Ovid travestie, a burlesque upon Ovid's Epistles by Ovid | Alchemy Books and Texts Celestial Archive

TO ROBERT FAIRBEARD OF GRAYS-INN, Esquire.

SIR,

HAving committed these Epistles to the Press, I was horribly put to't for a Patron—I thought of some great Lord, or some Angelique Lady; but then again consider'd I should never be able to adorn my Dedication with benign Beams, coruscant Rayes, and the Devil and all of Influence. At last I heard my good Friend Mr. Fairbeard was come to Town—nay then—all's well enough. To you therefore I offer this English Ovid, to whom you may not be unaptly compar'd in several parcels of your Life and Conversation; only with this exception, That you have nothing of his Tristibus about you.

'Tis you who Burlesque all the Foppery and conceited Gravity of the Age. I remember you once told a grave affected Advocate, That he Burlesqu'd Gods Image, for God had made him after his own Likeness, but he made himself look like an Ass.

Upon the whole matter I am very well satisfy'd in my Choice of you for my Judge; if you speak well of the Book, 'tis all I desire, and the Bookseller will have reason to rejoyce: tho' by your approbation you may draw upon your self a grand Inconvenience; for perhaps you may too often have Songs, Sonnets, Madrigals, and an innumerable Army of Stanza's obtruded upon you by

Sir,

Octob. 28^th, 1680.

Your humble Servant, Alex. Radcliffe.

TO THE READER. Occasioned by the PREFACE To a late Book call'd, The WITS Paraphras'd.

BEfore I shall give you any Account of our Old Friend Ovid, or of his Life, I am to inform you, that his Epistles have been ingeniously and correctly translated by several Gentlemen; and withall, that he was of a good Family, and a brave Fellow was he. Now, since the unhappy Accident of his Death, his Ghost hath been lately attempted to be rais'd by an unlucky Pretender to Poetry, who indeed hath not skill enough to disturb his Manes: He calls his Book, The Wits Paraphras'd, or, Paraphrase upon Paraphrase, that is, Throw Pelion upon Ossa, Ossa upon Pelion, and away with it. This Book he has dedicated to his Patron Julian, Secretary to the Muses, in hopes that he may get an Vnder-Writer's Place somewhere about Pernassus:

but alas! how can he ever hope for Preferment, when he has blasphem'd the best Poet of our Age, by mistaking Innocence for Ignorance: I wish to God the last may not rise up in Judgment against him. He (good Soul) is (as appears in his Epistle to his Patron) for none of your High Flights; but, like an humble Sinner in a strict Diet, makes all his Simile's of Close Stools with Velvet-Seats, and Pans that receive the Excrement. God save us: What are we when we are left to our selves!

Now for his Preface, he would imitate that ingenious one of Mr. Dryden's to Ovid's Epistles, in beginning with Ovid's Life, which hath been wrot by as many Men as there are Lives in Plutarch. And again, Our Paraphraser saies, That Ovid was as good a Wit as Himself or any other Translator; and, to prove that, he saies, Nescivit quod bene cessit, &c. He might as aptly have said,

The Man in the Moon drinks Claret.

Then he saies, That he could find no such thing as Clubbing with Ovid in all the Catalogue of Virgil, Catullus, Propertius, or Tibullus: very truly said: for I suppose he knows nothing farther of those Authors than the Catalogue.

Oh Tempora! Oh Mores! The more the merrier!

He wonders, that so many Workmen should put their Shreds and Thrums together to dress Ovid iv a Buffoon's Coat! why a silly Quaker, in plain Taunton

Serge, thinks a Scarlet Coat embroider'd to be the Old Serpent!

He questions not but that there are more Fools in the World of his Opinion. (The true Question is, Whether he is not single?)

Then he affirms, that, in his own simple naked shape, he comes nearer the Original, than the best of 'em; when in Sapho to Phaon he begins at the sixth Distich, Arva Phaon celebrat, &c. and goes back to the fifth, Uror ut indomitis, &c. leaving out the eight Verses preceding; by which you may easily guess that he had no other Authority for his Paraphrase (as he calls it) then the Translation: 'Tis something strange, that neither Ovid himself, nor Nineteen Judicious Translators, can give this Gentlemna the least hint or light into Publius Ovidius Naso's meaning,

Quo te môri pedes?—

Now on a sudden he's started from Poetry, and is possest with the Spirit of sublunary Wealth, and wishes with all his heart that he were as rich as a M. or a C. then would he quit all his title to Pernassus, and engage never to write: oh, never to write any more, that is to say, he'd be so unconscionable as to have a good Estate for nothing:

God prosper long our Noble King—

Now, as he saies, the late Translators have already clipp'd the Original, and why should not he clip too: whereas my fear is, he hath clipp'd Ovid so close that it will hardly go:

When first King Henry, &c.

I believe no Book hath had severer usage than our Paraphrasers; for, saies he, it was hurry'd into the Press before it cou'd make any defence for it self: Now the meaning on't is, if it had met with impartial Iudges, it had never been Printed.

The Glories of our Birth and State, &c.

But to conclude; Having wonderfully shew'd his Reading in his Preface to his aforesaid Wits Paraphras'd; in Scraps of old Latin; and at last, to his eternal Glory, one bit of false Greek; he is so far encourag'd, that he gives any man a Challenge in Chaldee, Arabick, and Syriack, though he confesses he knows nothing of the matter: But, to try him, I'll leave him with this Syriack Hexameter,

Erytit ut aelutap snabucer bus enimget igaf.

And to let you know that this last Verse, though something rough, is not the effect of Indignation, I part friendly; onely with this Advice, That our Paraphraser would consider, and follow any other Employment, more agreeable with his Genius (if he have any) then that of Poetry.

THE TABLE.

SApho to Phaon, Pag. 1.
Philis to Demophoon, p. 2
Hypermnestra to Linus. p. 16
Hermione to Orestes, p. 22
Canace to Macareus, p. 28
Ariadne to Theseus, p. 37
Leander to Hero, p. 45
Hero's Answer, p. 54
Laodamia to Protesilaus, p. 60
Oenone to Paris, p. 69
Penelope to Vlysses, p. 78
Phoedra to Hypolitus, p. 85
Hysiphile to Jason, p. 95
Paris to Helen, p. 105
Helen to Paris. p. 119

Page 1

SAPHO to PHAON:

The ARGUMENT.

Sapho was a Lady very Eminent for Singing of Ballads, and upon an extraordinary Pinch, could make One well enough for her Purpose: She held a League with one Phaon, who was her Companion and Partner in the Chorus; but Phaon deserted his Consort for the Preferment of a Rubber in the Ba'nnio. Sapho took this so to heart, that she threatens to break her Neck out of a Garret Window; which if effected, might prove her utter Destruction. Authors have not agreed concerning the execution of her Design: But however she Writes him this loving and terrifying Epistle.

WHen these my doggrel Rhimes you chance to see, You hardly will believe they came from me, Till you discover Sapho's Name at bottom, You'l not imagine who it is that wrote 'em:

Page 2

I, that have often Sung—Young Phaon strove, Now Sing this doleful Tune—Farewel my Love; I must not Sing new Jiggs—the more's the Pity, But must take up with some old Mournful Ditty. You in the Bannio have a Place, I hear; I in my Garret Sweat as much, with Fear: You can rub out a Living well enough, My Rent's unpaid, poor Sapho must rub off; My Voice is crack't, and now I only houl, And cannot hit a Treble for my Soul: My Ballads lye neglected on a Shelf, I cannot bear the Burthen by my self; Doll Price the Hawker offers very fair, She'l Sing along with me for Quarter-share; Sue Smith, the very same will undertake, Their Voice is like the winding of a Jack. Hang 'em, I long to bear a Part with you, I love to Sing, and look upon you too;

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Besides, you know when Songs grow out of fashion, That I can make a Ballad on occasion. I am not very Beautiful,—God knows; Yet you should value one that can Compose; Despise me not, though I'm a little Dowdy, I can do that—same—like a bigger Body: Perhaps you'l say, I've but a tawny Skin; What then? you know my Metal's good within. What if my Shoulder's higher than my Head? I've heard you say, I'm Shape enough a-Bed: The Mayor (God bless him) or the worthy Sheriffs Do very often meet with homely Wives. Our Master too; that little scrubbed Draper, Has he not got a Lady that's a Strapper? If you will have a Beauty, or have none, Phaon must lye—Phaon must lye alone: I can remember, 'fore my Voice was broke, How much in praise of me you often spoke,

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And when I shook a Trill, you shook your Ears, And swore I Sung like, what d'ee call 'em—Spheres; You kiss'd me hard, and call'd me Charming witch, I can't do 't now, if you wou'd kiss my Breech. Then you not only lik'd my airy Voice, But in my Fleshly part you did Rejoice; And when you clasp'd me in your brawny clutches, You swore I mov'd my Body like a Dutchess; You clap'd my Buttocks, o're and o're agen, I can't believe that I was crooked then. Beware of him, you Sisters of the quill, That Sing at Smithfield-Bars, or Saffron-Hill, Who, for an honest Living, tear your Throat; If Phaon drinks w'ye, you're not worth a groat: And Ladies know, 'twill be a very hard thing To sink from him the smallest Copper-farthing; Avoid him all—for he has us'd me so, Wou'd make your hearts ake, if you did but know▪

Page 5

My Hair's about my Ears, as I'm a Sinner, He has not left me worth a Hood or Pinner. Phaon by me unworthily has dealt, Has got my Ring,—though 'twas but Copper gilt; Yet that which vexes me,—Th' ungrateful Pimp Has stole away my Petticoat with Gimp; 'Has all my Things, but had he left me any I can't go out alone, to get a Penny. Phaon, I should have had less cause to grieve, If like a Man of Sense, you'd taken leave: That you'd be gone, had I been ne'r so certain, We might have drank a Pot or two at parting; Or fry'd some Bacon with an Egg; or if Into some Steaks, we'd cut a pound of Beif, And laugh'd awhile, that had been somthing like; But to steal off, was but a sneaking Trick. My Landlady can tell, how I was troubled, When I perceiv'd my self so plainly bubbled:

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I ran like mad out at the Alley-Gate To overtake you, but it was too late: When I consider'd I had lost my Coat, If I had had a Knife, I'd cut my Throat; Yet notwithstanding all the ills you did, I Dream of you as soon as I'm in Bed; You tickle me, and cry, Do'st like it Saff? Oh wondrous well! and then methinks I laugh. Sometimes we mingle Legs, and Arms, and Thighs; Something between the sheets, methinks does rise▪ But when I wake, and find my Dream's in vain. I turn to sleep, only to Dream again. When I am up, I walk about my Garret And talk I know not what—just like a Parrot▪ I move about the Room from Bed to Chair, And have no Satisfaction any where. The last time I remember you lay here, We both were dry ith' Night, and went for Beer;

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Into the Cellar by good luck we got, What we did there, I'm sure you ha' n't forgot: There stands, you know, an antiquated Tub, 'Gainst which, since that, I often stand, and rub; Only to see't, as much delight I take As if the Vessel now were full of Sack; But more to add unto my Discontent, There's been no Drink ith' Cellar since you went. There's nothing but affords me Misery, My Linnet in the Cage, I fear will dye: The Bird is just like me in every thing; Like me it pines, like me it cannot Sing. Now Phaon, Pray take notice what I say, If you don't bring the things you took away; You know, my Garret is four Stories high; From thence I'll leap, and in the Streets I'll die: May be you will refuse to come—Do—do, Y' had best let Sapho break her Neck for you.

Your afflicted Consort, Sapho.

Page 8

PHILLIS to DEMOPHOON:

The ARGUMENT.

Demophoon was born in Holland, who took after his Father Theseus pretending to the Art of Pyracy; he was cast upon Newcastle-Shore by adverse Winds (as the Dutch Commentators say) but we are inform'd he came hither by his own choice. No sooner arriv'd, but he heard that one Phillis, a single Woman, kept an Inn in the Town; There he took up his Quarters: Phillis observ'd him as a lusty Younker, and though his outward Habiliments were not very tempting; yet his Person perswaded her so far, that she Married him, and entrusted him with all. After some time, he told his Wife that his Occasions call'd him into Holland to see his Father, who he said, was a Man of mighty Substance; He promised to Return within a Month, but hath not been heard of since. Therefore she writes to him this Letter; but whether it came to his hands or no, hath been a question to this day.

