University of Virginia Library

OVID TRAVESTIE Epist. I. Dido to Æneas

So a poor Pig just as he dyes,
Squeeks unlamented Obsequies.
But now you talk of that, d'ye mark it?
I have brought mine to a fair Market.
Not that I think you'l mind my chat,
I strive against the Stream in that
But that it never shall be said,
Since I have lost my Maiden-head;
My Husband, honour, and good name;
And falen out with Goody Fame:
Who at next Gossiping will tell,
What unto Dido hath befell;
But I will speak: for never trust,
Me, that deny'd my heart would burst
Yet you'r resolv'd, you'l to the Floods
And leave poor Dido in the Suds:
And though I bid you to be kind,
I do but spit against the Wind;
You are resolv'd for all my reek,
You'l to the Devils-Arse-a-Peek.
Methinks you should not leave the coast
Where you shall only rule the Roast:
Well where so e're Æneas tost is,
He'l hardly find so kind an Hostess;
Will any Cat-a-mountain Jade,
When Guinneys come refuse the trade.
In It'ly you must lye in mangers,
May be clean straw, because you'r strangers
Not flaxen sheets as here you Lout,
And then as you Pig in, Pig out.
You say you seek a Farm, but tush,
A Bird i'th hand's worth two i'th Bush.
You want another to deceive her,
To spoil her voice & then to leave her.
And without paying for your meals,
At last to shew a pair of heels.
Alass my Chuck! I say in fine,
When wilt thou build a Barn like mine.
But if thou dost, yet for thy life,
Thou'st ne're have such a handsome wife.
I burn like Pitch-barrel, nay more,
Like trying sewet when't runs o're.
Sleeping you'r always in my sight,
And then I dream of the blest night;
Wherein you did, like ne're was seen:
You know well enough what I do mean;
When next morn, if you do remember,
I think 'twas the third day of December:
I did some butter'd Ale provide,
Of Caudle eke three quarts beside;
Which we did toss oft foot to foot:
And eat for th'back some Ringo root;
Yet you a Clown do stop your ear,
Ah! who so deaf as those won't hear.
Pray Goody Venus why do you let,
Your Son now be in such a pet.
He only came to take a way-bit,
He is not like his Mother a whit:
For she I'me shure is very common,
Denyes a courtesie to no Man:
Nay, and without paying a jot,
A Man may do the Ld. knows what.
But-you I swear I think was got,
Out of some earthen Chamber-pot:
Or from some huge Oak you parted,
You are to me so hard hearted;
So that be it with wonder spoke,
I think you have a heart of Oak;
See how the Sea on which you swim,
Hath far more good nature in him.
See how lusty Æol puffs,
As if he were at fifty cuffs.
And tosses waves now Heaven be thanked,
As one would toss a Dog in Blanket,
Look on your Skiff how the waves knock it,
As they were sousing a Pick-pocket.
The foaming flouds do keep a pother,
And like Cats spit at one another.
The waters breath such a fog out,
This weather I'd not turn a Dog out;
Your Men do stand blowing their nails
They can't abide to patch up sails.
And only because you are self-ish,
Get their bread by catching shell-fish.
And trust me friend there but few is,
That are in love with salt brewis,
They like such Meat as I am stewing,
And good strong Bub of my own brewing
I can't but think how they will take on,
To think of leaving my fat Bacon.
They will go nigh you to trepan,
To get another sop i'th Pan,
This weather sure you will not forth,
To put to Sea East, West, North, South.
Methinks you should not so abhor me,
That will venture dying for me.
'Tis wondrous courage is't not elf,
To fly from me to drown your self.
Had you but staid a while you'd see,
The waves would run most glib & glee;
Whilst staring Phœbus doth them pry on
They'd smooth that you might throw a Dye on.
Yet now at last pray be so kind,
To turn again as doth the wind.
You cannot sure neglect my moan,
Unless you have a heart of stone.
Why will you trust the Seas mad ire?
A burn't Child always dreads the fire.
You've oft been soust like Pickl'd herron
And yet you are so mad to steer on
Nay prethy tell me (Love!) how many
Times you'd have given your life for Penny.
How comes it you dare be so base,
Especially in such a place;
As this, to wrong my love, the rather;
Because the Sea is Love's Grand-father.
But why give I advice to one,
That joyes to see his Wench undone.
No hang ye, may you live and be,
A Trophee of my Butchery:
And now supose that you were caught,
As who knows whether you may or not,
By th'hand of Justice who ne're falters
To cure all Vices with strong Halters.
Then when the Ladder you ascend,
And bid adieu to all your friends;
And look as if you were a dying,
And hardly can forbear crying:
Then the wrong'd Dido shall appear
To fright my noble Cavilier.
I'le stroak you with hand cold as stone
And shew raw head and bloody bone.
When you are at Prayers I'le come,
And hinder you of Elizium.
But that I need not do alass,
The Gods hear not a perjur'd Ass.
And you are such that never Millain,
Ever produced a worse Villain.
Then you'l weep and sighing cry ho,
VVould I had never wronged Dido.
My heart misgave me when that I,
Thought to forsake the poor Pigsnye.
Were she alive now how I'de clip,
And hang upon her bottle Lip.
O I would be so kind I wiss,
As any Man in Bark-shire is,
I all obedience would pay her,
And carry her from VVake to Fair.
And there, or at the next good Town
I'de buy my Love a fine Stuff Gown;
But if you are resolv'd to school us,
Pray be so kind to spare Julus:
And let not the poor thing be shent,
I do protest he's innocent.
