THE Oxford-Act: A POEM.  
LONDON; Printed for Randal Taylor, near Stationers-Hall, MDCXIII.   

A True Relation of their Practice At Oxford Town when there an ACT is.  

CANTO I.  

HAlf Choked i'th' Dust of our lewd Town,  
Tired with their Follies and my own;  
To breathe a Wiser Air, and better,  
With many a Token, many a Letter,  
I tripped to t'other Alma Mater.  
Thousands One, Hundreds Six, Ten Ninety,  
Three Ones the Year exactly point t'ye,  
When a remarkable Occasion  
Brought there the Learned and Wise o'th' Nation:  
The Act which some believed must be  
Turned to a Jewish Jubilee,  
Whose joyful sound that Nation hears  
No more than Once in Fifty Years.  
The Act, which now they discontinue  
So long, some thought, they ne'er had any;  
But that some forward Scribes in Iniquity  
Had feigned it like their own Antiquity.  
Oft would the new created Sophister  
Where Boy cried, want ye any Coffee, Sir?  
Start from brown-study, answering rather  
When comes the Act, the Act, Dear Father?  
The Beardless Father sighed, but knew  
No more of that than I or You;  
For all his Logic and his History,  
This an unfathomable Mystery.  
Even the Grave Doctors scarce could tell  
Without the help of Chronicle,  
When last they in their Boots appeared,  
And Bugbear Terrae-Filius feared.  
Now one, and then the other Faction  
Putting the Dons ' beyond their Action:  
Now Whig, as Nobbs had then bedighted him  
With Horns and Tail cried Bough, and ' frighted 'em;  
Till they stark staring run with one Mouth,  
To rail at, and discomfit Monmouth:  
Tho' wiser Come to save his Bacon,  
His Picture kept till he was taken.  
Then their Loved Chancellor's Picture banish,  
As Rome unfortunate Sejanus.  
More Loyal Oxford, Windsor trusted  
With many a Pondrous Pike and Musket,  
Soon formed in Squadrons and Battalions  
To swinge the Duke's Tatterdemalions:  
But Blessings on that Noble Lord,  
Who saved the Labour of their Sword;  
Who did the Tall-Young Man betray,  
And run most Loyally away.  
O happy Oxford! happy since  
Fate gave thee such a grateful Prince;  
True to his Friends beyond comparison,  
He Jefferys sent to pay thy Garrison;  
Whose Musick-Speech so sore did fright ye  
The Act that Summer cried Goodnight t'ye.  
Since then, Confusion on Confusion,  
All Chaos till the Revolution;  
Till a New World rose from black Billows,  
And Surges rolled as soft as Pillows.  
Yet then Fate had so long been thwarting,  
So stunned with the old Blows of Fortune,  
The Aged Matron did appear,  
She scarce got Breath in Four long Year:  
But now recovered brisk and Bonny,  
As Bridegroom's self, in Moon-called - Honey,  
An Act as I before have told ye it  
She'll have, and all crowd to behold it.  
Expect not all the Nation over  
From Cornish Mount, to Peer of Dover,  
I should recite, since did I know it,  
'Twould look like Herald, not like Poet:  
Then rest content with what I give ye  
To further trouble save, 
Hyperbaton.  believe me.   

I'll only sing what Troops have gone down  
From thee, O Trinobantick-London!  
Three Aldermen, and one wise Justice,  
Some of the Orphans trusty trusties.  
To show their equal Wit and Valours  
Ten Woollen-drapers', Nine stout Tailors.  
Likewise to Visit their Acquaintances  
A well-teethed Band of Fifty Prentices.  
Three Jolly Landladies went jogging,  
Their Rosy Cheeks, confessing Nogging;  
Their Cheeks with Sweat and Gravy running,  
And wot ye what— They went a Dunning;  
Some certain Lads that shall be nameless,  
(For we'd have none should justly blame this,)  
Not long since made an Expedition  
In Water-Poet's low Condition;  
(For which the Rude would call 'em Blockheads,)  
London to see with empty Pockets:  
On these kind Hostesses they lighted,  
And since they found themselves not slighted,  
Them now to see the Act invited:  
Which kindness they accept the rather,  
In hopes of Ready-Bill from Father.   

