 | The wits paraphras'd |  |
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Laodamia to Protesilaus.
The ARGUMENT.
Protesilaus lying wind-bound at Aulis in the Grecian Fleet, designed for the Trojan War, his Wife Laodamia sends this following Epistle to him.
After my hearty Commendation,
Thy Laodam sends Gratulation.
The scolding storms that scar'd thee from me,
Why don't they send thee packing to me?
Wou'd Hurricanes destroy'd their hutches,
So I but had thee in my Clutches.
In hast thou throng'd to be a Warrier,
But thou't return with Long the Carrier.
So raging mad I was to see thee,
I cou'd not frame to say, God b'w'ye.
A merry gale in stern abast her,
And oft I cry'd, Fair weather after.
I lookt and lookt, till by this Light,
I lookt, and lookt thee out of sight.
Then did such fits o'th' sudden hold me,
That I was ready to befoul me.
My Sire and Dam griev'd at the Mischance,
Came running all to my assistance;
With water and some Rags they threw,
They made me clean with much ado.
They meant it well, but had been kinder,
To leave me here to the Gold-finder.
My Bowels grumble, down I sit,
And fall into another fit;
Since which, undrest, my Coats do flow
About my Ears, I know not how.
Thus I run staggering round about,
Like one of Pem--- drunken Rout.
Put on, put on, your Gown, and Mantue,
My Neighbours cry, the Gossips want you.
Alas! you may go dress, talk bawdy,
What joy have I in going gawdy?
Shall Tow'rs and Knots my head inviron,
And he have nothing but cold Iron?
I'le cast my Snout or'e my right shoulder,
And be a Slut while you're a Souldier.
Thy Laodam sends Gratulation.
The scolding storms that scar'd thee from me,
Why don't they send thee packing to me?
Wou'd Hurricanes destroy'd their hutches,
So I but had thee in my Clutches.
In hast thou throng'd to be a Warrier,
But thou't return with Long the Carrier.
So raging mad I was to see thee,
I cou'd not frame to say, God b'w'ye.
A merry gale in stern abast her,
And oft I cry'd, Fair weather after.
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I lookt, and lookt thee out of sight.
Then did such fits o'th' sudden hold me,
That I was ready to befoul me.
My Sire and Dam griev'd at the Mischance,
Came running all to my assistance;
With water and some Rags they threw,
They made me clean with much ado.
They meant it well, but had been kinder,
To leave me here to the Gold-finder.
My Bowels grumble, down I sit,
And fall into another fit;
Since which, undrest, my Coats do flow
About my Ears, I know not how.
Thus I run staggering round about,
Like one of Pem--- drunken Rout.
Put on, put on, your Gown, and Mantue,
My Neighbours cry, the Gossips want you.
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What joy have I in going gawdy?
Shall Tow'rs and Knots my head inviron,
And he have nothing but cold Iron?
I'le cast my Snout or'e my right shoulder,
And be a Slut while you're a Souldier.
Paris, I wish thee nere a Rag,
Or that thy Nell had been a Hag.
Oh Menelaus! I see clearly,
Thy wenches Tricks will cost thee dearly.
From me, ye Gods, divert the Thunder,
And send him laden home with plunder.
But when you talk of Wars, you stale me;
My very heart begins to fail me.
Hector I fear, that blundering Hector,
Of Limbs they say a great Dissector.
My dear, if thou observe me duly,
Beware of that notorious Bully;
Nay all, to be thy Life's protector,
Lest every one shou'd prove a Hector.
Give to those mighty men of Arms way,
And keep thy Coxcomb out of harms-way.
Let the fond Cuckold hew and thump it
Through all the Crowd to his old Strumpet.
They are another sort of Cattle;
But we shou'd fight a safer Battle.
Or that thy Nell had been a Hag.
Oh Menelaus! I see clearly,
Thy wenches Tricks will cost thee dearly.
From me, ye Gods, divert the Thunder,
And send him laden home with plunder.
But when you talk of Wars, you stale me;
My very heart begins to fail me.
Hector I fear, that blundering Hector,
Of Limbs they say a great Dissector.
My dear, if thou observe me duly,
Beware of that notorious Bully;
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Lest every one shou'd prove a Hector.
Give to those mighty men of Arms way,
And keep thy Coxcomb out of harms-way.
Let the fond Cuckold hew and thump it
Through all the Crowd to his old Strumpet.
They are another sort of Cattle;
But we shou'd fight a safer Battle.
Brave Trojans, spare your bloody Hanger,
From one that is not worth your anger.
My poor good-natur'd fool in place
Of Danger dare not shew his face.
