POEMS In BURLESQUE; WITH A DEDICATION In BURLESQUE, TO Fleetwood Shepherd, ESQUIRE. Cui bene ni palpere recalcitrat undique tutus. Hor. Printed for the Booksellers of London and Westminster, 1692. ERRATA. IN Pag. 9 the last line, for Butterflowers, read, Butterflies. In Pag. 14. line 19 for Caves, read, Cliffs. In Pag. 17. beginning of the last line, for with, read Will. In Pag. 19 line 9▪ for form read, from TO FLEETWOOD SHEPHERD, Esqque SIR, IF Verse but vocal Painting be, As Painting is dumb Poetry; A Dedication in Burlesque In vocal Painting is grotesque For was there ever Dedication Without some fulsome Commendation? And has not all Burlesque its Birth, And afterwards its Name from Mirth? Now to Commend at once and rally, Are things which either will not Tally; Or Mirth with Praise will look as oddly, As Rakels when by chance they're Godly: Though, Shepherd, it requires Address, Thy Praise in Laughing to express, I'll boldly venture ne'er the less. May the Propitious Comic Muse, Burlesque Conceits, and Terms infuse; And thou, O jolly God of Laughter Attend, and usher down Jove's Daughter; And both inspire and grace the Verse, Which for your Shepherd I rehearse. Can you do less for him, when he Has been your constant Votary? He never lies down, and never rises, But still to you he Sacrifices, He Sacrifices Man and Beast, The Layman and the very Priest: For still his Victims by sixth Rules Each Morn are Knaves, each Evening Fools, By him with pointed Wit dissected, To all laid open and detected, For animals of rotten insides, Or who have strange prodigious blindsides: And though the Sacrifice is found Still thus defective and unsound, The Victims wanting Noble parts, Their Brains sometimes, sometimes their Hearts, 'Tis therefore, Shepherd, does them choose, For such he knows you least refuse. He never gave Gods or Men offence, By offering to you Truth and Sense, For those he uses to defend A Wit, a Courtier, yet a Friend. But now stop short in thy Career, That this may be rejected Fear; For ere since Praise hath been a Traffic A Panegyrick's not worth a Fig, It may be had with a full Pocket By every pert and noisy Blockhead, Whose clothes and Talk are rendered Tawdry By nasty Colours and by bawdry. Then Shepherd, farewel Commendation Now by the Law of Dedication, (The Author's just Retaliation) Since I have spoke so much of thee Thou must hear something too of me. 'Twas I who Sung our brave Tarpawlin, Engaging like a Devil bawling, And Monsieurs Navy sorely mawling, * Names of French Men of War. His Formidable, his Victorious, His Proud, his Thunderer, his Glorious, His Strong, his Terrible, his Fierce, (Strange names for Butlers jolly Verse!) Till every Ship with its great Name, By being Clapperclawed became An Irony and Jest of Fame. Ah, Apostrophe to the Officers of the Fleet. Bully Tar! could that be Civil To use poor Monsieur like a Devil? Poor Monsieur! who with Pains exceeding Had tried so long to teach thee breeding To beat his Brains out! ah! to crop him Shorter by ' th' Head, or else to lop him, And not to leave him Limbs enough, Ah Gods! to make one jaunty Bow? And then to set his First Rateson Fire To serve thee for a Roguish Bonfire! To Mawl the rest, their Rigging tear, And leave them destitute and bare! Que Diable des gens Barbares! Or was this bustle and this fight-all Designed and acted in requital Of Monsieurs pains, that as at Land He made thee Breeding understand, Thou mightsed at Sea take him in hand? And bring him by a lusty Swingeing To low Saluting and to Cringing, If so; how great's th' extent and Latitude O Bully Tar, of thy Sea-Gratitude! This Fight, Return to Mr. Shepherd. as 'tis to thee well known I've Sung in quite another Tone: Now dwindling I resume the Battle Waged once betwixt Suburban Cattle. Thus does a Falcon soaring rise, And at some noble Quarry flies, But stoops, when it can fly no more, At Carrion, which it left before. This Battle Read too, and the while If thou approv'st it, Shepherd, Smile. But though thou lik'st it, Laugh not out, For all the Versifying Rout, A bold and a presuming Nation, If once they know thy Approbation, Will mawl thee with perpetual Billets, And pelt thee with Poetic Pellets, Send thee