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] |
 |
DIALOGUE.
|
 | Burlesque upon Burlesque |  |
DIALOGUE.
Venus and Cupid.
Venus.Why what work (Sirrah) do'st thou make!
Thou ev'ry hour mak'st my heartake
For fear of thee, thou graceless Whelp,
In doing things I cannot help.
I do not, Rake-hell, mean those pranks
(Though even they deserve small thanks)
Thou play'st on Earth, where thou hast done
The strangest things that e're were known,
90
Young, old, sound, lame, and all a madding:
Fill'd the whole world with dismal cryes
Of Incests, Rapes, Adulteries,
In stead of harmless recreation
Allow'd in simple Fornication:
Nor is the common Rout alone
Subject to thy Dominion:
But thou hast made the greatest Kings
Do more, nay, yet more sensless things,
Than th'errants (as one may 'um call)
Tag-rag Plebeans on 'um all.
Yet still these People Mortals be,
And subject to thy Deity;
Nor (though blame-worthy) is th'offence
Of such a dangerous consequence,
As those thou do'st commit above,
Where thou confound'st us all with love,
Ev'n the Gods King thou do'st not spare,
But mak'st the mighty Thunderer
Better to play his amorous prizes,
Put on ridiculous disguises,
91
(Who one would think should be more wise)
For those his childish Mummeries.
Next unto Carian Latmus crown
Thou mak'st the sober Moon come down,
Than whom a better fame had none,
To visit her Endymion.
The Sun, who diligent wont to be,
Thou mak'st to stay with Climene,
Neglecting his diurnal Courses,
And turn to grass his fiery Horses.
Sans naming, thou mischievous Elfe,
What thou hast done to me my self,
Who though thy Dam, and a fond Mother,
Thou hast us'd worse than any other:
Yet these (though such things ne'r were heard on)
Were yet within the pale of pardon,
And might in time have been o'reblown,
Had'st thou let Cybele alone:
But to attaque a poor old Mumps,
Whose teeth were long since turn'd to stumps,
92
Deserves a whole Cart-load of Rods.
And thus to make a poor old Trot
Fly raging up and down (I wot)
Set in her Chariot drawn with Lyons,
And bidding Gravity defiance,
As if she were stark staring mad,
After a Scurvy-shit-breech Lad,
And even of Stocks, and Stones enquire
Of Atys, her small Apple-squire,
Is such a thing (my graceless Son)
As certainly was never done.
Nor in her inquisition,
Does she yet play the fool alone;
But which is a most gross mistake,
And does her shame more publick make,
She does ev'n here her State maintain,
And goes with all her Jugling Train
Of Corybantes at her heels,
Who as their brains were set on wheels,
Disperse themselves all over Ide,
Whooping aloud on every side
93
Calling and whooping Atys Name.
Where some in fury are so woo'd,
As with one arm t'let t'other blood,
Some weep in blood, and some in tears,
Some with their hair about their ears
Run headlong down the Precipices,
Enough to dash themselves in peices.
One winds a Horn with mighty labor,
Another thum's it on a Tabor,
Another a Brass-pan employes,
Others use Cymbals, Shaumes, Hoboys
Or any thing will make a noise.
With which they make that hideous din,
That the whole Mountain ring's agin.
Nay so obstreperous they are,
And make that dismal Tintamare,
What with their yelling, and their tink'ing,
That unto any Mortal's thinking,
Hell is broke loose, it sounds so odd,
And all the Devils got abroad.
Which makes me fear for these offences,
If e're th'old Hagg to her own Sences
94
Direly revenge this Roguery,
And either without Form or Jury,
Presently kill thee in her fury,
Or else unto her Lyons throw,
Or Priests, the fiercer of the two.
Cup.
Your care's worth thanks, but truly Mother,
I neither fear the one, nor th'other;
For her Priests fury I not weigh't,
They all are too effeminate;
Nor of her Lyons fearful am;
For those already I've made tame,
So tame, that often I astride
A cock-horse on their back do ride,
Spur 'um, and by their shaggy mains,
Guide 'um as easie as with reins,
Play with their beards, their lips, their paws,
Make 'um extend their crooked clawes,
Nay, thrust into their mouths my fist,
And do with 'um e'en what my list.
And then for Rhea, Mother, she
Too busie is, I warrant ye,
About her Love to think of me.
95
Mother, I very fain would know,
Wherein I've done so much a miss,
When all I've done's but only this,
To make that lov'd that lovely is.
Which why it should be thus resented,
I know not; would you be contented
To have Mars cur'd (faith now tell true)
O'th' passion that he has for you?
Venus.
That thou art a malicious Brat,
To say so damn'd a thing as that;
But, Sirrah, one day possibly,
Thou'lt think of what I've said to thee.
| Burlesque upon Burlesque | |