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

CANIDIA, OR The Witches. A RHAPSODY, &c. (Book 2)

Prologue.

FAir Ladies 'tis past time of Woing, More Work's cut out, up and be doing; Censure severely all Male-contents, Inflict Impartial Punishments;

Spare none that shall deserve your Ire, Though you set all the World a Fire. Hanging and Burning, you know the worst, To be counted of all Accurst. Bussle through all Orders, Run the Rounds, And scorn the Military Frowns: Venture at any Thing that's Evil, Be bold, and fear not Man nor Devil.

THE WITCHES.

CANTO I.

THe Noble Clergy, we Revere 'um▪ Hate 'um, and dare not come near 'um. They exercise us all away, But the Base Clergy us obey. We're welcom to the Parlour and Con∣clave, Some Clergy their Familars have: But we love them ever after, As the Devil loves Holy-Water.

Statesmen and Judges often use us, State-Presbyterians ne're refuse us. With Jesuits we're well acquainted, Help Monks and Friars to be Sainted. At Junto's and Caballs, 'tis Rare To Plead, and to have the Chair. At close-Committee Adjutators, Who but we are Moderators?

Some burn us, Swim us, and Scratch us; But the Devil can ne're out-match us.

They put us to Interrogatives; But we plead our Prerogatives, Behind the Curtain, to great Sages, For Whispering we get good Wages. 'Tis worth the while to Course with Bitches; But more to hunt with Blood-hound Witches.

Plots and Contrivances are by our means, So Statesmen bring about their Ends. When all Shifts fail, nimble and neat, A Cunning-Man must do the Feat, The Artists please to jeer and flout us, Can as well be hang'd as be without us. We take the Politicians Pay, And by our Help they get the Day.

In Ships, Shops, Schools, in Camp and Court, Every hour we make brave Sport. Philosophers are pleas'd to jeer us, Though for Skill they could ne're come near us. What Family, Kingdom or State Do we not steer and regulate? From the Peasant to the Clerk, Like Mad-Dogs we Bite and Bark.

In all Rogueries we have a hand To Lye, Bribe, Conquer and Command. The World's infatuated by us, What we lack none dare deny us. We govern the rebellious Rout, And turn the lawful Rulers out. By the means of Rogues and Whores, Thrust all Honesty out of Do••rs.

We bewitch all the World, we turn All things into Confusion. None are follow'd, or ador'd like us, They dare as well be hang'd as strike us. From Forty to Sixty our Fair hath lasted, And we hope 'twill ne're be blasted. Then we revell'd in open Round; Still we work closely Under-ground.

Then we were old Hags and Jades; But now we are young dainty Blades: You'd little think how we strut it, In Scarlets, how we drink and glut it. Fast, Preach, Pray, Plead and Fight, With Dark-Lanthorns play least in Sight. States Ecclesiastick, Warlike, Civil, Can ne're be without Witch or Devil.

You cannot tell who to trust, Be cheated, or cheat you must. Yet w'have the bravest Tongues and Faces, That e're adorn'd the mighty Graces. None have out-done us i'th' Black-Art, The World's our Stage to act our Part. Rare Sciences, of fast and loose, laugh and cry, Kiss and betray, live and dye.

Any thing, Nothing, what you wish You shall meet with in your Dish. Cheat, and be cheated, rise and fall, Get and lose, play the Devil and all. A Golden Tongue, a Syren Song, The Noble and the Rascal Throng. A mad Age, and a sad Age, high and low, You shall know neither Friend nor Foe.

You shall not trust your self, I'le say it, You can neither stop nor stay it. Up and down, White and Black, Out and In, Smite the Rib and chuck the Chin: Dissemble, threaten all you can, Trust neither Devil nor Man. Unheard of Rogues, a Devil take 'um, They were as bad, as bad could make 'um.

At home, or abroad, to and fro, Up and down, about we go. Climb a Ladder, stand or reel, Lye down, or dance upon a Wheel. All mad, in Dumps, or merry Mood, Seeming Angels, never good. Hell's an Ass to th'World, as 'tis now, You can't know a Horse from a Cow.

Saints are Rogues, and Rogues are Saints; All Commendations, or all Complaints. Never better, never worser Trading, All things are growing, and all things are fading. Every one's a Wit, or a Sot; For, or against some Plot: Disoblige all, or else Fee 'um, But trust to your self where e're you see 'um.

Never softer, never harder Times, Never Fortune rang more Chimes: Never more nimble Turns and Ranges, The Bells play all variety of Changes.

CANTO II.

An Ignorant, a Gentile Rook, A dull Plodder on the Book; A Wheel-Barrow, or Plow-Driver, A Statesman, or a Plot-Contriver: Clad in Steel, or Soft Gown, A Gentleman, or a Clown: Higgltee, Piggltee, Altamall, Madmen, Fools or Knaves all.

Could ever Devils be such Brisco's As Witches are, to run such Risco's? We'l vye with Woden, or Old Tuisco, For nappy Ale, or Beverisco. Gauls and Teutons, Fops and Sots, Broken Heads or broken Pots. Cassandra takes on sadly, roars and raves, Calls us a Company of Knaves, Children and Fools, and Madmen too; Commonly they speak most true.

O, what a Chaos, what a Hell For Twenty years, no Tongue can tell? Jealousies and Fears, those dismal Notes, Brought us all to Cutting a Throats. Kings-Lands, Church-Lands, all went down, Wide Throats swallow'd Mitre and Crown. The men in Steel got all the Gold, And all the Power, if it would hold.

We undermin'd Churches and States, As most pleasing to such Fates.

And to support those Arched-Cellars, We were the Massy Cater-Pillars. 'T was a rare time for our Profession, But to kill and take possession: Up and ride, hang and damn at every Jirk, We lov'd ever to make quick work: All headlong to Destruction run, We hop'd those Days would ne're a done: But the Blood stopt in an unlucky hour, 'Tis a sign, 'twas not all in our Power.

All this our Practise did afford, Plagues and Famines, Fire and Sword. All the basest and vilest Things, We had contest with Priests and Kings: And to make the Sport the neater, The Lesser still devour'd the Greater. I believe neither Devil nor Witch E're strain'd their Wits to a higher pitch.

Drums and Trumpets roaring and thundring, Sequestring, Decimating, Plundring: We were not idle all that Day, When Rebels fought, we ran away: Judge Advocates, an Invention new, Hung up many a good Man and true. I think we did bestir our Stumps, 'Till we rak't our very Rumps.

Incest, Adultery, Fornication, All that could debauch a Nation. Thieves, Lyars, Murd'rers, Juglers, Fencers, Disputing Dunces, Mooting Benchers; Counterfeits, Falsificators, The Bane of Bondsmen and Testators:

Jurors, Perjurors, Posting-Knights, A Thousand such Dissembling Wights.

All other Villains are our Slaves; But ah, our pleasure's most in Knaves: Alsatia Knaves and Newgate Dogs, Universities of Toads and Frogs. Other Academicks are no better, That study Black-Art by the Letter: For all their Hebrew, Latin, Greek, A Thousand things they are to seek.

Delegates, Commissaries, Proctors, Masters, and Salamanca Doctors. Faculties, Synods; Convocations, Alas, they do but cheat the Nations. Their Socrate's and Aristotles, Are good for nothing, but stop Bottles. Grave Beards, Caps, Tippets, Hoods and Gowns, To be admir'd by Country-Clowns.

We turn and wind Seneca or Cato, Varro, Theophrastus, Plato. We'l give Diogenes a Rub, And tumble him out of his Tub. Aristippus pleases us best, 'Cause he makes Fools of all the rest: He often Dines with us, and Sups; A good Fellow, takes off his Cups.

Fetch me from the Hill Aventinus, Stifler, Jacob Behem, and Varinus. Facil Wits will part with their Lands, At cross Purposes and Commands.

Kings Professor Igno-Ramus Came into the Schools by a Mandamus: Like a Madman he took his Hits, To cut every thing into two Bits.

From Monsieur Cartez and Gassendus, And such like Pluto defend us. Ptolomy was a Figure-Flinger, Blind Homer a Ballad-Singer. Plautus a meer Jingler, Terence a pure Pingler.

Others are sullen, dogged Sots, The Deipnosophist best loves his Pots. Jove and Bacchus are good Fellows, Vulcan's troubled with the Yallows. Mars and Venus, Rogue and Whore, 'Tis Priapus we most adore. Lucian jeers 'um all for Topers, Petty-Foggers and Interlopers.

CANTO III.

Statesmen count it a great Intrigue To get us into their League: For we break Faith on all occasions, By open or close Evasions. Algier, Tunis observe our Rules, The Grand Turk works by our Tools; And all that do not so are Fools. What think ye, were we made for Joyn'd-Stools?

Great Armies, if Kings lack, we'l feed 'um, And when they'd have us, we can bleed 'um. We dive into the bosom of the Deeps, Diamonds, Pearls gather on Heaps. Clamber Rocks for Amber-Grees, And for all Rarities scum the Seas.

The Physician trusts to his Drugs, But we dare take him by the Lugs: For all his Antidotes we'l but Fart, And that shall poyson all his Art; Our pretty Pugs put in their Noses In all his Pots, and spoil his Doses. He is the veriest Fool in Nature, To grasp with Giants of our Stature.

Great Fools are flatter'd and fear'd by all; But we no•• fawn, nor fear at all. They're glad to crouch and speak us fair, We cannot live by the Air. And we can find 'um out, O Rare! We can slighly hit 'um, and put by Their deadly blows, and make 'um dye. If they fly us, we can catch 'um, Secretly, suddenly dispatch 'um.