more Scrawls, more various Pothooks, Than are i' th' Letter-Case of M— Thou wilt on every hand be peppered, For all who Write would fain please Shepherd: Nay, to take his, and Dorset's Heart The Nine their utmost Charms exert, Their Charms of Nature and of Art. Whilst by their Looks, their Air, their Dress, They to the wondering World no less Than Virgin-Goddesses confess; What they aspire to by their Charms Is to be blessed in Dorset's Arms: Pleased, ravished with his Approbation, Tho Damned by all the Fools i' th' Nation. Now for one Compliment in Rhyme. And so t' have done, for 'tis high time. There's, no Man more Your Humble, than is, SIR, Your Obedient Servant, THE CONTENTS. THE Triumvirate: Or the Battle. p. 1. A Days Ramble in Covent-Garden: A Letter in Burlesque, etc. p. 9 The Story of Orpheus Burlesqued. p. 14. Epigram upon a lewd Roaring Scotch Parson. p. 17. Upon the same Burlesque. p. 18. The Two FRIENDS. p. 19 An Explication of Mr. Tate's Riddle, in the Gentleman's Journal for April. p. 21. The Triumvirate: OR, THE BATTLE. Written Aug. 91. AS when the Ugly Face of Night, The Sun does to the Ocean fright, Neptune and Proteus, with their Train, The merry Monsters of the Main, The Red-faced God Carousing meet, And with large Draughts his Presence greet; Like Luck does at like Hours attend His Deputy at Br— k-street-End: To whom three strange prodigious Creatures, And Monsters of Amphibious Natures, Half Beasts, half Fish, together high, Who though on Land they often lie, Yet are they never throughly dry, And when they cease to drink, they die; Like Whales, their Bulks a Flood contain, Which in the Air they Spout again; They swallow still like Fish, (to keep The Allegory) whilst they sleep, Each gulps his Beer-glass, and i' th' fact With drowsy Nod commends the Act. Me an Acquaintance did invite, This Bartholomew-Fair to see the Sight, And just at Twelve we went one Night, Where there were stranger Creatures shown, Than ever at the Fair were known; And if you think I say too much, Survey their Pictures here and judge, The first, height Robin, a queir Spark is, A lewd Soul with a righteous Carcase. Virgin vermilion, or True Blue, Is not of such a Saintlike hue, He Bawdy talked with the same Faces, With the same Goggles, Whines, Grimaces, That our Enlightened Men say Graces. They who sat at th' end of the Table, Took him for Holderforth right able, And looked with Reverence on his Visage Too grave and antique far, for this Age, To those he seemed a Gifted Teacher, To us who heard him a rank Lecher. So Parson Hugh, with Groan and Snivel Made half his Congregation drivel, Whilst B— s set to show did tickle The other half o' th' Conventicle. This Fellow chattered thus uncleanly With the same Looks Folk act obseenely. When Nature conscious of a Sin, So unworthy of her, and so mean, In height of Exstacy is seen, With ugly Penitential Mien; So much for Saint, the next's an Atheist, Who for his Morals held it safest: He bragged, that he like Beasts should die, And did both God and Devil deny, As Boys a days, when Succours nigh Can Rawhead Rally and defy, That Rawhead who with panic Frights, ne'er fails to make them stink a Nights, So does this wight the Devil disown, And haunted by him, when alone, Does in Revenge from's Chamber run, To swear there's no such thing at th' Sun, Yet does so stare whilst he denys him, That one would almost swear he spies him, Though as for Staring his Pretence is To look about for his lost Senses: His haggard Eyes, and fiery Face, Both are his Hoary Head's disgrace; Nature ne'er joined a lewder Phys. To such a Reverend Skull as his. So on some Hills perpetual Snow Lies, whilst the Vine buds just below, He Urgin Ned, and Saintlike Robin, To leave off Stumming for dry Bobbing, Did kiss and chatter too, and hug, A little nasty Female Pug, Who being Offensive to the Nose Is by Antiphrasis called Rose. His fiery Snout slopped her's that Sallow, Like Flame that Lambent lies on Tallow, Which did all four to a Course dispose, And two Drabs more, being fetched by Rose, They mount and box about their Lasses, Like Lombard's riding Post on Asses. When see the sad Reverse of Fate, Of happiest Mortals the frail State, Robin for Gold the