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

CANTO IV.

Pensioners to Forreign States, Undo Kingdoms, more than the Fates; That tell Lies at costly rates. They are taken for Knaves in Grain, That offer of Knaves to complain. Be content, the Song is well sung, Can't you be damn'd, and hold your Tongue? ‘ These are to me most Musical Notes, ‘ But I long to be cutting a Throats.

A Parasite loves the smell of roast Beef, Or a hot Venison Pasty in chief. He makes Post-haste through Wind and Weather, As good as e're trod upon shoe of Leather.

A Trencher-Chaplain, I hate to behold, Especially if he be Learned and Old.

T' endure to see him, I am not able, Before the second Course, to rise from the Table. To see him take away his Plate, And make a Leg to the company, I hate. Scrape to his Master, for his good Fare, And basely stand behind his Chair; And beg to borrow his old blind Mare, To ride to a Countrey Fair: Master Parson, have a care, There's a Waiting Woman sits next you, Fair, If she chance to be Coy, and you be gain-said, My Lady has a finer Chamber Maid. Court her, though She be a little demure, To win her, in time, you shall be sure.

The poor Soul waits every Evening Tide, With a Warming Pan, at your Beds side; In so doing, she takes a Pride, Hoping, one day, to be your Bride. Give her a Kiss, and a Hug, now and tan, As you are a Gentleman, She's ever willing to lye by a man.

For this kind Behaviour, You'l get your Lords and Ladies Favour. And truly something has some Savour. You shall have her by degrees, And with her, a Vicarage of the Childrens Threes. Besides a pair of Gloves next Fair, Therefore to please her, have a care, Marry her, and you'l please 'em to a Hair.

What, if she be a little crackt, or so, To London, for a new Maiden head, let her go.

Never stick at this Lock, Of being guilty of Simony, by the Smock, Marry her quickly, ne're ask what's a Clock. 'Twont be long e're the Cradle you rock; Go, fetch a dry Nurse, upon old Brock.

My Lord, and my Lady, welcome in their Charity, To eat up your Tithe Pigs, and Geese, for a Rarity. You must always provide 'em good Cheer, Nordown Ale, or strong, stale Beer. You must Present 'em now and then, With a Cock of the Game, and a good fat Hen.

At Term time, mark what I say, Coach your Patron and Matron to a Play, And wait upon 'em every day. These are Lay Patrons pitiful tricks. To eat up the poor Vicars Pigs and Chicks. But there is something more than I'le chat, If you'r presented to a Rectory Fat.

The Young Squire Gratis you must teach, Set him next the Pulpit when you preach, Take heed of making a Breach. You must go a Coursing with your young Master, Have a care he come to no Disaster. Be with him at every Running, Wait on him while he goes a gunning, And on my Lady when She a walks Sunning. To keep in with the Servants you must be Cunning, If they ow you Money, take heed of Dunning.

When your Wife lyes in, for Joy, The Lady will be Godmother to your Boy.

She'l send her many a dainty Bit, From the Oven or the Spit. All this you may do, if you have wit.

Scholars, when I perceive you muddy. And melancholy in a brown Study, I'le send you a Lass of excellent parts, Able to teach the best Master of Arts, And withall to cheer your Hearts. She shall put you all to your Trumps, And tickle you out of your Dumps. Hang the Muses, they never kiss Half so well, as young dainty Cis.

Nothing can be like such a Witch, as this is, That furnishes you with the sweetest Kisses, And at your needs She never misses; Presently leaves washing a Dishes. And makes you all drink like Fishes, To every Scholars best Wishes.

She'l furnish you with new Notions, Of the best Philosophick Motions. Metaphysical Speculations, Most Transcendent Ejaculations. Whores are Pocky, but a fair Wife, Pleases a Scholar to the life: She's at your Service all the year Gratis, Dainty Covert, and money Satis, For so you read it of old in Fatis.

When you upon Preferment pitch, Feast and Bribe the Doegna Witch, She has Patron and Patroness all at a Bay, Make sure of her, and you shall get the day.

Spend all upon 'em, and when you come to lack, I'le ingage they shall write fool on your back. To recruit all it may fall to your Lot, To marry the rich old damnable Trott.

