'd Wellcome, Sir,
You're wellcome into Leicester;
Here, Jack, Tom, Harry, Will, who's there?
Pray set the Gentleman a Chair:
What News, I pray, Good Sir, from London?
Then I reply'd, King J---s was undone;
For that our Royal, Brave King William,
He did so hack, so hew, and kill 'em,
That lest he soon was reconcil'd,
He'd slay them every Mothers Child;
And that some Troops, near Inneskillen,
Had drown'd themselves for fear of killing;
Nay, and King James, by his Men forsaken,
But that they mist him, had been taken:
My Host reply'd, Marry, Good speed,
This is rare, dainty News indeed!
Here, Thomas, take four Cans and fill 'em,
Ifac, well drink thy Health, Brave William;
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I with a Can or two will Treat ye:
I thankt him—
Then, undaunted as a Trooper,
I askt him what he had for Supper?
He answer'd me rare Duck, or Chicken,
Or Ribs of Beef, where was fine picking,
As sweet and good as Knife could stick in.
In then he call'd his pretty Daughter,
In truth, which made my Chops to water;
That I should scarce have made a scruple
To've lent her Buttons to her Loop-hole:
When she came in to show her breeding,
She dropt a Cout'sie most exceeding;
I 'rose and kist her, as I shou'd do,
And gave her earnest what I wou'd do;
With fine white Hands laid cross her Belly,
She lookt so tempting, let me tell ye;
Her Lips so melting soft and tender,
They did so sweet a Kiss surrender;
That Pego, like an upstart Hector,
Finding how much I did affect her,
Would fain have Rul'd as Lord Protector:
Inflam'd by one so like a Goddess,
I scarce could keep him in my Codpiece.
I askt him what he had for Supper?
He answer'd me rare Duck, or Chicken,
Or Ribs of Beef, where was fine picking,
As sweet and good as Knife could stick in.
In then he call'd his pretty Daughter,
In truth, which made my Chops to water;
That I should scarce have made a scruple
To've lent her Buttons to her Loop-hole:
When she came in to show her breeding,
She dropt a Cout'sie most exceeding;
I 'rose and kist her, as I shou'd do,
And gave her earnest what I wou'd do;
With fine white Hands laid cross her Belly,
She lookt so tempting, let me tell ye;
Her Lips so melting soft and tender,
They did so sweet a Kiss surrender;
That Pego, like an upstart Hector,
Finding how much I did affect her,
Would fain have Rul'd as Lord Protector:
Inflam'd by one so like a Goddess,
I scarce could keep him in my Codpiece.
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By this time she had brought up Supper,
Then at the Tables end that's upper,
My Landlord set his Brawny Crupper;
With Eyes t'wards Heaven devoutly cast,
As if it were to be his Last;
He said a Grace, as I Conjecture,
As long as any Evening Lecture:
His next Oration being then,
Fall on, you're Wellcome Gentlemen;
Which he had spoke, but I no sooner
Fell on as fierce as a Dragooner:
I Cut and Slasht, and Carbonado'd;
The Meat being cold, had some grilliado'd:
We sat not long upon our Haunches,
E'er we had all well stuft our Paunches;
Hiding with's Hat an ugly Face,
My Landlord then said After Grace;
And so in order to be Drunk,
We each Man call'd for Pipe of Funk:
Then Nasty Cans well lin'd with Rozen,
Were call'd for in by the whole dozen.
An Alderman both Grave and Wise,
Did from his Elboe-Chair arise;
Plucks off his Hat from his bald Noddle,
And thus t'wards me begins his Fuddle:
Here, Honest Master, here's to to thee,
To England's Church Prosperity:
Then up starts one, and Swears aloud,
For England's Church he'd lose his Blood,
And he's a Rogue, and he'd maintain it,
That dares to speak a word again it.
The following Point we chanc'd to pitch on,
Being half Drunk, it was Religion:
Then one begins in a great Rapture,
And goes a Gleaning through the Scripture,
Divinely for to prove it true,
That Balaam and his Ass were two;
At which, then I clapt in a word,
And Swore by G---d he made the Third;
Then up starts he in mighty Anger,
And Swore, but that I was a Stranger,
Or else he further would Contend on't,
Then bit his Nails, and there's an end on't.