root of Evil Had made a Contract with the Devil; That is, had Married a cursed Wife, That Hellish Plague of human Life. She having notice of Bob's Doxy, And fuming much at such a Proxy, Came thundering in, and took her Vagrant, Ipso Facto, in Gild that's flagrant: Judge what Impression this injurious Action made on one so furious, The Drabs as soon as e'er they spied her, Threw every one of them her Rider, Starting like Jades, that cast their Load, If once the Devil comes cross the Road. When straight advancing to her Moiety; Sweet Sir, said she, I wish much Joy to you, And your new Bride, a wish that's due To one so Kind and Just as you. With that She unmercifully fisted Poor sneaking Bob, who ne'er resisted. Ay me! how changed! he's he no more, Wh ' Engaged so bravely just before; But differs as victorious Hector Did from his pale and bloody Spectre, When Brutal Ned to help his Fellow, With all his Lungs began to Bellow. Old Bob, quoth he, Old Bob so doughty, Wilt thou be Cowed by by such a Dowdy? Take Crabtree here Old Boy, and Bast her, Until she owns her Lord and Master. Vile Sot said she to Ned, but such A Title honours thee too much; For Sot supposes something Human, Thou art a Bear, not born of Woman; Tom Dove thy Sire was, and another Furred Muscovite like him, thy Mother, Who having Cubbed thee from her kicked thee (Seeing thee so hideous) and ne'er licked thee: What dost thou here now, where few venture, Till of thy Absence sure, to enter? For Men a Nights ne'er see thee Sup, But what they've eat themselves, comes up, Whilst thou devouring meat, dost cram it More nauseously than they theirs Vomit: Why should Beasts love Debauches, fit Only for Men, and Men of Wit? Whom Wine inspires with Noble Sense, That can a Surfeit recompense, Who in their Qualms a Breeding lie Children that live to Eternity: But thou a despicable Toper, Art still Ned V— Drunk and Sober; Differing as Wild Bears do from Tame, More fiercely Brutal, else the same; Perhaps incapable of thinking Thou strivest to show thou'rt Man by Drinking, For void of of Reason and of Goodness, Thou'st nought that's Human but thy Lewdness. Spouse being resolved to be severe, Was running on in full career, When urged by his fermenting Choler, Ned threw a pot of Port to maul her; The Wine fell on her as she Buckled, The Pot flew o'er to swinge her Cuckold, And hitting full his Jobbernoll, Broke open the Lodging of his Soul; The Walls to its furious Battery yielding, The Mansion was but Paper-Building; A wretched Tenement, a Shed That never had been Furnished, Purely designed for one to keep in't That would do nothing else but sleep in't; And that was Robin's dreaming Soul, Which spying in its House this hole, Had frighted, like to have left its Quarters, Enrolling Bob amongst the Martyrs. Spouse who by death of Moiety Thought she had lost her Property, Tho she retrieved her Liberty, Took up a pot of Chamber-lye And Wine at second hand, a Medley, Of odious hue and Savour deadly, And coming slily behind Ned, Now raising Robin from the Dead, Fixed it like Armour on his Head, Whilst running down on every side him, It's foul Contents did strangely dight him; Its Fumes cast Ned into a Swoon, His Armour clanged against the Ground; Mean while his brave Virago fully Determined to revenge her Bully, Took two great Candlesticks and aimed Two Mortal Blows at Spouse, but Maimed The Atheist; who in his Affliction, Gave us his usual Benediction; For though he God sometimes denies, Now fervently he to him cries, And prays with unfeigned Supplication And hearty zeal for the Damnation Of the Militant Congregation; Nay, against such a riotous Rout, Himself to the Devil gave Judgement out, When Rose to revenge her Roisters Quarrel, Amongst us all threw an Oister-Barrel, And flung it too with a resolution To bring his Judgement to Execution; Its clattering shells amongst us fall, Signal of universal Brawl; Then to the Table Atheist blundered, Himself Entrenching strongly under't, For by the noise he thought it Thundered, For Discord now outrageous grew, Bottles in rattling Volleys flew; Of Arms which range now finds for Mischief, O Times! O Manners! Bottle is Chief, Souls outside Clapperclawing more, Than inward