If they give you what they can't keep, Slave, you must never cringe and creep. Be commanded at every turn, If need be, you may hang and burn. Ride and run, be call'd all the Rogues and Slaves, You and your Bratts, till you come to your Graves. Can you hold basting and railing, As well as cursing without failing.

Look to't, for your Children must inherit, The Plague of their Fathers Merit. They and you shall have enough, I tell you no Lye, And when ye will, you may all hang and die, But never ask the reason why. Are you Back, Belly, and Conscience proof, Then Rogues you may come under their Roof, If not, at your peril, stand aloof.

If a place of profit fall, You must not only go, and come at their Call, But for Gain play the Divel and all, The Timber is theirs, yours are the Chips, And this they call going Snips. O this Grease is an excellent Barter, For ever to have and hold your Charter,

There's a Son to put out, and a Daughter to marry, For fear both these should miscarry. Vassals all provide your Purses, Or else look for a Landlords Curses

It must for certain, be your Doom, To be turn'd out of house and home. Do you not understand obliging yet, To wade through thick and thin dry and wet?

There's a Duel to be sped, Provide your self to be knock'd oth' Head. Seconds or Thirds, by Foot or Horse, You must follow your Masters Course. Dam, Rob, Murder, Whore and Drab. Pimp and be drunk with your Master, you Scab. Defend him Rogue in every Quarrell, And see the last drop of every Barrel.

If you can scape with the lick of a Cane, Instead of a Rapier, you may brag of your Gain. Be sure you thank him for every Blow, Or Pot that at your Head he shall throw. Instead of Pistol, or stab of a Dagger, A thrust or so, if he begin to swagger. Dog, be sure you thank your Master, For saving your Life, for going no faster.

There are more obliging Readings, Better than Endictments or Impleadings. Respect not your Fair, Chast Wife, Whom you should love more than your Life. Prefer a Mis her far before, Tho a foul or rotten Whore. Let her be a keeper of all your Store, And turn your honest Wife out of Door, That brought you of Pounds so many a Score, I'le be hang'd if the Misses don't make ye all poor.

Be sure never be seen with Wife or Mother, Or walk with Father, Uncle or Brother, Never regard their Good or Gain, And then y' are of the right Obliging strain. Curse, swear, dam, through Steel or Brass, Carry all before ye, or else you 're an Ass, But remember to frequent Mass, So for a Saint the Devil may pass.

I hear of a Grievance every Day, Of poor Labourers, that want their pay. It makes my heart ake to hear their crying, And see for want their Children lye a dying. Masters to pay Debts take no care, Servants to ask 'em must not dare. Unjust Stewards, Clerks and Scribes, Drain poor Souls with Fees and Bribes.

These from nothing heap up Riches, Are they not far worse than Witches? The Plagues of Families and Towns, The Ruin of Miters and Crowns. Princes and Priests, look to your selves, You harbour Serpents, Vipers, Elves; Snatch your Subjects from their Paws, That consume them by the help of Laws. Deliver them out of their Jaws, That send poor Creatures to pick Straws. Burn all these Crocadiles Nests, That hurt more than Divels or Wild Beasts.

The Divels will one day crack their Crowns, Pickled Knaves, as e're wore Gowns. That can do more mischief with the dash of a Pen, Than a Thousand poor labouring men,

That steal a few Nail or Chips, And suffer the Stocks or Whips. Those that can Scribere cum Dasho, Deserve the Halter more than the Slasho; Wou'd the World were well rid of this ugly Tra∣sho.

An old decay'd Gentleman Retainer, We count him but a pitiful Gainer. He stretches his Guts, and crams his Skin, And chops the Chamber Maid under the Chin; Or the Cook Maid in a corner, he counts it no Sin: She can remember him from the Spit, Or the great Pot, with a warm Bitt; This he reckons a piece of Witt.

But the Steward takes double Fine, And the Tenant sends his Lord Venison and Wine; So they grow rich, and the Lord grows poor, Bisides his Hounds, his Hawk, and his Whore, His Ale house and his Tavern Score. 'Tis pity he should spend an Estate more. Let him sell his Coach and go a foot, He's undone between a Rogue and a Slut. For long Leases, take large Fines; Make Hay, while the Sun shines. Down with the Timber without Aspersion, Let the Heir starve, or sell his Reversion.