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Burlesque upon Burlesque

Or, the Scoffer Scoft. Being some of Lucians Dialogues Newly put into English fustian. For the Consolation of those who had rather Laugh and be Merry, then be Merry and Wise [by Charles Cotton]

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DIALOGUE.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

DIALOGUE.

Vulcan and Apollo.

Apollo
Good speed, of fire thou sooty King,
I ever hear thy Anvill ring.
Thy smoak still mounts from Ætna hill;
I think thy Bellows ne're lye still:
Surely it costs thee much in Leathers,
For thou dost blow and strike all weathers.


68

Vulc.
Goodden Apollo, and well met,
Hast seen the little Merc'ry yet,
How fine a Child, how sweet a face,
And what a smiling count'nance t'has?
Which plainly does methink presage,
Something when he shall come to age,
That is extraord'nary, and great,
Though he is but an Infant yet.

Apollo.
A pretty Infant questionless!
Old Japhets Sire in wickedness.

Vulc.
What harm can he have done, I trow,
That came into the world but now?

Apollo.
Go, and ask Neptune that, I pray,
Whose Trident he hath stole away.
Or Mars that question can decide,
Whose Sword he pilfer'd from his side;
To whom my self I too could joyn,
Whose Bow and Shafts he did purloin.

Vulc.
What such a nazardly Pigwiggin,
A little Hang-strings in a Biggin?
Away, away, Apollo flouts!
What a Filou in swathing Clouts?


69

Apollo.
Well think so, but if this Filou
Come here, thou'lt see what he can do.

Vulc.
H'as been already here to day.

Apollo.
Well, and is nothing missing pray?

Vulc.
Not that I know of.

Apollo.
That may be;
But prethee look about and see.

Vulc.
I cannot see my Pincers though.

Apollo.
O, cry you mercy, can't you so,
There's one cast of his office now.
Now dare I venture twenty pound,
They'l be amongst his Trinckets found.

Vulc.
Faith, and assure thy self I'le try,
Is the young Thief indeed so sly?
Such lucky Chucks there's so great need on,
Wee'l keep this hopeful Youth to breed on.
A precious Pepin, and a trim,
A right Arch-bird, I'le warrant him.
An Infant quotha! marry hang him,
If he were mine I would so bang him.
What were my Tonges so hot I trow,
To stick to your small fingers so?

70

I'le make a Burn mark with a T,
To fist you with Sir Mercury.
But I'me astonish't at the Lad,
How he so soon could learn his trade,
He learn't (to be a Rogue so pure)
To steal in's Mother's belly sure.

Apollo.
These are his recreations these;
But he has other Qualities.
Mark but that nimble tongue of his,
What a pert prating Urchin 'tis.
His mouth will one day be a spout
Of Eloquence without all doubt.
Hee'l be an Orator, I warrant,
And if he be not, let me hear on't:
And a prime Wrestler as e're tript,
Ere gave the Cornish Hug, or Hipt;
Or I am much mistaken in him;
As any one would say't had seen him:
For he already has at first,
Put Monsieur Cupid to the worst,
And gave him such a dreadful fall,
I thought had broke his bones withal;

71

In troth I ne're saw such another,
But Love went puling to his Mother,
Which as the Gods were laughing at,
And Venus went to moan her Brat,
Whilst she was kissing the small Archer,
And drying's tears with Lawn handkercher,
In comes that crafty Youth and sly,
That little filtching Mercury,
And in a twinkling (I protest)
Whips me away her am'rous Cest,
Nay, and Jove's Thunder too had got,
But 'twas too heavy and too hot,
But yet his Scepter went to pot.

Vulc.
By Jupiter a hardy Youth!

Apollo.
Nay, he's a Minstril too.

Vulc.
In truth!

Apollo.
Yes faith, a better never plaid,
Nay, and the little Rogue has made
A Fiddle of a Tortoise-shell,
On which he playes so rarely well,
That he puts fair to put down me,
Who am the God of Harmony.

72

His Mother's troubled at his wayes,
He never sleeps a-nights she sayes,
But goes, for all that she can say,
As far as Hell to seek for prey,
And he has got, by slight of hand,
A most incomparable wand;
Of so strange vertue, that 'tis sed,
It with a waft does raise the dead,
And both the dead from Death can save,
And send the living to the Grave.

Vulc.
Nay, nay, of that I must acquit him;
For I to play withal did gee't-him.

Apollo.
That's well, and he in recompence
Has stol'n away thy Pincers hence.

Vulc.
S'nigs, well remembred! I'le be gone
To search his corners for my own:
And if I find 'um in his Cradle,
Take it from me his sides I'le swaddle.