Jobbernol before: Bottle in Fellowship Men uniting And framed for the World to take delight in. Now the cursed Instrument's made of Fight, And Sots are just about to Perish, By what was purely formed to Cherish; A Glassy Shower does o'er us hail, And Potts succeed when Bottles fail. I 'dopt for safety as an Officer Does in a Fight, when he's a Novice there, When with strange noise and hideous bustle In closer Fight they encountering Iustle, Their Wits they lose, their Light's put out, All's dark within them and without: Then Friend fell foul on every Friend, Such Fate does Civil Wars attend. Wild Uproar and Confusion followed, o'er rolling Bully Doxy wallowed; She Schricked, he Roared, for Light some hollowed, In vain alas! Drawer was fast, Gentle Aurora heard at last. I by the dawn found out the the Door, Then down I ran and firmly Swore Never to mix with Monsters more. A Days Ramble in Covent-Garden: A Letter in Burlesque to C. D. March 20. 1691. COlonel, the Spring comes on a main, Beauties and Flowers peep out again; Now gaudy Punk, new Rigged and gay, As Beaux or Butter-flowers in May, Brisk as a Snake that casts her Skin Comes out in particoloured trim, To bask on flowery Banks, and play In the new Suns reviving Ray, To twine round heedlless Swain, and sting The Wretch suspecting no such thing. Now Country 'Squires send up their Women To get their own and Husbands Trimming; (By which themselves these latter find Fairly distinguished from Mankind) And to requite them we send down Verse, the lewd product of the Town: Amongst amongst the rest, for want of better, I send you these by way of Letter. Last week just come to Town, I took A Pious walk to visit C— Poxed beyond hope of Health or Pardon The rankest Weed in Covent-Garden, That done, I took a turn i' th' Square, But had but little time been there, Till I with Satisfaction found, The World still ran its constant round, There still a Drum each Morning brings Several feathered two Legged things, Plato defined a Man a two legged thing without Feathers. Not Men, you say, you'll prove by Plato, Not Men indeed so wise as Cato. But Wights, whose Noddles and a Feather Agree extremely well together. Light, wavering, vain Inconstant Fools, The working Politicians Tools, Wh ' engage and serve like Whores for pay, And sometimes Jilt too, and betray: Hurried by Drums, tumultuous rattle, At Statesman's will to breach or battle; Leave Bottle, Tent, and Camping Jade, And blundring run where Fate has laid Inevitable Ambuscade. So when some Swain for Sport or Food, Brushes the outside of a Wood: And with cleft Sticks makes clattering din, Woodcock that nuzling lies within, Strait scampers headlong on to gin: But hark the Bell, the Parson's Trumpet, Sounds a Charge to a Ghostly Combat; Warns Sporting Female to arise TO a sadder Mornings Exercise: She does, and washes first, and Paints well, Then piously Obeys the Saint's Bell: And now 'tis time to leave the Stout, And join at Church with the Devout, Where Virgins Sergeant and Stale, Are daily in Rows exposed to Sale. Second-hand Householdstuff, which tarnished, To pass for new is vamped and Varnished. The ancient Temple of the Jews Was but a Mart, ours is a S— He thence was driven who sold a Dove, We suffer here the trade of Love. From Church I went to drink some Coffee, The Juice inspiring Modern Sophy; For as some rural Swains of Old, (As by their own Records wer'e told) Tasted of Pagasean Stream, And then grew Poets in a Dream; So Sots sip Coffee, and have Visions, Which make them pass for Politicians. To Wills I went, where Beau and Wit In mutual Contemplation sit; But which were Wits, and which were Beaus, The Devil sure's in him who Knows, For either may be which you please, These looks like those who talked like these: To make amends, there I saw Dryden, Whom Pegasus takes so much Pride in, He suffers few beside to ride him: Sometimes at once he gets a Pack Of young raw Rhymers on his Back, But with them runs so far away, They're never heard of from that day: Enraged he th' awkward Burden feels, Tosses his Head and flings his Heels. And when he has thrown each Poetaster, He than comes Ambling home to his Master. Since my design in sending these, Is not to tyre