I'th' Name o'th' Beadle, what ill Fortune,  
Before Remembrance drew a Curtain,  
That I, on these lewd Scholars plodding,  
The Cream o'th' Jest had half forgotten.   

Upon the Road i'th' Crowd I saw there  
Two Booksellers and One poor Author:  
The Author first through Dust was trudging;  
With Clouted-shoons, like D— well drudging;  
By Sympathy I looked upon him,  
And cast a few good Wishes on him,  
And him behind myself had Mounted,  
But that my Steed too weak I counted;  
For my own Worth 'twould hardly bear,  
Much less my Fellow-Traveller.  
While thus my natural Benignity,  
Beheld with Grief such an Indignity,  
And did against hard Fate dispute it,  
Why Booksellers ride, and Author's foot it;  
Who should I see with all their Tackle  
Within a Leathern Tabernacle  
But Two, as Witty S— has it,  
O'th' honestest that e'er sold Gazette.  
The Name o'th' First, but hold, let's pass it;  
The Second too shall secret be,  
Lest we should spoil good Company.  
They Hemmed to my poor Militant Brother:  
He heard, (for sharp are Ears of Author.)  
Then took him up, and kindly carried  
To Town in their Triumphant Chariot.  
Me soon they spied, as soon they beckoned,  
I joined their Train, and made a Second.  
On Conversation quickly fall,  
Slap-dash, And how, and how goes all?  
Who last the Athenians did be-rogue Sir,  
What Auction, or what Catalogue Sir?  
This idle News let's throw away,  
And to the Business of the Day;  
Lest we our Embryo-Notions smother  
With Gravity, subjoins the other.   

You know e'er Fortune did convene us,  
What was agreed upon between us;  
That whosoever a Project started,  
We'd both go halves, and have it parted.  
Speak then, since yet my Noddle won't stir  
And none that's here will us misconstrue  
If any Prodigy or Monster;  
Any rare glorious Fight or Murder  
Of this side Tweed, or on the further;  
For Doeg's Fustian Quill to utter,  
Doubly inspired with Bread and Butter.   

Not one of these my dear Acquaintance,  
Who right or wrong still mind the Main-chance;  
Not one good Whim, or I can't think on't,  
Replies the first, howe'er let's drink on't:  
How good Wits jump! The Thought they blest,  
Well-motioned strait cried all the rest.  
High did they heave the Courteous Bottle,  
Transfused to Sympathetick Noddle,  
Whose Blood exhausted, fills their Veins,  
And crams Capacious Guts with Brains.  
When one with Thanks toth' Juice that gave it,  
Cries out, I have it Lads, I have it.  
This very Act, although 'twill many  
Cost dear, with us shall turn the Penny.  
whate'er we lose, we'll make Reprisal,  
Whoever gains not, you and I shall.   

My very Thought, I'll swear't says tother  
Howe'er you came to hit on't Brother,  
Bear witness else, O'ambling Author!  
Say, did not I myself propose  
This very Notion at the Rose?   

you're both my Friends, 
Poeta loquitur.  may Riches seize me  
And make me dull, if I'd displease ye:  
Yet (as for Fibbing I defy it,)  
'Twas the selfsame, or very nigh it.  
Howe'er I'm sure you'll do a fair thing,  
And stand to your Authentic Bargain;  
Your Servant's here to nick th'occasion  
And give a Full and True Relation.   

