Clievelandi Vindiciæ, or, Clieveland's genuine poems, orations, epistles, &c. purged from the many false and spurious ones which had usurped his name, and from innumerable errours and corruptions in the true copies : to which are added many never printed before, with an account of the author's life.

Vpon a Miser who made a great Feast, and the next day died for Grief.

NOr scapes he so; our Dinner was so good My liquorish Muse cannot but chew the Cud, And what delight she took in th' Invitation Strives to tast o'r again in this Relation. After a tedious Grace in Hopkin's Rhyme, Not for Devotion, but to take up time, March'd the Train'd-Band of Dishes, usher'd there To shew their Postures, and then as they were: For he invites no Teeth, perchance the Eye He will afford, the Lover's Gluttony. Thus is our Feast a Muster, not a Fight, Our Weapon's not for Service, but for Sight. But are we Tantaliz'd? Is all this Meat Cook'd by a Limner for ••o view, not eat? Th' Astrologers keep such Houses when they sup On Joynts of Taurus, or the heavenly Tup. What ever Feasts he made are summ'd up here, His Table vies not standing with his Cheer; His Churchings, Christnings; in this Meal are all, And not transcrib'd, but in th' Original. Christmass is no Feast moveable; for lo, The self same Dinner was ten years ago!

'Twill be immortal, if it longer stay, The Gods will eat it for Ambrosia. But stay a while; unless my Whinyard fail, Or is inchanted, I'll cut off the Intail. Saint George for England then! have at the Mutton, Where the first cut calls me blood-thirsty Glutton. Stout Ajax with his anger-codled brain Killing a Sheep thought Agamemnon slain; The Fiction's now prov'd true, wounding the Rost, I lamentably Butcher up mine Host. Such Sympathy is with his Meat, my Weapon Makes him an Eunuch, when it carves his Capon. Cut a Goose Leg, and the poor Fool for mone Turns Cripple too, and after stands on one. Have you not heard th' abominable sport A Lancaster Grand-Jury will report? The Souldier with his Morglay watch'd the Mill, The Cats they came to feas••, when lusty Will Whips off great Pusses Leg, which (by some Charm) Proves the next day such an old Woman's Arm▪ It's so with him, whose carcass never scapes, But still we slash him in a thousand shapes, Our Serving-men (like Spanniels) range to spring The Fowl which he had cluck'd under his wing. Should he on Woodcock, or on Widgeon feed It were, Thyestes-like, on his own Breed.

To Pork he pleads a Superstition due, But we subscribe neither to Scot, nor Iew. No Liquor stirs; call for a Cup of Wine; 'Tis Blood we drink, we pledge thee Catiline. Sawces we should have none, had he his wish; The Oranges ith' Margin of his Dish. He with such Huckster's care tells o'r and o'r, Th' Hesperian Dragon never watch'd them more. But being eaten now into despair, (Having nought else to do) he falls to prayer. Thou that didst once put on the form of Bull, And turn'd thine Io to a lovely Mull, Defend my Rump, great Iove, allay my grief, O spare me this, this Monumental Beef! But no Amen was said; see see it comes; Draw Boyes, let Trumpets sound, and strike up Drums. See how his Blood doth with the Gravy swim, And every Trencher hath a Limb of him. The Ven'son's now in view, our Hounds spend deeper, Strange Deer which in the Pasty hath a Keeper Stricter than in the Park, making his Guest, As he had stol't alive, to steal it drest! The scent was hot, and we pursuing faster Than Ovid's Pack of Dogs e'r chas'd their Master, A double prey at once we seize upon, Acteon, and his Case of Venison.

Thus was he torn alive, to vex him worse, Death serves him up now as a second Course. Should we, like Thracians, our dead bodies eat, He would have liv'd only to save his Meat. Lastly; we did devour that Corps of His Throughout all Ovid's Metamorphosis.