Then at the Tables end that's upper,
My Landlord set his Brawny Crupper;
With Eyes t'wards Heaven devoutly cast,
As if it were to be his Last;
He said a Grace, as I Conjecture,
As long as any Evening Lecture:
His next Oration being then,
Fall on, you're Wellcome Gentlemen;
Which he had spoke, but I no sooner
Fell on as fierce as a Dragooner:
I Cut and Slasht, and Carbonado'd;
The Meat being cold, had some grilliado'd:
We sat not long upon our Haunches,
E'er we had all well stuft our Paunches;
Hiding with's Hat an ugly Face,
My Landlord then said After Grace;
And so in order to be Drunk,
We each Man call'd for Pipe of Funk:
Then Nasty Cans well lin'd with Rozen,
Were call'd for in by the whole dozen.
An Alderman both Grave and Wise,
Did from his Elboe-Chair arise;
Plucks off his Hat from his bald Noddle,
And thus t'wards me begins his Fuddle:
Here, Honest Master, here's to to thee,
To England's Church Prosperity:
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For England's Church he'd lose his Blood,
And he's a Rogue, and he'd maintain it,
That dares to speak a word again it.
The following Point we chanc'd to pitch on,
Being half Drunk, it was Religion:
Then one begins in a great Rapture,
And goes a Gleaning through the Scripture,
Divinely for to prove it true,
That Balaam and his Ass were two;
At which, then I clapt in a word,
And Swore by G---d he made the Third;
Then up starts he in mighty Anger,
And Swore, but that I was a Stranger,
Or else he further would Contend on't,
Then bit his Nails, and there's an end on't.
Another he breathes forth a Hick-up,
And gravely then begins to speak up,
That he'd before the World maintain,
Eve Dam'd her self with a Paremane;
I told him, No, 'twas a Boon-Critting,
The Lord preserv'd for his own Eating;
At which he skip'd, to make Evasions,
From Genesis to th'Revelations;
At last, to th'Clouds his Fancy tost him,
Like Doctor Sh---y, there we lost him.
A Third, who being more Sedate,
That seem'd not much to care to Prate,
Would now and then, by chance, refine us
Some Godly Phrase from Tom Aquinus,
Or else would tell us some strange Story
Of our Old Father St. Gregory.
And gravely then begins to speak up,
That he'd before the World maintain,
Eve Dam'd her self with a Paremane;
I told him, No, 'twas a Boon-Critting,
The Lord preserv'd for his own Eating;
At which he skip'd, to make Evasions,
From Genesis to th'Revelations;
At last, to th'Clouds his Fancy tost him,
Like Doctor Sh---y, there we lost him.
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That seem'd not much to care to Prate,
Would now and then, by chance, refine us
Some Godly Phrase from Tom Aquinus,
Or else would tell us some strange Story
Of our Old Father St. Gregory.
My Landlord, who had long sat silent,
At this poor Saint grew very Violent,
Saying, if he wa'n't much mistaken,
He was a Saint of Rome's own making,
And then rail'd furiously on
Against the Whore of Babylon,
Telling us many dreadful Stories
Of Massacres, and Purgatories;
And how their bloody Priests would Broil us,
Stew, Frigasie, nay, Bake and Boil us;
And were so exquisite in Evil,
In Wicked Snares they'd trap the Devil:
Then one whose Argumental Fire,
Spoke him some Jesuit or Fryer,
Huffs, Puffs, and Sweats, looks Big, and blusters,
Speaking great Words to m' Host by Clusters,
And Stagg'ring Swore, his Brains being mellow,
St. Greg'ry was an Honest Fellow;
And as for Baking, Boiling, Frying,
He Swore, by Jove, 'twas all Damn'd Lying;
Saying, to th'Pope a Pow'r was given,
With's Bulls, to toss a Man to Heaven.
