 | The wits paraphras'd |  |
42
Hero's Answer to Leander.
By the same Hand.
With laughing when I read your Prose,
I was ready to bepiss my hose:
And nothing else, except your stick
Cou'd so much tickle me to th' Quick.
Excuse my Passion (Sir) for no man
Can find the bottom of a woman.
I was ready to bepiss my hose:
And nothing else, except your stick
Cou'd so much tickle me to th' Quick.
Excuse my Passion (Sir) for no man
Can find the bottom of a woman.
You can divert your self with roaring,
About your bus'ness, drinking, whoring,
Hunting and hawking, and the same;
For well I know you love the Game:
Lay Traps to catch the Fox and Goose,
While you forget your amorous Nooze.
While I've no more to ease my Clog
Than Patience, med'cine for a Dog;
Or with my Nurse sit down complainin gon't,
To know what plague shou'd be the meaning on't.
About the Coasts I keep a racket,
And send to thee by every Pacquet.
When Night draws on, I keep me waken,
And light a Candle for a Beacon;
Advance the Snuff upon the Save-all,
Each hour expecting thy Arrival.
Then poring o'er my work, I wonder,
What plague's become of my Leander?
I'm so besotted with thy fails,
That I can think of nothing else.
What thinks thou, Wench, is my Leander
Return'd as yet, or is he yonder?
Come pray thee tell me, is he stripping,
Already plung'd, and forward tripping?
While sleepy as a Dog, and nodding,
The drowsie wretch replies, A Pudding.
About your bus'ness, drinking, whoring,
Hunting and hawking, and the same;
For well I know you love the Game:
Lay Traps to catch the Fox and Goose,
While you forget your amorous Nooze.
While I've no more to ease my Clog
Than Patience, med'cine for a Dog;
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To know what plague shou'd be the meaning on't.
About the Coasts I keep a racket,
And send to thee by every Pacquet.
When Night draws on, I keep me waken,
And light a Candle for a Beacon;
Advance the Snuff upon the Save-all,
Each hour expecting thy Arrival.
Then poring o'er my work, I wonder,
What plague's become of my Leander?
I'm so besotted with thy fails,
That I can think of nothing else.
What thinks thou, Wench, is my Leander
Return'd as yet, or is he yonder?
Come pray thee tell me, is he stripping,
Already plung'd, and forward tripping?
While sleepy as a Dog, and nodding,
The drowsie wretch replies, A Pudding.
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Yet can't I from the fancy waver
He's come, he's coming now or never.
Then Jayl-bird-like in Grate I'm plac't,
And many a longing look I cast:
Each nook and corner I examine,
And pray the Flouds that they may damn him
When next he crost them, for his wronging
And bawking thus a womans longing.
Each voice I hear: if Nurse but sneezes,
Or break behind in gentle Breezes,
I straight conclude the wind is western,
And 'tis the musick of thy Postern.
At last, my comfort, while I snort,
I fancy we are at the sport;
I clasp'd my shanks about your middle,
And thought you plaid upon my Fiddle.
My Fountain burst into a stream,
But Pox upon't, 'twas but a Dream;
For tho I think on nought but you,
Without your self 'twill never do:
'Tis like a Banquet of Black-puddin
Without a dram of fat or bloud-in.
He's come, he's coming now or never.
Then Jayl-bird-like in Grate I'm plac't,
And many a longing look I cast:
Each nook and corner I examine,
And pray the Flouds that they may damn him
When next he crost them, for his wronging
And bawking thus a womans longing.
Each voice I hear: if Nurse but sneezes,
Or break behind in gentle Breezes,
I straight conclude the wind is western,
And 'tis the musick of thy Postern.
At last, my comfort, while I snort,
I fancy we are at the sport;
I clasp'd my shanks about your middle,
And thought you plaid upon my Fiddle.
My Fountain burst into a stream,
But Pox upon't, 'twas but a Dream;
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Without your self 'twill never do:
'Tis like a Banquet of Black-puddin
Without a dram of fat or bloud-in.
Last night indeed you'd some pretences
To keep you back, besides your Wenches;
The Seas were rough: but now 'tis fair,
You might afford to take the Air.
