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

CANTO IV.

I know not what Pen's able to describe The strange Whimsies of every Tribe. Such Fegaries as mar or make it, He must be mad that will undertake it; Nay, he must have his Turns and Fits, And be clean out of his Wits: Stark-staring-mad must be those Men, That dare handle such a Pen; And yet must have their Wits about 'um, For fear Discerning Powers should Rout 'um.

Describe Hell, 'tis nothing in a Rage, None but a Witch can paint this Age. Throw away the Pencil, and perchance That Dash may give it a full glance. Draw, draw the Curtain then for shame, Hit or miss, win or lose the Game.

Nothing venture, nothing have; Nothing challenge, nothing crave. All are Conumdrums or Conjectrums, That are said or done by Spectrums.

In a good Mood or frantick Ire, Inspir'd with Water, Wine or Fire; What a Fanatick kind of Muse Must the poor Poet take or choose? Sure he must be Bewitcht, or a Witch, That shall hit this lofty Pitch. Michael Angelo, I dare say, Could not so to the life Old Nick pourtray.

If Muses or the Furies joyn; If Apollo's Self combine. Bacchus or Pluto, sober or drunk; Pallas or Venus, chaste or punk: All these can never hit the strain Of cursed Humors, in each Vein. He must be any thing that Endites, He must be every thing that Writes.

He must be Knave and Honest man, Wise and Fool, write that write can. Find me out such an one from Heel to Chin, To Fiends and Witches of kitt or kin: And he may perhaps in every Page, Perstring the Monsters of this Age: Whose well-brew'd-Brains are perfect Stingo, At nests of Vice to have a Flingo. To know with a Sublimi Flagello, How to scourge a good Fellow.

Now loung and sneak ye barking Curs, You that of late have made damn'd stirs: Hang your Tails between your Legs, That have hatcht Cockatrice Eggs. For shame hide your ill-favour'd Snouts, That have made such Riot-Routs: Get ye all packing to the Deep, For making many a brave Man sleep.

The World's weary of your Tricks, In vain to kick against the Pricks. When Witches fall and Villains fail, You shall no longer then joyn Tail: The Honest man may grow in fashion, Perhaps, in the next Generation.

I shall turn Saint by and by, if I han't a care, Or Devil rather, never fear. 'Twas but a flash, a foolish Itch, Did y'ever know a Renegado Witch? A Saint by all means, a Saint forsooth; But such an one as ne're spoke Truth. Truly I like Old Homer well, That curst all Lyars to the pit of Hell.

All do so like Saints appear, We know not who's a Devil here; Yet we perceive, as we come nigh 'um, And find them Devils when we try 'um. In no place on Earth is Safety found, There's most Hell above-ground. In Hell ther's no tugging and tearing, No such Damming and Forswearing.

Here we quarrel and divide, Here we one another Ride: Devils hang in wind and weather; But they all keep close together. I wonder in the higher Region, If there be Worlds in Moon or Sun: And what they do, if they agree, Or steal, or fight so much as we.

There are Desking, Pimping Foundrels, Law Driving, overthrowing Scoundrels. In Law, Honesty exact is; But there's Witchcraft in the Practise. Judges sit high, far off, few can hear 'um, Practisers Bar from coming neer 'um.

Demosthenes had a rich Finanza, Which muffel'd him for the Squinanza. Gold is a Vent-hole and a Bung, Makes speak, and makes hold the Tongue, Stops Fosset, and makes it run. But we are Widows all and Maids, Chamber-Practises are our Trades.