For that, cries he, if we find Stuff,  
We can have Journeymen enough.  
Trade's bad, Paper's too dear o' Conscience,  
Nought sells besides th' Athenian Nonsense.  
Oth' last true Bloody Fight I printed,  
In this own fruitful Brainpan minted.  
The Hawkers, which you'd scarce believe,  
Six Choir returned me out of Five. 
Certainly some Rogue or other must print it upon him.   
All this Sir not to beat you down;  
To Generous Souls what's Halfpenny a Crown?  
Below your Works intrinsic Value  
No, by no means Sir would we paul you:  
We can be Civil Sir, you know it,  
And we'll i'th' next Edition show it.  
Nor for the first will we be stingy,  
Or down to next to nothing dringe ye:  
To hold you by the Teeth and Neck fast,  
We'll give ye a Guinea and a Breakfast;  
Nay Brother, we'll that Breakfast double,  
ne'er stand upon't but make't a Couple;  
Besides one Generous Pint to inspire him,  
And for this high Achievement fire him.  
The other adds, well hang't, I'll take it,  
And a rare piece ne'er doubt on't make it. 
Poeta loquitur.   
I'll do my best at Joque and Raillery,  
Nor fear but 'twill, Pit, Box and Gallery.  
Be each of you a careful Waiter,  
An Eavesdropper at the Theatre.  
Come you but all well-laden home,  
With Thyme, i'll work it into Comb.  
He said, and we by this were got over,  
Thy Cloudy Brow, Sky-clistring Shot-over; 
Shot-over-Hill.   
And just as we had closed our twattling  
O'er Maudlin-Bridge the Wheels went rattling.  
The College self's a little beyond,  
You'll see't next Door tot'h Sign of Grayhound:  
Nor could we much besides discover,  
For now Dame Night came fluttering over:  
Black Ghosts arose, and Gownsmen fled,  
And Tom had warned the Sun to Bed.  
Since for his Exit, vain's our Sorrow,  
We'll Sleep, and tell you more to Morrow.   
The End of the First Canto.   

CANTO II.  

EXpect not our bold Muse should call  
The witty Moonshine and the Wall,  
To tell you what this Night betided,  
Which knew no more than you and I did:  
To leave then honest Townsmen snoring,  
Some Scholars Tippling, others Whoring;  
Some from th' intruding Proctor scampring  
T' avoid enchanted wooden Cramp-ring;  
Or when that Cunning-Man has spied 'em,  
Charmed by those powerful Words, Per Fidem;  
Tripping away, without Bayardo,  
Unto the Castle or Bocardo, 
As much as to say they go afoot thither.   
As Rats are rhymed to sore Mishap,  
And run their Heads into a Trap;  
As Salt on Birds directly thrown  
Probatum est, 
Simile.  their all they're own,  
So here— But letting that alone. 
Simile.   
The Reader thinks as we intended  
We'll here go on where last we ended,  
Comprising in immortal Sing-Song  
How all th' old Dons were at it Dingdong.  
Their Themes, the manner and occasion  
Of every strenuous Disputation;  
All this from point to point reciting,  
And both his greedy Ears delighting.  
Thus he, thus let him like a Nisi,  
But we intent more to surprise ye,  
To change the Scene, invert the Order,  
Jogging in Road direct no further,  
But with some Two or Three Supposes  
Wiping our Gentle Reader's Noses;  
Shall tell 'em all we did discover  
Of this famed Act, as all were over;  
As by good Author 'twas related,  
The Price you know before debated:  
And if he gives the secret Histories  
Of any Scholar and his Mistress;  
If Gown turned up he makes the wonder  
At strange unheard Discoveries under,  
We're not to answer for his Sawc'ness,  
As knowing nothing of the Busi'ness:  
Take Word for Word, from just Relators,  
Not Paraphrasers, but Translators;  
'Tis He, not we, are now to deal w'ye,  
And so he prayed me, Sirs, to tell ye.   

The First rare Scene in this great Drama,  
Was Mr. Vice's grave Pragramma;  
That all the Lads with Care exceeding  
Should show their Behaviour and their Breeding;  
On pain of Black-Book and the Proctors  
Abusing none, besides the Doctors.   

That those whom trembling Soph acknowledges  
Right Worshipful of Halls and Colleges,  
Should signify to their Societies  
During the Act, though now so nigh it is,  
All Doctors should their Scarlet wear,  
As blushing at the Crimes they hear.  
And when the little Tingle-tangle  
The Signal gives, prepare to wrangle.   

All things and Places rightly stated,  
For Graduates, and Non-graduated.  
For Doctors, Masters, Ladies, Fiddles  
The Gall'ries are reserved; the Middle's  
Left open (Thanks,) for the Rascality,  
Servitors, and Promiscuous Quality.   

Next the Curators must take care  
No breach of Peace be suffered there;  
All with Decorum done, and Gravity,  
No Rudeness, or lewd Mob-like pravity:  
The Doctors, as 'tis hoped, abused,  
The Innocent Ladies too misused;  
Each little freedom there must pocket,  
Clap and Forgive th' ill-mannered Blockhead.   

