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.
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DIALOGUE.
Mercury and the Sun.
Merc.Jove (Sol) commands thee by me here
To stop thy Steeds in their Careere,
For the full space of three whole dayes
He will not have thee shine, he sayes:
But thou art to conceal thy light,
For he will have that term all night.
Therefore I think it thy best Course is,
To let the Hours unteam thy Horses,
Get a good Night-cap on thy Head,
But out thy Torch, and go to Bed.
Sol.
Tis an extravagant Command,
And that I do not understand.
What I have done, I fain would know,
That Jupiter should use me so?
What fault committed in my place
To put upon me this disgrace?
Have I not ever kept my Horse
In the precincts of their due Course;
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Did I e're drink, or stop, or stay?
Bear witness all the God's in Heav'n
If I've not duly Morn, and Even,
Rosen, and set, and care did take
To keep touch with the Almanack.
What then my fault is, I confess,
If I should dye, I cannot guess:
And why he should, much less I know
Suspend me ab officio.
It sure must be a great offence
Deserves the worst of punishments,
As this is he on me doth lay,
That Night must triumph over Day.
Merc.
Fie, what a clutter dost thou make,
And all about a meer mistake:
Thou talk'st of anger, and disgrace,
There's no such matter in the case.
Thou wide art of his meaning quite,
He bids thee to withdraw thy light,
That for three dayes it may not shine
In order to a great design
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But is by Owl-light to be done.
Sol.
Faith tell me that design of his,
What he's about, and where he is.
Merc.
I'le tell thee, if thou needs will know,
He's Cuckolding Amphytrio.
Sol.
'Tis very fine, and won't one Night
Take the edge off his Appetite?
Cannot one Night give him enough?
Is the old Letcher still so tough,
A Swinge-bow of so high renown,
A Wench can't sooner take him down?
Merc.
No, but he means to get of her
A very mighty Man of War,
Of heart most stout, and limbs most vast,
Which is not to be done in hast:
But of another kind of fashion,
Then ev'ry common Generation.
Sol.
Why let him lay about him then
To finish this great Man of Men:
But let me tell thee, these strange wayes
Were not in use in Saturn's dayes.
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To letcher with anothers wife:
But for one whore now (which is scurvy)
All things must turn'd be topsy-turvy.
In the mean time 'tis ten to one
My horses will be Resty grown,
For want of use, and thorns I know
In my Carere will spring, and grow;
And Mankind must in darkness languish
Whilst he his bawdy Launce does brandish,
And stews himself in his own grease,
To get this admirable piece.
Merc.
Peace, peace, friend Sol, no more of that;
Least he do teach thee how to prate.
In the mean time I must be gone
With the same message to the Moon,
To keep within, and vail her face,
As many Nights, as thou dost Dayes.
My last Commission is to Sleep,
That Mortal's eyes he so long keep
Seal'd up in rest, and all the while
Feed them with Dreams, time to beguile,
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(And then it will be time to rise)
They may when that day does begin,
Not know how long a night 't has been.
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