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

CANTO VII.

Long Wars have stood us in great stead, Knockt all Obedience in the Head. Parents, Husbands, Tutors, Masters, May go look out for fresh Pastures. Magistrates may wear Fur-Gowns, Maces and Staffs, a scorn to Clown; Cities are no more than Country Towns.

Prentices are nimble, 'tis but a Hop To the Field, from the Shop. Maid-Servants, when the Brimps takes 'um, Run to Husbands, that mars or makes 'um. Hired-Servants bargain wisely, From six to six, knock off precisely. A Justice of Peace engages, For Statute-Work, and Statute-Wages.

If Clock strikes six, and Pig's a Turning, Ith' Devils name let it lie a Burning. If the Coach-man hear six Knocks, Let him skip out of his Box; Though Lord and Lady have the Squirt, Leav'um in the Dark and Dirt.

If the Butter be a Churning, Or the Cheese lacks Turning: If the Oven be half Hot, If it be time to scum the Pot: If Pyes or Tarts be half Bak't, If the Hearth be half Rak't:

If the Kettle lacks a Cover, Or if the Porridge-Pot boyl over: If the Bread wants Yest, or Leavens, Leave 'um all at Sixes and Sevens.

If the Close-stool lacks emptying, let it fall, In Parlour Closet Chamber for 'um all. When the Masters Tail itches, Let him do all in his Breeches: But if the Lady be in a heat, Excuse her till sh'have done the Feat. All Duty, all Respect is lost, When Boys and Girls must Rule the Rost.

If the Lady be half Drest, Or Head half comb'd, let her do the Rest; And if the fixed Time be sped, Let her have her self to Bed. Before Six, we'l not ope our Eyes, Call and hang, we will not Rise. After Six, we'l sit upon our Britch, Throw our work away, and not do a stitch.

If we be beating of a Buck, And Beetle-up while the Clock struck, Away we throw it: If we be Spinning, And Six be come, for fear of Sinning Away goes Spool, away goes Reel, Away goes Rock, Distaff and Wheel. The Clock strikes, Fare ye well, Let the Bucket drop i'th' Well.

Your Rich Daughters shall be Stol'n, Or stay at home, and be Swol'n:

You may put 'um out to Dance, Or send your Sons over to France; When they are weary of their Duns, Make 'um Friars, make 'um Nuns: Better than an Alsatia Gaol, Cloysters sure will never fail.

Your Boys and Girls shall be Slapt. It is the Mode to be Spic'd and Clapt. Rotten Husbands, rotten Wives, Because they all lead Rotten Lives.

The Hollander is very wise, With his Dutch-Devil-Excise. The Italian has his Gabels, Fools have their Bawbels and their Labels: All he wears, and all he swallows, Pays Taxes, for a Common-wealth that follows. For Dung monopoliz'd, Jack de la Cerda, Nam'd Florene, Duco de la Merda.

The Fire-brand St. Domingo next, Converts Hereticks, according to the Text. In his Bowels Pity feels, That is, Racks, Gibbets, Wheels. Lords and Ladies are his Visitors, They call 'um, the Grand Inquisitors. You'l say, There are no Ladies there On Benches, no Wenches must appear; Yet we that have such lovely Faces, May lay in Ambush at all Places.

What shall I say of Nat Sir Brent, Displayer of the Council of Trent?

'Twas I rid Post then, brisk and Rident, Constantly from Rome to Trident. It was but reason to ride Post, Should Guests reckon without their Host?

Twas I was the Great Owl 'At Basil's Meeting that did Howl: I percht upon the Beam, that Day, Clubs could not scare, nor drive m'a way. One poor Madge did all Out-face 'um, I flew from Athens to Disgrace 'um. 'Twas a pretty Job, when by all Votes, Women in one Night cut all the Danes Throats. Thus all that I can rap and rend Shall out, before I make an End.