You need not, finding no resistance,
Keep a poor Devil at such distance,
And hold that cheerful Cup of Mantling
From her, that longs like one with Bantling.
Is it for fear you shift and shuffle?
I knew you in a harder scuffle:
If it be so, still be a stranger,
Rather than hazard any danger.
To keep you back, besides your Wenches;
The Seas were rough: but now 'tis fair,
You might afford to take the Air.
You need not, finding no resistance,
Keep a poor Devil at such distance,
And hold that cheerful Cup of Mantling
From her, that longs like one with Bantling.
Is it for fear you shift and shuffle?
I knew you in a harder scuffle:
If it be so, still be a stranger,
Rather than hazard any danger.
But still I beg if ought befel,
Keep counsel, do not kiss and tell.
Not of thy Change there's any rumour,
But that it is my simple humour.
For since I see your base Contrival,
I fear not absence, but a Rival.
Return ye Flouds that hither blew him,
And let him come, with a murrin to him,
A luckie signe! I see a Gander
I'th' Candle; oh! 'tis my Leander.
My Nurses tail has got a Drum in,
And swears 'tis Token of your coming;
And has observed by the Crickets,
Some Strangers making to'ards our Thickets,
Come then, Leander, cross the Ditch,
That I may say she is a Witch:
I cannot budge without thee; come,
No Pillow like Leander's Bum.
To shew I'm willing, I will meet thee
Chin-deep i'th' Hellespont to greet thee.
My Thing's my own; while no one sees,
Sure I may use it as I please.
A Pox of Fame and Reputation,
Why shou'd it spoil our Recreation?
Keep counsel, do not kiss and tell.
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But that it is my simple humour.
For since I see your base Contrival,
I fear not absence, but a Rival.
Return ye Flouds that hither blew him,
And let him come, with a murrin to him,
A luckie signe! I see a Gander
I'th' Candle; oh! 'tis my Leander.
My Nurses tail has got a Drum in,
And swears 'tis Token of your coming;
And has observed by the Crickets,
Some Strangers making to'ards our Thickets,
Come then, Leander, cross the Ditch,
That I may say she is a Witch:
I cannot budge without thee; come,
No Pillow like Leander's Bum.
To shew I'm willing, I will meet thee
Chin-deep i'th' Hellespont to greet thee.
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Sure I may use it as I please.
A Pox of Fame and Reputation,
Why shou'd it spoil our Recreation?
How cou'dst thou from our warmer Pillows
Thy Hero leave, to hug the Billows?
In such a storm to cross the Road,
Tarpolling durst not peep abroad?
For all your boasting and bravadoes,
You must not think for to invade us;
Nor must you strive to swim when Oars
And Scullers dare not cross the shores.
I oft advis'd you, but 'twas nonsence,
For it went e'en against my Conscience;
Yet when I think on't, in the morning
I cannot chuse but give thee warning.
Thy Hero leave, to hug the Billows?
In such a storm to cross the Road,
Tarpolling durst not peep abroad?
For all your boasting and bravadoes,
You must not think for to invade us;
Nor must you strive to swim when Oars
And Scullers dare not cross the shores.
I oft advis'd you, but 'twas nonsence,
For it went e'en against my Conscience;
Yet when I think on't, in the morning
I cannot chuse but give thee warning.
Nor wou'd I have thee cross the stream
By any means, for last nights Dream:
Methoughts I saw a monstrous Sturgeon,
All batter'd crying for a Surgeon,
All naked too, cast by the flood,
Which I'm afraid portends no good.
What e're it be, I wou'd advise thee
Be merry and wise, let that suffice thee.
The storm's so high, it can't be lasting;
Then once more venture a Bumbasting.
Till then, thy Hero's fate condole,
And stay thy stomach with this Scrole.
By any means, for last nights Dream:
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All batter'd crying for a Surgeon,
All naked too, cast by the flood,
Which I'm afraid portends no good.
What e're it be, I wou'd advise thee
Be merry and wise, let that suffice thee.
The storm's so high, it can't be lasting;
Then once more venture a Bumbasting.
Till then, thy Hero's fate condole,
And stay thy stomach with this Scrole.
| The wits paraphras'd | |