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

CANTO XII.

If Prerogatives be measur'd by the Plough, Liberties by the Scepter, we shall have Priviledges enough. When the King and Subjects meet, The Scepter shall the Spade greet, But not jussle for the Wall in the Street. Trust a brave Princes Word. More than the Pummel of Scanderbeg's Sword.

How's this? Malum est Posse malum? Fetch a Cup of Alum Stalum, The Schoolmens Wits use to fail 'um. An Old man shall ne're be an Ass, So long as Non senescit Veritas.

The King ne're dies, that's Reason, The Crown extinguishes Treason. Nullum Tempus occurrit Regi, Omne malum contrarium Legi.

Who prompted the dull Monk with the Epithite Ve∣nerabilis, Of Bede's Epitaph, or who made first Aqua Mira∣bilis? I was cut out for a Witch ab Incunabilis, I was not born to rake Dung in Stabulis. 'Twas I that taught Bertholdus Swart, The Invention of Gunners Art. For which all Souldiers should take my part, It was by letting of a Rowzing Fart. It made the Coward Scholar start, When his Lamp was out, it frighted him to the Heart.

'Tis usual with great Wits, When they fall into Melancholy Fits, Or don't look well to their Hits. ‘ I think these were gamesom Tricks, ‘ I use to steal Wood and gather Sticks. ‘ (Oh, I am troubled with the Stitch, ‘ Alas, I cannot hold my Britch.) The Witches among Saxons and Huns, Taught this Devilish Invention of Guns. The Noise frighted all the Nuns, Put the poor Ladies to the Runs. The Fryars in a Gambol-Freak, Put them sadly to the Squeak.

The Chineses had the knack, Of Printing; (the virtue of a Cup of good Sack, Fir'd the Bush at the Man oth' Moons back.) I set the Tartars upon their backs, To put the Slaves upon the Racks, Before ever they could make up their Packs. They drowned them in the Sea in Sacks, A Company of Envious Jacks.

They kept all their Arts closely Fur'ld, From all the Learn'd People of the World. The fiery Tartars make 'um all stink, And now they complain in Pen and Ink, To solve their Spirits they shan't want drink. And now with us they are glad to Trade and Barter, That before kept their Monopoly Charter.

No Body, forsooth, might break up their Quarters, As very Rogues as ever wore Garters. We taught them at the long run to carry Coals, That till then, had lain hid in their skulking Holes.

To shew 'tis not fit for any Nation, To refuse Commerce after that fashion; A proud, unmannerly Generation.

After all this, pray and say what you wull, A Man-Witch has an empty thick Skull. I found 'um always most damnable dull, All their delights are in good Lull. To tell Tales of a Cock and a Bull, So does every drunken Gull. Women Witches tell Gossipping Stories, The high flown Blades are Tory-Rories.

An old Ape hath an old Eye, I think y'have drawn me pretty dry. If 'twere not for my Witching Trade, I should be as honest as e're I was, when I was a Maid. You may perceive I take great care, When I no kind of Baseness spare, And Above-board you see I play fair.

Therefore let Kings have a care, I hope I shall deserve the Chair. For I know more than Apollo, In the Streets after us all the Boys Hollow. I put fair for a Princess in this Case, I value not the World's Disgrace, Because I have a brazen Face. So many such Sots don't daunt me, I'le make my Party good, let 'um all haunt me.

Diogenes gave his dull Hearers a Rub, By Waking 'um to hear a Tale of a Tub.

The rare Lutenist is slighted for his pains, The scraping Fidler gets Credit and Gains. O dull Ears, O dull Understanding, No Judgment the Will commanding. Stand off, Heard among the Rout, I scorn ye, for Scholars, worse than come out.

What are ye, but Arts Superficial Scummers, No Scholars, but Learning's Ludibrious Mum∣mers, No Souldiers, but Arm's Terriferous Drummers? Good young Wits, but sad lazy Drones, If my Pupils, I'de ha'ye by the Bones. To make ye study, I would try, Or else, I'de know a Reason why, Blockheads disgrace the Ʋniversity.

