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

CANTO XII.

A Lady fair, as I am told, Never desired to live to be old: And therefore this most Curious Lass, Spying the first Wrinckle of her face in a Glass; Out of the World in all haste she stole, And told never a living Soul. Poor Fool, when Youth and Beauty fled, Was woundy willing to be dead, As e're she was to lose her Maiden-head. Agreeable to the old Relation, Better be out of the World, than out of the Fashion.

A Vestals Hair-Lace drew the Hulk, In which the Mother of the Gods did sculk: To fetch her off, many a Yoke Of Horse and Men their Tacklings broke,

So Nun Claudia, that was Cast By this Trial, was prov'd Chast. Mark it, she that cries Whore first, Of Whores proves evermore the worst.

The Spaniard is a Formal Fop, The French a Whirligig, Town-Top. The Savoyan a dull Thinker, The German a deep Drinker. We are all Tramontana Gulls, Meer Asses, Artick and Antartick Bulls, And Dunces of empty Skulls. Italians are the Worlds pure Wits, If we're Ingenious, 'tis by Fits.

The Scots are false-hearted Scabs, The Irish lazy, lowzy Shabs, Live upon Vinegar and Crabs. Hollanders Slovens, Swedes and Danes, Old Goths and Vandals have no Brains▪ All that dwell in the Alps Northside, Are full of Ignorance and Pride. Italy's the place for wanton Boys, Curtesans, and Fantastick Toys.

Believe Do•• Quixot▪ Amadis de Gaul, The Suns Knight Palmerion, Devils and all. Lucretia dyed not 'cause she would be chaste, But because Tarquin from her made such haste. Terti•• dyed of the Pox, Supposed honest by Cato the Fox, Cuckolated with broad Horns, like an Ox.

Italy for my Money, Roma Santa, Better than Greece and the Levanta. Here sit I in my dark Cell, To tell Tales from Earth to Hell, And I like my Humor well. Ask Venus, if Hector or Mars were not Twangers, If Polyphemus and Hercules were not Bangers. I Canidia am highly Fam'd, Because I was yet never Tam'd.

Spirit of Harts-horn and Amber, Make my Fancy caper and clamber▪ Give me the Italian Liberty, Wedlock's miscarried, 'Tis a perfect Bilboes to be married. They do be witch 'um and bewhore 'um, As their Fathers did before 'um; Cuckolds all, More Majorum.

I desire to be rich in Pleasure, More than in Rotten Sheep and Treasure. Aristotle was my first Brood, That Metaphysicks understood. Solon was my Son in Law, Lycurgus kept Rebels in Aw. Sappho was my Daughter dear, That taught Poets to sing clear.

My Dogs are of a Spartan Race, Loelaps, Melampus, not Fox or Bawdy-face. Who was Adam's Tutorling? Or, who taught Eve to spin? Old Maids may keep their Maiden-heads, Till the Moon drop Milstones on their Beds. Maids appearing, Maids in being, These, if you know where, wou'd be worth the see∣ing.

On Cuckolds heads, Horns are planted, They deserve to run the Gantlet, And to be call'd Gentlemen of Antlet. Pig Sows and Pig Boors, Boys and Girls, Rogues and Whores. Dawbd, Patcht, Clapt and Chopt, Stew'd, Salivated, Slopt. A Hot, Wet and dry Banian, Shav'd, Rub'd Slic'd with a Wannion.

All will not do, never Sound, Rotten above, and under-ground. A wholsom Husband or Wife, Rarely found Comforts of Life. Jack and Joan Silver-Pin, Fair without, and foul within, An honest Wife can't Favour win. Honours high, and Riches gross, Seeming Beauty, Humors cross. An ugly Miss makes endless strife, To a fair, rich, and wholsom Wife; This Paints the Age to the Life.

Parents and Guardians, look well to your Charge, Let not Striplings and Girls run about at large; Such Vermin you'l find in Gravesend Barge. Keep 'um close up to their Books and Thimbles, For fear they be took with the Throw-go-Nimbles. Leave 'um to Selves, when their Tails shake, I'le warrant you, they'l make your hearts ake: If you don't nip 'um in the Bud, I'le pass my word they shall ne're be good, But vex and torment your Hearts Blood.

That for which you have toyld and sweat, In Riot, Excess, they shall drink and eat. When you're dead, they'l be frolick and jolly, Laugh at your Care, Labour and Folly. They handle the Pitchfork, you the Rake, They scatter all when your heads don't ake.

A rich young Heir comes to make his abode In the City, to learn the newest Mode. In a Tavern, so it came to pass, He meets with a delicate painted Lass. Shee's free to kiss and sit in his Lap, She knocks with her foot, and in comes a Snap. Oh Rogue, what ravish my Wife, Damme Villain I'le have thy Life.