And further, for the preservation  
Of Alma Mater's Reputation,  
No Scholar, be he less or bigger,  
Not Gowned and Capped in Mood and Figure,  
Must have the Privilege to hear  
His Betters hist i'th' Theatre.   

Next such a Hist they could supply it  
From nothing but a Polish Diet;  
Their Names enough to have abashed one,  
Legassick, Strauchan and Borashton.  
The stately Persian Monarches use  
By length of Whiskers Porters choose;  
So we our Proctors much the same,  
By Hardness, and by length of Name,  
Who meet at One, 
Tmesis.  that Mob may fear 'em,  
I'th' Apo— (what d'ye call't)— dyterium.   

Expect not I should make Relation  
Of every Poem and Oration;  
The Ladies heard, (them I'll not flatter, or lie,)  
And Edified most supernaturally:  
As when St. Tony Preaching stood 
Simile.   
To's Four-legged Brethren in the Wood  
Although his Language was unwonted,  
They could not Hum, yet Thanks they grunted;  
Fain on their Mast would had him Dine,  
And proved themselves all well-bred Swine.   

Now the full-buttoned Youth appear,  
And Squeaking, fill the Theatre;  
Their Parts well conned, say over prettily,  
Nay humour all things wondrous wittily.   

The prettiest littlest harmless Baubles,  
Young Vnfledged Lords, and Callow Nobles;  
The Lady's might, nor would they scare 'em  
For Nosegays in their Bosoms wear 'em;  
Not so when Men of Parts and Converse,  
They've wit to scorn— to write— their own Verse.  
Once harmless Worms, now fledged in Vices,  
They're Basilisks all, and Cockatrices;  
Their Mouths, their Eyes, their Tails discover  
Stings, Poison, Murder, Death all over.  
Yet honest they perhaps continue,  
Nor know they other use of Guinea,  
But hungry Poet to requite  
Who did their Gaudy Verses write.  
Who if he dares but claim his own,  
When Bully meets him out of Town,  
Shot up to a Man, and strangely grown,  
With Valiant Whip he'll kindly Lace him,  
Or else most gratefully dry-baste him.  
Henceforth beware, dear Brethren, of it,  
Take they the Honour, you the Profit:  
Bought Wit is best, an't has been said for't,  
It must be theirs who fairly paid for't.  
One sings, though in Heroics, oddly  
A Catalogue of the new Bodley:  
While from another you may hear  
Our swinging the French-Fleet, last Year.  
A Third describes in lofty Fables  
Their addled — No-Descent— at Naples.  
A Fourth sings Britain's Ancient Glories,  
Which the vile World will now think Stories.  
A Fifth great Ormonds Praises writes,  
Heroically, as he Fights.  
The next brave Savoy's long Recovering,  
Who o'er the gallic Foe is hover;  
His Illness, how th'Allies deplore it,  
And all he did, since and before it.   

But we had Prose as well as Verse Sir,  
Of which I'll be a true Rehearser.  
How did the sharp Inceptor Budgell  
His Holiness, and Socinus Cudgel?  
How Tod dispute, as sweet as Timbrel,  
Of Schism and Athanasian Symbol?  
How he who could in Eggshell scribble  
A General-Council prove fal-lible.  
How Bedford talk at this great Season,  
Of Fault, and Pain, and Light of Reason.  
How Brazan-Nose, thy famed Entwistle,  
Geneva and Cracow bids go whistle:  
What Cradock the vain Deist say to  
What he de Opere Operato.  
What next of Royal Christ-Church, Langford  
Which won't come in, though I should hang for't.  
No more will any Physick-Question  
Of Sagittary or of Thurston:  
But Spirits and Piss, and Blood together  
And Gout may go I care not whither.  
Friend à majori proves, a Brute  
Has Sense, because he can Dispute.  
Brown will not let fanatics baffle us,  
While Prince has power of Adiapharous.  
Of Kecking, Hannes and Salts Discourses,  
And strange Narcotick Powers and Forces.  
Last Dale affirms in sober Sadness  
All great Wits have a spice of Madness,  
Himself he'd for an Instance give 'em,  
But is there any will believe him?   

