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.
Juno and Jupiter.
Jun.Nere stir (thou mighty God of Thunder)
I cannot choose (methinks) but wonder
How thou canst be content to have
Such an effeminate drunken Knave
As Bacchus is to call thee Father!
If he were mine, I should much rather
Adopt, then such a Rake-hell own,
A soak't Dutch Swabber for my Son.
A drunken whelp, whose whole delight
Is Swinish swilling day and night,
With a lewd Crew of hair-brain-Jades;
A knot of very fine Camrades
Yet good enough for him they be,
And far more Masculine than he:
Whilst to their Tabors, and their Pipes;
He jolts about his swagging Tripes,
With his hair crisp't so neat and fine,
And crown'd with Chaplets of the Vine,
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Than any Son of Jupiter.
Jup.
Yet this effeminate drunken Sot,
This Swabber, and I can't tell what,
With which thy over liberal Clapper,
Is pleas'd his merit to bespatter;
Has in a very little space
Conquer'd both Lydia and Thrace,
Which are no common Victories:
Nay of the Indies too made prize,
After triumphantly he had
Their husling King a Captive made,
For all's Bravado's, and his Rants,
And his Life-guard of Elephants.
Is this a despicable Son,
Who has so noble Conquests won?
Nay, and (which yet appears more great)
Without the puther, toyl, and sweat,
The wounds, the blood, the smart, and pain,
With which all others Conquests gain?
This fellow subjugates the Earth
In a perpetual roar of mirth,
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When one would think he least was thinking
Of any such important matter;
Or plotting things of that high nature:
And often (which is stranger yet)
At times when he seems most unfit
Either to act, or to command;
So drunk he can nor go, nor stand.
And if at any time there are
Any so impudent to dare
Either to censure, or despise
His Jovial Rites and Mysteries,
He takes them in his Lime-twiggs streight,
And teaches them so well to prate,
That once (amongst a many other
Revenges dire) he made a Mother
For an impiety like this
Tear her own Issue piece by piece:
And was not this, I fain would hear,
Worthy the Son of Jupiter!
And if he be (as now adayes
Many young people take ill wayes)
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It alwayes is at his own cost,
And none (for all's Debauchery)
Can say so much as black's his eye.
Besides, if he such things can do
When drunk as Drum, or Wheelbarrow,
What would not this God of October
Perform, I prethee, when he's sober?
Juno.
Why this is wonderfully fine!
Wil't not proceed to praise (friend mine)
His rare invention of the Vine,
That parent of accursed Wine,
After thou hast, with thine own eyes,
Beheld the many miseries
And mischief that the world disquiets,
Fray's, Blood-sheds, Rescues, Routs, and Riots,
Brawls, Brabbles, Skreeks, the Devil and all,
Of which it is th'Original?
And that it cost the first Boon-blade,
To whom he this fine present made,
Even his life, who had his brains
Beat out his Coxcomb for his pains?
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Pish! pish! thou talk'st thou know'st not what!
The Wine for this is not in fault;
'Tis not the Wine, but the excess,
That causes all this wickedness.
Wine of it self's a generous Juice;
Of which the right, and mod'rate use,
Quickens man's wit, and cheers his heart,
Gives vigour unto every part,
And the whole man with fire supplies
Both to design, and enterprize:
But Jealousie and Envy make
Your Ladiship thus ill to speak.
There was a Semele, I trow,
Who still sticks in thy stomach so,
Thou else would'st have more wit, or shame,
Than thus indifferently to blame,
With thy eternal bibble babble,
What's ill, with what is commendable.
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