you, but to please, 'Tis time t' have done, for what's behind, Some more commodious hour I'll find; Yet e'er I leave you, I can't choose But send you down the Freshest News. When Monsieur spied false Burgher hampered In fatal Noose on Mons' Rampert, This was writ upon the false news that the French had raised the Siege, upon the Discovery and Execution of some Treacherous Burghers. He and his Forty thousand Scampered. As Scythian Slaves that came to fight With Swords, with Whips were put to Flight. The sight of tall erected Gallows Had like effect upon these Fellows. A certain Sign that every Villain Fears Hanging, though he Laughs at Killing. But now to come to honest People, C— s grown as noisy as a Steeple; Does so obstrepreously Gabblle I'th' dark, you'd swear he's a huge Rabble; Haranguing Member is not near So loud, yet bauls for half a Shire; Nor Sergeants when like Winds that jar, Coifd Brothers make tempestuous War, And ne'er leave storming till they find Justice grown Deafer than She's Blind. The Story of Orpheus Burlesqued. Orpheus', a one-eyed Limping Thracian, Top Crowder of the Barbarous Nation Was Ballad-Singer by Vocation; Who up and down the Country strolling, And with his Strains the Mob Cajoling; Charmed them as much as all Men know Our modern Farces do a Beau, To hear his Voice they left their Houses, Their Food, their Handicrafts and Spouses, Whilst by the Harmony of his Song He threw the staring gaping Throng (A thing deserving Admiration) Into a copious Salvation. From hence came all those monstrous Stories, That to his Lays wild Beasts danced Borees, That after him where ere he rambled, The Lion ramped, and the Bear gamboled, And Rocks and Caves their Horses ambled; For sure the Monster Mob includes All Beasts, Stones, Stocks, in Solitudes: He had a Spouse cleped Eurydice, As tied a Lass as ere your Eye did see, Who being one day Carest by Morpheus In absence of her Husband Orpheus, As in the God's Embrace she lay, Died, not by Meaphor they say, But the ungrateful literal way; For as a Modern's pleased to say by't, From Sleep to Death, there's but a way-bit, Orpheus at first t' appearance grieving, For one he had oft wished Damned whilst Living, That he might play her her Farewell, Resolved to take a turn to Hell, (For Spouse he guest was gone to th' Devil) There was a Husband damnably Civil! Playing a merry Strain that day, Along the Infernal King's Highway, He capered on as who should say, Since Spouse has passed the Stygian Ferry, Since Spouse is Damned, I will be Merry; And Wights who travel that way daily, Jog on by his Example gaily. Thus Scraping he to Hell advanced, When he came there, the Devil Danced; All Hell was with the Frolic taken, And with a huge Huzza was shaken: All Hell broke loose, and those who were One Moment passed plunged in Despair, Sung, hang Sorrow, cast away Care. But Pluto with a spiteful Prank, (Ungrateful Devil!) did Orpheus thank. Orpheus says he, I like thy Strain So well, that here's thy Wife again: But on these terms receive the Blessing, Till thou'rt on Earth, for bear Possessing. He who has played like thee in Hell, Might even do t'other thing as well; And Shades of our Eternal Night, Were not designed for such Delight; Therefore if such in Hell thou ufest, Thy Spouse immediately thou losest. Quoth Orpheus, I am mauled I see; Your Gift and you be Damned thought he, And shall be if my skill don't fail me, And if the Devil does not all me. Now Orpheus saw importance free, By which once more a Slave was he: The Damned changed presently their Notes, And stretched with hideous Howl their Throats, And two and two together linked, Their Chains with horrid Music Clinked, Whilst in the Consort Yell and Fetlock, Expressed the harmony of Wedlock. Then by command he lugged his Dowdy To Acheron, with many a How d' ye; But whilst the Boat was towards them Steering, The Rogue with wicked Ogle leering, Darted at her fiery Glances, Which kindled in her furious Fancies, Her Heart did thick as any Drum beat, Alarming Amazon to Combat; He soon perceives it, and too wise is, Not to lay hold on such a Crisis. His Moiety on the Bank he threw Whilst thousand Devils looked a skew. Thus Spouse who knew what long