In this Employ the Day well worn,  
They to the Tennis-Court adjourn.  
A Theatre, though far less spiteful  
Than is their old, far more delightful;  
Where the young Lads that never ventured,  
Never till now, are fairly entered:  
What there they do among the Wenches  
Say, O ye Stools, O speak ye Benches:  
Yet do not speak, your Voice would have us,  
Like Vocal Head or Board 'twould scare us.  
But Luna now is Heaven adorning,  
So Friends adieu till the next Morning.   
The End of the Second Canto.   

CANTO III.  

MUse tell the Man, who like Almanzor  
To every Mortal Wight cries Stand Sir;  
Discourteous Knight, whose Tongue dead-doing  
Draws not for Lady's aid, but ruin:  
Whether he Terrae-Filius height,  
Or Musick-Speech, pronounce (not write,)  
Midst Doctors, or their Wives is foraging, 
Hysteron Proteron.   
His use, abuse, and Primitive Origin.  
But Terrae-Filius first invade,  
And conjure up from Native Shade.   

Have you not Read or Herd, Sir Reader,  
Of an old Grecian Master Gardener? 
Epicurus.   
Who that he might be famed for something,  
Said, Man grew out of Earth, like Pumpkin?  
ne'er gern, and show your Teeth, this Doctrine is  
Embraced by th'wits, and sage Autochthones;  
You some such Story, will ye, will ye,  
Must own i'th' Name of Terrae-Filii;  
Of Dunghill Race, and Education,  
For strange Equivocal Generation:  
Firm Proof you from their Birth may gather,  
The Earth their Dam, the Sun their Father:  
Hence, like their Brother Dor they rise,  
And mean, but only mean the Skies:  
When those in vain they've long affected,  
Thither in vain their flight directed;  
To Native Dirt, they sink forgotten,  
By every Foot to nothing trodden.  
The Titans first of this lewd Race,  
Which did even Mother-Earth disgrace;  
Proud big-boned, brainless, graceless Giants,  
They Jove himself set at defiance;  
Who whirled his vengeful Thunder at 'em,  
And sunk 'em under Styx Ten Fathom.  
This Mother Terra took so ill  
Th'Old Crone maintains the Quarrel still,  
Was with new Rebel-Bastards gotten,  
As soon as tother, dead and rotten:  
With weaker Arms these Heaven assailed,  
The others Fought, these only Railed;  
Their Malice-impotent begins  
With Jove himself, than each Good Man;  
Old Comedy, and lawless satire,  
Th'effect of Lewdness, and Ill-Nature.  
The Language was, which first they spoke in,  
All Gravity and Virtue mocking:  
They pleased tothth' Life, the Mobs ill Natures,  
Whose Meat and Drink's to abuse their Betters;  
This the true rise of all thy Scoffing is,  
And sharp-edged Jests, O Aristophanes!  
The Wittiest Knave we ever saw since  
The Terrae-Filius of old Athens.  
He with grave Socrates did squabble,  
And on him looked the grinning Rabble,  
Abused the Doctor and his Wife,  
Which cost the good Old Man his Life.  
'Twou'd be too long to tell th'occasion  
That brought 'em first to th' British Nation;  
And which o'th' Druids did invite 'em  
To Beaumond, alias Bellositum,  
Who there of yore professed Astrology,  
Sage Ethics, Physics, and Theology;  
Which if you question, plain and liquid 'tis  
Beyond dispute, in Wood's Antiquities;  
Ascetick-Wood's, whose known good Nature,  
So justly curbs his harmless satire;  
Who takes such care on each occasion  
To vindicate the Reformation:  
None better could since or before do't,  
Heylin or Harmer ne'er did more do't.  
Tho some there are perhaps would blame us,  
For making their first rise so famous;  
And think these Under-Graduates-Oracles  
Deduced from Cornwal's Givary Miracles,  
From immemorial Custom there,  
They raise a Turfy Theatre;  
Where from a Passage underground,  
By frequent Crowds encompassed round,  
Out leaps some little Mephistophilus,  
Who even of all the Mob the Offal is,  
True Terrae-Filius he, we reckon is,  
Or Antitheos Apomechanes;  
Who Rhymes, and Joques, and lays about him,  
While Brawny Thousands clap and shout him.  
Whence our new Merry-Andrew's Rise is,  
Transplanted thence to Ford of Isis.   