Whence had Lycurgus all his Laws? We find in them Ten thousand Flaws. Solon was such another Fool, To us they should have come to School. Numa Pompilius had the Witch Nymph Aegeria by the Britch, She taught him Tales; the Twelve-Tables Were but Greek and Latin Fables.

Justinian, for his Pandects and Code, Burnt better Books, many a Cart-load: Trebonian his Plagiary; he's Curst, For leaving the best and taking the worst. Rescripts, Decrees, Pragmalicants, All his Works are Extravagants. Decrees, Decretals are of the same stamp, For want of Power they have the Cramp.

To what purpose is all this Doing? The Wisest come to us a Woing: And we have taught them without Law, How to keep the World in Awe; To do all Business 'twixt Man and Man, Without a Bible or Alcoran: To make Scholars without Teaching; To make Saints without Preaching.

Here's a Pudder among States; Walls, Trenches, Castles, Bars and Gates, Navies, Armies, Pallisado's, Mines, Counter-Mines and Barracado's: Killing and Robbing, Fire and Sword, All is not worth a— We could save all this Charge, And govern the World at large: Without this or that Association, Without Lines of Communication.

But oh, the fly Stoick and his Mate; He condemns all by Fate. We're gone now, this is the last Trick, He hath just taken us in the Nick. He thinks we are now surrounded, And all our Witchcraft quite confouned.

It must be, as it must be, a Close Bar, We cannot stir to make nor marr.

Now we're defunct, troubled with the Gripes, 'Tis high time to put up our Pipes. Well, if we should be so Confin'd, Yet we may be still Combin'd, And to all Mischief most inclin'd. Still all may say, 'Twas well meant, Though we could not perform our Intent. We'l be as wicked still as ever, And never mend, O never, never.

You that are of our side, stand fast in spight, The Fates shall not cut us out quite. But what if we're the Fates our selves? (For surely they be all such Elves.) We're acknowledged by All, For Oracles Fatidical. Then All's our own still, All to have, and do our Will. All the Rogues that ever pist, Shall never do what they list.

Then rowze up one more, ye Jolly Dames, Never lose your glorious Names. Still we are uppermost, and will be so In spight of Fates, where e're we go. We're in our Kingdom still, and I am told it By the best Fates, we're like to hold it. The World could never be without us, Nor never shall, ye need not doubt us.

Get you about your Business, Jades, And never fear those Sullen Blades;

Do all the Baseness you are able, And fear not the Council Table. Bear up briskly Ladies fair, Upon me be all your Care: You'l ne're want Favourites, my Word is past, As long as Malice or Revenge shall last.

Why, we are very pretty Creatures, Want not for Colours, nor yet for Features; But for Conditions to be sure, None are morefierce, none more demure. We'l dazle ye with glorious Beams, And poyson ye with deadly Steams.

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.

CANTO V.

Come let's muster up good Fellows, Of whose great Wits we have been Jealous: Our Policy to keep them under, Is by keeping them asunder. Shrewd Lads, I'le assure you, to keep them too, We had very much ado: But we have brought them to our Bow Very well, as the World doth know.

Mahomet, Machiavel, march in the Van, With Bajazet and Tamberlan; Piccolomini, Bethlem-Gabor, Screwd themselves into our Favour; Duke d' Alva, Parma, Don Diego, Don Quixot and Don Quivedo; Gondomar and Count Olivarez, Consulted often with the Fairies.

Mufti's Musselmans in Green, De Wit, Richilieu and Mazarine; Spinola, Medina, Don Hurtada, Commanders of the Spanish Armada; Americus, Columbus, Cortez, Cut their way with Aqua-fortis; Oliver and Massanello, Where can you find their Fellow?

There's a pack of Rascals more, With Bradshaw, stand behind the Door▪ There let 'um stand, keep 'um out Among the Rascal-Rebel-Rout. Enter the fine Wits, Lombard, Scotus, Suarez, Occam, these promote us: Paracelsus had a reaching Brain, Helmont, Jacob Behem, a stately Strain. Peter Monk, Tiresia Nun, To reckon all, I should ne're have done.

All these, and many more, Our Pupils in the days of Yore: All Ages, in their Paroxism Fits, Will produce the like mad Wits. These help us in our Fits of Scurvy, To turn the World clean Top••ie-turvy:

Then send 'um all packing to Hell, They shall not bear away the Bell.

Caesar Borgia, Barbarossa, Heapt Pelion upon Ossa; Alaric, Attila, Narses, Marius, Scipio, Cataline, Bellizarius; Gracchus, Hannibal, Gustavus, Attempted often to out-brave us: They had of our Pride such a Leaven, To ruine Earth, and threaten Heaven; But we took 'um by the Crown, Pelted 'um, and pull'd 'um down.

We read of Pen-Dragon and Sforza, Vortimer, Hengist and Horsa; Brave Prince Arthur in the Fable, With all his Knights of the Round-Table: Cadwallader too, for his Inches As good as Iron sides, or the Black Princes. What think ye of the Leyden Taylor, David George, Hacket, Nailor, Melchior Hoffmannus, Knipper-Dolling? Upon Spires their Tongues hang lolling; Jack Straw, Tiler, gone a Catter-waulling.

Here's a Ribble-rabble indeed, Of Pigmies, send 'um to the Cranes to feed. These are the Bag and Baggage of the Gang, Fit for nothing but to Hang. Jack-anapes, Dandi-prats, Punchianello's, Send 'um to blow Vulcan's Bellows.

The last Invention against us, Was to out-Witch us, and out-Saint us. By these ways, to our shame be't spoke, They hew'd down the Royal-Oak! The Comfort is, there's none Relented, Nor one of them the least Repented: They thought to have the World in a String, But we gave them all a Fling; So we tr••pand 'um and mumpt 'um, 'Till we quite and clean crampt and crumpt 'um

Now we are quiet, Lord it alone, Our greatest Enemies are gone. Worship us all ye Idol-makers, H••lls Factors, Brokers, Undertakers. Beelzebub's Flies swarm and buz about us, These Venom Hornets threaten to rout us; But we'l fire 'um out of their Holes, I tell you we cannot carry Coals.

I'le warrant you we'l keep our Stations, And stand our ground against all Nations. We are so high-flown and pufft, We scorn to be baffled or hufft. Judges and Generals Stings are gone, They scare none, but Cowards of the Throng: Undaunted we bear up 'gainst all That themselves, Kings or Princes call.

CANTO VI.

And now we cannot but declare, How ill by wicked Priests we fare. W'have been more plagu'd with Clergy Elves, Than with all the Devils themselves. Take a Knave-Black Coat, find him work With the Devil or the Turk; Reward him richly, brisk and neat, I'le warrant him he does the Feat.

The Clergy have a Trick in Common Play, To undo all that stand in their way: They do us the most Service in these Cases, For commonly they have the most brazen Faces, And they most influence the Populaces. Send Lawyers to 'um, to solace 'um, If the Devils should out-face 'um; And when th'have done their work, disgrace 'um.

A Parson shall hamper y' in ten thousand Nooks, Which a dull Devil over-looks; He'l tye you knots, and put you Cases, With Labyrinths and Interlaces, 'Till he scare y'out of your Senses, And baffle all your Self-Defences. Say what you can, you shall be sham'd, Do what you can, you shall be damn'd.

These be rare Men, we're like to thrive, While they us to the Devil drive: Nay, they'l drive the Devil, and take his place; We're like to prove an excellent Race:

As long as you hearken to this Brood, I'le warrant you, for ever being Good. These are the Men, when all comes to all, Can Evil Good, Good Evil call.

These take their Measures from our Rules, And make all the World Fools. If they will be rul'd by them, they may, 'Till at last they take all away. Then leave us naked, not come near us, At a distance laugh and jeer us. The World's come to a brave pass, A Man may see himself made an Ass.

Go on still, if you please, my Hearts, Act all the Fools and Beggars Parts: As for the Knaves part, 'tis our due, Fit we should be Knaves as well as you: But and if you will be Priest-ridden, Poor Fools, do as you are bidden. They are most necessary Evils, That help us more than all the Devils.

Martial, Persius, Catullus, Sappho, Tasso, and Tibullus; Petronius, Ovid, are as Right As my Leg, to act or endite: Boccace, ingenious Boccaline, Are both good Friends of mine: This last, was by Spaniards bangd To death, with Bags of Sand.

But, O, sweet Bishop Aretine, Thou writest all Love, in every Line!

O, we love the Clergy dearly, Of all, of Love they write most clearly! What you men love most, we know it; And truly you full often show it. You put sweet Cases, Single, Matrimonial, Better than Moral or Ceremonial.

We know y'are good at Contemplation, Which invites to Procreation. We're as willing as you can be, You may have all without a Fee. Some blame you for Man-Midwives-Notions, We say 'tis good to help your Devotions. And we dare say, For every knack You are the best of all the Pack.

You bring all upon their Knees, You take more than Lawyers Fees. Votaries Gold, and precious Stones, You take for Rags and Dead mens Bones. You out-wit all in sober sadness, You teach all the world Madness. Your Crowns, Miters, and Red Montero's, Fright the most Royal Cavalero's.

Herostratus burnt Diana's shrine, 'Gainst your Priests, 'twas a Plot of mine. You would out-do, and un-do us, And all that while you seem to wo us: But we'l try a Veny with the best Of y' all, and a Fig for the rest. We fling off others, but you stick, Like Bugs that bite us to the quick.

