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

THE WITCHES.

CANTO I.

'TIS said, We Spirits can Command, But I better things understand; This can ne're be done fairly by Book or by Wand. The Character'd Circle no Spirits may enter, Yet a poor Mouse will dare to venture, And a Cat after her into the Center. The Spirits will come and go, let 'um take their Course, But by Agreement, not by force. Let the Conjurer take it, for better for worse, The grey Mare shall prove the better Horse.

Get up and ride upon the Devils back, And he'l furnish you with what you lack. You think to make him a Jade and an Ass, To tell you all that shall come to pass.

But when your Time allow'd is past, He'l be too cunning for you at last. The Devil's too wise and strong to be hag'd, Or by violence to be drag'd.

If it be to destroy Mankind, You shall him always ready find. There needs no forcing in the case, For he was always freely Base.

See the proud Conjuring Fool, Mounts upon the footed Stool, With his holy Wand and Book; How like an Ass he does look? To catch the Devil by Hook or by Crook, And all the Devils overlook. A Cross he brings, and rare Perfume, To drive the stink out of the Room.

Why, 'tis but Reason, for who can tell, But Fiends may bring a stink from Hell? Sweet Odors therefore please 'um well. Then, and there he makes Demand Of Destinies, by Sea and Land. What Fortune shall accrue to States? Of private Men, what is their Fates? How Voyages by Sea shall speed? Who in a Family shall bleed? Their Answers are the Conjurer's Creed.

What Matches and Bargains shall thrive? Who to kill, or save alive? Who shall in War or Peace do harm? Where the Fiends and Witches swarm?

For these Responds the Devil is willing, By which I'v•• got many a Shilling. Better than to be Washer or Nurse, Such poor Trades won't fill the Purse; Yet they procure many a Curse▪

When all are pumpt dry, he sends 'um packing, 'Till new Oracles are lacking. These are the subtle Arts we drive, Yet by them we never thrive. But this is Fine, this is a Rarity, With Spirits to have Familiarity. By this means, we all Secrets find, Both future, and time out of Mind.

Apollo could do no such Feats, All his Oracles were Cheats. They did never resolve such Cases, As we that come into their Embraces. We must needs Devils understand, That get'um, nurse'um, and bring 'um up to hand. Therefore by this Black Art, Deep Mysteries they do impart: But to none they will disclose 'um, But to Friends that lye in their Bosom.

Which to Mortals we Report, Where Learned Magi come short. Upon this we make our Brags, Tho counted all damn'd ugly Hags. The wisest Dons follow our Flags, Tho we be all cloth'd in Rags. They haunt us, call us Rogues and Whores, Yet dance Attendance at our Doors.

We're well acquainted with the Moors, To open the rich Indian Stores. We are great Friends to the King of Spain, In America to find out Gain. For this of us the World does complain, To engross every Gold and Silver Vein. That Gems and Pearls lodg'd in the Deep, Unto our Shore should slily Creep. But we shall never get all their good will, Tho we should all their Treasures fill, 'Cause now and then we some Blood spill.

But that for us all would be poor, Therefore they haunt us more and more, And we Chowce them o're and o're. We perplex their Mirth and Chear, Full oft their Gold costs 'um dear; Then at the Slaves we flout and jeer.

Who first holp the Portugueses, To sayl as far as the Chineses? Who to Columbas and Vespusies, Prompted to ope the Worlds Recluses? Who the North-west-Passage discovered? Or the lost Mountains of the Moon recovered? How Alps and Tenariff the Clouds break, At the Devils Arse of Peak, Where the Devils play such Reaks? You must stay 'till the Oracle speaks.

Where the vast Oceans through doth Leak? All these Lyes my Heart can't break, No more than Aristotle's Enteleche. All this comes from a Woman weak, Half so much would make a Cat speak.

In Stangat-Hole, or the Devils Ditch, Lyes buried many a cursed Witch. I faint, I beg your pardon for the Stich, I'm forc't to sit upon my Britch.

I'm troubled with the Itch, I mean In my fingers ends, that are never clean. Yet I▪ wash Dishes and lick Trenchers, Hug close and kiss among the Wenchers, And quaff among the Sack-Possit Drenchers. When I'm troubled with more Fits, I must have a Bout with some ugly Chits, That crawl, and bawl about me, at my Diet, For Scratching and Tearing I can ne're be at quiet.

I am resolv'd, before I squat, To shew 'um a Trick, by laying them flat, And play with 'um Tit for Tat. None can handle 'um, they shall see, Without Mittins too, like me.

I intend to erect no Schemes, Nor practise Philosophick Themes. Nor invent Platonick Dreams, Nor drown 'um in Stygian Streams; But poyson 'um up with deadly Steams. That's the quickest closest Trick, To kill them down right, before they be sick.

I'le go a new way to work, Diverse from Scythian or Turk, I'le walk in unknown paths, and glide Softly, unseen, o're the World so wide. Conquering, Levelling, all along, Wise and Fools, Rich and Poor, Weak and Strong.

When I resolve to go to play, Nothing shall stand in my way.

Youl say, Whence have I this Power and Skill, Thus to say and do what I will? I say, 'Tis all without Book, And for it, for me, you may go look. I have had Masters and Tutors, That have been no less than Hells Prolocutors. Those are all my Co-adjutors, The rest are no more than Cobling Sutors.

I have had Husbands with Honesty bedeckt, Cuckolds, and damnably Hen-peckt: As for Devils, one, two and three, All of them serve for Stallions to me. So well do Witches and Devils agree, If you won't believe, Come and See. Broods of young Cubs, wrapt up in Cotton, By Incubs and Succubs are daily begotten.

Mubs, Asinego's, and African Monsters, Slyva's, Fawns, and Satyrical Youngsters: They be ugly dull Clowns; We are fairer, and wittier than Gowns, For which we have the Lawyers Frowns.