YOur Absence does discover your Disdain, You 've done enough to make a Stone complain;

Page 9

You told me you wou'd stay a Month,—no more; But by my Nature, I do find 'tis four. I, who am Woman, and a Lover too, Observe the changes of Moons, much more than you: Indisposition in the Head, or Back, Informs our Sex beyond an Almanack. Sometimes I hop'd—but soon that Hope did sink; Sometimes I thought—I knew not what to think. I made my—self a Liar—notwithstanding There was no Ship—I swore I saw you Landing. Some Curses on your Father I bestow, That old Dutch Rogue, think I, won't let him go: But then again, that cannot likely seem, The Maggot bites—you're gone away from him; What if you should be wrack't when hither bound? No,—you're too great a Villain to be drown'd. Whom shall I blame? whom but thy self—fond Philly? Who hast liv'd now Thirty years, and art so silly.

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When first you did within my Doors set footing, I fell in Love—forsooth—A Pox of rutting; The Devil sure will have that Doctor Hymen, Who told me, that his Business was to try—men: He did believe—you'd prove an honest Man, Marry 'm—said he, with all the speed you can; The Good old Man his Substance to increase, Would match a Helhound to a Saint for Fees: You swore such dreadful Oaths as ne'r was heard, By th' Belgick Lion, and the Prince's Beard; By Opdam's Ghost, and by the Dragon's Tail, B' your Father's Head, and Mother's Farthingale; By the great Cannons, and the Bloody Flag, And by the Hogan Mogans of the Hague; Your Execrations put m' in such a fright, That all the Hair about me stood upright: If on your Head these Curses fall you've nam'd, I must conclude, that certainly y'are damn'd;

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Hearing such bloody Oaths, you would not stay, I made all haste I cou'd to get y' away; I furnish'd you with all I cou'd afford, Bisket and Powder'd Beef I put aboard; A Flask of Brandy to your Girdle hung, Better I'm sure, was never tipt o're Tongue: And when I patch'd your Sails with antient Smock, I thought they wou'd have brought me home good luck; But stead of that—such was my fatal Hap, I prov'd the Instrument of your Escape: When you came hither in a low Condition, Did I not stuff your Guts with good Provision: The Suit y' had on—was destitute of stitches, I gave you then my Brother's Coat and Breeches; But as for that—Pox on't—I'll ne'r repent it, What you had wanted, I had then presented; If you had never paid—here's none would stop ye; But I must be your Wife too—like a Puppy:

Page 12

I wish to God that very day we met, That into Gaol I had been thrown for Debt; Then if I'd ask'd the Question—you'd have said Thank you, forsooth, I'm not in hast to Wed. Well, well! Myn Hier! y'ave caught me now, 'tis true, I hope I am the last you will undoe. The Dutch by Paint describe each others Lives, And Draw their Neighbours Actions, and their Wives: They'l Draw your Father as some petty Pyrate, Doing small things, which People wont admire at. He has been Rogue enough, but done no Wonders, 'Has rob'd a Fisherman, of Eels and Flounders: Perhaps he's Drawn making a Sailor drunk, Diving in's Pockets—to equip his Punk; These are but Trifles to what you have done, The Father's but a Coxcomb—to the Son: You shall be Drawn, first in your tatter'd Cloaths, Humbly complaining, full of Lies and Oaths;

Page 13

And then you shall be Rigg'd from head to foot, And from your Mouth, this Label shall come out;

Poor Phillis, of Newcastle upon Tyne— 'Twas I that ruin'd—now you see, I'm fine.

What must I do? I have no Trading here, And all my Neighbours do but laugh and fleer; One cryes, Where is your Husband Demo—foe? For your right Name, not one of 'em does know; Another cryes out—Hey! for Amsterdam; What! Was 'a Dutchman Phillis—or a Sham? Thus (as they say) they throw you in my Dish; Wou'd I cou'd have you here but with a wish, For these Rogues sake; 'twould be good sport to see How well you wou'd belabour two or three; Then they'd change Tone, and cry—God bless ye both, You are a handsom Couple, by my Troth: No—'tis in vain to hope that you'l return, I must continue, as I am their scorn;

Page 14

But yet I can't forget the parting Day, I thought you wou'd have hugg'd your Breath away; At last you spoke—'twas this confounded Lye, Phil, in a Month this o're again we'll try; But I believe that Trick you 're trying now With some tun-belly'd Rotterdam—V'froe: If Phillis should be talk'd on by the Dutch, You'l say, you never heard of any such. Phillis! Who's she? Where does this Phillis dwell? If you don't know, Demophoon, I'll tell;

This is Newcastle-Phillis, she that did Once entertain you, Sir▪ at Board and Bed. Some small Remembrance Phillis hath deserv'd, Had not this Phillis been, you might have starv'd; She gave you Money, like a foolish Elf; At last this Phillis gave away her—Self.

I am that Phillis, if I had my due, That shou'd have Hang'd my self for Loving you:

Page 15

It will not be too late to do it still, And if I'm in a humour, 'faith I will. Then on my Grave let these few Lines be writ, Which Phillis made her-self in Moody fit. Here Phillis lyes, Had she been wise, S' had Wed a Neighb'ring Scotchman; And then she might, Have liv'd in spite Of any Drunken Dutchman.

Page 16

HYPERMNESTRA to LINUS.

The ARGUMENT.

There was lately a Gang of English Highway-men, all of 'em having Wives or Whores in London. Now the only means to detect 'em, was by bribing their Women. In order to which, the Keeper of Newgate went to 'em all, promising them very fairly, and with all, using Arguments how serviceable they would be to their Country, in Discovering them; which they might easily do, when they came home to Bed. The Women were easily perswaded, And one Night, order'd the Keeper to be there at such a time, who seized them all; but Linus was praeadmonished by his Wife Hypermnestra, so he escaped away in her Cloaths; She bore the brunt in his Apparel, and was Taken (supposed to be a Man) and Committed to Newgate, and put into Irons. The rest of the Thieves were Hang'd, her Trial was respited, being not known who she was. Hypermnestra sends him this Letter.

TO thee poor Hypermnestra now complains, Such is the Torture of my Iron Chains: Shall it be call'd in Law, a Crime so heinous, For being just to my own Husband Linus?

Page 17

Let 'em torment me on, I do not care, I'll not tell who I am, nor where you are; If they should Hang me up in stead of you, To the last Gasp, I swear I will be true: I long to be reveng'd on those curs'd Wives, That did betray their Friends and Husbands Lives Such Men were not in England to be found, They'd bid the Devil stand, on any ground; And all the Prizes that they got, they spent Upon those Whores; yet they were not content. Think on that Night we did together Sup, When all the Company were Cock-a-hoop; That fatal Night you all came from the Pad, Your Booty very large, your hearts were glad: Though in my sad Condition, 'tis not proper; Yet, I can well remember all the Supper: A stately Loin of Veal began the Feast, I help'd you half the Kidney at the least;

Page 18

Four Turkey Poulets came next, you wish'd they'd been Four Turky Merchants upon Mile-End-Green; Roasted young Ducks, and Chickens fricazeed; There was more Meat than we cou'd eat indeed: Wine in abundance—I drank none but Sack, But all you Men did ply it with Pontack: To th' top you fill'd a Glass, and drank to th' best— The Health as you began it, seem'd a Jest; I took't in Earnest to my self, and knew That I should prove the best of Wives to you. By Two a Clock you Men were almost Drunk, Then each to Bed went to his Spouse, or Punk; If they were all as kind as you to me, Never was such a Night of Lechery: At last you slept securely without warning Of the strange Alterations in the Morning: I knew betimes the Keepers wou'd be there, And all the Night I sweat, 'tween Sport and Fear;

Page 19

At last I rose, and 'bout the Room I walk'd, And thus at Random to my self I talk'd; Have I not sworn a Thousand Oaths at lest, That I'd betray my Husband with the rest? What must I do? 'Tis true, I am his Wife, What! Must I damn my Soul to save his Life? 'Hang all the Oaths in Christendom, said I; He is my Husband, and he must not die. With that I drew your Breeches on in hast, The Codpiece was so big, I was amaz'd; I walk'd into your Coat, hanging on Peg, I lost my head within your Perewig: Having put on your Armour Cap-a-pee, For by the weight, such was your Cloaths to me; You reach'd your Arm across—had I been there, You would have had the other bout, I fear; I pull'd the Sheet and Blanket from the Bed, I plainly then perceiv'd, 'twas as I said:

Page 20

Rise Linus, Rise, said I, be very quick; This is no time for any wanton Trick; You're all betray'd—The Constable's at Door, You must not stay a minute of an hour. I shuffled on my Cloaths upon your back, They did not fit—I heard my Manteau crack: No sooner were you gone, but in they bounc'd; They seiz'd on me, and swore I shou'd be trounc'd: And here they have me fast, with Bolt and Lock; They know not yet that I have on a Smock. Now you are safe, and I am here, dear Linus Let's seriously discourse th' Affair between us: If all the truth to them I should discover, What can they say? 'twas acted like a Lover; I may be sent to Bridewel, there they'l bang me▪ But all the Law in England cannot hang me. While I lye here—I am in little ease, But when all's told, what shall I do for Fees?

Page 21

If you don't use some means to get me freed, Within few days, you'l hear that I am Dead; And then 'tis like they'l bury me; if so, Upon my Grave this Epitaph bestow: Here lyes a Wife, who rather than she'ld fail To save her Husband's Life, dy'd in a Jayl: My Irons load me so, I'm fit to cry, I would write more, but cannot; so God b'ye.

Page 22

HERMIONE to ORESTES:

The ARGUMENT.

Hermione was the Daughter of Menelaus and Hellen. Her Mother ran away with a young Fellow, one Paris, they went together beyond the Seas. Her Husband who lov'd her well, persu'd 'em, and after many years, found his Wife and rescu'd her from her Gallant, and without any resentment of the Injury, took her again. During their absence, their Daughter (who had an Estate left her by her Vnkle) was committed to the Custody of her Grand-father, who Married her to a School-fellow and Cozen German of hers, by Name Orestes. Her Father brought home with him one Pyrrhus a wild young Fellow, to whom he Marry'd her again, taking no notice of the first match. She silly harmless Girl, wonders at the design, and to her Husband Orestes writes this innocent Letter.

TO thee I write, my dear and only Cuz; Nor will I be afraid to call the Spouse: Though here's a Fellow come resolv'd to swear I am his Wife, and he will make't appear:

Page 23

He looks sometimes, as if he long'd to eat me, Sometimes he looks so gruff, as if he'd beat me: He says he is Achilles Son and Heir, And bids me disobey him, if I dare; He kisses me so hard, the strangest Man, He gets a top of me do what I can; With all my strength my Legs together join, But with one Knee, hee'l open both of mine. I call him Rogue and Rascal, filthy Sot, And all the beastly Names I can get out: I'm Marry'd, Sirrah, therefore don't mistake it, I have a Husband that will thwack your Jacket; Yet that's all one, he cares not what is said; But by the Hair he drags me into bed: They talk of Girls, forc'd by unruly men, They can't be forc'd so much as I have been: Yet all this while Orestes comes not near me, I am afraid you do not love your Hermey;

Page 24

You'l fight for Money, as you'd fight for Life, And won't you fight a little for your Wife? One while my Father mist my Mother Hellen, Lord! There was such a noise, and such a—yelling, He rais'd up all the People in our Lane, And ne'r was quiet, 'till she came again. I wou'd not have you make a noise for me, But come and kill this fellow quietly; Give him a good sound blow, and never fear man, It is for me, your Wife and Cozin German. You know my Guardian marry'd me to you When we were both so young, we could not do— Now from beyond Sea comes my Father huffing, And will needs marry me to this same Ruffian, He vapours here about his Country Blood, I guess your English Familie's as good: He says, you've led a very wicked life, And that you broke your Mothers heart with grief:

Page 25

For talking so of you, I'd slit his Tongue, And pull his Eyes out too, if I were strong; 'Tis something strange, we're of a Generation Where Ravishing has been a mighty fashion: My Grandmother was ravish'd by one Swan, A little Couzin by another man; My Mother has been ravish'd once or twice, And I am ravish'd now by her advice. Must I with such a Rogue as this be match'd? A more unlucky Girl was never hatch'd. My Mother left me here a little Wench, Just big enough to clamber on a Bench; She was stark mad for that young fellow—Paris, And after him she danc'd the new Fagaries: My Father for his life cou'd not forbear, But ran a—catter-wawling after her; Now they're come home, but with such alt'red looks, As if they were some strange Outlandish fo'kes.