Take heed to meddle with this Nation, For they're an angry Generation. They shall sooth y'up in a Trice, Lead ye into a Fools Paradise. Except you part with all, they have a Spell, Shall drag you into Purgatory-Hell. Then your Carkass shall fare the worse. For not opening your Purse. They'l fry you to some tune in that Pan; You're fast, make all the Friends you can.

We think we have both Wit and Malice, To reach from Dover to Callice: But take my Word, for one and all, 'Tis they have given us many a Fall; But we have risen agen, and at 'um, And much ado, at last have squat 'um. For whatsoever Tugs are past, We must be Conquerors at last. But 'tis a Truth Olim & Heri, A Rack is Ratio ultima Cleri.

I beg pardon for being smotty, Witches, you know, use to be slutty. From grand to petty Pranks I turn about, Play at small game rather than sit out. And now by this 'tis time to give over, For I am Landed just at Dover. I'le rest, for I have travel'd Yorkshire Miles, O're Hills and Dales, and Kentish Stiles.

To work again we must, right Bred, Never to rest us, till we are dead. And we will never die, for you shall find us, A Litter of Whelps we leave behind us.

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.

CANTO VIII.

Amboyna was a Tearing Bout, Rarely well we held it out. Irelands Butchery was great. Which, with its own, made England sweat. The Harp gave a deadly Twang, And we to that pleasant Musick sang. The Thistle scratcht to the quick Both Roses: It was Old Nick.

The Cross was Blood-red indeed, The Lion Rampant did bleed. We made the Belgick Lion roar, While his Limbs were in pieces tore. Hungary is half devour'd, Muscovia and Poland sadly scour'd.

Denmark was almost falling, France and Spain lay a sprawling.

'Twas Moulting time, you may presume, When the Old Eagle cast his Plume. She hatcht too many Young ones to thrive, Had much ado to keep 'um alive: So Bees over-stock the Hive.

Italy is the Pope's Darling, Her petty Princes are always snarling. Sweth-Land often is a nodding, Venice 'gainst the Turk is plodding. Hispaniola cried, Oh; But Jamaica felt the Blow; We aim'd at Pure Gold you know, In our Eye was Mexico. Of Hellebore they took a Cup, So the Gulf swallow'd them up.

Who created all these Ires? Who kindled all these Fires? We, by the help of our good Friends, Have brought about these fatal Ends: And we are ready at the door, To do a Thousand times more. Thus every of us play'd the Whore, And never, never shall give ore.

Shout, dance, sing, clap your hands, Y'are Conquerors of Seas and Lands. Honour and Profit you invites, To make the World your Proselytes. Who but you do all the Feats? Who but you are the grand Cheats?

'Gainst Truth arm great and small, That you may rise, while others fall.

At India, a Spade's a Spade, We drove the English out of their Trade. We cheated them of Guiana Gold, (The thing that tempts both young and old,) Silken and Spicy Wares by Sea and Land, We made them Truck at second hand: And if under whom you'd know, 'Twas the Dutch Devils, I trow.

These built them Cities, Towns and Forts, To beat us out of our Resorts. Batavia is their stately Mart, Where they rant it with Coach and Cart; And of all Nations get the start, Value not Princes nor Kings a Fart.

Of Old, the Indian Lads and Lasses Were cheated with Brass Rings and Glasses; Puppets, old Iron, Bodkins, Pins, For Gold and Jewels, and Precious Things: But now they will not be such Asses, To be put off with Toys and Trashes; For we have taught them at long running, A great deal more Wit and Cunning: Good Gold and Silver, Down with your Dust, For Silks and Spices pay you must.

The Men of China are so Shy To keep us out, I don't know why: But if they'd give us leave to dwell, For an Inch, we'd take an Ell.

Be sure to set them such a Spell, That after it they shall ne're do well. I wonder a Devils name what should all us, Till then our Wits did never fail us.

To be reveng'd, we sent the Tartars, On a sudden to break up their Quarters. Now we have opened the Door, That barr'd them all up close before, They shall ne're be mew'd up more. A Company of sly Rogues and Whores, We shall pay them their old Scores. Away they go, away with them now, We have begun to drive the Plow.

Have at them, to the purpose now, We'l fat them up like Boar and Sow: Teach 'um to hide like Sow in Beans, For why should they get all the Means? They have thriv'd hitherto too long, Turn them a grazing among the Throng, We'l pay 'um off, Ding dong.

I had forgot the Cannibal Cheaters, A Company of Man-Eaters; We'l provide them better Food, Than to eat Mans flesh and drink Mans blood. There are Banditi's and Tories, Of whom we have heard mad stories. If we get in among the Slaves, We shall fright 'um to their Graves.

There are left a sort of Scepticks, That go about with their Protrepticks:

Every where they all things watch, Aim at every thing, but nothing catch. The brave young Hobbist scorns and slies The Inns of Court, and Universities. He vilifies the Man in Black, Makes the poor Curate drunk with Sack. There's neither good nor bad Fortune nor Fate, All is the Policy of State.

It is the Humor of the Times, To be frighted at Bugbear Crimes. By his Principles he is bidden, Not to be Priest or Lawyer-ridden: But we can catch the idle Fop, And whip him like a Town-Top; And if he have a costly Crop, Give the Drunken Buffoon a Sop. Dance him but a pleasant Jig, A Treat, a Banquet, and a Fig.

CANTO IX.

Bear up for Bantam, Port Tailor, Is there any knowledge in a Sailor? Main-sail, Top-sail, Sprit-sail, Mizn, Thou Rogue, I once redeem'd thee out of Prison. We need none of your Tackles, For we trudge o're the World in Shackles. Observe it, we have kept our station In all parts, since the Creation.

I say then, Bear up for Bantam, And back agen for Steeple-Grantam;

Thence to the famous Strasburgh Towr, There's a rare Clock, then keep your Hour; And, as sure as a Club, Drink at Heydelburgh's great Tub. Haste away, get you to the Spaw To be Parboil'd, for ye are Raw.

Take a Dram first, your hearts to chear, Of Brandy, Mum, or Spruce-Beer. Shoot the Gulf of Magellan, Or Gibraltar, thence to Tapobran; Post away with Neck in Rope, To the Cape of good Hope: Madagascar is hard by, At St. Helens you may lye: Thence to Potosi and Chios, Panama, and Nombre de Dios.

Fetch a compass to the Sluis, To Norway, and Ward-Huis: Back to Molucca, Ormus, Isle of Pines, To Japan and the Philippines. By virtue of a Cup of Stingo, Fly to St. Jago, and St. Dominga. Mexico and Malabar, All the Land under the South-Star.

Cut the Line in all his Topicks, Tack about to all the Tropicks. Salute the Twelve Signs, though ye melt, That hang upon the Zodiack Belt.

To Nile and Ganges send away, At Tanais, Volga, make no stay;

Euphrates, Danow, Nieper, Rhine, Loyr, Rhodan, Tamesis, and Tyne. About Ship, perhaps you may meet With the East-India, or Plate-Fleet. In a Frolick, a Bravado, Touch at St. Kitts, or Trinidado. Brasil, Peru, long to see your Faces, They are Silver and Golden Places. Make haste, for we intend to Ease us At Cymbric and Tauric Chersonesus.

These Spaniards, how they Firk The poor Indians to work: In those Gold and Silver Veins, These poor Slaves take all the Pains. Waters, Fires, and poys'nous Damps Destroy 'um, besides Falls and Cramps. Mastiffs fright 'um out of Town Into Woods, and hunt 'um down. Lend me thy Slave to day, so Spaniards borrow, And I'le lend thee my Slave to morrow.

Alas, poor Atabalipa, Thy Life and Kingdom was took away! Indeed and indeed, this was a deadly lift, Given by Pope to Charles the Fifth. Kings lack Removes; Vassals, Slaves, Are thrust from Prisons to their Graves: But this poor King paid for his Ransom, I must needs say, It was not Handsom; His Prison honestly with Gold he fill'd, And after that was basely kill'd.

But I knew, when I was a Maid, A greater, better King betray'd.

A Conquer'd King, in vile Disguise, To his false Scotish Subjects flyes; And they, for a golden Inspection, Sell him to an Independent Section: They send him to a Gaol Protection, Then to a Deaths Scaffold's Erection; A Presbyterian Projection, And a damn'd National Infection! I'le warrant 'um for this the worse, To lie under an Everlasting Curse.

Are ye squat, Rowze up ye Rump-seuttle Whores, Ye lazy Hags turn out a doors; For I must leady' another Dance, From fair Albion into France: From the Island of Fairies, To Corvo's, Floro's, and Canaries. There's good Liquor, make a stand, You must cross to Newfound-Land.

Post from thence and cut the Line, And away for Abyssine. Prester-John's a Jolly King, they say, 'Twill please him to see you dance the Hay. Speed, get you up by Noon, To the Mountains of the Moon. Find out the hoary Head of Nile, To Meroes Lake 'tis but a Mile. Look out sharp, Bitches seek out, I'm certain 'tis thereabout.

You're now in Africa, ye Whores, Dance a Jig among the Moors: See what Monsters you can find Above what you are, in your kind.

Over to Italy, make a stop, And call at Aetna, Vulcan's Shop. Ask what new's there, drink ye, smoak ye, All the Vapors of Hell choak ye.

Then stay ye till I come, I'le meet you at Naples and Rome. Upon Egypt ope your Lids, Skip up and down the Pyramids. Observe exactly your Commands, And get ye to the Lybian-Sands. Call in at Morocco and Fez, There you may stay and take your Ease.

