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.
Venus and Cupid.
Venus.Come on (Sir Love) since none is by
But your small Deity and I,
I must examine you a little,
And tell me true unto a tittle
Sirrah, it were your best, or else
I'le jerk you with my Pantables:
How comes it Youth to pass, that you,
Who all the Deities subdue,
And at thy pleasure canst make Noddies
Of every God, and every Goddess;
Nay even me dost so enflame,
Who (Shit-breech) thy own Mother am:
But yet Dame Pallas can'st not stir;
As if (forsooth) alone for her
Thou had'st no Arrows in thy Quiver,
Nor yet a Torch to scinge her Liver?
Cupid.
Why (to confess the truth) I spare her
For no very good will I bear her:
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In sadness, Mother, I'me afraid
To meddle with her: T'other day
I for her in close ambush lay,
And a convenient stand had got,
Intending to have pinck't her coat;
And to that end had chose an Arrow
(With which I scorn to miss a Sparrow)
Had notch't it, and without all dread
Had drawn it almost to the head,
When by the snapping of a twigg,
Espying me, she look't so bigg,
And did her Launce so fiercely brandish,
My face turn'd whiter than your hand is;
And I such fear was strook withal,
That Bow and Shaft from hand did fall;
Nay, I my self came tumbling down,
As she had shot me with a frown,
So suddainly, that, but my wings
By voluntary slutterings
Broke the main fury of my fall,
I think I'de broke my neck withal.
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But that I sprain'd my little finger.
Venus.
But Mars more dreadful is than she
For all her Launce, and Shield can be,
His looks were terrible and grim;
Yet thou art not afraid of him.
Cupid.
I twice dare him e're once offend her:
He frankly does his arms surrender
To my dispose, nay very often
Calls me his Iron-sides to soften:
Whereas this sour Pal-of-Ambree
Huffs it, and looks askew at me,
And when the domineering Drab
Beheld me like a half fledg'd Squab,
Come fluttering headlong from the Bough;
Sirrah (quoth she) (thou Bastard thou)
If with thy famous Archery,
Thou dar'st to make a Butt of me,
Assure thy self my mortal Javelin
Shall in a moment be thy Navel in;
Or I will catch thee up by one
Of those fat stumps thou walk'st upon,
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As (Monsieur Chitty-face) shall fling
You and your implements to Hell:
And therefore (Don) consider well
Whom thou attaqu'st. Go Bird at other
Ladies of pleasure, shoot thy Mother,
She such a constant friend to Love is,
She'l take it for a Son-like office:
But level not at me thy Tiller:
For if thou do'st (thou pore-blind killer)
I've told thee what thou art to fear,
And I will do it, as I'me here.
Thus said, she (which not to dissemble)
Indeed law Mother, made me tremble,
And that too with so fierce a look,
As my poor heart could no way brook:
But like an Aspen leaf I shook,
And star'd, as I'de been planet-strook.
Which face so terrible appears
In that same steel Monteer of hers,
And then her Sheild's so full of dread,
With that fool staring Gorgon's head,
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The sight so much more horrid makes,
That the remembrance makes me sweat;
U'ds fish! methinks I see it yet.
Venus.
Dame Pallas, and Medusa's head
Are mighty dang'rous things indeed:
But yet, for all this mighty fear,
Thou nothing mak'st of Jupiter
For all the Thunder he does bear.
But (Sirrah) after these excuses,
How comes it, that the Nine fair Muses,
Who Gorgon's head, nor thunder have,
Should scape thy darts, thou jugling Knave;
Who, for all thou to do art able,
Do still remain invulnerable.
Cupid.
Why, faith I do those Damsels spare,
Out of the reverence that I bear
To their good singing; who when I
Happen into their Company,
Sing me, and that without intreaties,
Such Sonnets, Madrigals, and Ditties,
As ravish me to tell you plainly,
For you know I love Ballads mainly.
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Should I those Virgins set agog
With a mad flame, that nothing dreads,
And make them loose their Maidenheads:
By which their voices every one
Would be foul crack't, nay spoil'd and gone.
Venus.
But what has Dame Diana done,
That thou should'st let her too alone?
Which way has she small (Quiver-bearer)
Oblig'd thy Deity to spare her?
Cupid.
Oh that Donzella, by relation
Is tane up with another passion.
Venus.
What passion's that of Love takes place?
Cupid.
Why she's enamour'd of the Chace.
Wherein the lusty, well-breath'd Dame
So fast pursues the flying Game,
The Hart, and Hind, the Buck, and Doe,
And skirs through Woods, and Forrests so,
That should I stalk at her a year,
I ne're should get a shoot at her.
And to pursue her is no boot,
The Damsel is too swift of foot:
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For all his dainty sanded Wigg,
And that he shoots at fourteen-score,
I think
Venus.
Thou need'st to say no more;
Thy bolts have oft his sides been thumping,
I know thy meaning by thy mumping.
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