Page 26

My Father has a Beard below his Band, I did not know my Mother, she's so tann'd: Toward my good, what did she ever do? When she was gone, I learn't to knit and sow; I use my needle now as well's another, But 'tis no God-a-mercy to my Mother: When she came in, she knew not who I was; This Girl, said she, is grown a strapping Lass, She must be marry'd, or she'l grow too busy; Look here, I have brought thee home a Husband Hussy▪ With that he threw his Paws about my Neck; Kill him, Orestes, or my heart will break: I draw the Curtains when he's fast asleep, And out of Bed, soon as 'tis day, I leap; But I do toss and tumble all Night long, As if by Bugs and Pismires I'd been stung: Sometimes when I'm asleep, by chance there lies, One of my hands squeez'd close between his thighs▪

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I snatch't away as soon as e're I wake, With as much speed, as if I'd felt a Snake; To th' other side o'th' Bed, I jerk from him, And sometimes lay one Breech upon the Beam; Then after me, he by degrees will steal, Pray Sir keep off, say I, I am not well; He seems as if he did not understand, And then he reaches out his hasty hand; I speak as plainly to him as I can, I tell him I'm not fitting for a Man. Pshaw, Pshaw! says he, I know you do but jest, 'Pon the whole matter he's a filthy Beast: For Gods sake Orey, Prethee now contrive, Some way or other that he may not live: For here I take my Oath upon a Book, If you don't get me off by hook or crook, That we may do—as marry'd People may, I'll either kill my self, or run away.

Page 28

CANACE to MACAREVS: Lately translated out of OVID: Now BURLESQU'D.

The ARGUMENT.

Macareus and Canace, Son and Daughter of Aeolus (a Trumpeter of the Guards) being from children brought up together, at the last grew so intimately acquainted, that they made bold to ly with one another. Canace prov'd with Child by her Brother Macareus. She was deliver'd in the house; and the Nurse contriv'd to convey the Child through the Hall when Aeolus was sounding his Trumpet, accompany'd with several sorts of Wind-musick; notwithstanding that noise, the shrill Cry of the Infant was over-heard by Aeolus, who sent it away to be left in the Streets, and expos'd to the mercy of the Parish; and to his Daughter Canace he sent a Halter, with this Message,—This you have deservd, —and you know how to use it. Canace hang'd her self (as you may guess) before she wrote this Letter.

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BEfore these rude, distracted Lines you read, Believe the unlucky Authress of 'em dead. Ever to see me more's beyond all Hope, One hand a Pen, the other Holds a Rope: My blustring Father's troubled with a Whim, And I must hang my self to humour him. But when he sees my Carcase on the floor, Surely he'll cease to call me Bitch or Whore: His puffing and his blowing will be vain, He cannot puffe me into life again: His Mind is swell'd much bigger then his Face, I am (he saies) his Family's Disgrace: All his great Friends and Kindred are provok't; What are his Friends to me when I am choak'd?

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I with that we had stifled one another That night I clung so closely to you, Brother: Why did you love me more then did become ye? It had been happy, if y'ad kick'd me from ye: When first, with pleasure, I lay under you, Would y'ad been lighter by a Stone or two. At first I wondred what should be the matter, I look'd like Death, and was as weak as Water: For several days I loath'd the sight of Meat, And every Night I chew'd the upper Sheet: I'd such Obstructions, I was almost moap'd, My Breath came short, my—were stop'd. I call'd old Nurse, and told her how it was; She, an experienc'd Baw'd, soon groap'd the Cause: Quoth she, for this Disease, take what you can, You'll ne'er be well, till you have taken Man: When I was young, I thought I was bewitch'd, I scrach't my Belly, for it alwaies itch'd.

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The Truth I will no longer hide, said I, I must enjoy my Brother, or I dy: She tickl'd me, and told me 'twas no Sin; Nearer of Blood, said she, the deeper in: Both you and I approv'd what Nurse had said, So, without more a-do, we went to Bed: You in my belly rummag'd all about, To find this wonderful distemper out: Too soon 'twould be discovered, was my Fear, I could have let you search'd for ever there: But Nurse can tell how I did sigh and sob When we perceiv'd that you had done the Jobb. I made th' old Bedlam foot it up and down To every Quack and Mountebank in Town, For Dendelion, and Camelions-thighs, Spirit of Saffron mixt with Vulters-eys: I would have given all I had been worth, T' have kill'd the Child, before it had come forth:

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But the strong Rogue lay fencing in my Womb, And did those pois'nous Potions overcome: Oh! when I saw the ninth Moon in the Wane, Then I was in the Full—of grief and Pain; Then, then my Throws came on me thick and thick; I groan'd, but for my Life I durst not schreik Until my Tortures came to such a growth That Nurse with both her Hands did stop my Mouth: I should have cry'd so loud, that every Neighbour Would have discover'd I had been in Labour: No Woman yet that ever wore a Navel, Endur'd so hard and so severe a Travel. I curs'd your Sex, and wish'd Rot a might come On all the Stallions throughout Christendome. At last you came; I knew you by your tread; I peep'd at you, though I was almost dead:

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T' ward me you seem'd to have some kind Remorse But look'd, as if you would have eaten Nurse. You held my Back-parts, you could do no more; Would you had never felt the Parts before. Sister, said you, you shall not dy this bout, We're both unlucky, but, we'll rub it out. To see what words from those we love can doe, (Surely the Child Within me heard you too,) For streight he sprang forth from me, and did seem To make his passage in a flowing Stream: 'Twas hard enough: but now's a harder Case, To hide the Business from my Father's face; We did consult how to devise a way Thorough the Hall our Bastard to conveigh. My Father in Wind-Musick still delighted, And all the Gang that night he had envited: Fellows that play on Bag-pipes, and the Fife; The old man always lov'd a noisefull Life:

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They all did sound together after Supper, And then to carry'm off, we thought, was proper▪ Nurse, in her Apron, took the little Brat, Swath'd up in Linnen, Rushes over that; Quite through the Hall she went her usual pace, And, unconcern'd her self, humm'd Chevy-Chase▪ Just to the doors' had safely carry'd him, When the unlucky Wretch began to screme: His little Organ made a shriller noise Then all the Fluits, Recorders, or Ho-boies: The old man prick'd his ears up, like a Hare, And after Nurse ran nimbly, as the Air: Whither so fast, said he, old Mother Trundle? Pray, let us see, What have you in your Bundle: Quoth Nurse,—'Tis Mistress Canny's dirty Smock Men into Womens secrets should not look. He puff'd away the Rushes from her Lap. And there appear'd the little sprauling Ape:

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'Zounds, saies my Father, What is here? A Kid! My Daughter Canny's finely brought to bed! He rais'd so great a Tempest in the House, I thought that Hell it self was broken loose; He rag'd so loud, the Bed shook under me; Methought I was in some great Storm at Sea: He rush'd into the Room, and did discover The bloody Sypmtoms of a Child-bed Lover: Our Sexes Stains by him were here discry'd Which Women from their own dear Husbands hide: With his own hands he did design to wound me, But that he saw something like Murther round me: The Bastard in the Sreets he did expose, And what will be his destiny, God knows: The little Knave, with Tears, did seem to answer, As who should say, I beg your Pardon Grandsir. Out went old Trump; I by his Looks could find There was some mischief hatching in his mind,

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In came a Fellow of the Bag-Pipe Gang Whose very Whiskers seem'd to say, Go hang; Before his words came out his tongue did falter; At last he spake, Canny, look here's a Halter: Your Father saies, 'Tis this you do deserve; If you'll not use it, you may live and starve. His most obedient Daughter he shall think me; If I don't hang my self, the Devil-sink-me. Since Whoring does produce such strange effects Would I'd been born a Monster without Sex: Let my young Sisters all be warn'd by me, And curb betimes Incestuous Lechery. This I request of you, Dear Brother Mac. That of our wretched Child some care you'd take; If you can find him out, be not unwilling, Towards his maintenance, to drop a shilling. Let these my last Words be observ'd by you, As I obey my Father's:—so,—Adieu.

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ARIADNE to THESEVS, Lately translated out of OVID: Now BURLESQU'D.

The ARGUMENT.

Theseus, an English Gentleman, and one who for his diversion admir'd Travelling, especially on Foot, having safely arriv'd at Calais, walk'd on easily from thence to Paris, where he had not long been, but he receiv'd an unmannerly Justle from a Cavalier of France: Theseus, whose great Soul could not brook the least Affront, resented this so highly, that he challeng'd him, fought him, and, after a long and skilful Dispute between 'em, fairly kill'd him: Thesus was imprison'd in the Bastile; During his Restraint he held a League with Ariadne, the Keeper's daughter: And, though the Prison was as difficult as a Labyrinth, (such is the power of Love,) she soon contriv'd a way for his Escape by night: and he, accompany'd with Mistress Ariadne, footed it back to Calais; where, both lodging together at the Red-Hart, he very unkindly took the advantage of her Snoaring, and stole from her early in the morning; and went off with the Pacquet-boat to Dover; from whence he gently walk'd to London. Ariadne sends him These.

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NO savage Bear, no Lyon, Wolf, or Tyger, Would ever use his Mistress with such Rigor; D'ye think you don't deserve ten thousand Curses, For leaving me in Pawn at Monseur Forces? I wonder what the Tavern-people think! For here I sit, and dare not call for Drink While by your side I innocently lay, You might have taken leave, a civil way. I was half waken'd from a pleasant Sleep By th' melancholly sound of Chimney-sweep: I stretch'd my Leg, to find out my Bed-fellow, But I could groap out nothing but the Pillow:

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Thinking t' have hugg'd you in my Arms so close One of the Bed-staffs almost broke my Nose: Thes. Thes. said I, I hope you are not gone; I might as well have call'd the Man i' th' Moon: I rent my Head-cloaths off, mortdieu! mortdieu! What will become of me? What shall I doe? I op'd the Casement as the Morning dawn'd; And I could plainly see that I was pawn'd, With calling you I tore my Throat to pieces, The Eccho jeer'd me with the name of Theseus: To th' top of all the house I ran undrest; The people thought that I had been possess'd: At last, I spy'd you in the Pacquet-boat; I knew it was you or so at least I thought: Had you been walking, I had known your Stride, And guess'd your Strutt from all Mankind's beside: Both Seas and Winds must needs be kind to thee Thou art so like 'em in Inconstancy.

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I thump my Breast, I rage, I storm and fume; The House desires I would discharge my Room: Quoth one o'th' Servants, Mistress Ariadne's Past all recovery, overwhelm d with Madness: Another crys, Mam'sell Com' portez vou'? Fetch me my Thes. said I, What's that to you. When in the Boat I cou'd no longer see you. Ten thousand De'ills of Hell, said I, go we' you. They think I'm drunk, I'm sure 'tis not with Wine; The Score's too large; and you have left no Coin. Into a Corner I am sometimes dogg'd, And there I cry as if I had been flogg'd: Sometimes I roul my Self upon the Bed, And act those postures o're that once we did: To my own self with pleasure I repeat, Here lay my Head, and there I put my Feet▪ I often call to mind our amorous Work; Then here, methinks I have you with a Jerk.