Hide, you'l be took upon Suspition, At the Spanish Inquisition. For pity take some pains To save the Pygmies from the Cranes. If ye will deserve the Garter, (I had almost said, the Halter, For my Speech began to falter;) Defend the Chinese from the Tartar. Once more secure 'um all By making up the Hole i'th' Wall.

Go guard the Europe Caravans, 'Gainst the Wild Arabians; Ishmaelites and Sarazens, Lurking about in Thievish Dens. Myrmidons, Scythian and Tartar, As true as ever wore a Garter.

What are the Tritons, but Sea-Swobbers, A Company of Pirates and Robbers?

What are Fawns, Satyrs, and Nymphs, But a kind of ugly Imps? Dryades and Hamadryades, The Watry Spawn of Pleiades.

Try what ye can do, upon all occasions, To save Hungary from Invasions. Lituania, Poland, Mosco, Send 'um Franciscus de Sacrâ Bosco. Russia's troubled with the Bears, Set 'um together by the Ears. Let Lapland Witches scratch and bite, Gothland will rejoyce at the sight.

What think ye of Amstelodami, Leyden or Roterodami; Franiker, Gouda, Utrecht, Dort, Where the Synod was allamort? They lie near Hell, you must needs know it, You have Business there, and you must show it. Stay, and be drunk 'mong 'um a while, Help a lame Dog o're the Stile.

Norway, Denmark, Swedeland are Cold, There's no good Wine, I am told; But there's good Company, 'tis said, And many of them of your Trade. Germany's a large Tract, and France, Keep 'um still at Variance. Maintain the ancient Enmity 'Twixt Capet's, and the Austrian Family.

When the Spaniard begins to Swagger, Send him a Rapier to his Dagger.

When there shall be no Antipathy 'Tween these Nations, let 'um agree: And as for the Italian Mode, Both hate it, more than they do a Toad. The Scots are False, the Welsh love Leeks, Of all give me the Merry Greeks.

The French too much courts and cringes, The Portugal's off o'th' Hinges. The brave English Nation, If they be wise, will keep their Station. Visit 'um all, never fear, You'l Welcom there and every where. There's all sorts to please your Palats, Truly, we don't live all on Sallads.

Call in at Madrid, grave and wise, Extol Toledo to the Skies: Salamanca for Degrees, Conimbricenses for Learned Fees. Malaga for Sack and Raysons, In Spain there is no Treasons: Poor and Proud, if you will, But Seigniors and Dons still.

Religioso's and Profano's, Generoso's d' Altos Montanos. Tell 'um of a Moorish Blood, 'Tis a Tale of Robbin-Hood. But so it was hundreds of years, Try 'um all by their Peers. (Swans and Peacocks from fair Eggs Are fair Birds, but have all Black Legs.) But they are Wise, and you are Able To advise a Spanish Table.

Your Business is, to try Conclusions, And put the World into Confusions. At last, when this Race is run, Home agen, Home agen, Market's done.

CANTO X.

But Idle you must not be, You are come but to Half-way-Tree. For shame Ladies give not over, Ye are got yet but Half-Seas-over. Go awake the Seven-Sleepers, Who all this while have been their Keepers. Search for the Ten Tribes that were lost, Find out what Seas they crost: And to make the story True, Look out for Joseph, the Wandring Jew.

Tell us from whence, and by what Way The Tartars got into America. Who built the Pyramids so high, In the Aegyptian Land, and why? At Memphis Altar, what Record's best, Where the Phoenix made her Nest: How she with Spice her Self did burn, And when the Young one made Return.

Find out the Northern Passage, and then tell From thence, which is the way to Hell: And if you can, Come about, And teach us the way to get out. Behind what Mountains is there Room, To dance in fair Elysium: What Judges are there; and is it true, That they give every one his Due?

Aegyptians kept their Rites to beguile us, As secret as the Head of Nilus. There in Ovens were Hatcht The Noble Chickens of our Art: When they were fledg'd, from thence they flew, Became Eagles and Vulturs too. But if you search for private News, 'Tis lock't up in Archive's Mews.

All Conjurers by Hell's Blesson, To be close, have learnt their Lesson. 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉, Orpheus taught it to secure us. Odi profanum Vulgus & Arceo, Donec Secreta mea Farcio. That is, Be close, as Horace says, Tell no Tales in open Plays.

Petronius the Prose-Poet, Arbiter like, will not have the world know it. Priapus Chappel must foul Scenes hide, Like the chast Chamber of a Bride. And is not this a Magick Pride, T'have Principles of Art deny'd? Thus they erect Schemes and calculate Nativities, by an unknown Fate.

So they come off by Right or Wrong, In a Multitude or Throng; When several Aspects should bring Several Falls or Rises, a Monstrous Thing. In the Field, or in a Ship, The Sword, the Waves make such a Trip; At once shall give one single Fall, To young and old, to great and small.

Was the Face of Heaven the same At all their Births? ye are to blame.

Rome, as certain Story consters, Produc'd of men the greatest Monsters: Heliogabalus littered there, so good, Nero kneaded of Blood and Mud. Gemellus boldly entertains Consul and Tribune with Shee-naked-Swains. Clodius for Joy may ring the Bells, When Break-fasted with dissoly'd Pearls. He deserv'd to be Accurst, Was glad to sup with a Brown Crust.

To tread the Sacred Floor, Pompey was bold, But Crassus stole the Temples Gold; And accordingly they thriv'd, Neither of them was long liv'd. Any Man shall catch a Quail, That can lay Salt upon her Tail; But how shall a Man a Knave catch, Except he sets a Knave to watch?

Why Aesculapius the Son Had a Beard, and his Father none. Why Apollo was always young, Mercury had a Lying Tongue. Why at the Suns Bird, the Cock's Crowing, The Lion flies, and falls a roaring: Why Venus runs a whoring.

Why chast Diana seem'd so glad To kiss Endymion, that pretty Lad. 'He that lov'd Juno was proud, And for that made to embrace a Cloud.

How Venus was conceiv'd of Froth, Neptune and Thetis tell me the Troth: To get Children so you would be loth; For my part I suspect you both.

Where stood that unlucky Tower. To Danaes Lap how fell that Shower? Who on a Lady can have Pow'r, That vows Chastity every hour? If she keep it, she deserves a Dower; If not, it was not in her Power. The Wanton Powers lay a Golden Train, To put Virgins out of their Pain.

How Animals spring from Insects or Eggs Elephants sleep standing on Legs. Cartez Wife threw Herbs, in the Ballad, Which fell into a well-ordered Sallad. At Horses Picture a Pencil was thrown, Which exactly depicted his Foam. Sylvans, Fawns, Satyrs, Pans, Are they the Brood of Beasts, or Man's?

Hercules Club and Lions Skin, Castor's Cap, Bacchus's Ivy Javelin: Mercury's Wand, Wings and Cloak; Apollo's Crown, Bow and Arrows of Oak. As true as ever struck stroak, Either to cure or kill good Folk. Mars's Gorget, Helmet, Shield and Sword, Jove kept all in awe at a Beck or a Word.

Whether Delta were Aegypts Bounds, What Yard measur'd the over-flown Grounds?

What were Telesmata, Teraphims and Talismans? Tell me, if all their Geese were Swans. Who were 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉, Averruncani, If Typhons were Giants or Nani; If they were Sacred or Prophani? Whether the steem of Burnt Flesh and Blood Were the Cacodaemon's Food?

If you can tell us the sad Stories Of the Limbo Purgatories. If an Usurers Soul pass Into a Camel or an ••ss; A Glutton into a Hog, A Flatterer into a Dog; A Buffoon into an Ape, Or a fair Monky shape. What ugly Souls make their Inroads Into Vipers, Frogs or Toads. Quere, Who Foxes do possess, They must be Hypocrites, I guess.

Whether there be a Propagation Of Souls, or a Transmigration. We would gladly be Resolv'd, Whether a Resurrection Hold. I would fain know, if you can tell, What Matches are made in Hell: Whether the Powers Below, The Passages Above do know? How th' Infernal Spirits at our Call, Do come and go for good and all.

Where dwelt the Amazons, which is the Way To Atlas or Utopia.

How shall we sail without Demur, From the Atlantick to Mar del Zur? Who was the first Bragadocean, That durst venture upon the Ocean? Who crost the Alpes first, upon what Cliff Stands the Pike of Tenariff?

Aetna and Vesuvius Flame, In Iseland a Hill does the same. What is the Matter that disgorges From these vast Infernal Forges? Do they make Thunderbolts there, To ramble all about the Air? Have a care, Stones and Ashes flie, 'Tis hazard whether live or die.

Young Pliny curiously provok't To find the Cause, was simyly Choakt; For Grief and Folly, Anger, Pride, Not finding Causes for the Tide, The Stagyrite fell down and dy'd, So was an old Learn'd Fool try'd. Tell us, what are the Hedges 'Twixt Prerogatives and Priviledges?

Let's know where was Plato's Cave, That bred many a Simple Slave? Tell us where are those Rich Grotto's Of Golden Sepulchres, and what Motto's? All which the Indians keep stifling, From Spaniard's Sacrilegious Rifling. Tell us what Bard, or Brozen Head, Directed them to rob the Dead.

Tell us of the World i'th' Moon, And the way thither, and how soon? What huge Swans that use Craft, Passengers on their Backs to waft? What became of the Heathen gods, That set the Inferiour World at odds? What silenc'd Delphos Oracles so wise, Of Dodona's Grove tell us more Lies?

Shew us old Parnassus Mountain, With the Heliconian Fountain? Where is the Philosophers Stone, And the rare Panpharmacon? To get these in Possession, 'Twould make one bite his Fingers to the Bone. Where lie the Winds, and in what Holes, What Lands or Seas under the Poles? Th' Inchanted Island, and the Strand That leads us to the Fairy Land?