I'th' field he stands aloof, and blunders;
But in the Sheets he can do wonders.
Let them go fight, and find a Tomb
Abroad, can do no grace at home.
From one that is not worth your anger.
My poor good-natur'd fool in place
Of Danger dare not shew his face.
I'th' field he stands aloof, and blunders;
But in the Sheets he can do wonders.
Let them go fight, and find a Tomb
Abroad, can do no grace at home.
To let thee go, by what the Wizard
Inform'd me, went against my gizard:
When you were like (I heard her mumble)
To crack your Grupper with a stumble.
Be not too forward in your anger,
Or you may chance to rue the Danger.
Inform'd me, went against my gizard:
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To crack your Grupper with a stumble.
Be not too forward in your anger,
Or you may chance to rue the Danger.
The first that lands upon the spot,
You know is destin'd to the pot.
Be not too hasty in the heap,
But learn to look before you leap.
To get a broken Pate or so,
You'l be too soon, tho'nere so slow.
In thy Retreat bestir thy thighs;
And if you fall, stay not to rise.
You know is destin'd to the pot.
Be not too hasty in the heap,
But learn to look before you leap.
To get a broken Pate or so,
You'l be too soon, tho'nere so slow.
In thy Retreat bestir thy thighs;
And if you fall, stay not to rise.
When shall I split my hoofs asunder,
And in thy paws ly melting under?
Catch thee alone to tell me stories
Of Cocks and Bulls, and Trojan Tories;
Then make a thousand wanton pauses,
With scrubbing Gills, and rubbing Noses.
And in thy paws ly melting under?
Catch thee alone to tell me stories
Of Cocks and Bulls, and Trojan Tories;
Then make a thousand wanton pauses,
With scrubbing Gills, and rubbing Noses.
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But when I think on Troy I feel
My Spirits sunk into my heel;
And tho' the Winds were quite contrary,
No mischiefs cou'd perswade thee tarry.
All Switch and Spur, for old Pug Nasty;
To hang you wou'd not be so hasty.
How canst thou hope to go through stitch,
To side with an Adulterous Bitch?
But I'le nere wast my Lungs upon't,
Bouze on, and see what will come on't.
My Spirits sunk into my heel;
And tho' the Winds were quite contrary,
No mischiefs cou'd perswade thee tarry.
All Switch and Spur, for old Pug Nasty;
To hang you wou'd not be so hasty.
How canst thou hope to go through stitch,
To side with an Adulterous Bitch?
But I'le nere wast my Lungs upon't,
Bouze on, and see what will come on't.
Poor Trojan Cullies, troth, I pity ye,
To see a Harlot thus beshit ye:
I see how Nell intends to buckle
Up with her Groom, poor Hector truckle.
I see how she collogues, and grudg
The Simperings of her weary Drudg.
She leads the Wittal by the hand,
And he returns at her Command.
To bear the Horns he is not nice;
Obeys, and thinks he has a prize:
Now he returns, and she with speed
Receives him to polluted Bed.
We Women 'cause we cannot flatter,
Must make the best of a bad matter.
To see a Harlot thus beshit ye:
I see how Nell intends to buckle
Up with her Groom, poor Hector truckle.
I see how she collogues, and grudg
The Simperings of her weary Drudg.
She leads the Wittal by the hand,
And he returns at her Command.
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Obeys, and thinks he has a prize:
Now he returns, and she with speed
Receives him to polluted Bed.
We Women 'cause we cannot flatter,
Must make the best of a bad matter.
Yet still thy Picture I am wooing:
Pox on't, it cost a Groat the Drawing.
That I caress, and decently
I place it there where thou shou'd be.
I talk, and hug, and smug, and try'd all
The ways to please the pretty Idol.
Pox on't, it cost a Groat the Drawing.
That I caress, and decently
I place it there where thou shou'd be.
I talk, and hug, and smug, and try'd all
The ways to please the pretty Idol.
But by this Light and Candle burning,
If I hear not of thy Returning,
As this is drink, and by this Cup,
As I intend to drink it up,
To whatere Coast thou runs a Madding,
Since thou delights to be a gadding,
I'le come and stick upon thy skirt,
As close as ever sweat-wrung Shirt.
Farewel; but pray thee bear in mind
Thy Dowsabel thou left behind.
If I hear not of thy Returning,
As this is drink, and by this Cup,
As I intend to drink it up,
To whatere Coast thou runs a Madding,
Since thou delights to be a gadding,
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As close as ever sweat-wrung Shirt.
Farewel; but pray thee bear in mind
Thy Dowsabel thou left behind.
| The wits paraphras'd | |