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Sometimes they talk, that Ships are safe at home: I listen then, to hear if you are come. Were I a Man, into the Seas I'd douse, And after you I'd swim, and bilk the house: If I should offer to run home again, My Father'd keep me in an Iron-chain; I have betray'd the old Man's Trust for you; I may go whistle for a Portion now: When, for your sake, I stole the Prison Keys, I little thought to see such days as these: Oh! when your LOVE was mounted to a pitch, You hugg'd me as the Devil hugg'd the Witch; You swore, with Oaths most desperate and bloudy, The Queen of France to me was but a Dowdy. I have more Whymses then a dancing Bear, Sometimes I dream the Constable is here: And though the Waiters very often wheedle, Yet I suspect that they will bring the Beadle.

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Again, I fear they'll spirit me away, And send me Slave into Virginia: I was not bred a Drudge from the beginning, Except it were to wash my Father's Linnen. Either to Sea or Land I durst not look, To Heaven I can't; you've stole my Prayer-book: Your Valour made my Fortune so untoward, I would to God that you had been a Coward: Distressed Ariadne now complains, Because such sprightly bloud runs in her Veins: They say we French are very Hot, 'tis true; But yet our Sparks are Frost and Snow to you: Curst be the time when you first learnt to fence, (Though that does never alter Men of sence.) I fancie in what posture you were found, One Foot heav'd up, the other on the Ground: As much of Warlike Grace you did discover As any Roman Statue in the Loure.

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Methinks I hear you speak to th' Cavilier, Sa! Sa! Mounseur, I have you here and there: But now your valiant Acts are lost for ever, By sneaking off, like a French-Ribbon-Weaver. Had I not drank that Brandy over night, I cou'd have wak'd, and so have stopt your Flight. Curst be the Wind which was so kind to you; Curst be the Boat, and curst be all its Crew; Curst may I be for trusting what you said; Curst may all Lovers be that Snore in Bed. Poor Ariadne, thou art finely serv'd, Thy too much Love has brought thee to be starv'd: The Servants pitty me, and say't's a hard-case, I've nothing here to pay 'em with but Carcase: This Carcase too has wept out all its Juice, 'Tis grown so dry, 'tis fit for no Man's use. Think, when you're rev'ling in your Cups at London, That your Poor Ariadne here, is undone.

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And when you come where People do resort, To hear your Travels told were pretty sport▪ With what tough Bit of Flesh you did engage; You thought you should be killing him an Age: Do not forget me when you tell your Tale, Tell'em how I releas'dy' out of Goal; And how with you I stole on foot through Allys▪ And, pray forget not, that I am pawn'd at Callais▪ And, when this Tale to your Companion's told, Imagine Ariadne stiff and cold: When dead, they'll bury me in some back Garden, For I can't give the Parish-Clerk a farthing. And 'tis for you I all these Sorrows prove; So, Mr. Theseus, thank you for your Love.

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LEANDER to HERO:

The ARGUMENT.

Leander an Vsher of a School, and chief Poet of Richmond, having contracted a more then ordinary Acquaintance with Mistress Hero, of Twitnam, a Governess or Tutress to young Ladies; such a reverential esteem had they procur'd to themselves at each place, that they could not conveniently meet without great scandal; therefore the Vsher frequently swam over to his Mistress by night, but at this time the Thames was so rough, that he was constrained to convey his mind to Hero by a Waterman in these Poetical Lines, wherein Love and Learning strive to outvie each other.

YOur faithful Lover sends this Bille' dou'x. Stuff'd full of Love, but not a word of news. Believe not, I think much of any Labour, Cou'd I have come my self, I'd ne're sent Paper; The Thames is rough, the Winds so hard do blow, I scarcely got a Waterman to goe.

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And if I wou'd have given a thousand pound, This was the only Fellow to be found. I stood upon the Shoar, while he went off, The Boat once gone, I thought 'twas well enough I must be careful whom I send by Water, Our Family begins to smoak the matter: Just as the Letter went, I had a fancy Came in my head, I cou'd have made a Stanza: Go Paper, go, and kiss a whiter hand, That oft hath put Leander to a stand. Methinks, the Nymph perfumes it with her Breath, And bites the wax off with her Ivory Teeth: Her Shepherd would be glad to be so bit, Until th' aforesaid Teeth together met. But then think I, these whimseys shee'll condemn. The hand that writes, should rather make me swim; Bold strokes in Poetry she hardly blames, But such bold strokes shou'd be upon the Thames▪

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Methinks it is an Age since I swam o're, I long until each Arm, does prove an Oar. Fully resolv'd I came to'th water side, And thought the space between us but a stride. I saw your house, and wish'd that I cou'd clamber To your watch—light in the supremest Chamber: I pull'd off Coat and doublet twice or thrice, But then I thought,—be merry and be wise. Thus I in Verse spake to the mighty Boreas, Thou blustring youth—pray tell me why so furious; Tho' amongst Winds thou art a great Commander, Blow gently for the sake of poor Leander. I cross no Sea (Here Thames is call'd the Sea, Because it doth with lofty Verse agree.) I cross no Sea to Asia or to Afrique, Upon the Account of Sublunary Traffique: Ingots of Gold! alass! I do not seek 'em, Give me my Heroes Love, them omnia mecum.

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Boreas himself does sometimes leave off roaring And goes a—woing, I'll not say a—whoring. For several uses you, your breath may spare, Do not so fiercely move our Richmond Air. But all was vain, Boreas was still unkind, I did repeat my Verses to the wind. Had I but wings, I'd soar above the People And place my self just now on Twitnam Steeple. I well remember that first night I swam, That happy night I first to Twitnam came; I put off all my cloaths, with them my fears, And dous'd into the Thames o're head and ears. The Moon took—care Leander should not sink, And stole before me like a lighted Link: I thank'd her for her Love, and thus did greet her, As far as my poor Talent went—in meeter. Ah gentle Moon, because thou'rt kind to me, I wish Endymion may be so to thee:

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And as with him thou hold'st a private League With thy broad Eye, so wink at my Intrigue. Under correction to your Heavenly sence, Your case and mine have little difference. A Goddess you love one of human Birth, My Mistress is a Goddess upon Earth: Such sort of Beauty as she wears, is given Only to such as do belong to Heaven. And if you are not of the self same mind, Begging your Pardon, Cynthia, you're blind. With such like words I got near Twitnam sands, And nothing all the way saw I but Swans. At last I spy'd your Candle on the top, Aye! now all's well, thought I, there is some hope. But when you put your head out from the Cazement, Then was Leander struck into amazement; For two Lights more did from the Window seem, Which made the artificial one look dim.

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Your Eyes the Moon, and Candle made just four I, like some Prince was lighted to the shoar. But you're to blame, when you perceiv'd me come, Nurse sayes, she cou'd not keep you in the room, But in your shift you wou'd be running down; You'l get some violent cold, and then you're gone But to say truth, thou art a loving Tit, Thou hug'st me in thy arms all dripping wet: I can but think how strangely I did look, When you put o're my head a Holland Smock; And hand in hand thus walking from the Thames We seem'd the Ghosts of two distressed Dames. But when we came to Bed, we understood, We were no Ghost, but real Flesh and Blood: We did repeat more pleasures in one hour, Than some dull Lovers do in forty score; Because we knew our time was very short, We cou'd not tell the number of our sport.

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Aurora does from Tithon's Bed escape, Tithon perhaps will take the other nap, See her Postillian Lucifer before, And now the Bus'ness of the Night is ore; The day appears, Leander must be jogging, And home agen among the Boyes a flogging. My well beloved Amo I forsake, And to dull Doceo now I must go back. A Substantive I'll always be to thee, My pritty Verb Deponent thou shalt be. If we were in conjunction day and night, Leander would not prove a heteroclite: In Grammer we make Noun to joyn with Noun, Why shou'd not Twitnam joyn with Richmond Town: 'Twou'd make one mad to think a foolish River, Or any surly Winds should Lovers sever: But hold Leander, let no Seas nor Wind Disturb the quiet Freehold of thy Mind.

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When first I crost—my thought the Fish did gaze, The Salmon seem'd to peep upon my Face; I could hear Boatmen call from Western Barge, What Fish is that, my thinks 'tis very large. They'd call me Porpus, and they'd jeer and flout me; But now by th' name of Brother they salute me: How d'ee, says one; Good morrow, t'other cryes; I civilly return them, Bona dies. The Fisherman that bobs all night for Ecl, Now sayes, Your Servant, Sir, I wish you well: God send you safe on t'other side the Water, I say unto him, Salvus sis piscator. I hope those Haleyon Nights will soon return; For want of 'em, does poor Leander mourn. But if such storms in Summer time does hinder, How shall I e're get to thee in the Winter? If I do venture in, and should be drown'd, I hope by thee my Body will be found.

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Thou'lt roul it up in Holland or in Bucram, Then may I truly say—mors mihi Lucrum. But let not this possess you I am dead, A foolish whimsey came into my head, We shall have many pleasant Nights between us, I'll come and hugg my Hero ore-tenus. Pray put these Lines up safe, for fear you lose 'em, In that warm place where I would be, your Bosom; And in a little time, dispute it not, I'll come and justifie what I have wrot: For when the Weather changes I'll not fail ye, And untill then thou—dulce decus Vale.

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HERO's Answer.

LEander, thank you kindly for your Letter, Though if y'ad come your self it had been better; I cannot rest, I know not what's the matter, I'm all afire, to have you cross the Water. We Women when we've any thing to do, Are ten times more desirous of't than you; Having dismist your little Boyes from School, You can walk out i'th Evening when 'tis cool; You can divert your self a hundred wayes, I only stand upon the shoar and gaze: You have a Green in which you bowl or bett, And now and then three or four shillings get; Or to the Tavern, when you please, you go And drink a Bottle with a Friend or so;

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While I sit mop'd—like a neglected Cat, And now and then with old dry Nurse I chat: What's your opinion, Nurse, and tell me truly, D'ye think the Wind to Night will be unruly? What will Leander come? or keep away? 'Faith I don't know, sayes she, 'tis like he may; Such drousie answers I do seldom miss, D'ye think I han't a blessed time of this? Up to my Chamber, when 'tis Night, I get, And in the Window is my Candle set; Perhaps I read a Play, or some Romances, I soon grow weary of such idle Fancies: Then I peruse your Letter o're again, And more and more admire your learned strain; Then I ask Nurses Judgment in the case, But she old Soul,'s as dull as e're she was; I make her stand upright (there I mistake, She can't stand so—for sh'as a huckle back)

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I mean, I set her somewhere in the Room, And she's to act as if you just were come; My only Joy (say I) thou'rt welcome hither, How didst thou swim to me this stormy weather? Speak, let me hear some Musick from thy mouth, Nurse nods, and says—I'm pretty well forsooth: Thus I beguile the time till Morning—peep, Then I go into Bed and fall asleep. And there I do enjoy you in my dreams, Spite of the Devil or the rougher Thames. Methought I saw you come stark naked in, Wet were your Locks, and dropping was your Skin; I with an Apron rub'd you up and down, And dry'd you from the toe unto the crown; Then presently we hugg'd with such a force, I shook the Bed, and wak'd, and startled Nurse; And finding it to be a Dream—no more, I grew as melancholy as before.

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If in a dream such tickling Joyes appear, Much pleasanter 'twou'd be, if you were here; I don't know what to think: you us'd to say, Ten thousand Devils should not stop your way: Why should the danger at this time be more? The Wind blows hard, and so it did before; But now I see which way 'tis like to drive, A Richmond Wench as sure as I'm alive; Au! say ye so? why then it is for her This Storm is rais'd, Leander cannot stir. But hang't that cannot be, I'm turn'd a fool, Leander was and is an honest Soul: As soon as I had said these words of you, The Candle burn't not as it us'd to doe; Sayes Nurse, there is a Stranger in the Light, Master Leander will be here to Night; With that she took the Brandy bottle up, And pull'd from thence a very hearty sup;

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Sayes she—if what I say should prove untrue, I wish this blessed draught may ne're go through; Therefore let's see you here to Night dear Nandy, Or else poor Nurse must never more drink Brandy. Perhaps you fancy you take double pains, And make too great a trespass on your Reins, To swim so far as you have us'd to do, And after that to please a Mistress too; Half of one half I'd ease you if I cou'd, And meet you in the middle of the flood; But from the latter service never flinch, I should be loath to bate you half an inch; But after all excusing what I'ave said, Pray do not cross the River hand o're head; I dream't last night, I hope 'tis no ill Luck, A Spaniel Dog was hunting of a Duck, There were some reeds which under water grew, And more, perhaps, than the poor Spaniel knew.