The everlasting Springs, that feed The Ocean, where Sea Monsters breed? Tell us plainly, if you can, Where tumbles the Leviathan? Where wallow those mighty Whales, Spowting and turning up their Tails? The true Scarlet Fishes Blood, The Cuchanell Fly so good. All Rarities that can be found Above, or under Ground.

Tell us the Milky Way, and where Are the dark Hollows of the North Sphere? Teach us where the Comets breed, And where the massy Elephants feed?

Where Ʋnicorns or Mermaids dwell? Shew us the Confines of Hell. Whither do all the Ghosts come, The Way to S••yx or Elysium?

Tell us what's the Great Turk's Diet? When the Presbyterins will be Quiet? Teach us what will content a Quaker, Or a Rump-Adjutator. Tell us what will please the People, Or who will build Paul' Steeple? What are a Leveller's Caresses, To what will Seekers make Addresses. What will the Family of Love delight, Whither will a Ranter take his flight? Where may Debtors play least in Sight?

What's the Muggletonian Exercise; Where's the Adamites Paradise? Tell me what's Law or Reason, What's Prerogative or Treason? Tell me which was Pope Jone? And where', the Infallible Throne? Who shall the Ʋniversal Monarch be? When the Fanaticks will Agree?

Tell us the Contented State, And what the World thinks of Fate? Tell us what Kings can give Content? To a Fanatick Parliament. Tell us how many Generations Do thrive by Impropriations? I long to know, when, and to what hands Shall be restored Abby Lands?

Tell me, if Tithes or Glebe Grounds Were given to spend on Hawks or Hounds?

I wonder how the Atlantick Ocean Runs into the Straits, with rapid Motion. In that Ditch, I do admire, The vast Waters swell no higher. Where are those deep Floods spent, For 'tis apparent there's no vent?

I would fain know whose curious Ears, Hear the Musick of the Sphears; Who sings to them in perfect Rhime, And teaches them to keep Time. Tell us whence those Waters come, That fill the Mare Caspium?

How does the Mandrake change his station, Shrieking in such a doleful fashion? Tell me what poys'nous Vapour flies From the false Crocadiles Eyes? Dissembling Tears he sheds, and why A Brute should make signs of a Lie? The Syren and Hiena Sprites, What are they, but Hypocrites?

Tell us when Birds, Beasts, and Trees spoke, And where grew the Holy Oak? Tell us where, and of what fashion Is the old Oak of Reformation? What the wise Druids did know Of Virtue, in the Missle-Toe? What flying of Birds signifies, If Owls and Ravens have fatal Cries?

What say you to the Howling Dogs, Or the Croaking of Toads and Frogs? You may as well say, Grunting of Hogs. And if it were for Mirth and Jiggs, 'Tis a Rare sign, the Squeeking of Pigs.

Tell us if Beasts Entrals panting. Bodes Ill-luck, when heart is wanting? Where lies the Prophetick Omen, Which Augurs judge by the Abdomen? Why Carkasses buried in the Sand, Never corrupt in Mummy Land. Whole Caravans Stuff, Flesh and Bone Of Man and Beast, turn'd into Stone. How Mountains of Sands remove; How Enamarado's dye for Love?

The Bees are painful harmless Things, Obedient to Government of Kings. The Ant's a Labourer and grows Rich, The Idle Grashopper dies in a Ditch. What makes the Saltness of the Sea, Or the stinging of a Flea? What's the Cause of Springs and Tides, And who it is the Devil Rides?

A Soland Goose, that drops Into Ponds from Trees Tops. How a Fly mutes black and white, How the Spirits play Least in sight. Whom Cain married, 'twas odd, A Woman in the Land of Nod. We could never yet hear Who the Prae-Adamites were.

Tell us whether our true Breed, Was of Cham's, or Cain's Seed?

The Case is not yet found, How Rivers run under-ground; How they their Colour and Course take, Unmingled with the Standing Lake. 'Tis a Mystery in Nature, Giants and Dwarfs of different stature. Where wander Swallows in cold Season, How a Coy-Duck should learn Treason?

The Magpy chats, the Crossing Hare Puts Fools into a Bodily fear. The Candle dwindles, and burns Blew, The Spekled Serpent changes Hue: The Eagles Feathers oft renew; Few of these things are true.

Ladies, I would be a little Curious, If you would not be too furious; To know what Atoms meet together, And fasten against Wind and Weather. How they jumble into shapes, Like so many bunches of Grapes; And how they separate and shatter Into, or out of this or that form or matter.

There is a Black Rock in a Hole, They say, Direct under the North-Pole. Thither every Needle quivers, Which guide Ships in Seas or Rivers.

There's a P••••••t of Honesty, I don't know where, Towards which all ought to steer.

They're gone before it or behind it, No body knows where to find it: Like tge Philosophers Stone, they say, Fled no body knows which way. Be sure 'twill ne're come nigh our door. For Poets and Witches must be Poor.

There is a beggarly Brungeon Call'd Truth, lies naked in a Dungeon: I don't see any Body minds her And therefore no Body finds her. Leave her, leave her in her Cell, Without her all will do well. She's cross, has an alluring Spell; She'l say All's false, when we say All's well. She'l spoil all where e're she comes, Stifle her in her dark Rooms.

To my unlucky Apprehension, What should mean a Comprehension? Whether or no it be a Sin, To take, at last, us Witches in? And if so, I'le undertake What strange work we should make. What unheard of Jealousies and Fears, To set Fanaticks together by the Ears.

The occult Causes in the Deep, Lie all together sound asleep. Jog 'um not, for fear ye wake 'um, And the Philosophers should take 'um: We're as well, and best without 'um, It is your work therefore to slout 'um. Let Falshood every thing Reverse; Let Lies rule the Universe.

Truth's lost, what are you the Wiser? Invented Shadows do disguise her. Go to the Ʋniversities and Schools, Tell 'um they're a Company of Fools: And when they shall Resolve these Riddles, I'le send them all sorts of Fools and Fiddles, Clerks and Lawyers shall befriend 'um, With Writs and Melius Inquirendum. They'l dress up Lies in Prinkum prankum, And th' Worlds Fools and Knaves shall thank'um.

CANTO XI.

Tell me you that hate us, fear us, Dare not see us, nor come near us? What think ye of those dainty Dames, That patch and paint, to kindle Flames? By open Harlotry t'entice ye, Clap ye, Pox ye, and Spice ye. Play at Questions and Commands, Cheat you of your Wits and Lands.

These are brave Ladies, fly in Coaches, Sedans, Chariots, and Caroches. By these we'l see a Scarlet Lord, To cast you at the Judgment Boord. From all your Honour and Estate, Poor Rogue, you must not dare to prate; Not a word, though y'have cause to Hate'um, 'T will be Scandalum Magnatum.

You are crusht, you are gone, Forc't to be silent, and undone.

Of all Remedies you are to seek, Losers must not have leave to speak, You may beg, steal, hang or damn; But you must not complain a Dram. Who cares whether you swim or sink? 'Tis all one, to be sweet or stink.

These are brave Fellows, Reverend Sires, Lords, Baronets, Knights or Squires; Don't Priests use to kindle Fires? If there be any Sect or Faction, I'le warrant they're ne're out of Action. You may damn us all for Witches, And hang us up like Dogs in Ditches; But do your worst, we'l were the Britches.

A False Bond, or a forged Deed, Shall make whole Families Bleed: Wife and Children to want Bread, Good men, they won't knock 'um o'th' Head; Only a little turn 'um out of their Places, And then load'um with Disgraces: Leave'um to pine away, curse and roar, And never care to see 'um more.

A Trick there is, without a Hole in't, Their wit and malice to Cajole it. Get a Noble friend in a good Hour, Match into a Family of Power. Your Enemies shall sink like Moles, Like Rats run into Augur Holes. Now they'l cringe and sawn, O Base, Kick 'um off, Spit 'um in the Face. Though they be damn'd ore and ore, They'l never dare to hurt you more.

We are worse than Come out; ugly Jades, That do but truck under such Blades. They slide away with a good Name, But we undergo all the Blame. They flaunt it and make high Brags, But we beg about in Rags. Then choose you, at the Long Run, By us or them to be undone.

'Tis in vain to make Complaints, For they appear all like Saints. We are the ugly Hell-hound Slaves; But they are the gentile Knaves. We shew down right what we be, In words and actions, as you see: But they hide all with a Veil, Carry a deadly Sting in Tail.

For a small Cheat you grutch us, They tear y' in pieces with their Clutches. They come off clearly by Yea and Nay, And couzen you at Broad noon Day. They profess your dearest Friends, And sooth you up for basest Ends. If there be an honest Man in Town, Starve him, plague him, crush him down. If he offer to tell Tales, Banish him into Wales. If nothing from Truth reclaim him, The Sea or the Gallows must tame him.

These hug and help one another, And dare not each their Faults discover. We don't dissemble, but hurt out right; But they kill you in close Fight. Watch you, and play Least in sight.

They 'l undermine their Fathers, Mothers, Wives, Children and Brothers. They smother all; but we afford You fair Play, above Board.

We commit no open Rapes, These play their Passes and Escapes. What hurt we do you may know; But they'l steal you a dead Blow. In your Bosom they shall lye, Embrace you, and make you Dye. They Insinuate and Creep, Fast and loose, while you're a sleep. I understand their several twinings, I find their secret underminings. Their joynt Compliances and Combinations, To ruine honest Generations.