At this poor Saint grew very Violent,
Saying, if he wa'n't much mistaken,
He was a Saint of Rome's own making,
And then rail'd furiously on
Against the Whore of Babylon,
Telling us many dreadful Stories
Of Massacres, and Purgatories;
And how their bloody Priests would Broil us,
Stew, Frigasie, nay, Bake and Boil us;
And were so exquisite in Evil,
In Wicked Snares they'd trap the Devil:
Then one whose Argumental Fire,
Spoke him some Jesuit or Fryer,
Huffs, Puffs, and Sweats, looks Big, and blusters,
Speaking great Words to m' Host by Clusters,
And Stagg'ring Swore, his Brains being mellow,
St. Greg'ry was an Honest Fellow;
And as for Baking, Boiling, Frying,
He Swore, by Jove, 'twas all Damn'd Lying;
14
With's Bulls, to toss a Man to Heaven.
Then one who's Church-Clark in the Town,
At that same word began to Frown,
And takes him smartly up, and short,
Which, truly, made us pleasant Sport:
Says he, I'll hold you, Sir, a Shilling,
I'll prove the Pope to be a Villain;
With that such Noise we had a while,
Loud as the Cataracts of Nile;
Each strain'd his Lungs, to keep on prating,
No sweeter Musick at Bear-beating;
Noise through the whole Soci'ty went,
For th'better part of Argument;
He that bawl'd loudest, we all cry'd,
Had the most Reason on his side:
The one he makes a loud Oration,
Thumping the Table 'n Vindication
Of the Pope's Power of Dispensation;
At which the Psalmist grew so angry,
He Roar'd like one perplext with Strangry;
At last being rais'd, by Indignation,
To th'highest pitch of Disputation,
Each Learned Point, to tell you truly,
Ended in, You Lye, Sir, and you Lye:
Now, fir'd with heat of Argument,
The Disputants to Boxing went,
That Blows might give Determination
To their deep Point in Disputation;
Thus to't they fell, and bang'd each other,
Amidst the Spittle, Spew, and Smother;
The Pipes and Noggins flew about,
And Candles soon were all put out,
Whilst I at distance stole away,
Not caring for the heat o'th' Fray,
Yet stood where I could see Fair Play;
For Poets, tho' they oft, by Writing,
Breed Quarrels, seldom care for Fighting:
Both spur'd with Honour in Bravado,
Each bravely stood the Bastinado;
One Scratch'd and Claw'd, like any Ferret,
Last t'other lent him such a wherret,
Who being astonisht at the Cuff,
Cry'd out, O Lord, I have enough:
The mighty Conquerour then sat down
With torn Cloaths, and broken Crown;
His Victim from the Ground arose,
First blow'd, and then he whip'd his Nose,
Which truly much reviv'd the Noddy,
To find 'twas Snotty, more than Bloody:
The Clark, who stood in Vindication
Of England's People, Church and Nation,
With painfull threshing, let us see
How he could mawl down Popery:
Now when the hot Dispute was ended,
And the Clerks Courage much Commended,
To make the Champions both amends,
We all agreed they should be Friends,
Provided they would both be willing,
On that account, to spend their Shilling;
They answer'd, Yea, if it were Ten,
And so shook hands like Honest Men.
The Tapster we began to call on,
To bring the Jug that holds a Gallon:
But who stept in from out the Gate-way,
But our Cæsar's Cleopatra,
Who entering in a mighty Passion,
Gave her Great Lord this Salutation:
You Rogue, you Rascal, are you not
A silly, sorry, sap-head Sot,
Thus to sit hugging of a Pot,
And let your poor young Infants mutter
At home for want of Bread and Butter;
You'll find, you Sot, this loving Ale,
At last will bring you to a Goal:
Be Judge your self, would it not vex one,
To see how handsomely the Sexton
Maintains his Wife and Family,
In all her Silks and Bravery?
Whilst I, its well known, since my Marriage,
Have wanted Bread to crumb my Porridge,
And you that are the Clark o'th' Parish,
In Pots of Ale to be so Lavish;
I will appeal, is't not a hard thing,
That none will Trust us for a Farthing?
Nay, don't you grin, and thus perplex me,
I vow to God, if once you vex me,
You know I shall not be afraid
To fling the Flaggon at your Head:
You're a fit Man to say Gods Word,
You say Amen, you say a Turd:
These Practices you know are evil;
You Clark to th'Church, you Clark to th'Devil;
Rise and come Home, or, by my Soul,
I'll crack your Noddle with the Bowl.
