Canidia, or, The witches a rhapsody, in five parts / by R.D.

CANTO VIII.

‘ My Lords, quoth she, making a low ‘ Obeisance to them all, I rebestow ‘ My hearty Thanks, in lieu of what ‘ I have receiv'd, and take you that. ‘ As for your Honours thus appeas'd, ‘ For these Indulgences, be pleas'd ‘ Thus to take notice, that you have thrown ‘ Your worthy Favour upon one ‘ That hath deserv'd it: No Courtesie ‘ Shall come, but it shall go from me.

‘ My Spirit's high, Nay, I'le be plain, ‘ I scorn to think, but ye shall gain ‘ By what y'have done, and shall for me, for know ‘ I am no Ideot, I tro. ‘ No Meal-mouth'd Novice, 'tis not for nought, ‘ That for so long a time I have sought ‘ Into your Mysteries, and div'd ‘ Into the Depth of Hell, contriv'd ‘ So many Deaths, plotted such Woes, ‘ As cruel Witchcraft could impose.

‘ Am I not Mistress of my Art? ‘ Can I not finely act my Part? ‘ A Sagan, and not skill'd, 's a Fiction, ‘ Not hurtful, 'tis a Contradiction. ‘ It cannot be, but where I am ‘ There must be Blood, my Name ‘ Is never us'd without a Spell, ‘ The whole World knows me right well.

‘ It cannot be, but where I tread, ‘ There should be forthwith heaps of Dead, ‘ To pave the Way before me, Thus—

‘ The Infant, and the Aged Sire, ‘ The Stripling and the youthful Squire; ‘ The Matron and the stately Dame, ‘ The Widow, and the Wife of Fame; ‘ The gallant Virgin, all a row, ‘ At my approach down they must go. ‘ And shall not I be thought a meet ‘ Mate for the best? that at my Feet ‘ Can level with one look a Score, ‘ Let's see the best of you do more. ‘ For when I come, I come like Thunder, ‘ And madly tear mens Bones asunder.

‘ I choak the Embryo, and from the Womb, ‘ I dash the Infant to his Tomb. ‘ Before he's well enur'd to Light, ‘ Ile hurl him into endless Night. ‘ The Child that's scourging of his Top, ‘ Or trundling of his Ball, I pop ‘ Next Morn into his Grave: To day, ‘ He is a Lord, perchance, all gay ‘ Amidst his Ladies; but to morrow ‘ He dyes, to theirs and his Friends sorrow.

‘ When Boys are at their Waggery, ‘ If I do but by chance pass by, ‘ The Youth on whom I glance, shall fall, ‘ Struck dead o'th' place, before 'um all. ‘ He that sate pratling at the Table, ‘ So pretily, shall not be able,

‘ Before an hour go about, ‘ To get one Syllable distinctly out, ‘ Not for a World; put him not to't, ‘ He is bewitcht, he cannot do't.

‘ Some have but tipt over a Frame, ‘ And have been all their life-time Lame: ‘ Others but stept out in a Night, ‘ And ever after lost their sight. ‘ And some their Wits, some have been taken, ‘ And with Convulsions strongly shaken; ‘ So torn and rackt, that you would wonder ‘ Body and Soul flew not asunder.

‘ The sprouting Stripling, that in short time ‘ Would unto perfect Nature climb; ‘ Whose rare Endowments have began ‘ Before his time, to style him Man: ‘ Then come I to prevent ‘ Those over-hasty Vertues lent; ‘ A powerful Charm forthwith flew ‘ Towards this Mark, and hit and slew.

‘ The lusty Youngster, that hath run ‘ To the degree of Twenty one; ‘ When commonly the Climate's hot, ‘ And scorching, It shall be his Lot ‘ To dye by Coals: I'le convey ‘ A Julip shall that Fire allay; ‘ Insensibly it shall congeal ‘ The Marrow in his Bones, and steal ‘ Into his Bowels, by a Trick, ‘ And at last strike him to the Quick.

‘ Or it shall rot his Lungs, or stop ‘ The Fountain of his Blood, or hop ‘ Into his Bladder, or his Reins, ‘ And plague him with continual Pains. ‘ His Blood that dances in his Veins, ‘ And boyls with active Fire, my Strains ‘ Can freez, I have such Spells at hand ‘ Can finely settle and command ‘ His cap'ring Spirits, no more to rise, ‘ Nor keep time in his Arteries.