What we are, we make a show, They're a kind of Witches you shan't know. We are quickly spyed and catcht; But they are closely hid and hatcht. We'l harm you, but it shall be by fair Play; But they'l destroy you, and sneak away. They shall pity you, and Whine, But you shan't know where to Dine.

We openly hang out the Brooms, So you may find us in our Rooms. We are the Bravest Rogues o'th' Two, Because we tell you all we do. But they're Forsworn, and deny'd it, And did all they could to hide it. You're welcom to them, as welcom can make ye; But when you're gone, A Pox take ye;

Plague confound you; what made you here, To eat up all our good Cheer, And drink up all our Wine and March-Beer?

If you'l play the Knaves by Infection, They'l take you into their Protection: And you shall be their Drudges for a Crust, Keep Life and Soul together, do your worst, And be beholden to 'um for their Trust: But that for them, you must be Starvers, You shall not be your own Carvers. You may have their slighter Vogues, But you must be always Poor Rogues.

They that ruine you are Bravo's, You are but the Rascalado's. You must cry them up for brave Fellows, Help 'um the while to blow the Bellows. Except by drudgery you up-stitch-'um, And starve your selves to enrich 'um. Unless you serve their turns, they'l bang ye; Keep their Secrets, or else they'l hang ye.

Y'have brought your selves t'a fair Condition, For counting Witchcraft Superstition. Is't not better to be a Rogue downright, Than to play Rogue least in sight? A Vizard Villain, a Fawning Dog, A Skipping Toad, a Creeping Frog. A Roaring Bear, a Ravening Kite, Better than the Thing call'd Hypocrite. Thus little Bugs are taken fair, While the great Vermin Break the Snare.

You see how 'tis, there's strange Reports, For there are Witches of all Sorts. Not a Word for your life, No difference 'tween Man and Wife. Don't bark or bite, ye Rascal Curs, B'as mute as your Masters, make no Stirs. Be whist, though ye be going to Hell; If ye be ask'd, say, All is well.

You see Bribes coming, you must Wink, Cry Sweet, when you smell a Stink. Brave Jewels, Gold and Silver Plate; Not for your Master, but his Mate. The Lady is presented, she must please, Coaches and Horses for her Ease. She is very quick-sighted, With Venice-Glasses much delighted: Persian Carpets are the Truest, Antwerp Tapestry, the Newest.

The Italians paint the fairest Faces, The Flanders Nuns make the best Laces, Barbary Horses run best Races. My Lady hath a dainty Tooth, Kid and Venison forsooth: In truth she loves the choicest Fishes, To be serv'd up in China Dishes. Be sure you do not starve your Cause, And then, never fear the Laws. Jewels and Plate, rich Ermin and Bever, For Lord and Lady, come off Clever.

Be silent of all this, or you shall be hurl'd Presently into another World.

They'l post you farthest from the Light; Dead tell no Tales, Dead never Bite. Swear and Lye lustily, and lick our Trenchers; Not a word, though your Lords be Wenchers. We Lacquies hand Whores up Stairs In Sedans, 'bout their Lords Affairs. A Shilling drops into our hands. We must keep our Masters Commands.

Our Betters must be first serv'd, then by a Trick A Salt-Bitch may give us a Lick. We have our poor Whores, for poor Offenders, For Bread and Cheese, and Ale-Spenders. These are good enough for Sinners, That don't know where to get their Dinners. They that have but a slender Stock, Must be content with a Bit and a Knock.

We can tell what's what, A Slave lacks a bit for his Cat. Like to like will always follow, Hungry Dogs have a good swallow. Like Master, like Man, Help, that help can. Caw me and I'le Caw thee, takes with all, Dissembling is 'mongst great and small.

The great Trees are all Just, And the mean Shrubs are always worst. They are the honestest Men, That can Swear to and agen. These are the true Cunning men, Which good Witches or Wizards ken: But we are worse than come out, Ever torn and kickt about.

Great Rogues rise higher, Hell be thanked, Slaves in the World must be tost in a Blanket. We must labour and fare hard, Witches are always poor, amard. The Rich have stoln away our Trade; We are mar'd, but they are made: And which is the worst that can come upon us, Th'have stole away all our Credit from us.

Of them there's no Suspition; They're Good, but we are the Superstition. We are Molls-tell-troths, they are Smugglers, We are Plain-dealing, they are Jugglers. We do all the wrong we can, And ne're pretend to Honest man. We are what we profess; But such as they are nothing less.

We don't go behind the Vail, They labour backwards, Tooth and Nail: And downwards too, like Moles and Bats; And upwards too, like Mice and Rats. In Gaols and Dungeons we crawl, They feast in Parlour and Hall. We are the Wolves, they are the Foxes; We work in sight, they're shut up in Boxes.

Witches hurt you, and ye Whore'um; They plague you most, and you most Adore'um. 'Tis pity but you should be Curst, That hate the bad, and love the worst. If you will be bewitcht, you must; And if you will, you shall be Curst: If you will be Fool'd and Knav'd, Ye shall be abused, and beslav'd.

Hang ye must, be sure, That do most mischief, fair and pure. You're the crossest Fools that e're were maken; Of all, you are the most mistaken. This is the greatest mischief sure, To come without Call into their Lure. Spaniel-Witchcraft fawn, when basted, Be hang'd at last, when all is wasted.

This is just Cuckolds Eare, Be abus'd, and take no Care. A Fool in Grain, that courts Despair, And makes his chiefest Foe his Heir. He that cringes most, and keeps closest to you; Hug him most, that would most undo you.

He that most would eat you up, Cherish him most o're Can and Cup. He that most intends to Bane ye, Let him Cudgel ye and Cane ye. Nay, if he would seek to hang ye, Feast him most, and let him bang ye: Smooth him softly on the Cheek; Then kiss his Breech, and say, 'tis Sweet.

This is the right Condition, Of them that are of the Worlds disposition. Knaves then have the bravest Times, To be made most of, for the greatest Crimes. It seems this is the way to Wive, It seems this is the way to Thrive. We could ne're find out this Conjecture; We ne're had the wit to read this Lecture. We ne're practic'd this rare Function, Ne're sound Stars in so happy Conjunction.

I think 'twas rarely seen before, To Rant it first, and cry first Whore: Be most rich, and cry most poor, Act most, and go most behind the Door. Surely there's no Witchcraft then Like this, to play Knaves, and shew honest Men: And to make Fools believe, They're most our Friends, that most us grieve.

Then if the World will be cheated, Of their Wits let 'um be defeated. We don't openly Pray and Preach, And privately over-reach. But we directly Plague and Curse, And we are plagu'd for better for worse. So you know what we are, and what to call us, And if e're took, what will befall us?

The Law telleth us our Fate; We tell you when we love or hate. They dress up Lyes with Trick me dainty, And the World's Fools with Love and Thank ye. The most Hypocrites, says Martin, And tho most Knaves, the better Fortune.

CANTO XII.

'Tis commonly objected, we are Old And Doting; but most Bold. An Old Body is not so Clever; But an Old Soul's brisker than ever. Wiser and more Gallant Notions; Nobler, and more Stately Motions. A Young Conscience will stare, When she is bid to Curse and Swear.

A puling Novice whivels and pines, To take extraordinary Fines; But an old Conscience is Tough, And never thinks she wrongs enough. So I be rich, I care no more, Though Ten thousand be poor. Call me wicked Rogue and Knave, So I get the Mony and go brave.

Let me purchase stately Mansions, And in them I dance my Stancheons. The Honest man skips at a Crust, And is glad to go a Trust. I never so much as think Of them, that want Meat and Drink. Let all perish by Destiny, As long as the World goes well with me.

But they methinks are very bold, That say, Hang Witches 'cause they're old. Of this I make a stout Denial, And put my self upon my Trial.

We know by Experience what's best, And what's the Truth of all the rest. Of all Knaves, give me the Old Tost, She's fittest to rule the Rost.

An old Beldam, forsooth, Without a Nose, without a Tooth. As for her ungodly Tongue, We know 'tis evermore well hung. As for her Brain, she shall contrive All the Mischief alive. A young Knave's but a Fool at best, An old Knave's wiser than the rest: And therefore we for our Ages, Are most justly styled Sages.

We know all the Tricks, and where to find 'um, And every way to turn and wind 'um. A young Rogue will Whine and Think; But an old Rogue scorns to shrink. A Novice will make Rogues Faces; But an old Boy fears no Disgraces. Experience of Actions, Fits for all kind of Factions.

A young Rogue acts, and his Hand shakes; But an old Villains Heart ne're quakes. A young Rogue acts and Trembles; But an old Rogue boldly Dissembles. If he be but Rich and Great, You shall never make him Sweat. Hang those tender Concience Slaves, Give us the Virtuoso Knaves.

Give me the Conscience that can stretch, At command, Carry and Fetch: This sutes most neat and fine, In an Old Lawyer, or Divine. A Courtier is a pretty Thing, And most proper to cheat a King. As for Masons, Silk-men, Taylors, Send 'um packing to the Goalors.

Merchants, Tradesmen are whist. But as true Cheats as ever Pist. A Souldier is a mad Shaver, Scorns to be tied to his good Behaviour; As for every petty Shirk, Let Pick-pockets set 'um a work, And the Constable give them the Jirk, And the Hangman give 'um a Firk.

We can dance Moll Dixons Round, We can play Doll Commons Ground. Come along, Women and Men, Here's dainty Content, and your Mony agen. 'Tis a merry World, where we be, At the Islands of Charybbe, St. Christophers, Barbados, Rio de Gamba, and de la Platas.

