AESOP AT RICHMOND, Recovered of his late Illness. A Poem in Burlesque. Dedicated to His Royal Highness the Duke. One for Sense and one for Rhyme, I thinks sufficient at a time. Hudibr. LONDON, Printed in the Year, 1698. To His Royal Highness Duke HUMPHREY. May it please your Grace, GRatitude is as essentially necessary to a Poet as wit: For, of all Mankind, they generally share the hardest Fortunes, and were they not sometimes relieved by the generous Few, might utterly starve and perish: And since nothing can be expected from them, but the poor Returns of Thanks, What Monsters were they, should they neglect the paying so small a Tribute; and how odious must they seem in the Eyes of all Men, stained with Ingratitude: 'Tis with them as with Common Beggars, where the Donor may rationally demand not only Thanks but Prayers, he has an unquestionable Right to 'em, and to wrong him of 'em, were as heinous as picking his Pocket. I need not tell the World, your Grace has for many years been the best Patron of the best Poets, and that your Grace has the largest and truest Soul of Bounty and Generosity of any Man living, that would be needless; 'tis like showing Men the Sun at Noonday: Yet I hope I may so far presume upon your Grace's Modesty, as to say, None has more largely tasted of it than myself: I will not say, your Grace has fed me upon all Occasions; yet I must declare I have dined at your Table when all the world besides have denied me a Morsel of Bread. But your Grace's Bounty does not end here; Your Grace has not only relieved the Poets in general, but the best and most learned part of the World besides; for, not to reckon the vast Shoals of Debtors, Prisoners, Stray-Apprentices, Bailiffs, Sharpers, Rooks, Pimps, Gamesters, etc. that daily eat of your Bread and drink of your Drink; a great and vast Number of Divines, Casuists, Projectors, Painters, Musicians, Rhetoricians, etc. are daily maintained at your Grace's Table; and 'tis this thing that singles your Grace out from the rest of Mankind, and your Grace is more known by your Acts of Hospitality than ever Alexander the Great was by all his Conquests. The Tables your Grace does every Day support and uphold, are almost innumerable; for, besides the most noted ones in Lincolns-Inn-Fields, Covent-Garden, St. James' Park, etc. Your Grace has several in moorfield's, Goodmans-fields, Tower-hill, etc. and all so well furnished and set out, that your Grace's Bounty seems as unlimited as the Sun; and if so, how impossible is it for us to be fufficiently thankful. May it please your Grace, then to accept this poor Trifle, a● an hearty Acknowledgement of the Author, for the many Favours your Grace has bestowed upon him, and may your Grace live long and flourish, for the Support of all decayed Persons, and particularly, of the sading Sons of the Muses, is, and ever shall be the hearty and earnest Prayer of May it please your Grace, Your Grace's most obliged, humble and obedient Servant, Jacob Dash. TO THE READER. I Question not but thou wilt wonder to find Aesop has so suddenly crossed the Water, and that he is now at Richmond, especially at the latter end of the Season, when it might reasonably have been presumed he had before sufficiently purged his Brain at Tunbridge: However, I can assure thee, here he is; nay, and what's more, I have drank with him, and, upon my word, think him a very honest, loyal, witty, good natured Fellow. He told me privately, he had been informed, that some of his Works had been, directly against his Will, rendered disgustful and obnoxious to the best of Kings and Governments: So, for the future, he resolved neither to speak Fables, or talk Politics, but in harmless Doggrel, by way of satire, (for be must show his Teeth still) point at lesser Follies: He added, that he was beholden, not only to the Poets and Painters for representing him to the World with such Charms, as a Scythe-Leg, Beetle-Brow, Goggle-Eye, Blobber-Lip, swarthy Phiz, etc. when (says he) turning about, I'm as well shaped as your Worship, or any Jack Pudding of 'em all; but I may requite their Civilities, and with that, in a great Rage, he paid his Reckoning and went