Burlesque upon burlesque, or, The scoffer scoft being some of Lucians dialogues, newly put into English fustian for the consolation of those who had rather laugh and be merry, then be merry and wise.

DIALOGUE.

Mercury and Apollo.

Merc.

APollo, what's the matter pray You look so mustily to day?

Apollo.

Why never any, certainly, Was yet so cross't in love as I; And any else, I think, would dye of Half the mischievous luck that I have.

Merc.

Hast thou new cause with Fate to quarrel, Since Daphne turn'd was to a Laurel?

Apollo.

Oh yes, yes, yes, my honest Friend, My Hyacinthus timeless end.

Merc.

Who of his murther was the Author?

Apollo.

My self am guilty of the slaughter.

Merc.

What did'st thou do it in thy fury? Thou'rt passionate:

Apollo.

No, I assure ye, The passion I had for that Creature Was of another sort of nature;

But playing with the Boy at Mall (I rue the time, and ever shall) I strooke the Ball, I know not how, (For that is not the play you know) A pretty height into the Air, When Zephirus (who't seems was there) And long (as thou thy self hast seen) Has jealous of our friendship been, Beat down the Ball, without Remorse, With such a most confounded force, And gave his head so damn'd a thumm, As breaking Pericranium, Scalpe, Dura, and eke Pia Mater, His Brains came poppling out like water, And the Boy dy'de so prettily, 'Twould e'en have done one good to see. I presently pursu'd the Traytor, T'ave been reveng'd; but no such matter. I nockt an arrow to have shot him; But he soon out of distance got him. Besides, although in a long Bow I shoot as well as most I know,

Yet (like a Dunce) I ne're could yet The knack of shooting flying get. He was too swift, and I too slow To overtake the wind I trow. So seeing then the bloody slave Got into Aeolus his Cave, I back to my departed Joy, Where taking up the lovely Boy, I honourably brought him home, And built him a most stately Tomb, Where my Amours, and he for ever, Are buried, and entomb'd together. And yet my Sweet-heart to survive, And keep my Comfort still alive, I from his blood have caus'd to spring A flower, the pretty'st baubling thing For beauty, and for sweetness too, On the Earth's womb that ever grew. Which also in its folyage wears Some Hierogliphick Characters, Whose sence in mistick figures bears The story of my sighs and tears.

And yet alass, for all I strive My rooted sorrow to deceive, By all the most diverting wayes, I must lament him all my dayes.

Merc.

Then friend Apollo thou art not The God of Wisdom, but a Sot: For those who will descend so far, As to love things that mortal are, Must for events like these prepare. Mortals to Fate are subject all, Who sooner must, or later fall: And the word Mortal does imply That they are only born to dye.