We tune our Viols, Lyra and all Fancy-way, Fit for every sport and play. We joyn in Consort with the Spheres, Make 'um Sing, or Soll'um by the Ears. Charm Moon and Stars out of their Forms, To drop down in Gelly Gums; Scatter 'um about like Plums.

Rip up the Ass, by Senates Doom Accused falsly, by his Groom, In an Eclipse to have drank up the Moon. Thus the Master he must Lie for't, And the poor simple Servant dye for't.

How these Hectors, Fools and Fops, Load their Backs, and cram their Crops. Clog'd with Sawces, Soakt with Wine, Nothing but Miss and Concubine; Nothing but Sack, Eggs, and Muscadine. Gentlemen-Ushers, Mushrom-Shrimps, Catamits, Sodomites, Bawds and Pimps.

A Rogue with never an Eye in's head, To a fair Venus crawls to bed; Fitter to hang, or knock of the head. These prosperous Villains I grutch, I ever thought they thriv'd too much. 'Twas always so; for what says Pluck, The more Fool, the better Luck.

O Stallions, ye deserve Correption, That Cover Mares after Conception. After-Births, Moon-Calves, Secundines, Menstrua's, no Bar your Lust confines. Give the Lawyers large Fees, For invading prohibited Degrees: No Sex or Age stops your filthy Lees, Ye deserve to be stung to death by Bees.

What was Merlin the Welsh Bard? No Devils can your Lust retard. Monkies, Baboons, and Apes▪ Too foully feel your Monstrous Rapes.

Ladies of Pleasure, too oft let me tell you, You meet with a Satyr, or a Robbin-good-Fellow. And you Rogues, are you not asham'd For Mixtures, not to be nam'd?

But as for our Carnal Coitions, We admit of no Conditions. All Sexes, Degrees and Kinds, Cannot limit our lustful Minds. Beside, the Rareness of our Merits Advanceth us to mix with Spirits. So we become a special Brood, Distinct from the rest of Womanhood.

Which makes our Actions to Savour, Of a far different Behavour. Partly Mortals, partly Devils, Our Nature fits us for higher Evils. So we are us'd for all Intents Of Mischiefs, the best Instruments. A mixt Blood runs in our Veins, Mongrels appear in different Strains. A sort of mad confounded Witchery. Compounded of Haggery, Doggery and Bitchery.

Still we deserve the greatest Fames, Under Priests, Magi, and Augurs Names. They had the Honours and Degrees; We did the work, they take the Fees. This Nature and this Art I have imbib'd, And have accordingly describ'd. Teach one, you that know more Than I do, of Witch and Whore. The Rarest Mystery I here Exhibit; For which I may deserve the Gibbet.

Now for us, Make room, make room, Open every stinking Tomb: These are our Chambers of Delights▪ Where we revel and roar whole Nights. Give us a Crony and a Tony, A Parson, and an old Vulpone. Honest Trouts will ne're forsake us, We'l be as merry as Cup or Kan can make us.

The Shepherd-Swain quotes Erra Pater, An old Monthly Prognosticator: Tycho Brache, a great Undertaker, Little more than an Almanack-Maker. Southsayers and Astrologers of the East, Pitiful Conjurers at best. A certain sort of Snipper-snappers, Hight Spirits or Kidnappers.

Apollo with his Drinks and Playsters, Us'd to cure Country Disasters: With golden Pills, Syrups, and Clysters, He practis'd on his dainty Mistress; And when he lackt a new Wife, Vomited the old One out of Life. He was a Common Fidler, and the Trades His Muses drove, was Chamber-Maids. Aesculape, the Arcadian Ass, A perfect Tooth-drawer was: And for Venus we need no Trumpet, In Cyprus she was a Common Strumpet.

These, and such like Remainders, Have constantly been our Retainers; Because we scorned to impart To such, the Secrets of our Art,

A kind of Slovenly Operators, Skullion drudging Laborators. All such Mongrels, we declare 'um Pro Vanitate Scientiarum. The same were those that Writ before 'um, Till we were Professors of the Quorum.

'Tis we do those powerful Wonders, By terrible Lightnings and Thunders. Are not these Real harms, That come to pass with Winds and Storms; By Fire and Water, Sea and Land, Which Evil Spirits do command? Besides, Spells and Incantations, Creating strange Infatuations. By the Ear and by the Eye, Demonstrations none can deny.

Yet these are counted Idle Stories, Invented by deluding Tories: But as to Legends of Lead, Concerning Wonders by the Dead. By Bones, and Clouts, and old Shun, What Miracles have been done? These must all be believ'd for true, Or else ye don't give the Saints their due.

These are the Witchcrafts of Friars, Those covetous, sanctified Liars. Because they are such Self-denyers; But we are put upon our Tryars. They are admired and rewarded; But we are nothing at all regarded. Take us by our ugly Chops, And truss us up, as fast as Hops.

But that for pleasure of Revenge, And to bring about our Ends; Who'd be a Witch? But we're delighted, And do most harm where we are most spighted. He that fain would be quiet, Tell him, We utterly deny it, We'l vex and plague him till he dye, And haunt his Ghost to Eternity: For all that are of our Temper, Are implacable Semper.

Keep off, you that hurt us and jeer us; If ye wont love, we'l make ye fear us. Shut up your Horses and your Kine, Look to your Beer, Ale, Corn and Wine. We'l make mad work, if you take not heed, Destroy you, and all your Breed.

Our very Mice and Rats shall tear you, All our Cocks and Hens shall scare you. You shall Swear they are all Sprites, To torment you Days and Nights. Each Lowce of ours, that makes us itch, Is qualified for a Witch: And all the Fleas that suck our Blood, Were never counted very good.

Yea, our very Dogs and Cats, Are no better than Hellish Brats. Every Rat or hungry Mouse, That chances to forsake our House, Bewitches all the Vermin nigh; So Broods of Imps come to multiply. Without fail, every Man or Maid We keep, must needs be of our Trade.

CANTO XIII.

The Question is, Which is worse, A Diabolical or Human Curse? Devils have most strength of Arm; But Wicked men shall do most harm. The Devils Malice never dies; But the resisted Coward flies. Men never cease to Hate or Spoil, 'Tis hard to give them the Foil.

Devils can hurt us without hands; But cannot cheat us of our Lands, Nor force us to obey their Commands, And we do put them to many stands. Devils can flatter, tempt and kill: But not without, nor against our Will. They that do with Spirits deal, (Shadows that neither see nor feel;) Find they can only fright and fear; But Flesh and Blood do's gripe and tear.

Devils have more Wit and Manners, Than such hypocritical Trepanners. They contrive mischief more freely, And act their Villanies more Gentilely. Devils keep Principles; Men deny Just and Unjust Morality. Great and Little are truly mated, Good and Bad must be related.

Spirits are bounded and kept in; 'Tis Men wade through thick and thin.

When was the Devil so forlorn, To Blaspheme, or be Forsworn? The Devil holds Religion; Men deny it: He fears Justice; but They defie it.

The Savage Beasts do us little harm, The rest feed us and keep us warm. Now and then Devils may tempt us, And ugly Witches may Torment us: Pilfering Neighbours may Poll us, And some angry Folk controll us; But the Designing men annoy us, Undermine us and de••stoy us. Devils Incarnate Mortals fright, More than pure Spirits of greater Might.

'Tis the close Intriguing Party; Ravening, Proud, and never Hearty: But that for these we might do well, For all the Devils in Hell. Those are Disturbers of the Peace, None can keep their own, or live at ease. For a Witch there is a Spell, And Charms to conjure those in Hell: But a fair Tongue, and Sting in Tail, There is no Fence for a Flayl.

The Prime Devils are Chain'd i'th' dark▪ The Petty ones run about and shark. We pick them up, as idle Blades, And choose them for our Camrades. These are the Pugs that haunt Rooms, And walk in Melancholy Tombs: We send them to kill Poultry, Hogs and Pigs, At merry Meetings to dance Jiggs.

To make merry, or make sad; Sometimes, if need be, to make mad.

But a vexatious, angry Wizard, That's troubled with the grumbling o'th' Gizzard; Deals in Tempests, Fires or Floods, That consume mens Lives and Goods. Counterfeit Wares, Bonds, Wills and Deeds, Turns and winds Covenants and Creeds. Oaths can stand him in no stead, 'Tis nothing to make poor Hearts bleed.

Rake for Estates, and tear the ground, Purchase all that can be found. Ravish Mannors, Rifle Farms, Take-in Commons without Charms. Plunder Abbies, Chantries, Cells, Where Jewels, Gold, and Silver dwells. Cottages, Villages cannot escape, He makes an universal Rape.

Whole Families Cries and Tears, Never enter into his Ears: He is no more concern'd in Losses, Than the Stone-Statues upon Crosses. How so e're you seem to grutch us, You may be far safer in our Clutches. And 'twas ever took for granted, By Fools and Knaves the World is hanted: And at all This we're never danted, Our Spirit's large, we can't be scanted.

From all which Premisses, I dare conclude, The World's worser than Hell's Brood. Witches and Men out-act malign Devils. Hell and the World are constant Evils.

CANTO XIV.

If any thing hath me inspir'd, If any thing my Muse hath fir'd, It is those monstrous ugly Beasts, Hypocrisies and Interests: Both which in others I detest, But 'mong our selves, I like them best. These bring Friends and Foes about 'um, We cannot do our work without 'um.

Cruelty's nothing, Lyes, beyond compare, The best Dish in all our Bill of Fare: But the Dissembler, is most base Of all our cursed Hellish Race. Fierce Revenge, of bloody Hue, Is Devil-like, but True: But of all Fiends, as to my mind, The worst is, of the Fawning kind.