away. But setting all this aside (most dear and gentle Reader) I have ned one word to give thee on behalf of what follows, nor one Reason for writing it (save that the Toy took me i'th' Crown) and I care as little what becomes on't as a Whore of her dropped Child, so thou mayst use it at thy Mercy. AESOP AT RICHMOND. SINCE nothing now but Doggerel Rhimes Will please the Readers of our Times, And every Scribbler of the Town, Of Little, Great, or No Renown, Pesters the World with Frippery Stuff, And thinks his Verses well enough. Since Aesop stroles from Place to Place, Like banished Tory in Disgrace, And checks the Frenzy of the Age, In Deathless and Immortal Page. Since he at Tunbridge first appeared, With lousy Head and mangy Beard; And after that at Bath was seen, With hideous Shape, and Face unclean. Since after that, (and worst of all) He took up Quarters in Whitehall, And there, like Rochester of old, Spoke Truth undauntedly and bold: He crossed the Thames, and travelled straight To Richmond-Wells, so famed of late, Where soon the Air cleared his Reason, He did no longer utter Treason; Nor ever canvas or debate The great Intrigues of Church or State; Nor in his merry Vein make Sport With Lords or Noblemen at Court: He scorns, he says, so base a thing, But wishes well to Kirk and King; No longer is a Politician, Or to the Frenzy-Times Physician. With Fables now, of Cat and Dog, He scorns to set the Mob a-gog: Or with the Story of a Stallion, Incite fanatics to Rebellion. He's heard it somewhere, that a Tale Will strangely over Men prevail, And wonderfully prompt 'em to, What they before ne'er thought to do; And thinks it heinous and unjust, He ever should betray his Trust; And therefore like true Subject choose On other Themes to employ his Muse; And of a Pimp or Bawd to sing, Rather than Church, State, Trade or King. High, on a steep and craggy Hill, Stands the renowned Richmond-Well. Whose Waters Excellence and Force Has oft been proved by Man and Horse. Hither great Gentry do resort, From City, Country, Town and Court; Nay, some from Holland, Spain and France, And in promiscuous Order dance; The Place no difference does afford Between th' Apprentice and the Lord. Nor can a Chambermaid be known From any Lady in the Town. The Father, Daughter, Son, and Mother, In Country Dances make a Pother, And crowd and bustle till they sweat, From Crown of Head to Sole of Feet. The Citizen to make his Life More easy, hither brings his Wife; The Yeoman brings up Joan his Daughter, To give the Room a Fit of Laughter, And she in harmless sort and Guise, Sucks Passion in at Ears and Eyes, And with her old new-fashioned clothes, Poor Creature! thinks to charm the Beaux; She stairs 'em wistly in the Faces, And Eye's their whimsical Grimaces, Observes their formal Bows and Congees, Their low Observances, and Longees, And finds so many pretty Features, At last she dotes upon the Creatures. But e'er we farther do advance, Let's know the Order how they dance, Describe the Room, Music, and Gallery, Not in our wont Style and Raillery, But seriously, and in the way Which Quakers Preach in, Poets pray. With that I whipped my Muse, but still The lazy Jade goes at her Will, And tho' I jerked from Bum to Face, Denies to stir or mend her Pace, But like your truebred drinking Sot, Keeps jogging on in wont Trot. Impaled within an Oaken Wand, Mounted aloft, the Music stand, Composed of Bass and Violin, Besides a Flute and Hautbois sine, And, that it might be truly such, Each Fiddler stands upon a Crutch; And when he screws or heightens Peg, Breathes forth a Curse on aching Leg. Behind 'em all does stand blind Jack; With pocky Nose and lousy Back, Who, on his broken, wound Flute, Sets up a hideous squeaking Tute, Which, joined in Chorus with his Voice, Make a more formidable Noise Than Hudibras' Herd of Swine, In windy Wether when they whine, These by a Wink, or Nod of Hand, Play what the Company command. But first our Gallants all stand ready, Each Man attending on his Lady, And at Green Sleeves and Pudding-pies, Rig out a Dance, in Country-wise, Cast off, and turn, and face about, Now riggle in, and then hop out, And by and by wheeled round again, Begin at Place where they began. But, Lord! 