‘ The curious Virgin, in her Prime ‘ And blooming years; O then 'tis time ‘ For me to blast those Roses, stain ‘ The Whiteness of her Lillies, drain ‘ The Channel of her sprightly Blood; ‘ O this to me is precious Food! ‘ To squeez the Juyce from out the Veins, ‘ It serves to me for th'greatest Gains.

‘ My Soul could wish, to choak ‘ The Spirits Vehicles, and soak ‘ The Archeus, moisture Radical to quench ‘ The stock of Life without a Drench: ‘ And by secret Art leisurely, ‘ To pine the whole Mass, till it dye. ‘ No Joy so pleasing, no Delight ‘ Affects me, as does such a sight.

‘ The Man whose full Consistency, ‘ Spreads him in perfect Decency; ‘ To shew Dame Nature's chiefest Art, ‘ Fairly perform'd in every part, ‘ And the whole Fabrick strong and neat, ‘ Makes up a Microcosm compleat.

‘ His tuned Humors in just weight ‘ And measure, boyl'd up to a height; ‘ And every Limb exactly knit ‘ With severe Sinews, strong and fit.

‘ I say, the Man, that truly may ‘ Call himself so, during that stay; ‘ And not before, nor after, He ‘ Is the object of my Sorcery. ‘ 'Tis he I aim at, and I must ‘ Level his Bulwark to the Dust. ‘ I hate, O I cannot abide, ‘ To see him strutting in his Pride.

‘ Or He, or I, or both must fall, ‘ I care not which, but down he shall. ‘ I will deface his Glory, if I can, ‘ And raze the stately Fabrick of a Man. ‘ 'Tis done already, he has ta'ne ‘ A Dose, that shall warrant his Bane. ‘ His well cemented Joynts shall slack, ‘ And all his stubborn Sinews crack.

‘ 'Twill make his sturdy Limbs to quiver, ‘ His well compacted Bones 'twill shiver: ‘ It will corrode through every part, ‘ And last of all infect his Heart. ‘ Thus the best work Nature can frame, ‘ 'Tis I am able to mar the same.

‘ He whose declining years begin, ‘ To warn him to the Common Inne, ‘ Where Clods are the best Couches, Stones ‘ The softest Pillows, rotten Bones

‘ The choicest and the daintiest Fare, ‘ The Worms be Delicacies there: ‘ Where pale Death is the courteous Host. ‘ That doth his Ruful Guests accost. ‘ Welcoms all Comers to his Bowr; ‘ But ah, his Entertainment's sowre.

‘ Yet he hath harbour'd Kings and Peers, ‘ And Emperours of ancient years. ‘ Ladies and Queens have not deny'd, ‘ In his dark Chambers to abide. ‘ His noysom Steams do not molest, ‘ No Sounds disturb his quiet Rest. ‘ Within those silent Cells do lye ‘ The Series of Mortality; ‘ The Noble and the Vulgar, All ‘ Have lodg'd with him, and ever shall.

‘ He then, whose Years call him away, ‘ And tell him, long he must not stay: ‘ Whose oft Infirmities bid come, ‘ And hasten to his longest Home; ‘ Where, after all his Toil he may ‘ Keep Everlasting Holiday; ‘ Even such an one I will not spare, ‘ Though he should beg but for a bare ‘ Year, Month or Day, I'le tell him, No, ‘ I pity none, down ye must go.

‘ Tho with his feeble Knees he wear ‘ The Marble-Floor, nay, tho he tear ‘ With groans and cries the yeilding Air, ‘ Yet for all this I will not hear. ‘ The Reverend Age I much neglect, ‘ And the grey Hairs I disrespect:

‘ I flout at that, which would require ‘ Due Worship from a comly Sire.

‘ His bald Alabaster Crown, ‘ His frosty Beard, and his Fur'd Gown; ‘ His Snowy Scalp, and what else Age ‘ Hath in it Venerable and Sage. ‘ I Jeer the hoar Grandsire, Nodding, ‘ Poring upon the ground and plodding, ‘ With his cramp Shoulder and his Staff, ‘ To see him trudge, it makes me laugh.

‘ I fleer at the old driveling Swain, ‘ To see him s••ud to and and again: ‘ To see him sit, and mump and moap, ‘ And in the Chimney-corner grope. ‘ Amongst a few small Embers raking, ‘ The Ashes, shivering and quaking. ‘ To hear him cough, and spit and spawl, ‘ As he would fetch up Guts and all.