Repentance Was to ensue by Pluto's Sentence, Could not forbear her Recreation One poor half day t' avoid Damnation; But fond helped her Husband's Treachery, Such in hot Climes is Woman's Lechery; Her from his Arms the Furies wrung, And into Hell again they flung: He Singing thus, repassed the Ferry, Since Spouse is damned I will be merry. Epigram upon a Lewd Roaring Scotch Parson. A Canting Scot in thy vile Sermons Preaches, In thy lewd Life the Devil his Doctrine teaches, Thy Flock is Damned; for what confounded Sot With not believe the Devil before the Scot? Upon the same Burlesque. Now Muse to Laugh recite a Farce on, A Scot from Pedlar made a Parson: This Parson had been formerly a Pedlar. The Wight who once retailed Small Ware, Now Trades in Precept and in Prayer, And grown a Pillar, on that Back Bears up the Church which bore a Pack, Ordained by wise and worthy Prelate, As creditable Authors relate, Purely to cool the Spiritual Pride Of all Scotch Holders-forth beside; For Scot promoted to the Desk, Is on his Brethren a Burlesque No Jest for blind and false Devotion Could e'er be found like Scots Promotion, No satire with severer Jerk Could Lash the Universal Kirk A merrier Wight did never drub, Orthodox, Pulpit, or a Tub: His Canting more to Laughter urges, Than ancient Hugh or modern B— s, And makes more Mirth in Church from Pulpit, Than Tony Lee, from Stage in Ful-pit, With Hell and Devil and Damnation He can divert his Congregation: His own Wife's Flesh and Blood, his Daughter, Even pisses with excessive Laughter; She with excessive laughter Pisses, Some Wheeze, Scot is both Grey and Purblind. some Keck, another Hisses. So when a Grave and Reverend Owl, The Purblind Parson of the Fowl, Does form his Pulpit hollow Tree, (From whence you just his Head may see) Hollow a loud Futurity; The Birds about their Prophet flock To Persecute him or to Mock, And each does variously revile His Grave, Grey Noddle, or his Style. The Two FRIENDS. FReeman and Wild, two young hot Gallants, Famed through the Town for swingeing Talents, At making or at acting Love, And Beaus too over and above; Like Friends had a fine Buxom Woman, (Like Friends indeed, you'll say) in common, Now one of these two Sparks attacked her, So furiously, so like a Hector; He got a Girl, who to a Tittle, Her Mother's Picture was in little: When both Jack Freeman, and Ned Wild Would own the Fair, the chopping Child; Both own the Babe, (and who would not!) Sweet as the Sin by which 'twas Got; Ned, that he's sure he Got her Cries, She has his Dimple and his Eyes: That she was his, Jack Freeman Swore, That she resembled him all o'er, The Devil was not more like a Moor: But when at length the Girl began To grow capacious of a Man. Changing their Minds, each Spark chose rather To be the Sinner than the Father: Says Wild to Freeman, Jack, this Lass Is thy own Flesh and Blood; she has The very Leer of Lewd Jack Freeman, Ad— ds that Shame won't pass on me, Man, (Cries Freeman to his Brother Wild) Mine is the Lass, and thine the Child. Says Wild to Freeman thou'lt be Damned, 〈◊〉, ay, Ned, but I won't be shamed. An Explication of Mr. Tate's Riddle, in the Gentleman's JOURNAL for April. PEople d'ye say, Tom. that like Jews ramble, And were produced without Love's Gambol, That higgledy, piggledy, lie together, And yet were ne'er Lampooned for't neithr, Who often Laugh, yet ne'er are merry, And whom we ne'er Baptism or Bury! What are these Creatures? let me see; Why, surely they must Devils Be. The devil they are! Frank. You're out, my Friend: Now to this Story pray attend, Which, if 'tis well applied, will make You rectify a gross Mistake. In former days when Breoshe, Who was (as every He or She In Monsieur-Land did fully know) Intendant of a Puppet Show, His stroling Pigmy Clan transferred (Of which height Punchinello's Laird) From Paris to the High-Dutch Hans-Towns, And thence to Highlands of the Cantons; Swiss wondering to hear Puppet squeak, And see him frisk with Fairy Freak, And then a Boree Dance, and a Jig, Thought (cunning Dog!) this must be Magis Did Breoshe a Conjurer style, (But surely Swiss was none the while) Had like t' have trussed up the poor Fellow, And for a Devil took Punchinello. FINIS.