'tis wondrous strange to see The Niceness of their Symmetry, With what an artificial Pother They almost stifle one another; Dick has my Lady by the Hand, And Doll a Squire at Command, The Beau has Susan by the Paw, The Crack a cullyed Man o'th' Law, The Bawd a sneaking sniveling Cit., The Country-Lass a Man of Wit, The Alderman has Betty Frouze, And Bully Rock his lawful Spouse, The Poet has a senseless Drab, The nice Sir Courtly Gammer Squab, Th' Apprentice gets a common Whore, The Fool a Wench untried before, The Country Clown a Lady fair, The Gentleman a Horsing-Bear, The Citizen a strapping Ramp, His Neighbour one o'th' selfsame Stamp, The Countess has, for her Support, A Gentleman o'th' Inns of Court, The Hen-pecked Knight the Parson's Daughter, The Jilt a harmless Country Carter, The Rich the Poor, the Great the Small, And frisk it in Confusion all. But now we must suppose 'em weary With Jumping to the new Vagary; And for the Lady's sake a Dance Is called for, Alamode de France, In which B— does most excel, Witness his dancing the Sibyl; When with such Grace he moves his Parts, As softens all the Lady's Hearts, So skilled is he in Cupid's War, He conquers round him near and far, And, like a General in the Field, Can make the stoutest Beauty yield; And this, they say, he takes Delight in, But is a F— l at real Fight. To match him, of the Female kind, Is Mrs. Leer, as loose as Wind; She trips with so demure a Motion, You'd swear she was at her Devotion; Nor could you, by her Phiz or Carriage, Guess she had e'er committed Marriage: She looks as charming, young and gay, As Flowers in the Month of May; But, envious of her Beauty, Fame Casts vile Aspersions on her Name. Next her is Madam Merryton, The Pride and Glory of the Town, Phillis to every rhyming Fool, And Theme to all the Boys at School; Her, Wits, in Verse, proclaim the fairest, 'Cause she's a Beauty and an Heiress, But being given too much to prattle, Has got the Name of Madam Tattle. Miss Micklewell comes next in Play, More glorious than a Summer's Day, Young, vigorous, charming and discreet, In all her Looks and Graces sweet; But, Ah! what Tongue or Pen can tell, How fine she dances the Sibyl! The Minuet! and Rigadoon, The Bory-Versaille! and Chacune! With what a kill Mien and Air, She charms the Foplings to Despair! And by the Magic of her Eyes, Turns stubborn Hearts to Sacrifice! What Victims daily fall before her! What Crowds of Fopingtons adore her! For her the Generous dare and fight, The Frenchmen fawn, and Poets write, And justly too, nor can a Muse, In praising her, be too profuse. Nor's Mrs. Freemer to escape, If 'tis but for her taking Shape; Her Neck's but short, but thick about, Her Eyes like Saucers straggle out Of large Dimensions, and her Waste Is near four Yards about at least; And when she walks 'tis hard to know Whether a Snail or or she's more slow; Howe'er she's pleasant, and withal Jocund, which makes amends for all. To cope with her, is Captain Bluff, Whom, all report, she loves enough To wed; but he, like Man of Sense, Still keeps the Damsel in Suspense, Than which there is no greater Curse To Womenkind, (as some discourse) For Love, altho' it makes no Noise, In Silence secretly destroys. Next him is Mounsieur Addlesop, That noisy, senseless, prating Fop, A Prig, that all the Day in Glass, Stands doting on his ugly Face, He studies all the Ways and Arts To overcome the Lady's Hearts, And is more noted for an Ass Than e'er Sir Martin Marr-all was, For, like that Fool, he spoils his Plot Before 'tis to Perfection got. The famous Noaks, or Tony Lee, Were ne'er so great a Nokes as he; Nor could they with such Skill and Art Play an admiring Coxcomb's Part; For he's the very Fool in Fashion, Within the Centre of the Nation. Draw-can-sir is the next in Story, A fight Coward and a Tory, A Pensioner to Petticoat, And known to ev'ry Whore of Note; He bullies, kicks, and cuffs for Pay, But in a Duel runs away; He cocks and struts with Pride and State, And does of nought but Battles prate, And every Word that comes from Mouth Is coupled with a daring Oath; Yet when a Quarrel claims