Hang the Hypocrite, he is most Evil, For he would not stick to betray the Devil. The black I'le trust; but the white Devil Is the Contriver of all Evil. The Hypocrites, 'tis sadly true, Both Devils and Witches out-do. Rogues are all for what they can get, In heat or cold, in dry or wet; All is Fish that comes to Net.

By fair or foul means, rap or rend, Rake all together, nothing spend. A Principle of Self-love and Gain, To thrive by others Loss and Pain: To flatter all both Poor and Rich, And for a Penny kiss their Britch. These to us more Skill impart, Than thousand Masters of the Black Art.

I loath it most in wealthy Swains, Noble and Learned stoop to Gains: 'Tis common to both Gowns; I had almost said to Crowns. Ambassadors of State, Dissemble at a strange Rate; Swear to peaceable Conditions, Intend Warlike Expeditions.

Consuls, Senators, Tribunes fail, Base fawning Roman wags his Tail. For an Heroick Sir to leer, Under his Bonnet, mow and fleer; How ill it looks in a Peer? How do the Common-People Jeer? After Promises and Oaths most repeated, You shall be sure to be most cheated.

These Rascals, for being so base, Are to our Profession a Disgrace. Sordid Lucre ne're tempted us so high, Our Vows and Covenants to deny. Methinks these Faces of Angel-Hue, When the Heart is most untrue; Look worse by far than Wolves or Dogs, More loathsom than Toads or Frogs.

A base counterfeit, couzning Hag More's hist at, than Bob-tail, Tag and Rag. Tatter-de-Mallions we know, And shabby, lowzy Sharks let go: But Priests and Lords, and Lawyers wise, For them to go in a Disguise, It mads my Soul, and hurts my Eyes, I would make them a Sacrifice.

I know not what can be worse in Hell, Yet, I like it abominably well. Certainly there is great Reason, To loath the Traytor, and like the Treason. Then Hypocrites, we'l use ye; But we are resolv'd to abuse ye. The World hates you, and so do we, And with both Hell does agree.

Your banging Hats and false Faces, Your killing complemental Graces: Your grave Gate, and dissembling Garb, Makes you odious to every Barb. An Indian, or Turk adores Honesty; but Treachery abhors: For 'tis to be more than a Devil, To be at once both kind and cruel.

If I have any skill in Vices, As much or more than I have in Spices; I would cut them out in Slices, Or square them into false Dices. Dissembling, with Gravity and Sanctity ill sutes, Because Always it self confutes; And much remains among the Mutes, And they are worser than the Brutes.

It gets Wealth, where there is no need, And seeming Love, without good speed: For of all Sins it is most hated, From all Company reprobated. The veriest Rogues that find them out, Cry foh, and kick them about. Though they be ne're so great, yet still the Vogues Are, Hang 'um old Knaves, hang 'um Old Rogues.

I'le burn all my Trinkets, and my Books, Before I'le trust their Words or Looks. Their smiling, whining, scowling, winking, Uncorrespondent to their Thinking: Besides a lownging, cringing Gate, There is no end of all their Prate; Out-chat the Devil, or his Mate, And still keep a stinking State.

Never threaten, never frown, But (like the Devil) run ye down. Hell's fear'd, because 'tis Hell; But her's Heaven, and yet nothing Well. They never Travel without Hoods, Bid you stand, and take your Goods; Charm your Eyes, enchant your Ears, Save ye, and bring ye into all Fears.

Witches are a Mongrel-Breed, Betwixt Imps and Human Seed; Like Fawns, Satyrs, Moors, Jackanapes, and Monky Whores: But these, What shall I call 'um? Where are they, or what will befall 'um? Above Devils I will enstall 'um, I wish I could at last Enthral 'um.

CANTO XV.

There's a S••rivana in the Town, No Gentleman, nor yet no Clown: Partiperpale, up and down, Betwixt the Cloak and the Gown. No Lawyer, but a Law-Driver, A vexatious Suit-Contriver. Understands deep Points of Law, In any Evidence to make a Flaw. A cleanly Conveyancer of Lands, Or Houses, into his own Hands.

Such an One has the unhappy Curse, To be a Master of every Mans Purse. To know every Mans Estate, Be it early, be it late; Be it in, or out of Date. For a Mortgage, or a Sale He's ready, he will ne're turn Tail. Have you a Golden Mine lies by you, This is the only Man to try you.

Intrust him with your Coyn, estsoon He'l take his Interest by the Moon. He regards not Solar years, No more than Orphans, or Widows Tears. Let him alone to tare and rack The Cloaths from the Strangers Back. Let him alone to make his Best, And pop you off with Bare Interest.

Betwixt Berwick and Dover, For a Mortgage over and over. Or if you think that an Abuse, Pawn your Money, Use upon Use: There's Principal and Procuration, There's Bummaree and Continuation, There's enough to undo a Nation. Poor Spaniard with all his Plate, Has not paid Interest for Eighty Eight.

Go to the Bankers of Lombard-street, Try Genoa where Usurers meet: You shall bring Grist unto the Mill, And you shall be the poorer still. You are empty, but they fill, And nothing is against your Will. There's your Hand and Seal to show it, But what's Interest, you shall never know it. For you, they shall take care to bestow it, For fear you should overflow it.

All this while, Good men and True, They give to every one his due; They keep your Goods, and their own too. Never question an Account, Let 'um lie by, Bills will amount. I say then, Look up and Trust, For at last, be undone you must. Take no care, borrow and spend, Your Bags will never have an End; Till in the Gaol at last we find ye, In Chains, with your Hands tied behind ye.

There's a prime Mortgage, there he lurches, And turns it into a Purchase. He's free to lend, and you to borrow, You shall find it to your sorrow▪ For you shall be a Beggar to morrow. He plunges you in Suits of Laws, Tells you, Your Causes have no Flaws; 'Till you are left alone 'ith' Lurch, With never a Farthing in your Purse.

Get him a rich Heir, Fool, or Mad, Or a poor Helpless Novice Lad; Or a young Lass, 'tis ne're the worse, Provided she has a good Purse. Make him an Overseer you must, Or a sole Guardian in Trust. Let all your Deeds be at his Commands, You shall never get 'um out of his hands.

He'l marry him or her to a Son, Nephew, or Niece, Is not this the Golden Fleece? Or if he, or she, have been Rangers, And married themselves to Strangers; Then comes Bills for House-keeping. For washing, scowring, rubbing, sweeping. So much for Cursing, so much for Swearing, So much for using, so much for forbearing.

So much for England, so much for France, So much for Singing and learning to Dance. So much for practising on the Lute, Organ, Violin, Cornet and Flute. All this, and more, who dares confute? Down with your Dust, Sir, and be mute.

So much for Fines, Repairs, and Leases, Building, mending Sluces and Breaches. So much for Plowing and Dunging of Grounds; So much for Hawks and Hounds. So much for Servants, Rogues and Whores, And in Charity, so much for Poors, The right way to be turn'd out a Doors. So much for Riding the Great Horse; For the Vaulting School, draw your Purse.

So much for Plays, Masques, and Interludes; So much for Compounding of Feuds. So much for Journeys, to and fro; So much for what you must not know. So much for Seconds in a Strife; So much for parting Man and Wife; So much for helping to save his Life. So much to buy him a Place; Sir, I cannot bate you an Ace.

So much for Taylors and Merchants Bills, For Doctors and Apothecaries Pills. So much for Pictures, so much for Books; So much for Cutpurses, so much for Rooks. So much for Bear-Garden, Cock-Pit, and Races; So much for Horses, and for Paces. So much for Ribbons, so much for Laces; So much for Patches, and Painted Faces.

So much for Garlands, and Gay-things; Puppets, Babies, and Play-things. So much for Swords and Belts, so much for Fidlers; So much for Juglers, Gypsies and Ridlers. So much for Claps, so much for Poxes, For Running o'th' Reins, and hunting the Foxes.

So much for Bawds, Pimps, and Doxies; So much for poor Whores Chrismas-Boxes.

So much for Gaming, and so much for Betting; So much for Hunting, and so much for Setting. So much for Angling, and so much for Netting; So much for Drying, and so much for Wetting. So much for Carrying, and so much for Fetching; So much for Shrinking, and so much for Stretching. So much for Vouching, and so much for Wagers; So much for Sureties, and all sorts of Engagers.

So much for Fasting, and so much for Eating; So much for Silence, and so much for Speaking. So much for Laughing, and so much for Weeping; So much for Waking, and so much for Sleeping. So much for Lying, and so much for Cheating; So much for being Basted, and so much for Beating. So much for breaking Glass-Windows and Gates; So much for broken Legs and broken Pates.

So much for Turning, and so much for Winding; So much for Losing, and so much for Finding. So much for Cudgeling, so much for Fencing; So much for Drinking, and so much for Wenching. So much for Catch-poles, Bumbaylies and Keepers; Gentlemen Wakers, and Gentlemen Sleepers. So much for Monkies, Apes and Baboons; So much for losing Silver Spoons. So much for Sweeting, so much for Stinking; So much for Acting, so much for Thinking.

So much for Jewels, Pendants and Rings, Points of Venice, Necklaces and Pins: Powders, Perfumes, Essences, Roses, Elixirs, Spirits, and Quelque-Choses. So much for This, and so much for That, And so much for No body knows what. Where's your Estate now, poor Fools, Can ye work without Tools?

The Total Sum, for Meat, Drink, and Cloathing, Is so much for Every thing, and so much for No∣thing.