The Gods I hope, forsooth you'l spare,
You dare not touch, such holy ware.
Here's a Surpliss left i'th lurch,
Was snatcht out of a burning Church:
An Hour-glass too, which you then took
From out the Pulpit at Wall-brook
But what needs all this simple bable,
'Tis all but an old VVomans fable;
Therefore you are a lying Jack,
As if you carried Pick a Pack:
Anchises out of flameing London,
And the Gods too, who else were undon.
A worthy prize they were 'tis true,
And that's the only cause that you:
This seven years day i'me sure & more,
Tost by the Sea ne're came a shore;
VVhen I at last did take you in,
VVet with rain almost to'th skin:
Dryed your cloaths, and rub'd your hair,
VVet with dew and foggy air;
But yet alass were that but all,
I should have then small cause to brawl.
No I remember the sad even,
VVhen we were to a Cake-house driven:
By storms and such like boysterous weather,
As heaven and earth would go together
My host when to a room he led you,
I little thought I there should bed you.
When strait you cal'd the Maid damn'd whore
Bid her be gon then shut the door
And then you told me none could see us,
Ah! I forgot my poor Sichæus.
Then without complement you fell,
Pell mell to what I blush to tell.
Ah! how many sad signs we met,
Before we to the house could get.
All the way a Hare did follow,
The Owls did nought but whoop and hollow.
My Petticoat at Supper was burn'd,
Besides the Salt was overturn'd.
The Cats all night did cry and growl,
And dogs did often whoop and howl;
When I heard these as Jove shall save me
Even then my fearful heart misgave me.
Nay as I through the Church-yard went
I heard a Man as 'twere lament:
And with a mournful voice to say,
Come my Elisa, come away.
I, I, I come my Dear, I come;
Make room for me in thy cold Tomb:
I promis'd thee I'de never marry,
But 'las! my Chuck, I could nor tarry:
This too for my excuse I have,
That it was no poor paultry knave,
That had thy leavings, no 'twas one:
That was a gallant Burgers Son;
His Mother was a Farmers Girl,
That went most gay in Gold and Pearl:
Nay: and 'tis said he and his Sire,
Did both help much at Londons Fire—
Beside my heart! were you but Sage,
You would not have much cause to rage:
'Tis cold you know, & you being gone,
D'you think that I could lye alone
Or without you my house could rule,
Or get my bread by teaching School.
O! how it much my grief inhaunces,
To think of all my sad mischances.
By my sweet-heart now left i'th lurch,
My husband basely kil'd i'th Church:
In Sermon time was butchered,
Nay, by his Brother as 'tis said.
Now here alass! is all my woe,
But I must flye my Country too:
In unknown place where I have got,
Some ground my Neighbours envy at;
And quarrel with me too, pox on 'um,
And say I do encrouch upon 'um.
I scold in vain, for what can I do,
That am but a poor silly Widow.
Suitors I have here good store,
Or else I am an arrant whore;
I fear to chuse though there but few are
That are so false, I'me sure as you are,
Give up, give up, you flattering Knave,
Those sacred things you said you have:
For if that I ought understand,
They are not so whilst in your hand.
How will you answer't to the Elder,
If you have left me hans in Kelder,
The Child may rue that is unborn,
'Cause you have left me here forlorn;
But you must go Jove knows whether,
Pray who the Devil brought you hither
Would you had kept o'th Sea, you lout
And hunted still for perch and trout:
Would we had never been acquainted,
My honour then had not been tainted:
But now to leave poor wretched Jenny,
And so to post away for Guinney:
VVhere you'l be beaten to a Gelly,
And pinched sore, both Back & Belly.
And may be too, you'r cast away,
Before you'r gotten the half-way.
Your time you here had better spend,
And live with me at little Grayesend.
Here in quiet you may play,
With my Golden Locks all day.
Never fancying to be poor,
My neck Argent, and that Or.
If you say you don't love ease,
And nothing worse then a long peace.
I'le find you fighting here enough,
And teach Julus how to cuff:
VVith rogues that steal my pears and apples,
VVith whom in time he'l learn to grapple.
But if you won't, however I,
Do wish you all prosperity.
May your old Dad, that Gafter Gray-beard,
Of whom I never yet was afeard.
I wish that he may live to see,
Some Grand-children, though not by me;
And when he dyes I hope he'l have,
In some Church-yard a homely Grave:
And not tar'd o're by'th Sea foaming;
Instead of any more embalming.
I wish thee well upon my Soul,
Which makes me for thy safety howl.
But if you are asham'd to have,
Me cal'd thy wife i'le be thy slave:
I'le be your Cook-Maid neat to dress ye,
All sort of Meat bee't fishy or fleshy.
I'le make you Caudles, when Sea sick,
You'r almost going to Old Nick.
Onely stay here until the Spring,
Till all the pritty Birds do sing;
But if you are resolv'd to go,
Regardless of my want and woe.
I must resolve to bear the rest on't,
Which won't be long, & that's the best on't.
For could you see me whilst I write,
And my last Letter here indite.
My right-hand holds a Pen, my left,
A Sword which many a Pate hath cleft:
And in my Lap some Halters lye,
(For yet I can't tell which to try.)
Which are so weted with my Tears,
The fatal knot won't flip I fear.
But prethee Neece don't take on,
When you shall hear i'me dead and gone:
Onely get written on my Hearse,
In letters great this following verse.
Dido lyes here, that silly VVhore,
That hang'd her self, to vex Æneas more.