his Aid, He hides his Head and is afraid, Will rather choose to run than fight: But when he should a Cully fright, His Valour is as fierce and bold As the famed Hercules of old, Tho' now the Fool is so well known, He's beat by ev'ry Boy in Town. Dapper is next, a sneaking Cit., That strives to be esteemed a Wit, A positive, conceited Fool, Laughed at by every Boy at School; He writes his Songs and Rondelays, Of what he steals by Scraps from Plays, And courts his Jilts by Name of Phillis, Corinna, Cloe, Amarillis; He aims at Raptures, Charms and Flights, Describes heroic Love and Fights, And doubtless is the greatest Ass That ever was upon the Place. To match with him, is Mrs. Score, A Sempstress, and a noted Whore, A Yorkshire, goggle-grey-eyed Jade, But well experienced in the Trade, She'll Kiss for very Cakes and Ale, Or any thing rather than fail, And is so very starved and poor, She almost begs her Bread at Door; Yet, with her haggard Face and Gown, Confronts the Ladies in the Town, And at a Masquerade or Ball Shall take her Place amongst 'em all, She serves for Theme to Dapper's Verses, Which on her Virtues he rehearses, And all her charming Graces shine More bright in his heroic Lines. These dance, and round about the Room Sat all the Company that come, On Forms and Buffets, Stools and Benches, From Ladies down to Beggar-wenches, From High to Low, nor can you see Any Distinction of Degree. Here sits a Lord, and there a Tailor, A Justice here, and there a Jailor, A Hector here, and there a Cully, A Squire there, and here a Bully, A Statesman here, and there an Oph, A Witling there, and here a Soph, Here a subtle Politician, And there a maggotty Musician, A Tradesman here, and there a Robber, Here a politic Stock-jobber, A Lawyer here, and there a Clerk, Yonder his Wife, and there her Spark, Here a Fool, there a Wit, Here a Gentleman, there a Cit., Here the Giver, there the Taker, Here the Cuckold, there the Maker, Here Men, there Boys, And People of all sorts and size, Some to be seen, and some to see, A Miscellany-Company. Nor is here all,— Besides these, In Gardens, underneath the Trees, Are Ladies and their Lovers walking, And of their amorous Whimsies talking, He thinks her Heart of Stone, and she Taxes the Fool with Jealousy, And vows that e'er from him she'd part, Or to another give her Heart, She'd be content, alas! to die, And then puts Finger in her Eye. Some to a Vizor-Mask address, And, with a Passion, Love profess, Tell with what Vehemence they adore A Face they never saw before; Swear Cupid's Arrow was so keen, It forced a Love, unsight, or seen, That by her Shape they well could guests The Beauty of her hidden Face ' And humbly beg she would Command Their Person, Pocket, Sword, or Hand, For they are hers alone, and would Continue so, by all that's good. Others of these admiring Fops, You'll find within the Raffling-shops, Where with such Grace they throw the Dies, As wins the Lady's Hearts and Prize, And for the sake of charming Fair, Traffic their Gold for China-Ware. While the more needy Bully Rock Ventures his Sise at Royal-Oak, He minds the Motion of the Ball, Yet Gamester-like he loses all: At every Throw he vents a Curse, And having now unlined his Purse, In sullen Mood, he sneaks away, And for a while forswears to play, With such, and such like Sports as these, Our modern Beaux their Fancies please; Some come to game, and some to woe, But most their Foppery to show. This courts in Prose, and that in Chime, And tags each Vow of Love with Rhyme, Of nothing talks but Fire and Flames, Cupid, Phillis,— and such hard Names, While Country- Bumpkin treats Sweetheart, With sugared Ale and Damson Tart, And slyly by a Twitch of Glove, Lets Mopsa know, he is in Love. In these Diversions they go on, Until the Entertainment's done: For now we must suppose it late, The Moon is up, and honest Kate Prepared for shutting up the Gate. The weary Music cease to play, And all our Gallants walk away. Some at a place assigned to meet, And some to serenade in Street, Some to the Dog to suck Good Red, One to a Miss, and one to Bed, Another goes to meet his Dear, And so, My Muse, let's leave 'em there. FINIS.