'Tis the base Pot and Pipe, Makes 'um Rotten before they're Ripe. Or leave Apollo and the chaste Muses, To chuse Friars and Nuns Recluses. These Nurseries Dunces abuse, For which, my Dames their Cells refuse.

A Rusticate Parson in Habit and Mind, Is a Scorn to the Learned kind. He can Thresh, and for a need serve the Hogs, But his chiefest delight is to follow the Dogs. Harpen and Tarpen, and Teardog and Marten, Thy Dog and my Dog, there's the Game for certain. De Vau, de Vau, So ho, So ho, O're the Hills, o're the Dales, they go, they go. Plays ye at Trap-Ball, Cudgels and Leap-Frog, Now and then kills a Calf or a Hog.

'Tis impossible, but this Amphibious Wight, With Learned Men should play least in sight. Fitter in a blind Ale-House for a Game at Chess, Or All Fours with Tinkers, than a Scholar's Mess. These Partiperpale Mongrel-Shab-Scholars, Smatterers, Scepticks, have too many Followers. For Divinity, he falls aboard of Dod and Clever, For Logick, Jack Seaton gives him a Lever.

He dares look Bellarmine in the Face, And answer him in the hardest Case. Solus cum Solâ, Nudus cum Nudâ, says the Learned Glosser, Nunquam praesumuntur dicere, Pater Noster. 'Twas a wise Negative Answer in cutting a Twine, 'Tis dangerous to Define.

He's an Oracle among the Petty-Foggers, Hedgers, Ditchers, Thatchers and Plow-Joggers. Reward him but with a Half Crown Pledge, He'l marry ye a Brother and Sister, under a Hedge, A fair Bride sets his Teeth on Edge. He bears a special hatred against all Quakers, And all Rebellious Undertakers, And all Factious Parliament Makers. He's a strong Friend to the Crown, They may Preach and Pray him, but he shall drink them down.

His Religion never stands at a stay, For he will be always Vicar of Bray. What, do you think him such a Widgeon, As not to be of the Kings Religion? In all Changes, come what will, He was a Vicar before, and is a Vicar still.

A Papist or Protestant, chuse you whether, The Pot Trade and the Priest Trade with him goes together.

The Folk need not fear whatever betide, 'Tis safe to be on the Parsons side. Be he sober, or be he mad, To joyn with the Parson all are glad.

At every Puppet Play, Market and Fare, The Curate is sure to be there. At Wakes, Ale-Helps, Sessions and Sizes, There flock Black Coats of all prizes. In Term time Parsons naturally fall, Into the Chequer-Chamber, or Westminster-Hall. And all the Year long great Bus'ness, Frost and Snow, Every Week the Parson must to London go.

I observe this Mongrel Generation, The greatest Debauchees in a Nation. Play baser Tricks than Coblers and Tinkers, The most sordid Gamesters and Drinkers. Others are modest with them compar'd, By them the honest People are scar'd. They can Beg, Cheat, Rogue and Whore, Hectors and Ranters can't do more.

All Mankind they trouble and vex, Yet they chiefly fall in with the Female Sex. To them they have the nearest approaches, At home and abroad in their Closets and Coaches. They haunt them about by Sea and Land, Their Bodies and Purses they have at Command; This puts Religion to a stand.

The Stool of Repentance and Chair of Confessions, Advances the growth of all sorts of Transgressions. They can enjoyn what Penance they please, And of all men live most in Plenty and Ease. They prove the greatest Cheats in Nature, Overtop all Villains in stature. It was ever true, as men say, Corruptio optimi, est Pessima.

‘ My Invention is spacious, ‘ Short Verse confinement is vexatious. ‘ My Fancy is high and various, ‘ Scorns to borrow words Precarious. ‘ More Things and Words we all find, ‘ To Matter, Poetry is most unkind. ‘ Because thereby she's most confin'd, ‘ Liberty best suits with my vast Mind. ‘ I'm fallen upon a Subject large, ‘ Stufft with Luggage more than a Gravesend-Barge, ‘ I have not finisht my Parsons Charge.

A course Felt ne're aspires to a Bever, Raise him from the Rout you shall never. Tender Consciences he relieves, Shakes hard Cases out of his Sleeves. He's fitter to take the cure of Beeves, 'Tis well if he Believes as the Church Believes. A Pot of good Ale will better go down, Than all the Learned Books in the Town, Yet he wears the Livery, a Cloak and a Gown.