The Noddy fear'd to disobey,
Arose, took leave, and went his way;
The rest, as well as he, God wot,
Pay'ng Homage to the Petticoat;
Fearing their Wives, in Indignation,
Should blow up our Association;
With Sparkling Eyes, and Flaming Noses,
They all Reell'd home to their dear Spouses,
Leaving my Host and I to prate
Of some Affairs concerning State:
I told him 'twas not to be doubted,
But that the French would soon be Routed;
And that the Prince of Wales for certain,
Was a meer Flam, a Sham, a Perkin:
By this time we were got so Fuddled,
That both our Brains in truth were addled;
Thus, like true Sots, we neither started
Till Drunk, and then to Bed departed.
At that same word began to Frown,
And takes him smartly up, and short,
Which, truly, made us pleasant Sport:
Says he, I'll hold you, Sir, a Shilling,
I'll prove the Pope to be a Villain;
With that such Noise we had a while,
Loud as the Cataracts of Nile;
Each strain'd his Lungs, to keep on prating,
No sweeter Musick at Bear-beating;
Noise through the whole Soci'ty went,
For th'better part of Argument;
He that bawl'd loudest, we all cry'd,
Had the most Reason on his side:
The one he makes a loud Oration,
Thumping the Table 'n Vindication
Of the Pope's Power of Dispensation;
At which the Psalmist grew so angry,
He Roar'd like one perplext with Strangry;
At last being rais'd, by Indignation,
To th'highest pitch of Disputation,
Each Learned Point, to tell you truly,
Ended in, You Lye, Sir, and you Lye:
Now, fir'd with heat of Argument,
The Disputants to Boxing went,
15
To their deep Point in Disputation;
Thus to't they fell, and bang'd each other,
Amidst the Spittle, Spew, and Smother;
The Pipes and Noggins flew about,
And Candles soon were all put out,
Whilst I at distance stole away,
Not caring for the heat o'th' Fray,
Yet stood where I could see Fair Play;
For Poets, tho' they oft, by Writing,
Breed Quarrels, seldom care for Fighting:
Both spur'd with Honour in Bravado,
Each bravely stood the Bastinado;
One Scratch'd and Claw'd, like any Ferret,
Last t'other lent him such a wherret,
Who being astonisht at the Cuff,
Cry'd out, O Lord, I have enough:
The mighty Conquerour then sat down
With torn Cloaths, and broken Crown;
His Victim from the Ground arose,
First blow'd, and then he whip'd his Nose,
Which truly much reviv'd the Noddy,
To find 'twas Snotty, more than Bloody:
The Clark, who stood in Vindication
Of England's People, Church and Nation,
With painfull threshing, let us see
How he could mawl down Popery:
16
And the Clerks Courage much Commended,
To make the Champions both amends,
We all agreed they should be Friends,
Provided they would both be willing,
On that account, to spend their Shilling;
They answer'd, Yea, if it were Ten,
And so shook hands like Honest Men.
The Tapster we began to call on,
To bring the Jug that holds a Gallon:
But who stept in from out the Gate-way,
But our Cæsar's Cleopatra,
Who entering in a mighty Passion,
Gave her Great Lord this Salutation:
You Rogue, you Rascal, are you not
A silly, sorry, sap-head Sot,
Thus to sit hugging of a Pot,
And let your poor young Infants mutter
At home for want of Bread and Butter;
You'll find, you Sot, this loving Ale,
At last will bring you to a Goal:
Be Judge your self, would it not vex one,
To see how handsomely the Sexton
Maintains his Wife and Family,
In all her Silks and Bravery?
Whilst I, its well known, since my Marriage,
Have wanted Bread to crumb my Porridge,
17
In Pots of Ale to be so Lavish;
I will appeal, is't not a hard thing,
That none will Trust us for a Farthing?
Nay, don't you grin, and thus perplex me,
I vow to God, if once you vex me,
You know I shall not be afraid
To fling the Flaggon at your Head:
You're a fit Man to say Gods Word,
You say Amen, you say a Turd:
These Practices you know are evil;
You Clark to th'Church, you Clark to th'Devil;
Rise and come Home, or, by my Soul,
I'll crack your Noddle with the Bowl.