‘ I'le try, if the old Mangy Knave, ‘ Can't cough a little in his Grave. ‘ He's just upon the brink already, ‘ And is not able to stand steddy; ‘ But the least touch will push him by, ‘ And plunge him to Eternity. ‘ He's gone, past all hopes, the poor Wight ‘ Is with a Blast puft out of sight. ‘ I quickly, slily gave him a Bole, ‘ That sent him down to the Pit-hole.

‘ The furious Captain I can tame, ‘ And cool his warlike Blood, I frame

‘ A mixture, that at the least taste, ‘ Drives him to Limbo in all haste. ‘ Let Mars, the man that's clad in Steel, ‘ Take heed of me, I'le make him feel ‘ That at his Heart, he ne're shall know, ‘ Which way it gave him his Deaths blow.

‘ Let him rage, chase, fret and fume, ‘ 'Til he be weary, I presume. ‘ For all his Swaggering, he is sure, ‘ You'l strait perceive him as demure, ‘ As calm as may be; on his Trotter, ‘ Methinks I see him 'gin to totter, ‘ And snatch the Reins; but all in vain, ‘ Down comes the Rider and his Train.

‘ The Drunken Gull, that says he's arm'd ‘ With strong Juyce, and cannot be harm'd; ‘ But swears and stares, as he were mad: ‘ Let me alone, I'le tame the Lad. ‘ I'le give him that, for all his swagg'ring, ‘ Shall put him to a fit of Stagg'ring, ‘ So long, till the sottish Slave, ‘ Stagger at last into his Grave.

‘ The foul Glutton that lies and struts ‘ His gorrel'd Paunch, cramming his Guts ‘ Whole days and Nights, with greazy chear: ‘ I'le make him buy that at a dear ‘ And sawcy Rate: That beastly Joy ‘ He now conceives, shall most annoy ‘ And loath his Taste, I'le spice his Pyes, ‘ And season his Delicacies.

‘ I'le sowce his Dainties, I'le prepare ‘ For him all his Bill of Fare. ‘ I'le feed his Maw, and feast his Eye, ‘ I know he likes my Cookery. ‘ I'le Candy and Preserve his Fruit, ‘ His Marmalade and Syrups, sute ‘ T'his Palate; his Sweet-meats I'le fit, ‘ For if I do't, be sure 'twill hit.

‘ I know his dainty liquorish Tooth, ‘ His curious Appetite, forsooth, ‘ None but my self can him please, ‘ And when in pain I give him ease, ‘ I hit his humor to a hair. ‘ I make his Fire, and fetch his Chair. ‘ I set his Close-stool, and his Pot, ‘ Warm his Neck-cloth and Night-cap hot.

‘ I wash his Dishes, clean his Plate, ‘ And scowr his Spits early and late. ‘ I fetch his Water for him, lay ‘ Napkin and Trenchers every day. ‘ I'le sweeten and I'le spice his Cup, ‘ Yea, and make him drink all up. ‘ I'le dip his Morsels, fill his Wine, ‘ And fat him up like a Swine, ‘ Cut his Throat with this hand of mine.

‘ The lazy Lubbard dawb'd with Scurf, ‘ That sits and smoaks him o're a Turf, ‘ Poking i'th' Embers, when there lye ‘ Good Faggots and Billets hard by, ‘ And he like a foul lazy Cur, ‘ For fear of Cold is loth to stir.

‘ That in his nasty Kennel snorts ‘ 'Til Mid-day, with his grey Consorts ‘ Crawling about him, while he shrugs ‘ And rubs, and scratches, yawns, and snugs ‘ O're head and ears; an ill beginner, ‘ That knows not where to get his Dinner, ‘ And will not rise to earn't: for these ‘ Leads he a Dogs life, hunger and ease.

‘ I'le drop a Spider into his Beer, ‘ Or cause a Toad to creep in there, ‘ That hath been bred in Corners moist, ‘ By sluttish filth, I'le foist ‘ An Adder to his Bed-straw, pop a Snake ‘ Between the Sheets to keep him 'wake. ‘ For Nastiness at Board and Bed, ‘ I'le certainly have him sped.