'Tis danger and charges to plow the Seas, For Learning, he'l stay at home and take his Ease.

Get into his Study, take a Catalogue there, He is drunk'ning at the Rain-Deer. Get him to his Book, to him 'tis no good Cheer, You may as soon bring a stake to the Bear. There's a Geneva Bible, and the Whole Duty of Man, Practise Piety, if he can, All won't make him an Honest man.

Yet he shall preach ye, for Life and Death, Beside the Cushion, Dagger out of the Sheath. A Concordance, a Common Place Book, For Fathers and Schoolmen you may go look. No crabbed Criticks, abstruse Annotators, Quodlibets, Postillers, Commentators, Greek nor Latin Translators. Mark him, he never took a Hint, From the Vulgar Latin or Greek Septuagint. He hates to see's Self a Fool in Print, Upon all true Scholars he looks a squint. He's a Lord among the good Dames and good Fel∣lows, His Course Wife is troubled with the Yellows.

There's Boxes, Rowls, and Pipes of Tobacco, There's Bottles of Ale, Cyder, and Sacco. There's Ovid's Red Naso, and Horatius Flacco, What more does a Country Curate Lacko? The Rustick Folk count him a great Schollard, As big as an overgrown Pollard. There's Aristotles Problems, and Cato, Upon this stock he may Preach at any Rato.

But that his Wits may be more refin'd, He reads Play-Books of the best kind: And all sorts of Romances, Leads all Jiggs and Country-Dances. At merry Meetings, O brave Garson, They're nothing without the Parson. They fuddle with him Night and Day, Still the Bonny Curate carries the Bell away.

Will these sad Wretches, think ye, overlook Libraries, or study a good Book? If they do they have good Luck, A good fat Hen you may sooner pluck. They hunt ye, and hawk ye, and course ye all day, And fuddle ye all the Night away. This is all the Care they take, Yet they shall a rare Preachment make.

He's a sound Church-man, he shall never look, All the Week long, nor Sundays on a Book. For Ten Pounds per Annum, and a Country-Pudding, He shall confute ye the Pope without studying. They say, we're Hereticks, marry Gap, how? But we say they're Hereticks, where are they now? As good Divinity as e're came from the Plough, The Man in the Moon at his Back bears a Bough, The Scholar with his Hackney falls into a Slough.

I believe he's a Conjurer, if the truth were well known, By preaching Sermons that are none of his own. And this is plainly shewn, As Cuckolds that are overgrown,

'Tis well 'tis so, if you're minded to try, He tells you, by his Troth, they're the best he could buy, And this no body can deny. He's a right Linsey-Wolsey Priest, Half one, half t'other, at the Best.

Half callow, and half fledg'd, like a Crow in a Nest, Of what I can say of him this is the best, You may go look, if you will for all the rest. While I am thus Cater-walling, I find▪ e're and anon, I am Crest falling. I'm best, while I'm dandling of my Dalling, At other times, like to be choak'd with his Spitting and Spalling, I never love to be out of my Calling. I must be took just in the Nick, I'de best leave off quickly, before I be sick.

I find these Parsons on my Stomach ride, I can't digest Ignorance, Scandal and Pride. (I was never yet deny'd, So oft as I have been seen and try'd.) But this sort of Cattel, that drink drunk and pray, I wish I could conjure 'um quite away. But they're seldom sober by night or by day, And can conjure Witches and Devils they say.

I've spent my pains upon 'um in waste, I'le ha'no more to do with these Parsons in haste. Where little's said, there's more amended, For they are soonest offended: And are too much Befriended, And so my Satyr should be ended.

But think what Humiliation and Fasting, For Strife and Hatred everlasting. Here's tedious Preaching and Praying, To usher in plund'ring, killing and slaying, Besides the plain man's Overlaying. All civil Honesty betraying, To the Churches and States decaying. But when it comes to a Feast of Thanksgiving, For Honest men there is no living. Flesh and Blood is not able to bear it, To see the Spirit thus rant and tear it.