The Noddy fear'd to disobey,
Arose, took leave, and went his way;
The rest, as well as he, God wot,
Pay'ng Homage to the Petticoat;
Fearing their Wives, in Indignation,
Should blow up our Association;
With Sparkling Eyes, and Flaming Noses,
They all Reell'd home to their dear Spouses,
Leaving my Host and I to prate
Of some Affairs concerning State:
I told him 'twas not to be doubted,
But that the French would soon be Routed;
18
Was a meer Flam, a Sham, a Perkin:
By this time we were got so Fuddled,
That both our Brains in truth were addled;
Thus, like true Sots, we neither started
Till Drunk, and then to Bed departed.
Reflections on a Dissenting Corporation.
The Town it is a Corporation,
Where Women all have Toleration
For Universal Copulation.
Where Women all have Toleration
For Universal Copulation.
Of what Degree so e'er, or Function,
The Females never want Conjunction,
Or that blest Ointment, Humane Unction.
The Females never want Conjunction,
Or that blest Ointment, Humane Unction.
Adultery, and Fornication
Are Licens'd through the Corporation,
As proper Means for Generation.
Are Licens'd through the Corporation,
As proper Means for Generation.
Cuckolds and Misers here are plenty,
Many Mechannicks, and few Gentry,
Whose Bags are full, as Skulls are empty.
Many Mechannicks, and few Gentry,
Whose Bags are full, as Skulls are empty.
19
Honest Men pretious are as Rubies,
Their Mayors Successively are Boobies,
And Aldermen great Brawny Loobies.
Their Mayors Successively are Boobies,
And Aldermen great Brawny Loobies.
The Top o'th' Town are Petty-Foggers,
The Mean are Mercers and Corn-Jobbers,
The Lowest Common Whores and Robbers.
The Mean are Mercers and Corn-Jobbers,
The Lowest Common Whores and Robbers.
Their Justices, to speak the best on,
Are Country 'Squires, the People rest on;
But Fools enough, you need not question.
Are Country 'Squires, the People rest on;
But Fools enough, you need not question.
As for Religions, there are many
Profest, but few that practice any;
They'd deny God to gain a Penny.
Profest, but few that practice any;
They'd deny God to gain a Penny.
The Puny sort are kind of Franticks,
Who Pray and Prate on Stools, like Anticks,
Follow'd by Spiritual Pedanticks.
Who Pray and Prate on Stools, like Anticks,
Follow'd by Spiritual Pedanticks.
They Cackle Doctrine by the Spirit,
Who Lye, and say they shall Inherit
A Heavenly Kingdom, by the Spirit.
Who Lye, and say they shall Inherit
A Heavenly Kingdom, by the Spirit.
Yea and Nay's their Communication,
Swearing they hold's Abomination,
But Whoring, as a small Transgression.
Swearing they hold's Abomination,
But Whoring, as a small Transgression.
20
For all their Canting, Pious Prating,
And Godly Humming at their Meeting;
Yet, Lawyer like, they live by Cheating.
And Godly Humming at their Meeting;
Yet, Lawyer like, they live by Cheating.
The Rest are Presbyter-Dissenters,
These are the Herd the Devil enters;
They are all Sinners, no Repenters.
These are the Herd the Devil enters;
They are all Sinners, no Repenters.
This is the Godly Tribe we read of,
Who Cut the Royal Martyr's Head off;
These are the Rogues the Devil has need of.
Who Cut the Royal Martyr's Head off;
These are the Rogues the Devil has need of.
So fixt, their Principles ne'er alter,
So Honest, each deserves a Halter,
So Learned, scarce one can Read his Psalter.
So Honest, each deserves a Halter,
So Learned, scarce one can Read his Psalter.
'Tis true, the Pastors of the Zealous,
Such Doctrines will in Tub reveal us,
You'd think 'twas Magick from Cornelius.
Such Doctrines will in Tub reveal us,
You'd think 'twas Magick from Cornelius.
At such deeping Notions they'll be reaching,
That all the tedious hours they're Teaching,
You'd think them Conjuring, not Preaching.
That all the tedious hours they're Teaching,
You'd think them Conjuring, not Preaching.