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He was entangled there, and there was found, I came to help him, but the Curr was drown'd. I do not tell this Dream to make you tardy, But as a Caution not to be fool-hardy. The Wind will soon be laid, the Thames be clear, Then you may cross it, without wit or fear; Make much of This, for if you fail me, then By all the Gods I'll never write agen.

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LAODAMIA to PROTESILAUS, Lately Translated out of OVID: Now BURLESQU'D.

The ARGUMENT.

In the War between England and Holland, one Protesilaus, an English Lieutenant of a Fifth Rate Frigat, being Wind-bound upon the Downs; his Wife Laodamia, hearing he was not gone off, sent him this Letter; and, like a fond Wife, gives him strict Caution to avoid Fighting.

A Health to your Prosperity goes round, And to your safe Return before you're drown'd: My Neighbour Iackson's Wife began it to me; If I don't wish it, may it ne'er go through me:

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We drink, and fansie to our selves in vain, That the good Winds will blow you back again. I hate the Noise of a tumultuous Sea, Give me a Tempest rais'd by you and me; A Storm in which all Parts about us shake, When we can hear the Bed beneath us crack. At Gravesend, when we took our last Adieu, The Parting Kiss, remember, I gave you: I, like a shitten Girle, began to cry; I had no mind, methoughts, to say, God b'w'y: I heard Tarpaulins roar out, Hoise up Sail; On Board, on Board; here comes a merry Gale: In such brisk Gales poor Women don't delight, They blow away the Pleasures of the night: As you went off, I could not bear the Loss, A Qualm came o'er my Stomach quite-a-cross: Old Mother Crump, a very subtle Croan, Saw by my Looks that I was almost gon:

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A Pint of Brandy presently she brought, And made me drink a very hearty draught; She shew'd her Love, but what great good has't done? How can I live with comfort now you're gone? I wake, and find no Husband by my side; I often think 'twere better I had dy'd: Till you return, I'll ne'er be drest agen; I have not comb'd my Head the Lord knows when: A Glass of Wine sometimes my heart does cherish; Wer't not for that, I fansie I shou'd perish: Because I go so taudry, like a Punk, Some, that don't know me, think that I am drunk: My Neighbours often tell me, Mistress Protes—, You go so strangely, all the Street takes notice! Says one, You do your Husband's Friends disgrace; For shame! Put on a Petticoat with Lace: Why should they think that I would wear a lac'd-coat? When my poor Husband's in a Seaman's wastecoat?

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Should I adorn my Head with Curles and Towers? When a poor Skipper's Cap does cover yours. These Plaguy Dutch; that they should break the Peace, And not submit to us in English Seas: Though, for my own particular, I swear, If I could once again but have you here, Let Dutch have Liberty to fish and foul, I would not care a Farthing, By my Soul. Methinks I see you now, and, by your looks, You are engaging with a Butter box: Methinks just now a Bullet did escape, And hit my Neck, just in the very Nape. But oh! I swoon, when I do think of Trump! His Ship's now giving yours a bloudy Thump! Bless us, said I, Now, you are dispatch'd! That Dog has been at Sea 'fore you were hatch'd: For Heaven's sake avoid him if you can, He's certainly the Devil of a Man!

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If any Ship does make up toward you, You may be sure Van-Trump's among the Crew: There's not a Shot does to your Vessel come, But I receive the Pain on't here at home. What am I better if you beat the Dutch, And you come hopping hither on a Crutch? How finely 'mong the Neighbourhood 'twould show▪ To see you strut upon a timber Toe? To rout the Foe is some great Adm'ral's Office, In these Engagements you are but a Novice; Your single Valour's nothing on the Sea, Your Combate should be hand to hand with me. Would I were in the Fleet with Trump or Ruyter, To them I would become an humble Suiter, And point out to them where your Squadron lay▪ Directing them to shoot another way: I'd speak t'em thus; Great Souls of Amsterdam, Pray hear a silly Woman, as I am;

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And let your Cannon my poor Husband shun, He knows not to discharge a little Gun: If you were Women, as you're Warlike Men, He would perform great Actions wi' you then: Your Fighting, Skirmishing, and Breaking Bones, Are onely fit for Men that want their Stones. Just as you were commanded to your Ship, Remember, at the Stairs, your Foot did slip; Think on that Slip, and, when the Dutch are shooting, Duck down your Head, as if you wanted footing; I wish your Captain some great Coward were. And durst not bring the Vessel up for fear: I wish to God he would not fail too fast; You'll come too soon, although you come the last. When you return, they'll ask how Matters stand▪ I hope you'll know no more than we at Land. All the day long I smell no scent but Powder, Each minute Guns go louder off and louder.

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Most marry'd Women long till it be night, But, for my part, I hate the thoughts of it; Unless, by chance, I sleep, and dream of you: Fancy's the kinder Husband then o' th' two: And when I wake, and feel the Linnen wet, I find, I've wept for joy upon the Sheet: This to Enjoyment gives but half content; When shall we meet together by consent? Oh, how I long to hear you tell in Bed Some strange Romantick Tale of what you did! But when you find you can't prolong the Jest, And, being at Stand,—kiss out the rest. Against both Wind and Tide why will you go? You'd scarce come home if Wind and Tide said No▪ You fight, methinks, about so mean a thing, Which should have Privilege of catching Ling: Old-Ling I hate worse than a Common Whore; (Would you lov'd Fighting with the Dutch no more:)

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I ate it once, and that against my will, And sometimes fancy that I smell no't still. But though thou art expos'd to Seas and Wind, It is some Ease unto my troubled Mind To see thy comely Picture in the Hall, Drawn to the Life with Charcoal on the Wall: I prattle to it as if thou wert here; 'Tis late; Pr'ythee let's go to Bed, my Dear: Methinks thou say'st, I'll humour thee for once; Thou'lt work me at the last to Skin and Bones: I kiss the Wall, and do my Cheeks besmear, And ope my Mouth, as if your Tongue was there. By all the pleasant Postures of Delight, By all the Twines and Circles of the Night, By the First minute of our Nuptial Joys, When you put fairly for a Brace of Boys,

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I do conjure you, have a special care, And let not faucy Danger come too near; For when I hear that thou art knock'd o' th' head, I'll hold you ten to one that I am dead.

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OENONE to PARIS.

The ARGUMENT.

Paris was the Son of Priam a Wealthy Old Citizen and Alderman of London. When Hecuba his Mother was big with Child of him, she dream't a foolish conceited Dream, which occasion'd Old Priam to consult Lilly, who told him, That Paris in process of time would occasion his house to be burnt down. Therefore the credulous Alderman sends him into the Countrey far North to be dispos'd of as a By-blow. When be grew fit for Service, he was entertain'd in a Gentleman's House, where he contracted a Bosom-acquaintance with Oenone a Young Wench and fellow Servant with him in the same house. His Father began to come to himself, and hearing where he was, sent for him, and own'd him as his Son; but before that, he had disengaged himself from Service, and ran away with one Hellen, who was Wife to Menelaus. Oenone being inform'd of All these proceedings, writes to him this Letter.

AFter my hearty Love to you remember'd, Hoping you are not in Body distemper'd

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More than my self at the writing hereof; If it be so, we are both well enough: Your Usage has been such to poor Oenone, That none but such a fool as I would own'e'e; I hear you're run away with Menels Wife, I pitty her, she'll lead a blessed Life; What mighty mischief have I done, I wonder; You'l never have a younger, nor a sounder. If by my means y' had met with some disaster, Had I procur'd you Anger from your Master; If I had giv'n you that they call a Clap, You'd had some small Excuse for your Escape: But now you've had your ends, away to sneak, Come! come! these things wou'd make a body speak. You were not then so Uppish—when you said, A Dutchess was a T—t' a Servant Maid; You were a Groom your self, you know 'tis truth, Not all your Greatness not—can stop my mouth;

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If you were able to keep house you swore You'd marry me for all I was your Whore. We were together on a Summers day, Both in the Stable, on a Truss of Hay; You can't forget some pretty pastimes there, No body saw us but the Chesnut Mare: You said such glorious things, the very Beast Prick'd up her Ears, and thought you were in Jest: But I did prove the verrier Beast oth' two, For like an Ass I thought that all was true; Soon after—you were taken from the Stable, To wait upon my Master at his Table; To undertake it you seem'd very loath, Did I not teach you then to lay a Cloath? There's no man but must have his first beginning, Who learnt you then to fold your Table Linnen? Did you not often when the Cloath was spred, Just in the middle put your Salt and Bread?

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You have been threatned oft to lose your place, Because you knew not how to fill a Glass; You pour'd in Wine up to the very top, I told you you should fill but to the knob. Did I not shew you how to broach your Drink, And tilt the Vessel when't began to sink? I was your dearest Honey—all that while There was not such a Girle in Forty mile: You carv'd my name upon the Trencher-Plates, And on the Elmes before the outward Gates; And as we see in time those Elmes encrease, So will my name grow greater with the Trees; And any one that stands but at the doore, May see Oenone (your obedient Whore). You never have been well, since those three Maids, Rather those impudent and bold-fac'd Jades Differ'd among them—selves, which it should be, That had the cleanliest shape of all the Three.

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To you they came when you were in the Close, The Little Field that was behind the House, Stark naked did they come from top to toe, Paris, say they, we will be Judg'd by you. Heavens preserve your eye-sight—how you gaz'd, Nor could you speak a word, you were so 'maz'd; At last you Judg'd with many a hum! and haw! Venus the finest Wench that e're you saw. This was a Whitson Frolique, as they said, A pretty prank to shew you all they had. To see how naked Women are bewitching, Since that y' have minded nothing else but bitching. Soon after that your project was of stealing That over-ridden Whore that Mistress Hellen: I must be gone a little while, you said, (Then was this Bus'ness brooding in your head.) You kist me hard as if I cou'd not feel, And swore that you wou'd be as true as steel:

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Said you—Doubt nothing, for the case is plain, I'm prov'd the Son of an Old Alderman, And sent for home, my Father's very ill, I must be by, at making of his Will; Oh that we cou'd but bury the old Cuff, Then marry you, all wou'd be well enough. You may've a richer Wife, but not a better, For I am no such despicable Creature; Not to disparage your good Lady Mother, I can behave my self as well's another. No Wife like me was there in Christendom, When you were honest Pall—Squire Sheepheard's Groom. My Father's but a plain Old Man, 'tis true, But's Daughter h'as been bred as high as you. He is an honest Man, what e'r I am, And may be sav'd as soon as Master Priam. Were I your Wife, my carriage shou'd not shame Your Mother Hec.—tho' shee's a stately Dame.

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What though these hands have us'd a Drippingpan, Yet on occasion they can furle a Fan. Now on a little Folding Bed I lye, (Tho' in that Bed sometimes lay you and I) Yet I know how perhaps to hold my head, If I were carry'd to a Damasque Bed. If you had marry'd me y' had met with quiet, What can y' expect from her but noise and riot? You now have caught a most notorious Strumpet; Besides 'tis known, as if y'ad blown a Trumpet; Where e're you come you'l meet with frumps and Jeers, Her Husband too, will be about your Ears. In little time from you she will be budging. She'l lye with any body for a Lodging. When first of all we closely were acquainted, (Which now it is too late, I have repented) Cassandra was a Gipsey in the Town, Who went a Fortune-telling up and down;

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I gave her broken meat, which we cou'd spare, Shee'd tell me all my Fortune to a hair: You love (sayes she) a Man not tall nor squat, But a good hansome Fellow, (mark ye that?) This Youth and you 'tis likely may do well, If he escape but one—they call her Nell. But if they two should chance to lye together, Hee'll break the heart of you, and of his Father. Who this Nell was, I cou'd not chuse but wonder; But now I know who 'tis—a Pox confound her! I'll make Cassandra 'Liar tho', in part; You've vex'd me, but you ne're shall break my heart. This very Whore I speak on, ran-away With such another Fellow t' other day, And when her cloaths were gone, and money lavish'd, She came and told her Husband she was ravish'd. I'm sure I'm true, for here since you were gone, Hath been some loving Boobyes of the Town,

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One of the Fellows surely is a Satyr, He follows me, and swears hee'l watch my water: We have a Servant come—pretends to Physick, He hath a Cure for any one that-is sick; He cures the Tooth-ach; if your Finger's cut, A Plaister to it presently hee'l put; Freckles i'th' face he cures, and takes off Pimples, 'Hath taught me too the use of Herbs and Simples. But I must beg my fellow-Servant's pardon, 'Gainst Love there is no Herb nor Flow'r i'th' Garden: For this Disease I must rely upon ye, Come and live here again, you'l cure Oenone.