‘ The damned Lecher, with his Imp, ‘ His pocky Bawd, and rotten Pimp; ‘ That with his Punks at Midnight roars, ‘ Cards, Dices, Gormandizes, Whores: ‘ Carowses, Capers, Swears and Revels, ‘ In pomp, among so many Devils. ‘ I'le come among that Goatish Crew, ‘ And give the muddy Trulls their due.

‘ I'le plague their Mistress and Commander, ‘ The mouldy Bawd, and rusty Pander; ‘ With Scurvy, Gouts, and pocky Sores, ‘ Tormenting all the Rogues and Whores, ‘ Paying off all their old Scores. ‘ As for the Gallant swagg'ring Blade, ‘ I'le bind him Prentice to the Trade;

‘ And I shall teach him Feats of Love, ‘ How he may all Affections prove.

‘ I'le dictate to the Roaring Boy, ‘ Present the Gentleman a Toy, ‘ Wherewith to allure his Mistress heart, ‘ That she from him shall never part: ‘ Nay, and it shall, to make all sure, ‘ A thousand Mistresses procure. ‘ All shall be toucht, all shall run mad, ‘ For love of this brave lusty Lad.

‘ He'l carry that about him, which ‘ Shall all Beholders Eyes bewitch. ‘ Walking the Streets, they shall admire ‘ His Beauty, and set all a fire: ‘ And crowd about him for a Kiss, ‘ And happy she that did not miss. ‘ In pride whereof, the Mothers Daughter ‘ Shall lick her Lips a Twelve-month after.

‘ Thus will I sooth him up with Pride, ‘ When he shall see himself espy'd, ‘ And pointed at for a rare Piece, ‘ Right worthy of a Princes Niece. ‘ Do not mistake me now, as tho, ‘ My Noble Lords, I did bestow ‘ This Boon for good upon him; No, ‘ I cannot change my Nature so.

‘ Tho, for a while, I touch upon ‘ The brink of Good e're and anon; ‘ Yet strait I verge, before I venter, ‘ And keep me to my proper Center.

‘ Thus then, in lieu of all his Loves, ‘ I intend to handle him without Gloves; ‘ In his full pride and flanting state, ‘ I'le make him odious to his Mate.

‘ And next, to all his Doxies; First, ‘ Ile leave him nothing in his Purse: ‘ No not a Doit; this ground work laid, ‘ To th' full I'm sure to have him paid; ‘ And by them too, who his Vassals were, ‘ Whilst he fed them with dainty Cheer. ‘ Then they to him all Beauty brought; ‘ But now, by them he's worse than nought.

‘ Before, he was a cleanly Piece, ‘ But now, he swarms with Fleas and Lice. ‘ Before, his more refined Clay, ‘ Like Alexander's, every way ‘ Did cast a fragrant Scent; but now, ‘ No poyson'd ugly Carrion Sow ‘ Stinks worse than He. Before, O rare, ‘ Adonis was not half so Fair.

‘ But now, the Scale is turn'd you see, ‘ No Africk Moor's so black as He. ‘ Ʋlysses was not half so witty ‘ Before; but now, the more's the pity, ‘ (So fading all our Natures be) ‘ A Fool speaks better sense than He. ‘ Before, Plato was not so wise; ‘ But now, I speak't with weeping Eyes, ‘ Politius Brain's ne're did more flote, ‘ Nor Nestor's hoary Coxcomb dote.

‘ Before, more valiant and stout ‘ Than Hector, that would ne're give out; ‘ But now, more cowardly and base, ‘ Than ever Dastard Thersites was: ‘ At a drawn Blade he durst not peep, ‘ But shivering like a Mouse would creep. ‘ In fine, he was a Gentleman, ‘ Fit to accost a Curtezan.

‘ But now, a clownish Robinhood, ‘ A Kitchin-Wench for him's too good. ‘ Er••••, a Bit for a Ladies Tooth, ‘ But now a Scrape-Trencher forsooth, ‘ If she should meet him in her dish, ‘ Wou'd scorn to soul her Fingers, pish; ‘ She'd cry, No by her Troth, not she, ‘ She'l have a prop'rer Man than He.

‘ She'd not touch him with a pair of Tongs: ‘ An old Fornicator, that longs, ‘ And fain would have a Bit for's Cat; ‘ I' Faith 'tis pepper'd, you know what. ‘ Let him to his Companions go, ‘ For I'le ha' none of him, I tro. ‘ Bast him, and kick him out of doors, ‘ Turn him loose among his Whores.