And next the Muse her Slave beseeches,  
For a few Words of Musick-Speeches;  
Whether from those old Strolling-Pedlers,  
The Bawdy Corybantick Fiddlers,  
Who Isis Temple oft had been in,  
Not loved for nothing by the Women:  
Or blind Welsh Harpers, who for Farthings,  
Told Tales, sung Songs, let F— s, sold Bargains.  
We'll not dispute, since there's no time for't,  
Nor can we reason find, or Rhyme for't.  
But to particulars descending  
To Canto's haste, and Poems ending.   

But who alas! who can suffice,  
Tho Tongues he had, like Argus-Eyes,  
To tell of all the witty Rubs,  
Spawned by who knows how many Clubs?  
Against grave Doctors and fair Ladies,  
As always at the Act the Trade is.  
Sure there's a Letch'ry in Abuses,  
They both have read Flagrorum usus,  
Tho an odd way, you'd think to move 'em,  
The more their flogged, the more they love 'em.  
Here the Wags maul one old Sincater,  
Not Hobbs himself e'er did it better;  
Whose very Beard has found 'em matter  
For Thirty Years Abuse and satire:  
There generously another Hector,  
And reverenced the poor Rector:  
Not Colmer more, or great T—,  
Him, or his Piece of Matrimony:  
With Jest so easy, all must take it,  
Of Gospel, and of Woman Naked.  
And sure, but him, none e'er had knowledge  
Of what is what in all the College:  
Not one of their Young Senior Fellows,  
But's of his Chastity so jealous,  
Should you a Naked Woman show 'em,  
You'd fright 'em so, 'twould quite undo 'em:  
Put 'em beyond that fair occasion,  
Beyond hot Crust and Disputation,  
Away, Sans Fear or Wit they'd scamper,  
In spite of Ditch, of Wall or Rampire,  
As Serpent, (swallow't he that can,)  
Fly from the sight of Naked Man.   

Nor all is born by Doctor's Backs,  
For Cambridge too come in, for snacks.  
And is it thus, O ye Oxonians!  
Ye treat your Brother Heliconians,  
The Christians, Jesuits, and the Jonians?  
They'll fit you for't, and not be here,  
Till this time comes again next Year.   

Next enter Smith, and very odd is't,  
That he talks thus, the chaste, the Modest;  
See but with how much Grace he Blushes,  
At every Word all over Flushes.  
His Wit, his Modesty, or Learning;  
Whether's the most needs deep discerning,  
His Wit, all raised by Contribution,  
Or Military-Execution;  
For he so neatly has expressed it,  
'Tis all his own, as he has dressed it.  
His Modesty sure's more than common,  
Since known to ' above 500 Women:  
At Spencer's Squire of Dames he'd laugh,  
Whom he out-throws a Bar and half.  
Then for his Learning, 'tis notorious,  
Made by his Modesty more glorious;  
But his chief Excellency is  
As Envy own, in Languages;  
The European not enough,  
The Modern only trifling stuff,  
With a far larger Scheme delighted,  
All Babel's are in him united.  
What ever Traffiick brings from far  
Indian, Chinese, or Malabar;  
A natural Hottamtot he'd ape,  
Deep versed it'h Language of the Cape;  
A happiness so strange and rare,  
The Company should him prefer,  
Either to lie their Leaguer there,  
Or be at least Interpreter:  
What near the Line, or near the Tropic,  
Sclavonian be't, or Ethiopic;  
All, all's his own, he has no small smattering,  
Familiar-like, his Greek and Latin:  
Yes, even his Greek in which he'd have ye  
To know, he'd out Aristotle's Davy.  
However he came by't, he'll teach ye  
Scarce Satan more, what's Entelechy:  
'Tis true, such Roots are often found  
To thrive the best in Barren Ground;  
But here's the wonder of the thing,  
That they from fruitful Noddle spring,  
As full of Wit, by th' issue all-may-see,  
As Alderman's of Sense or Policy.  
How plentifully this he squandered!  
How neatly did he Merry-andrewed!  
Prick up your Ears to Repetion,   