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PENELOPE to VLYSSES, Lately translated out of OVID: Now BURLESQU'D

The ARGUMENT.

There hapning a Rebellion in Scotland, in that Army which went under the Command of the Duke; Ulysses went Voluntier. The Rebels being quell'd, the Army return'd home; but Ulysses lay loitring at some Inn on the Road; which when his Careful Wife Penelope understood, she sent him this Epistle; giving him an Account how Affairs stood at home.

YOur poor Penelope admires that you Should ever use a Woman as you do!

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Now every Souldier's at his own aboad, You, like a Sot, ly tipling on the Road: You are not left behind 'em as a Spy, T' inform, in case of second Mutiny: The Devil of Hell will have that Fellow surely, Who first began this plaguy Hurly-burly. Had it not been for this unlucky Fight, Y'ad stuck to work all day:—to me at night. Poor I must drudge at home all sorts of weather, And knit,—as Heaven and Earth would come together; Twirling a Wheel, I sit at home—hum—drum, And spit away my Nature on my Thumb: Thus, while I spin, you, like a careful Spouse, Go reeling up and down from house to house. Being you stay'd so long, I did conjecture, You had been maul'd by Sauny, the Scotch Hector: Old Nestor's Son, that Fool, stood just by you, When's empty Scull, they say, was split in two:

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And, when he dropt, for all you are so stout, You wish'd your self at home, in shitten clout. Yet, after all, Vlysses, I am glad You are alive, though you're a scurvy Lad. Our Neighbours here all day do tittle tattle, And talk of nothing else but Bloud and Battle; Were you at home, you could not chuse but laugh To hear 'em crack and bounce, now they are safe: Perhaps when three or four of them are met, And round about a Kitchin-Table set, There's such a Noise, a Clutter, and a Din, The Rebel Scots are routed o're agen. Some with Tobacco-Pipes upon the Table, Do valiantly demonstrate to the Rabble The Foes chief Strength; with that another Spark Hamilton's House describes; a third, the Park; Another spils some Ale upon the Bench, And, with his Finger, learns you to entrench;

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One acts how fierce our valiant Souldiers ran-on, Dismounts a Can, and tells you, 'tis a Cannon; Another cries, Neighbours, observe and look. This Pot's Sir Thomas, and this Glass the Duke. Thus while the Husbands draw this bloudy Scheme, The Wives, behind their Chairs, were in a Dream; Nay, some of 'em (I question whether'ts true) Do tell some mighty Deeds perform'd by you; That, being provok'd, you like a valiant Man-drew, And cut a Scotch-man's Luggs off—by St. Andrew. I'm ne'er the nearer, though they're overcome; If you'll not mind your Bus'ness here, at home: For my own part, I would not care a pinn If they were still in Arms, and you in mine: Pr'ythee, come home; I cannot chuse but wonder What-a-God's-name you can be doing yonder: By every Post and Carrier to the North I've sent more Paper then your Neck is worth:

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I've sent to Hull, to Berwick, and to Grantham; I might as well have sent a Post to Bantam. Perhaps some Tapster's Wife subdues your Heart, Or else her Drink's so strong you cannot part: And, when you're drunk, Lord, how your Tongue does run, That you've a House well furnish'd here in Town, In which your Wife (or rather, Drudge) doth dwell As constantly at home, as Snail in Shell. (But yet, when I remember parting Kisses, Then, then, methinks, thou shouldst be true, Vlysses.) My Father says, you're drown'd i'th watry Main; The old Man joques, and bids me wed again; His Counsel, like himself, is still unsound, I'd rather he were hang'd then you were drown'd. Every day here comes a sort of Fellows, Enow to make a foolish Husband jealous, From Whetson's-Park, Moor-fields, or such like places, Fellows with Cuts and Frenches in their Faces;

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There are but seven Fingers amongst four, And here they domineer, and swear, and roar: Two of 'em say, they have been vast Commanders, The other trail'd a Pike with You in Flanders; There's one of 'em, they call him, Merry Robert, He, in a merry way, broke up the Cubboard; Here hath been Irus too, that Irish Thief, W' hath eaten up a Surloin of Roast-bief; What signifies my Father or my Self, We can't secure our Meat upon the Shelf? What great defence can Nurse or little Boy-make Against a Fellow with a Horse's stomach? The little Rogue, your Son, was almost drown'd, Padling about, he tumbled in the Pond, But we recover'd him with much adoe, I hope, hee'll prove a better Man than you. In short, If speedily you do not come, You will be eaten out of house and home:

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The old Man's crazy, we from him must part; And I have lay'd your usage so to heart, That I am grown so wither'd now with Grief, I look—more like your Mother then—

Your Faithful Wife, PENELOPE.

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PHAEDRA to HIPPOLYTVS.

The ARGUMENT.

Theseus having made his Escape out of France with Phaedra—(whose Sister Ariadne he deserted at Calais) when he came into England marry'd her, and brought her home to a Farm-House near Putney in Surrey, which he Rented of one Mr. Jove; which House during his Travell, (or rather his Ramble) he committed to his Son Hippolytus, who was a great Hunter, a hansome Fellow, and a Woman—hater; for which two last Reasons Phaedra his Mother, after she had acquainted her self with her Neighbours, and houshold affairs, fell desperately in Love; insomuch that nothing would serve her but carnal copulation with her Son in Law; to accomplish which, she humbly entreats him by this Letter to consider her Condition.

TO you, my Lad, I send this amorous Scroul, Wishing you health, with all my Heart and Soul; Your Mother, and your Lover does beseech, That with these Lines you wou'd not wipe your Breech:

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'Thank God, my Father gave his Children breeding, And taught us all, our Writing, and our Reading. By Letters Men have News, and Women find Which way and how their Sweet-hearts are enclin'd. Thrice I resolv'd to tell you all I thought, But for my Blood I cou'd not get it out: I just began to say—My dearest Poll, Then laugh'd, and turn'd aside, and ruin'd all: Tho' 'tis no laughing matter, for I own I love the very Ground thou tread'st upon. I'll tell thee, Poll, and mark me what I say, If Love thou Sullenly dost disobey, Tho' he's a Boy, not half so big as you, Yet Fairy-like he'll pinch yo' black and blew; On a full speed your Horse he'll lead astray, And like a Hare he'll cross you in your way. If he assaults—you cannot beat him off Either with hunting Pole or Quarter Staff.

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'Hath sworn, (tho' to your Father I am wed,) To bind you fast, and bring you to my Bed. 'Tis true, your strength is great, his only Art, You pitch the Bar, and he can throw a Dart. What need I use these words? dear Polly—come Let us embrace, your Father's not at home. You know my Reputation's very great, Whoo'd guess that You and I shou'd do the feat. Oh how I'm stung, I have as little Ease, As if I had distrub'd a Hive of Bees. I purre and purre, just like our Tabby Cat, As if I knew not what I wou'd be at: When Young, I cou'd have cur'd these am'rous stings With Carrots, Radishes, or such like things; Now there's no pleasure in such Earthly cures, I must have things apply'd as warm as yours. Where lyes the blame, art thou not strong, and young? Who wou'd not gather fruit that is well hung?

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Or who can call't a Sin when we have done, Mayn't I have leave to hug my Husband's Son? Suppose our Landlord Iove, that gallant Wight, Had a months mind to lodge with me a night; Nay—if his Lady too should give consent, For you I'd quit him, though hee'd quit his rent. Since you'l not hunt in this my softer place, Where I should get the better of the chase; Since the large Fields and Woods you rummage thorough, Disdaining my poor little Cunny—borough; I'll follow you o're Ditches, and throu' Boggs, And whoop and hollow after all the Dogs: I'll speak to th' hounds so well hey! Iowler, Bowman, That none, but you, shall know I am a Woman: I'll praise your Greyhound Delia, when you course, She shall my Mistress be, and I'll be yours. Under a hedge I'll squat down like a Hare, And you alone shall find me sitting there.

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Sometimes upon a Horse I'll get astride, And after you, as I were mad, I'll ride; For all our Generation have been so, When they're in Love they know not what they do. You've heard that Mistress Europe was my Grandam; She went away with Iupiter at Random. Pasiphae my Mother was so full Of strange Vagaries, that she suck'd a Bull. My Husband with my Sister lay—or rather I should have told you that it was your Father. Poor Adne was stark mad for him, and now I am (God knows) as mad in Love with you. So that between the Father and the Son, There are two Sisters like to be undone. I never shall forget with what a Grace You drest your self in order for the chase; Your Visage not too red, but only tan'd, Of the same colour with your brawny hand.

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An ancient Bever on your head you put, Like a three—Pegeon Pye, in corners cut. A little Jacket made of blewish green, Which had the Death of many a Badger seen. Your hair your own, which shew'd you not debauch'd, Not nicely trim'd, for here and there 'twas notch'd. I hate your Fellows with your powder'd Wigs, As m' Husband us'd to say, they look like Prigs. You'd lasting Breeches made of Buckskin Leather, To keep the fundamental parts from weather. But when you reach'd your hanger from the Bed, Another Weapon came into my head. Not all your dayes can give you such delight, Or half the Sport I'll shew you in a Night. Delia's your Joy, Delia does you bewitch; Can you neglect a Christian, for a Bitch? Cephalus your Companion and old Crony, Valu'd a Dog better than ready money.

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Hee'd get upon a Horse, though half asleep, Ready to hunt before the Day did peep; But when h'ad once tasted Aurora's sweets, He found out better Game between the sheets; For then unless she pleas'd, he durst not say, (Nor did he wish) that it would e're be day. Why should not we consent to try our skill? I'm certain you and I can do as well. Therefore dear Poll, I offer very fair, Under Barn-Elmes I'll meet you if you dare; Since none but Countrey Sports can humour you, I'll wrastle wi' you there a fall or two; Though o' my Conscience I believe you'l throw me, But if you shou'd, perhaps it won't undo me; And when you have me down among the Trees, You wanton Rogue, you may do what you please. Wee'd no such opportunity before: Your Father is at London with his Whore.

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Therefore I think 'tis but a just design, To cuckold him, and pay him in his coin. Besides, he ne're was marry'd to your Mother, He first whor'd her, and then he took another, What kindness or respect ought we to have For such a Villain and perfidious Knave? This should not trouble, but provoke us rather With all the speed we can to lye together. I am no kin to you, nor you to me, They call it Incest but to terrifie. Lovers Embraces are Lascivious Tricks, 'Mongst musty Puritans and Schismaticks. Did not our Master Iove chuse him a Mistress, Who should it be, but one of his own Sisters? There's no engendring can be truly good, But when we fancy that we 're of a blood. Under the names of Mother and of Son, What pretty pleasant actions may be done?

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All they will say, because I'm kind to thee, I'm Mother both in Law and Equity. Take heart of Grace, be not afraid of Spyes, I care not if there were Ten thousand Eyes; I'll leave the door without a Bolt or Lock: What if they saw us in our Shirt and Smock. Nay I'll suppose we should be seen in Bed, What can there to our prejudice be said? That you came wet and dripping from the chase. And I'd a mind to give you my warm place. I did not think to 've said so much in hast, But Love like Murther must come out at last: The Fort lyes open, therefore scorn it not, But come with speed, and enter on the spot; Let us imagine now the worst can happen; Suppose that you and I were taken napping; And Theseus sayes, Begone you filthy Whore; Away you Rogue, and so he shuts the door.