Their Lawyers, by Gods great Mercy,
Enough of Lattin can Rehearse ye,
To fill up Nov'rint Universi.
Enough of Lattin can Rehearse ye,
To fill up Nov'rint Universi.
21
To give more ample Definition
Of these, the Wedges of Sedition,
We'll do't by way of Supposition.
Of these, the Wedges of Sedition,
We'll do't by way of Supposition.
They th'Benefit of th'Clergy needing,
I doubt, but few, for all their pleading,
Could save their Necks by their right Reading.
I doubt, but few, for all their pleading,
Could save their Necks by their right Reading.
The Top of these the Town Relies on;
I dare not say but he's a Wise Man,
And Honest as their Fat Excise Man.
I dare not say but he's a Wise Man,
And Honest as their Fat Excise Man.
What if they all were Fools, what then?
They may be Wiser, God knows when,
But Cuckolds still; Wives say Amen.
They may be Wiser, God knows when,
But Cuckolds still; Wives say Amen.
22
The Authors Lamentation in time of Adversity.
A shirt I have on,
Little better than none,
In Colour much like to a Cinder;
So Thin and so Fine,
It is my design
To present it the Muses for Tinder.
Little better than none,
In Colour much like to a Cinder;
So Thin and so Fine,
It is my design
To present it the Muses for Tinder.
My black Fustian Breeches,
So fal'n in the Stitches,
You might see what my Legs had between 'em;
My Pockets all four,
I'm a Son of a Whore,
If a Devil a Penny is in 'em.
So fal'n in the Stitches,
You might see what my Legs had between 'em;
My Pockets all four,
I'm a Son of a Whore,
If a Devil a Penny is in 'em.
A Hat I have on,
Which so Greezy is grown,
It remarkable is for its shining:
One side is stitcht up,
'Stead of Button and Loop,
But the Devil a bit of a Lining.
Which so Greezy is grown,
It remarkable is for its shining:
One side is stitcht up,
'Stead of Button and Loop,
But the Devil a bit of a Lining.
23
I have a long Sword,
You may take't of my word,
That the Blade is a Tolledo Trusty;
The Handle is bound,
With a black Ribbon round,
And the Basket Hilt damnable Rusty.
You may take't of my word,
That the Blade is a Tolledo Trusty;
The Handle is bound,
With a black Ribbon round,
And the Basket Hilt damnable Rusty.
My Coat it is turn'd,
With the Lappets piss-burn'd,
So out at the Arm-pits and Elboes,
That I look as absurd,
As a Seaman on Board,
That has lain half a Year in the Bilboes.
With the Lappets piss-burn'd,
So out at the Arm-pits and Elboes,
That I look as absurd,
As a Seaman on Board,
That has lain half a Year in the Bilboes.
I have Stockins, 'tis true,
But the Devil a Shoe,
I am forc'd to wear Boots all Weathers;
Till I lost my Spur-Rowls,
And damn'd my Boot Souls,
And Confounded the Upper Leathers.
But the Devil a Shoe,
I am forc'd to wear Boots all Weathers;
Till I lost my Spur-Rowls,
And damn'd my Boot Souls,
And Confounded the Upper Leathers.
My Beard is grown long,
As Hogs Bristles, and strong,
Which the Wenches so woundily stare at;
The Colour is Whey,
Mixt with Orange and Grey,
With a little small spice of the Carrat.
As Hogs Bristles, and strong,
Which the Wenches so woundily stare at;
The Colour is Whey,
Mixt with Orange and Grey,
With a little small spice of the Carrat.
24
As true as I live,
I have but one Sleeve,
Which I wear in the Room of a Cravat;
In this plight I wait,
To get an Estate,
But the Devil knows when I shall have it.
I have but one Sleeve,
Which I wear in the Room of a Cravat;
In this plight I wait,
To get an Estate,
But the Devil knows when I shall have it.
O had you but seen
The sad State I was in,
You'd not find such a Poet in Twenty;
I had nothing that's full,
But my Shirt and my Skull,
For my Guts and my Pockets were empty.
The sad State I was in,
You'd not find such a Poet in Twenty;
I had nothing that's full,
But my Shirt and my Skull,
For my Guts and my Pockets were empty.
FINIS.
| The Poet's Ramble after Riches | |