Ladies, I am a bad Physician;  
My Urinal I can produce ye,  
And other Instruments could show t'ye,  
By help of which there's none who better  
Can cast or judge a Lady's Water:  
I'm an Anatomist too and please ye,  
Of all the Female ails can ease ye,  
Not Saffold more, whose Art I'nherit,  
I the sole Heir of his Great Spirit.  
But, be the Naked Truth confessed,  
I'm at Man-Midwifery the best.  
Have you not heard of a Young Maiden,  
Whom Modesty like mine, invading;  
When our lewd Sex, ours only were  
Assistants at the Groaning Chair;  
No Mortal having liberty  
Without them to be born or die;  
Finding besides they'd oft be fleering,  
And their poor Female Patients jeering;  
Nay sometimes when they ought to bleed 'em,  
Do something else, like Dr. N—  
What does she but clap Foot in Stirrup,  
Equipped with Breeches, Sword and Peruque;  
Till on a Stage good Fortune thanking,  
A Quack she spies a Mountibanking:  
Patience she had some half an Hour  
To hear of Famed Orvietan's Power  
Another half the Mob he assured,  
What Crowds by others killed he had Cured:  
And if there's any Females here  
Who need a Father Confessor,  
I'll not one Syllable discover,  
But be as secret as a Lover.  
Cure all their ails, though ne'er so many,  
Nor till performed, will ask a Penny.  
Not as some Tinkering Doctors do  
Who mend one Hole, by making too.  
Ay here's the Man, the Virgin cried,  
And to be short, herself applied  
To Quack, desiring if he's able  
To teach this Skill so admirable;  
He did, since then, your Sex invaded  
Our Art, nor with us longer Traded;  
But when you more than usual yelp it,  
Yes, thank ye, when you cannot help it.  
Then gladly must you send again  
For me, or Doctor Ch—  
For him at least, since as for me  
I come uncalled, without a Fee,  
Except a Drubbing on occasion  
Out of mere Supererogation:  
Disguised lest you my Beard should gape on  
With mighty Muffler, clean white Apron,  
And cleaner Sleeves, I'm neat and ready,  
With Eye like Eagle, Hand like Lady.  
But one thing more, I should have got me,  
A Lion's Heart, for your Anat'my.  
That failing me, I quaked and trembled,  
My Ears and Tail in vain dissembled.  
The Ass peeped through and I was known,  
And o'er the cursed Balcony thrown.  
Judge if my Skill not cost me dearly,  
Which at your Service is sincerely,  
T' anatomize on all occasions  
Your pretty Parts and Reputations.  
No Favour or Affection shown,  
Not your Sex only, but my own  
Shall feel the dint of Musick-Speech,  
And first have at Lucretius— Cr—;  
Nor can there any thing be stranger  
Than the occasion of my Auger.  
Not that his first so well was done,  
That Envy said 'twas not his own;  
For some may so malicious be,  
To say the same of this and me;  
Nor that he's but a bad Translator  
Of Horace, (though pray show me a better;)  
But wot ye what's the very cause,  
A curse upon his Lockram Jaws.  
There was a Lady loved a Swine,  
Preferring his sweet Face to mine;  
Judge you, and if there's Justice in ye,  
I dare show with him for a Guinea.  
Here's Eyes and Nose, here's Foot and Leg too,  
To say no more of Shape and Neck too:  
And him, yes him, O Times, O Mores,  
To have that Phiz preferred before us!  
That makes me fret as String of Fiddle,  
And thus snap off my Tune i'th' middle.   

That heap of Scandals I'll not write,  
Which made for Sm— the Lady's Fight.  
Tho other Lovers sure 'twould ruin,  
At Oxford 'tis their way of wooing.  
So fair Grimalkin none espouses,  
How well so ere th' old Gib-Cat mouse's  
ere Musick-Speech's on the Houses;  
And when they've pulled each others Fur,  
'Twill then be time enough to purr.  
See how this Strokes, the other woes him,  
That fain would lay in Lap or Bosom;  
While back and forth he brushes by 'em,  
With Tail on end, as he'd defy 'em.  
Nor from each other need you guard 'em,  
They'll not fight long, you need not part 'em.  
With what you've heard, pray rest contented,  
My Book and Canto here are ended.   
FINIS.