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What if he does, why then for France with speed, We shall be there supply'd with all we need. My Father dwells at Paris in good credit, And well to pass is he, though I have said it; There he's well known as Beggar knows his dish, We'll live as bravely then as Heart can wish: Therefore make haste, dream not of any harms, Thou'lt be secure enough within my arms. When you go out, may you be sure of Game; May your horse never tire nor happen lame: At a default may the Dogs never be, May Delia bring forth Whelps as good as she. May you i'th' Field ne're want a draught of Beer, Or Bread and Cheese, or such like hunting cheer; While I sit pining for you here at home, When I have cry'd out both my Eyes you'l come.

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HYPSIPYLE to IASON. Lately translated out of OVID: Now BURLESQU'D.

The ARGUMENT.

Jason, a quondam Foot-man, with some others, the nimblest of the same Function, joyn'd their Stocks, and purchas'd a Silver-Bowl, which they ran for from Barnet to St. Albans; but, before the day of the Match, one Medaea, a Gipsey, and Strouler in those Parts, took a more then ordinary fancy towards Jason, whom she so dieted with new laid Eggs, or what the Devil it was else, (she being suspected of Withcraft,) that he won the Plate; and beat two famous Foot Jockeys, Whipping-Tom and Teage: Hypsipyle, his Wife, whom he had deserted, hearing of his good success, and withall, of his Love-intrigue with Medaea, caused this Epistle to be sent to him.

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From So-hoe Fields, Feb. 27. 1670/80.

Husband,

THE Neighbours in our Alley do relate, That at St. Albans you have won the Plate. How easy' a matter had it been for you. T' have sent poor Hyp. your Wife, a George or two? Did I, when Flannel was both dear and scarce, Make you Trunk-hose to your ungrateful Arse; I sew'd so long, my Fingers still do ake, And, in all Conscience, I deserve my Snack. I can hear something, though I keep at home; I hear, y' have beaten Teague and Whipping-Tom. You ran so swift, and strong, the People say, You bore down all that stood but in your way:

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Before your foundred Fellows could come up You won the Match, and seis'd the Caudle-Cup. I know, y' have been a Rogue, and done me wrong; Yet I'd hear this from your own flattring Tongue. But why shouldst thou e'er hope for that, poor Hypsi, Since Iason loves a Bacon-visag'd Gipsey. As I was washing, th' other day at door, There came a Scoundril, ill-look'd Son-of-a-whore, Who, jeering, ask'd if I were Madam Iason? I'd like t' have thrown Soap suds his ugly Face-on. Said I, I'm Jason's Wife, for want of better; Have you brought Money from him, or a Letter? How does he doe? Is he not very fine? Come, come, let's see, I'm sure h'ath sent me Coin; Quoth he, By God of Heaven, not a Souze; He onely bid me see you at your House. The Fellow told m' a Tale of Cock and Bull; At last, I ask'd about your. Tawny-Trull.

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He said, Medaea's your beloved Gipsey, And that you're often seen together tipsey; But, he believ'd, 'twas but a Trick of youth? A Trick! said I, the Devil stop your Mouth Would I'd been lash'd and whipt the City round That day I marry'd thee, loose Vagabond: The Hangman in disguise read Common-pray'r When we were match'd, a very Hopeful Pair: Curst be the time I did admit you first, And strove to quench your everlasting thirst: What Plague possest me when I brought you home? This was no place to run with Whipping-Tom. If I had taken but my Sister's counsel, Y' had never set your flat-foot o'er the groundsel: She bid me exercise the Fork and Spit; We'd then good Goods, but now the De'il a bit. 'Twas well enough a year, nay, almost two; What Fury hath possession of you now?

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Villain, remember, when you went away, How oft you Damn'd your self, you would not stay; And smoothly said, No place shall us divide; A Curse upon your base dissembling Hide: I was so big that I could hardly tumble, Yet I believ'd your Oaths, and durst not grumble: Said you, Dear Hypsi. know that I am dead, If I don't come before you're brought to bed; You look'd like Air, with Breeches close to thighs, I fancy'd you'd be back within a trice: When you were gone, I to the Garret crept, To see how nimbly o'er the Fields you tript; As swift you went, so swift return you'ld make, But all this haste was for that Bitche's sake: Why do I rub my Windows, wash my Room, Expecting still your Rogueship would come home! 'Twould never vex me, if you were not seen With such a damn'd confounded nasty Quean:

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A Witch, a Bitch, in whom the Devil dwells, Whose Face is made of Grease and Wall-nut-shells. Master, quoth she, e'er from this Town you stir You'll lose, (that is, Your Pocket's pick'd by her.) A plaguy Jade, who curses Night and Noon, And houls, and heaves her Arse against the Moon, Contemning her as Authress of the Flowers; Railing at all our Sex, and poxing yours: No Childing-Woman doth in Travel linger; But tow'rds her Pain this Fiend holds up a Finger: She'll ride a Stick; when Sow is brought to bed, Then Pigs have no more life than pigs of Lead: She, with the Mother, at a door will wheedle, And, in her Infant's heart, will stick a Needle: This I believe, what e'er of me you think, S' hath put some Rotten-post into your drink. 'Tis strange, that I should suffer all these Wrongs From her, whom I would scorn to touch with Tongs.

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You'll lose the Name of beating Tom and Teague, Whilst with this Whore you do continue League: Nay, some do very confidently say't, 'Twas by her Witch-craft that you won the Plate: Some think her Devil, others, new-laid Eggs, Made you so fast advance your Bandy-leggs: What can you find in such a Punck as she Who from a Dunghill brings her Pedigree? My Father dwells at Sign of Golden-Can, An honest Vict'ler, a substantial Man: 'Tis true, they say, he is a drunken Sot; What then; i'th' Parish he paies Scot and Lot: Old Bacchus, the Wine-cooper, was my Grandsire; Let her produce such Kindred if she can Sir: Her Children have been gotten in a Bog By some large pintled Wolf, or Mastive Dog: My Babes were neither got nor whelp'd i'th' Streets, I labour'd for them 'twixt a pair of Sheets:

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That they are yours, I'm sure, you need not doubt, For they 're as like as if y' had spit them out: Could they have gon alone, I'd made 'em amble To your Apartment underneath a Bramble; But I consider'd how your Whore would treat 'em, Nay, it is ten to one, the Hag would eat 'em; Or else, perhaps, she'd stick their tender Skins All full of Sparables, or crooked Pins; Since of her own s' hath murther'd many a Brat, Would she spare mine; oh! never tell me that. Methink I see you and the hell-born Toad Engendring in a Tree that's near the Road: Suppose you were pursu'd, as y' are a Thief; Where would you fly? where would you find relief? What if your self and yonder Devil's dam Should come to me, and try if you could sham?

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Sure I should make you very welcome both, And entertain you nobly, by my Troth. I should toward you have some relenting Heart, But 'tis my Goodness more than your desert: And, for your Fire-brand there, that loathsome Hag, I would contrive the greatest Pain and Plague: Her Nose being slit, to make her look more grim, Like a Spred-Eagle on her Face should seem: Her coarse black Skin should from her Flesh be rent; I'd run a Spit into her Fundament; And, Iason, this thy Punishment should be, Thou shouldst eat those, so oft have swallow'd thee. But since it must not be, I am contented To let my Spleen in cursing her be vented: May she all Sustenance for ever lack, Untill she takes her Child from off her Back, And puts it in her Belly for a Nuncheon, And for the Fact be thrown into a Dungeon:

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May she be burnt to Cinders as a Witch, And you be hang'd for loving of the Bitch.

Yours, as you have us'd her, HYPSIPYLE.

For John Jason, to be left at his Apartment, in a hollow Tree, between Barnet and St. Albans.

Page 105

PARIS to HELLEN.

The ARGUMENT.

Paris had liv'd a great while in Obscurity, at last being own'd by Alderman Priam a Rich Old Citizen, and receiv'd as his Son—he set up for a Gentleman; but very well knowing he could not be rightly accomplish'd without a Mistress, and hearing Fame speak viva voce in the praise of one Hellen, who liv'd somewhere in the North. He was at her house receiv'd, and during the absence of Menelaus her Husband, he endeavour'd to break his Mind to her; but being not through-pac'd in Gentility, his Modesty got the upper hand of his inclination, therefore he presently had recourse to his Pen, and writes her this conceited Lettter.

FReely and from my heart without compelling, I wish all health and happiness to Hellen: For if you're Sick, I'm sure to suffer pain; As I'm a Lover and a Gentleman,

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I need not tell you that I'm off oth' hooks, Your Ladiship discerns it by my Looks: For you whose Eyes have such a piercing quickness, May see I'm overgrown in the Green-sickness; So that upon the whole and perfect Matter, I am your Servant, but I seem your Daughter. I cou'd eat walls as well as white bread crum, But fear to eat you out of house and home. For this distemper I've read many Cures, But the sole power of healing must be Yours. Your Holiness (I cannot call you less, That doth on Earth perform such Miracles,) Your holiness I say within few Weeks, May fetch a lively colour in my Cheeks. But if we are too long e're we begin, I'm apt to fear it may corrupt within. 'Tis Love, 'tis Love, that makes me toss & tumble, And in my Entrails does like Jollup rumble:

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'Tis as impossible you should not see't, As 'tis to hide the Pox both small and great. 'Tis Love, You know th' effects of that disease, Therefore pray fall to work when e're you please. If at these Lines you do not jeer nor Jybe, There is some hopes you may receive the Scribe. And Madam know, I did engage the Stars, Before I durst engage in Cupid's Wars. This is a grand affair, I had been silly T'ave ventur'd on't without consulting Lilly: To him I went for my own happy ends, And all the Planets he hath made my Friends. But above all, the most pellucid Venus, Hath promis'd there should be a Job between us; She knoweth best what's good for you and me, She does command our Fates and Powers d'ye see. Without her leave no living Lover stirs, Paris, said she, put on your Boots and Spurs.

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She did consent I should ascend my horse, And toward your Mansion bend my glorious course. Never by her was riding yet forbidden, Her Goddess-ship with pleasure has been ridden. My heart's upon the racking trot—alass! But she can bring it to a gentle pace. Next, Madam, know, your Sight was no surprize, I lov'd you by my Ears as well as Eyes. Your Fame hath much out-sounded the Report. Of the great Guns at taking of a Fort. I came not here to seek terrestrial pelf, I made this progress for your heavenly self. The Womb o'th' Universe if I should rifle, To your more secret parts 'twere but a trifle. To see your ancient Pile, I do not range, We have more lofty Fabricks near th' Exchange. 'Twas for your sake I spurr'd my stubborn Steed, For you alone thro' thick and thin I rid.

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You're mine, what desperate mortal dares gainsay't? Sure I may take my Planet's word for that. I fain would tell your Ladyship a Dream, If it would not too great a trouble seem. My Mother dream't, when she with me was quick, She should bring forth a lighted Fagot—stick; I am that Faggot-stick, I burn apace, Oh quench me, Madam, in your watring—place. I've taken taken fire at you, as match at tinder; Cool me, or else your Servant is a Cinder. This was my Mother's dream, I now design, Under Correction, to relate you mine. I laid me down to sleep one Summers day, Under the shade of a new Stack of Hay; For we poor Lovers, such is our hard case, Are glad to take a Nap in any place; Three naked Ladies came, I well remember, As naked as the Trees are—in December;

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They told me they'd be judg'd alone by me, Which was the most deserving of the Three; The first would bribe me with a Purse of Gold; My Judgment's neither to be bought nor sold: The second offer'd me a Tilting Sword, Knowing I ne're would take an angry word: But sayes the third, and in my face she giggled, With such poor toyes you're not to be inveigled, But if you value me above the rest, Then know young—man, you are for ever blest. Within a little time you shall arrive, Where a resplendent Country Dame does live; First you must court her like an humble Beggar, At last shee'll yield, and you may lay your Leg—o're; The Prize is yours, said I, you ought to take't, I kiss'd her lower Parts, and so I wak'd. My Dream is out, for thus I do explain it, You are the Countrey Dame, and she the Planet.