‘ A base Whore-masterly Slave, ‘ The Pox will bring him to his Grave. ‘ Ha, ha, what is your Courage cool'd? ‘ I' Faith you are pretily befool'd. ‘ You're ev'n serv'd right enough, you're paid ‘ In your own Coin. See, there's a Maid! ‘ What think ye? She's a handsom Lass, ‘ And sprightly too: Hei, ho, Time was.

‘ Come let us see you strut it now, ‘ And prank it stately, you know how. ‘ Alas, he droops! fetch him a Lever, ‘ Quickly, to help him cock his Bever. ‘ Make him a Cawdle, strait, poor honest Man, ‘ His Back is broke, lend, lend an hand. ‘ His Legs will scarce support him: alack! ‘ Sweet Gentleman, a Cup of Sack

‘ Fetch him; 'twill do him good at heart, ‘ And cherish his cold blood in part. ‘ Ha, Sirrah, how now, straddle ye? ‘ You pay now for your Lechery. ‘ What through the Nose? or do you jeer ‘ The sniveling Scismatick? stand cleer, ‘ Keep off, kind Sir, for I desire ‘ Not to be scorcht, you'r all a fire.

‘ Now where's your Activity become, ‘ Is all your sprightly vigour gone? ‘ Where are your Garters, and your Roses? ‘ What Wheel divided both your Noses? ‘ What Extraordinary Care, ‘ Hath fetcht off your Bushy-Hair? ‘ Or what hath lessened your Shanks, ‘ What Rogue was that, that play'd such Pranks.

‘ T'abuse a Gentleman in's Bed, ‘ And leave him ne're a Tooth in's Head. ‘ To stew him in a Tub, by th' Clock, ‘ Then have him to the Chopping-block. ‘ Mangle him in such piteous wise, ‘ That he can scarce look out on's Eyes. ‘ Nor hold in's hand, but dodderingly, ‘ Nor tread on's feet, but gingerly.

‘ So soak him, that his very Skin ‘ You may perceive shrivel agen. ‘ He is so soar in all his Joynts, ‘ As he were prickt with Needles-points. ‘ So chill, that the least breath of Air ‘ Drives through and through him every where. ‘ All pity you, Sir, as you go; ‘ Who hath misus'd the Gallant so?

‘ The Man's a proper Man, but Rogues and Whores ‘ Have pickt his Pocket, turn'd him out a doors, ‘ And thrown Pispots upon his Head, ‘ And sent the poor Wretch sick to Bed, ‘ Having long since planted Horns on's Head. ‘ Some honest Body take him in, ‘ Bestow a covering to his Skin. ‘ Alas, none dare to entertain, ‘ For fear his Pox should prove their Bane.

‘ Thus he, admir'd before, is now despis'd ‘ In squalid Rags walks disguis'd, ‘ 'Till starv'd and rot, without a Witch, ‘ Ignobly he dies in a Ditch.

‘ The frolick Spend-thrift, that lets fly ‘ Huge Treasures by the desp'rate Dye: ‘ Baffling and lavishing away ‘ A whole Inheritance at Play: ‘ That in a Minutes space lets go ‘ Whole Patrimonies at a Throw. ‘ By the turning of a Bone awry, ‘ Forfeits a rich Annuity. ‘ At one Throw he shall Pass ye, ‘ A whole Inheritance ex Asse.

‘ That at one Luckless-Cast, gives out ‘ Fair Fields for forty Miles about. ‘ That 'fore he will be counted base, ‘ Loses whole Forrests at a Chase. ‘ Hazards a Warren at a Loss, ‘ Smothers a Lordship at a Toss: ‘ And bandies Tenements together, ‘ At random, no body knows whither.

‘ A Farm, a Lease, or such a Toy or Fine, ‘ He'l strike you neatly underline. ‘ He knows by craft to Cog a Dye, ‘ Or shift a Trump in handsomly. ‘ But if the spotted Cube doth fall ‘ Contrary ways, then have at all.

‘ If then it chance the wrong way to lye, ‘ He's surely brought to Beggery. ‘ Or if the Cards amiss be thrown, ‘ Strait he can call nothing his own. ‘ And this you'd think were punishment, ‘ For one poor Fool sufficient.