From a Witch you may hear Truth, (Surer than from a Saint Forsooth.) 'Tis not polluted by my foul Mouth, I carry it round the World about. Are you Back, Belly and Conscience proof, Welcom then, under my Roof, Else I charge you keep aloof.

My Pupils are of all Degrees, Sexes, Ages, and Dignities, And I never take Fees. Moreover in any Feat, I never use any Deceit, But I do my work complete.

‘ Half-witted Scholars are commonly base, ‘ I loath at my heart such a Mongrel Race. ‘ Wherefore I dare defie 'um all, ‘ When upon me such Dunces fall. ‘ Teach 'um to be just and true and be hang'd, ‘ To save their Souls from being damn'd.

‘ When time was, such as they Rebellion taught, ‘ Ever since that I counted them naught, ‘ That so long Misery on us brought.

‘ When once I perceiv'd 'um play fast and loose, ‘ I resolv'd in time to take 'um all in a Noose. ‘ Tho they call me Jade and Quean, ‘ I'le devour 'um all, Rebels, fat and lean. ‘ I never rebell'd against my Prince, ‘ As they, a Pox take 'um, ha'done long since. ‘ I don't doubt but I know more than they, ‘ Tho I have gone the clean contrary way.

‘ Yet I'le be so honest I'le assure you, ‘ To chide you, tho I can't endure you, ‘ Mend, mend for shame, as fast as you're able, ‘ Or I'le post you for Rogues among all the Rabble, ‘ Amongst Whores they say you use to dabble. ‘ Gentlemen Scholars, and Gentlemen Lawyers, ‘ Gentlemen Coblars, and Gentlemen Sawyers. ‘ I'le sooner trust a Trull or a Tinker, ‘ Than a Professor and a Sack Drinker. ‘ Give me a Dose, Page-Skinker, ‘ For I ever was no Shrinker.

‘ Let us stand to't foot to foot, ‘ Wet him soundly to the Root, ‘ Here's a Health to a Scholar, a Whore and a Slut. ‘ I'le teach 'um all to be sober and chaste, ‘ And then they shall hear no more of me in haste. ‘ (I was always good over and under the waste, ‘ But 'tis no matter what is past,) ‘ If not I shall at 'um all so fast. ‘ As for Mechanicks of all Prizes, ‘ Let 'um leave Robbing, for fear of the 'Sizes.

‘ Porters and Car-men shall deride you, ‘ Billinsgate Wenches shall scold and chide you. ‘ The very Witches can't abide you, ‘ Every Hackny-Boy shall ride you. ‘ I'le set you forth in your proper Colours, ‘ Give better Examples, or else be no Scholars, ‘ And heard your selves among the Lollars. ‘ Universities and Inns of Court, ‘ The Rout shall hiss you to make sport. ‘ You never was at the Synod of Dort, ‘ I'le get 'um to piss upon you for't.

‘ The Rabble of Fish and Oyster Wenches, ‘ The Water-men shall jeer you with their Clenches. ‘ Tapsters and Drawers shall crack your Crowns, ‘ Throw Dirt on your Robes and Scarlet Gowns, ‘ You'r far more debauch'd than Country-Clowns. ‘ I don't care for your Flouts nor Frowns, ‘ I'le bast you out of honest Cities and Towns.

‘ You Philosophers, you Teachers, ‘ You Pleaders, you Judges, you Preachers, ‘ Fy for shame, you Law-makers and Law-break∣ers. ‘ Teach Honesty, and Practise Cheaters, ‘ You're worse than Cannibals or Man-Eaters. ‘ Fix your Studies, and your Conversations, ‘ To Reform all the Nations, ‘ And to bring in better Fashions. ‘ How can you think the People will e're be good, ‘ While you act Thievery, Lust and Blood?

‘ If you once mend, and all agree, ‘ None will be left so bad as we.

‘ You shall be sure to be all Ador'd, ‘ When we shall be Witched and Whor'd. ‘ Sea-men get you all Aboard, ‘ And leave your Reck'nings to be scor'd. ‘ The Gallows shall be haunted by none but us Witches, ‘ Costly Wives shan't wear the Breeches. ‘ Then in comes all Learning, Civility and Riches, ‘ And all false Knaves shall dye in Ditches.