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Without delay I put on my accoutring, And with full speed, I came to you—a—suitring. But just as I was putting Foot in Stirrup, Drinking with Friends a parting cup of Syrrup, My Sister came to th'door, a mad young Lass, Her name's Cassandra, but we call her Cass; Brother, quoth she, beware, beware, I say, You do not meet a Fireship by the way: A strange wild Wench, I hope she did not mean That any where your Ladiship's unclean; Heavens forbid, Good Soul, she meant no more Then flames of Love, as I have said before. Being arriv'd at this your decent house, Whom should I meet but your Illustrious Spouse? He brought a Tankard out of good March Beer, Cold Pork and Butter, and such houshold chear; He ask'd—if ever I Tobacco took, I said I'd take a pipe—but cou'd not smoak;

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He shew'd m' his Garden, and his fine young Trees, His Barn, his Stable, and his house of Ease: I said, 'Twas wondrous pretty—but my mind Still ran on what my Planet had design'd. At last you came with such a dazling grace, I thought the Sun and Moon was in your face, Lilly's and Roses, Pinks and Violets, Your Looks were loaded with the vernal sweets; Your poor adorer was in such amaze, I vow and swear I knew not where I was; Before I spoke I fell to private pray'r,

Planet I thank thee for thy tender care; Now thou hast rais'd my Bliss to such a pitch, I humbly beg, that thou'dst go thorough stitch.

At last I spake, and bow'd in seemly wise, And paid obeysance to your sparkling Eyes; Your Beauty's greater than your fame did boast, So is a May-Pole taller than a Post.

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I've heard, you once conferr'd your gracious favour On Theseus, who was thought a cunning shaver; With him your Ladiship ha's play'd some Gambols, Proliques y'have had, and many pleasant rambles. But, by your Leave, your Lover was a Clown, For leaving your bright Eminence so soon; D'ye think that Paris would have serv'd you so, Would he have let Illustrious Hellen go? By Stix and Acheron your Servant swears, Rather then part with you, hee'll lose his Ears; When that hour comes for which we both were born, And soon 'twill come, or Planet is forsworn; When we shall lye entranc'd—entranc'd I say, Then if you have the heart to go, you may; Hasten, forsooth, hasten the happy Job, For till't be done—my heart will shout and throb:

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'Tis very fit that you and I should join, Your Family's very good, and so is mine. My Father fin'd for Alderman, long since, He's now grown rich, and lives like any Prince. If you wou'd once make London your aboad, You'd hate a Village as you'd hate a Toad. Oh how your Ladiship wou'd stare to see Our City Dames in all their Bravery. They've Petticoats with Lace above their knees Of Gold and Silver, or of Point Veni-ce; Cornets and lofty Tow'rs upon the head, And wondrous shapes of which you never read. How ill a Pinner with a narrow Lace, Becomes the Beauty of so bright a Face? A fairer Face no Mortal e're laid Lips to, And I believe there are not whiter Hips too. Too white to mingle with a Husband's thighes, When I but think of that, my flesh does rise.

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When toward me sometimes a Glance does pass, Your poor Adorer looketh like an Ass. For if I should return you Look for Look, I fear your Husband would begin to smoak; And I'll behang'd, if ever Menelaus, By any am'rous Look of mine, betray us; Were it not at your Table I'd abuse him, For thrusting his great Paw into your Bosom: That Warty Fist between your Breasts does seem Like a brown George dropt in a Bowl of Cream. I'm mad to see him draw his Chair so close, And kiss, and hugg you underneath my Nose. Then I go out, pretending to make Water, Seeming to take no notice of the Matter: To all true Hearts I drink a Cup of Wine, A Health' that does imply both yours and mine;

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Then seeming drunk, I tell some strange Romance, And lay the Scene in Italy or France; Of some bright Lady, and her brisk—Gall—ant; By which two Lovers, you and I are meant. But, Madam, to write more of this were nonsence, My Planet h'as contriv'd the Bus'ness long-since; By curious search I something can discover, 'Tis in your Blood—you're born to be a Lover. What think you, Lady, of your Father Iove? Shew me a Town-Bull h'as been more in Love. Your Mother, Laeda, too, who gave you suck, H'as she not been as good as ever struck? When s'had a lusty Youth between her thighs, What d'ee think? would Laeda cry to rise? Your Parents being as right as ever pist, If you should be precise, you wou'd be hist.

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But if you must be constant to one Man, With me to London make what hast you can. There wee'll provide a little Winter House, And you shall pass for my renowned Spouse. By what I see your Husband does approve, That in your Absence here I should make Love. Or wou'd he else have gone,—under pretence, To buy a Horse—a hundred miles from hence? The Bus'ness seems to me, as plain a case, As is the Nose upon your beauteous face. To let you know that I should be no clog, Did he not say, Love me and Love my Dog? Nelly, said he, be kind unto my Guest, And let his entertainment be the Best. I presently his meaning understood, If Yours be not the Best—then nothing's good. You see your Husband orders our affairs. Therfore, dear Madam, do not hang an Arse,

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But let's away to London—Crop does wait, Saddled and bridled at the Garden—gate; Crop's a good Natur'd Beast—and carries double, And will not think your Ladiship a trouble. Strike while the Iron's hot, my Love is fervent, Get up, and ride behind—

Your humble Servant Paris.

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HELLEN's Answer to PARIS.

The ARGUMENT.

Hellen having receiv'd his Letter, at first seems wonderfully displeas'd at his Impudence, in attempting a Lady of her unspotted fame; who was bred and born in the Town where she liv'd, and was never call'd Whore. At length the Storm's over, and she Tacks about, giving him an assurance of her readiness to comply, but doubts her Gallant wo' not be constant. In plain English She's as willing as He.

YOur Letter's wrot in such a filthy stile, I did not think an answer worth my while, Till I consider'd you might offer vi'lence, And take advantage of a Woman's silence. I'm sure you have not wanted drink or food, I wonder in my heart you'll be so rude.

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'Tis sine y'saith—because you come from London, You think a Country Body must be run down. You of your Entertainment here may brag, You were not us'd as if you'd had the Plague. My Husband did receive you as a Friend, And wou'd you to his Wife now prove a Fiend? Perhaps you'll say of me, when you are gone, Hellen! a Lady!—Hellen's but a clown. I'll own the name, since you can say no more, I'd rather be a Clown, then call'd a Whore: Yet for all that, though I keep Cows and Daries, I can behave my self as well as Paris. Tho' I don't fleer like a young wanton Girle, Yet you shall seldom see me frown or snarle. Tho' you such breeding, and such manners own, Let me deal plainly w'ye—I think you've none. Or could you else believe me so untrue, To leave my Spouse, and run away with you?

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Because a Fellow once did pick me up, You think I'm to be stoln by every Fop. He knew not whether I was Man or Woman, But you conclude from thence that I am common. When he perceiv'd that I was none of those, He very fairly brought me to my house. And since I'm gotten quit of Master Theseus, Our Paris wou'd be nibbling too, God bless us!— Though by my Troth I cannot blame your Love▪ If I were sure that you wou'd constant prove. Dy'e think I shou'd not be in dainty pickle. If I shou'd run away with one that's fickle? You urg'd to me th'example of my Mother, As if the Daughter shou'd be such another. You don't consider Laeda was betray'd, By one that courted her in Masquerade. She thought sh'ad met a harmless plume of feather, But at long-run he prov'd a Stallion rather.

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His Family's the best in all the County, All that you live by's, but a Trades-man's bounty. But that's all one, where ever Love prevails, Money's no more than paring of my Nails. Sometimes I think you love me when you look With Eyes unmov'd, just like a Pig that's stuck; And dabble with your fingers in my Palm, And use to call the moisture of it,—Balm. If in the Glass I leave a little drop, You'd say I'll drink your snuffs—and suck it up. Hellen you carv'd with Penknife on the Gate, And I wrot Paris just a-top of that. These are shrewd signs of Love, and without doubt, You'd give a Leg or Arm to have a Bout. Tho' you are not the first Man by a hundred, That has seen me, and lov'd and gaz'd and wondred. If you at first had come into our Town, And courted Hellen in a Grogram Gown,

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When I was but a silly Soul, God knows, You might have made a Bridge of Menel's Nose. Now he commands in chief, your Suit is vain, To all true Lovers Marriage is a Bane. But why should Paris for a Mistress long, Since in your Sleep your Fancy is so strong? You can see three stark naked at a time, And take your choice of Beauty's in a dream: Yet you left Honour, Wealth, and God knows what. And all for me—a pretty fancy that. I know 'tis wheedle,—but if all were true, It is no more than I would do for you. You guess my want of Skill, by being so plain, For I'am not us'd to write to any Man, Except t' a Millener, (my Husband's Cozen) Who sends me Gloves,—and Ribbands by the dozen. Well—since it must be so—let's be discreet, Let not our Town take notice that we meet;

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For they suspect already you're a Wencher, There is not such a place on Earth for Censure. Yet I can't see, why we should be so nice, I like you—by my Husband's own advice. I cou'd not chuse but laugh to hear him say, Pray Love your Guest when I am gone away: And all the while that Menelaus tarries, You are committed to the charge of Paris. The charge! Let us examine well the word, Whether he meant your charge at Bed and Board; Why should he not mean both as well as one? He knows—how much I hate to lye alone. In my weak Judgment, 'tis an easie Case, You are in all things to supply his place. But for the Mastership you're like to tug Before you have me at the closest hug. 'Twill seem to me, if you some force do use, As if I had a Maidenhead to lose.

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Lord! how I write; if I were to be damn'd, I cou'd not say't—I should be so asham'd. If I consent I'll hold you any money, You'll serve me as you did you'r dear Oenone. She hop'd she should be wedded in the Church, Instead of that, you left her in the Lurch. But if we now were toward London jogging, 'Tis ten to one some Puppy would be dogging, Or else some Neighbour on the Road wou'd stay us, And ask me after Mr. Menelaus. Or we shall hear the Country-people say, Would you believe that she should run-away? Marry not hansome Wives by this Example, Since pritty Mistress Hellen's on the Ramble. I'm strangely afraid of seeing Mr. Priam, How I shall tremble when he asks whom I—am. Tho' for my Life I shall not hold from Laughter, If Hecuba should say—Your Servant Daughter.

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But above All 'tis Hector that I dread, That Hector certainly will break my Head. Who'd think you two from the same Mother came, Hee's like a Lyon, you are like a Lamb. Let Hector prosper with his senseless hussing, 'Tis knowing nothing now that makes a Russian. While Paris shall be skill'd in Lovers Arts, And dive into our Sexes secret Parts; Now you begin to think 'tis ten to one, Your Suit is granted, and the Bus'ness done. But not so fast,—consult my Friend Clymene, No doubt—you'l make the Bus'ness up between ye. I'm loath to say't my self, she knows my mind, And she can tell you how I am enclin'd. When she informs you what must be transacted, With too much Joy, I fear, you'l run distracted. FINIS.

Books lately published and sold by Jacob Tonson at the Judges Head in Chancery-Lane near Fleetstreet.

DIvine Contemplations upon the Remarkable Passages in the Life of the Holy Iesus: Written by the Bishop of Exeter.

Ovid's Epistles Englished by the Earl of Mulgrave, Sir Car. Scrope, Mr. Dryden, and several other Eminent hands; The Second Edition, with the addition of one new Epistle.

Truth found too late, a Tragedy Acted at the Duke's Theatre: Written by Mr. Dryden, with the Grounds of Criticism in Poetry: By the same Authour.

Brutus of Alba, or the Enchanted Lovers; Acted at the Duke's Theatre; a Tragedy, which (in other Names) contains the Loves of Dido and Aeneas: written by Mr. Tate.

The Counterfeits, a Comedy, Acted at the Duke's Theatre; containing several pleasant mistakes and adventures.

An Historical Discourse of Parliaments in their Original before the Conquest, and continuance since.