‘ But I think not so, I care ‘ To make him fall into Despair: ‘ For fear he should repent, and thrive, ‘ My labour is to deprive ‘ Him of his Senses and his Wits, ‘ And cast him into fainting Fits, ‘ Then leave him quite, that is my Drift, ‘ To the wide World, and let him shift.

‘ The starcht Capricio, that keeps time, ‘ In's gate, and ne're speaks, but in Rhime;

‘ That stands stiff bent, as one dead, ‘ Keeps all his Postures to a Thred. ‘ All things about him are in print, ‘ No Angle, but there's something in't. ‘ With a most Artificial Grace, ‘ No hair, but in its proper place.

‘ And if one Lock more on one side lye, ‘ It makes him hold his Neck awry. ‘ His Tresses must be exactly purl'd, ‘ Starcht, frizled, crisped, sleekt and curl'd, ‘ Mustacho's, Ruler or Dagger-wise, ‘ For too much shadowing his Eyes. ‘ Men must be fain to go behind, ‘ He's so perfum'd, and take the Wind.

‘ He comes on ruffling, you may hear him ‘ A far off, 'fore you can come near him▪ ‘ He is some rich Curmudgeon's Heir, ‘ That scrap't it with a double care. ‘ That Thred-bare went, because he would ‘ Have him go in his Cloth of Gold. ‘ And he performs his Fathers Will, ‘ 'Til he comes at last to grind in a Mill.

‘ He cares not to adorn his Back, ‘ Tho all his Substance go to wrack. ‘ He'l wear y'a Lordship in a Band, ‘ And a Fee-simple on each Hand▪ ‘ He'l for a Bonnet wear y'a Hall, ‘ Or a great Castle, Tower and all. ‘ He'l clasp y'a Mannor 'bout his Wast, ‘ But shall do so no more in haste.

‘ He'l keep y' a Court-lodge next his Skin, ‘ Pardon him if he do so agin. ‘ He'l wrap (pray Heav'ns he catch no harm) ‘ Whole Woods about him, to keep him warm. ‘ He will consume ye, in pure Gilt, ‘ Ten thousand Crowns upon a Hilt: ‘ And as much on a Belt and Blade, ‘ Next will be, turn him to the Spade.

‘ Upon one Suit, he will not care ye, ‘ To spend a stately Monastery. ‘ It shall be embroidered with Copes, ‘ And Mitres, dawb'd with Priests and Popes. ‘ Powder'd with Steeples to the knees, ‘ All lined with the Churches Fees. ‘ It shall be stiff••ened with Tithes, ‘ Basted with Schools and Donatives.

‘ Spangled with Sees and Deanaries, ‘ And strongly sticht with Chanteries. ‘ All his Coats, Cloaks, Cassocks and Gowns, ‘ Are Chappels, Abbies, Cloisters, Towns. ‘ This man is sure never to lack, ‘ That carries his Estate on's back. ‘ He still all his own Wealth commands, ‘ Not trusting it in Hucksters hands.

‘ But shall he thus squander away ‘ So much, and all to make him Gay? ‘ And will none take the pains to School ‘ This same gawdy fantastick Fool? ‘ Why, what serve I for then? sure, ‘ My Genius will not endure ‘ To see an Ass loaded with Gold, ‘ Who can with patience behold?

‘ Now will you see some some sport? Come trace ‘ My steps, I'le lead him to a place, ‘ Where he hath chanced at the Wine, ‘ To meet some young Scholars of mine; ‘ That for their skill, all of them dare ‘ Be Tutors to the richest Heir. ‘ Captains and Ladies they be all, ‘ That will be ready at my Call.

‘ Always appointed at a Beck, ‘ Subject to my censorious Check. ‘ Every one duly knows his Part, ‘ They have con'd their Lessons all by heart▪ ‘ The curious faculty of Hooking, ‘ The ingenious Art of Gentile Rooking: ‘ With Hocus Pocus, slight of hand, ‘ To cheat a Novice of his Land.

‘ To inveagle him with a Love Trick, ‘ Then come aloft, Jackanapes, quick: ‘ By the Virtue of a smooth-fac'd Lass, ‘ Whip, come away, rise up Sir Ass. ‘ These Youths now have my Peacock caught, ‘ And they'l not leave him worth a Groat. ‘ They'l cut his Cox-comb, pluck his Plumes, ‘ Mar all his Civets and Perfumes.