Thus Scuffling, in steps an old Cinque-Cator, And offers to be a Mediator. Nay, pray Sir, spare the poor simple Lad, Your self was young once, and full as mad. No no, but I'le be civil, let him fight for't, But as I live, he shall dye for't. Hold Sir, I beseech you, I'le propound, The Gentleman's willing to compound, And Seal y' a Bond of a Thousand Pound.

A thousand such Cheats are continually framing, In Coffees and Stews, and Houses of Gaming; All which are not worth the naming. Did it ever Rain Geese? Has Spain got the Golden-Fleece? Who sav'd the Capitol at Rome? Who brought the Empire to its Doom? As long as our Senses don't fail us, Never think it to over-hale us.

I'le tell you a prime piece of Skill, You may believe me, if you will. There was a certain Bumkin Lout, Who was at every slashing Bout. With Heat impetuously drove, To cool himself in Venus Grove. He beg'd for Rods, would madly rail, If Lictors with Rods did not brush his Tail. He needs none to put in Bail, That resolves to go to Gaol.

And so furious was the Lown, That he must see the Blood run down. Thus he delighted above measure, To feel at once both Pain and Pleasure. The more tormented, the more he itcht, None can say, but he was bewitcht. He was conjur'd into Venus Arms, No otherwise than by Whipping Charms. We taught him upon Rue to feed, To stop the Urine of his Seed, For fear their should be more of his Breed.

Gonsales at several Stanza's, Got up to the Moon by the help of his Ganza's. And let them that long so to climb, Get up if they can, but let 'um take time, And they must be every Man in his Prime. We can teach a hundred Tricks better than that, With Moon and Stars to sit and Chat. Command their help for Peace or War, Famines or Plagues to further or bar; Alas, I feel my Brains jar.

Amalthe's great Horn, I never saw the like in all my Born. It is called Cornucopia, It is to be seen in Ʋtopia. The dogged, sullen Indian Tree, With Solar Beams will not agree. Of all the Plants, there's but this one, That shuts its Leaves against the Sun.

If it Rains Frogs 'tis Ominous, But if it Rain Hogs, Abdominous. If you lack Bread to your Meat, You may watch till it Rains Wheat. And to compleat all, 'twere fine, If there were a Spring of Wine. Of Wonders, these and more forts, Are recommended by Reports. Of all the rest, it is not good, When it rains Fire and Blood.

Rome tam'd the Barbarians, and made 'um Wise, Good Reason to take 'um in War for a Prize. The Worlds Fortunes were ne're at a stay, Till they inclined all one way. While Marius and Scylla made a Fray, The Caesars chanc'd to get the Day. All Fluctuations that had been, Setled in the Bosom of the Roman Queen.

Aristaeus Proconesus, as Herodotus writes, Travelling abroad for his Delights, Stept into a Fullers Shop by meer chance, And there fell into a deadly Trance. The Fuller amaz'd shuts his Shop in haste, To tell his Friends the ill luck that had past.

When in comes a Cyzicens, that as he rid Post, Said, he met with Aristaeus Ghost.

Trudging as fast as he could Trot Into another World, (I'le lay a Pot.) Then sought they to bury his Corps underground, But no Aristaeus could be found. It seems he was but in a Swound, Some body fetcht him again, I'le be bound. But after Seven years the story rehearses, He appear'd for a while with a Paper of Verses, Call'd Arimaspaei, and then vanisht, As if into Hades he had been banisht.

Three hundred years after, as it had been a Vision, He shew'd himself, after so long Disparition. After he had wandred out of Breath, And play'd Bopeep so often with Death; He dyed at last, and dyed in deed, Made no more hast than good speed. His Statue erected stood in Wind and Weather, Was never made of Running Leather.

Clazomenes, the same that his Soul did down lay, And took it agen for an hour and a day. Cleomenes Astipulaeus all in the Dark, To escape his Foes, shut himself in an Ark: And by a cleanly conveyance out fled, Which was a sign he was not dead. If you had trac'd him 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉, You might have overtook him upon the Rode-a.

Zamolxis was an honester Knave, Dwelt in a Subterranean Cave; Thereby to deceive the Scythian Nation, By Pythagoras's Soul Transmigration; You may believe, if you will, this Relation. For this and such like stories are as good, As the Tales of Tom Thumb, or Robin Hood.

Did the Conjurer play fair, That lockt Old Nick in th'Inchanted Chair? It seems by contract on a day, He came to fetch his Soul away. Whom the better to beguile, The Witch pray'd to sit down a while. He quickly found himself supplanted, Must not rise till a longer Lease be granted.