‘ They'l muzzle all his neat set Ruffs, ‘ And quite deface his plighted Cuffs. ‘ Ruffle his Garters and his Laces, ‘ Tatter his Plush in twenty places. ‘ Tear of his Jewels and his Rings, ‘ And rob him of his costly Things. ‘ And all by pure Feats of Activity, ‘ Without any gross Cheatry.

‘ Neat Fetches of Legerdmain, ‘ Presto, Be gone Sir, Come again. ‘ By the Virtue of a Smirking Girl▪ ‘ They be juggle him into an Earl, ‘ Or a great Marquess, never fear it, ‘ Noble Sir, your Estate will bear it. ‘ With these, and now and then a Frown, ‘ They Conjure the proud Fool up and down.

‘ So they cast a Mist about him, ‘ And for a May-Game jeer and flout him; ‘ And he hath not the Wit to look about him. ‘ What Herald's he that dare confute us? ‘ You are descended, Sir, from Brutus. ‘ The Conqueror's Blood runs in your Veins, ‘ If you would please to take the pains. ‘ Or we, for you, to search the Rowls ‘ I'th' Towre; there in those very Scrowls, ‘ You'l find what Feats of Chivalry ‘ Were acted by your Ancestry.

‘ You little think, but we have try'd, ‘ How near in Blood you are Ally'd ‘ Unto the Famous Warwick's Guy? ‘ Nay, one that hath but half an Eye, ‘ May trace your Pedigree exact, ‘ From Locrine, ••amber, Albanact. ‘ Or if you'd be of Saxon Line, ‘ Old Tuisco was a Si••e of Thine.

‘ 'Tis Martial Blood runs in your Veins, ‘ That breeds none but Heroick strains. ‘ Your Arteries flush with noble Spirits, ‘ O that you had but to your Merits.

‘ Come, match you to a stately Dame, ‘ Of Gentile Race, to advance your Name. ‘ Be not so modest to deny▪ ‘ The World a Brood of Princes; Why, ‘ Why should your Valour be depriv'd ‘ Of Fame? Try, 'twill not be deny'd.

‘ To those that from your Loyns shall come, ‘ The Earth will joyfully find Room: ‘ And proudly harbour such a Breed, ‘ As shall from you and yours proceed. ‘ With these and such like Flatteries, ‘ The sottish youngster gives to prize ‘ His fond conceited Worth; and in this Tumor▪ ‘ Of Pride, take him in the Humor, ‘ And make him firmly plight his Troth▪ ‘ To one, whom a Sedan-Man would be loth▪ ‘ To carry to his proper Home, ‘ And make the Fusty Quean his own.

‘ Next day they make a quick Dispatch, ‘ And in a Trice clap up the Match. ‘ When he's scarce yet warm in's Geer, ‘ Not having liv'd with her a Year; ‘ But she has danc't the Fop a Jigg, ‘ And giv'n the Gentleman a Figg.

‘ Alas, how loath was he to leave her, ‘ Her sweet Man dy'd of a Fever. ‘ He's dead and gone, Heavens rest his Soul, ‘ But ne're had Wife more cause to Howl, ‘ For such a dear Husbands loss. ‘ O, she'l follow him by Weeping-Cross. ‘ He shall be her last Husband, he shall, ‘ To find him she would lose Life and all.

‘ Some good kind Body she would fain, ‘ Quickly to put her out of her Pain. ‘ For Pity's sake, in this Distress, ‘ Dispatch her, she can do no less. ‘ If not, her Self will do't; Come Death ‘ And welcom, haste to stop my Breath. ‘ Thus she deceives the World, Dejected, ‘ A Mourner false, by none suspected.

‘ She has no Issue, all's her own, ‘ She's on a sudden Wealthy grown. ‘ Now she's alone, but many a Lad, ‘ For her sake, in warm Plush is clad. ‘ With her together the Estate sharing, ‘ Like Lords deliciously faring. ‘ But she must spend her days in Tears, ‘ Those few days that remain in Cares.

‘ The managing of All, committing ‘ To her good Friends, as they think fitting: ‘ She'l lead a private Life, tho she ‘ I'th' mean time, ne're so Publick be. ‘ She'l take a Chamber, hire her Food, ‘ And so mourn out her Widow-hood. ‘ I will not say, She there lies Leager, ‘ 'Till she can find another, eager ‘ Upon the Business, some hot Shot ‘ That has a mind to go to th' Pot: ‘ And then this Widow will not stick ‘ To play you such another Trick.