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

CANTO VIII.

Alma Mater Cantabrigia, Lucis & Poculi Privilegia. Sparkling Lights and Cups Brimmers, Nothing is too good for Sinners. Fresh-men take no care for Dinners, At Cards or Tables you shall be Winners. There's your Pipe and your Pot-Scholar; Score up Hostess, till it comes to a Dollar.

Oxonium bears a Crown and Book; But where's the good Liquor, you may go look, For this your Alma Mater no care took. Cambridge is the best Nurse, Oxford may her Pupils Curse; Neither of these have a full Purse. Come light your Pipe, and crown your Bowls, Both together revives sad Souls. Rich Scholar, if thus arm'd, ne're fear To stem the Fen-Baeotick Air, You may come to be Doctor of the Chair.

The Sun's the greatest Soaker, and shrowds His Red-face under a Mask of Clouds. The Large Goblet holds rare Wine, 'Tis that cheers this Heart of mine.

It makes an Old Woman dance, and a Cat speaks, And the Nine Muses to do Feats; True Scholars are seldom Cheats. At high Learning poor People are Wonderers, But all Doctors are not Conjurers, No more than all Orators are Thunderers.

In Right-hand she holds a brave lusty Bowl, And that will rejoyce a Scholar's Soul. 'Tis still supplied by Celestial Drops; Take 'um off still as fast as Hops. In Left-hand she grasps the Noble Sun, The Proctor comes, Run Scholars, run.

The Sun is your Friend, and his glorious Rays Will fill you with Learning, and crown you with Bays. You'l ne're mend your Self all your days, These are the most Refined ways. Oxford the Book does disclose, Cambridge affords you the lusty Dose, That will give you a Jolly Red Nose.

Our Mothers Breasts are always full, When drowzy in her Lap we may Lull. Oxford is a Thrifty Ant, Cambridge, our Mother, will ne're see us want. Our Mum is naked, all in her Hair; But she is always plump and fair.

The Gold Cup always overflows, I speak this under the Rose. We'l sing old Rose, and more, We'l Caper and make the Welkin roar.

Like Ʋlysses, hang up every dirty Whore, That treads upon the Colledge Floor; Porter, keep 'um from the Door.

She ever was a Pleasant Dame, My Aunt was always of great Fame. But oh, the Sun Brews generous Wine, Which makes Cambridge Wits so Fine, She's sure to have this Heart of Mine. O she's more dearer than the Muses Nine, And shall be as long as the Sun doth shine.

O 'tis Large, our Mothers Cup, And full of Nectar, drink all up. Suck your Mothers swelling Paps, And sit in your Sisters Laps: But cast not off your Fudling-Caps, And have a care of After-claps. Her Breasts are always full and dropping, There's Milk and Wine for you to Sop in. Still the good Liquor runs in my mind, Which makes Sophisters always kind.

They say, Oxford's given to Conjure, For that I and they should ne're be asunder. But as long as Cambridge good Liquor lasts, There I'le stick, and take my Repasts. This runs most in my mind, To Scholars Women should be kind. Oxford hath a Theatre, but where are the Actors? Send to Cambridge for Wits Factors.

A Brazen-Head was intended to Speak, And Prophecy, at the Devils Arse of Peak.

But more than this, all England was, To be wall'd in with Hills of Brass. To save spilling of English Blood, We may burn then all our Walls of Wood. Frier Bacon was an Oxford Gull, Tell me a Tale of a Cock and a Bull.

Cambridge, thou Mistress of all Arts, The World admires thy Childrens Parts. Because of thy dear Caresses, The Learned to thee make Addresses. Indulgent Mother to thy Sisters Seed, Both honoured by a Princely Breed. Both furnish all the World with Noble Stems, More precious than Indian Gold or Gems.

Thou stretchest out thy Arms to embrace, And kissest with a Smiling Face: And to secure us every Hour, On thy Head thou wearest a Tower. Here Venus and Mars close in Conjunction, Maintain and defend a Scholars Function.

A Towred-Head without Pain, Must needs have a very strong Brain, All solid Learning to contain. Lawyers, you want this strong Pallisado, You ne're knew a Doctor turn Renegado. To make sure, lest our Wits should falter, The Cup's a Libamen at the Altar.

'Tis better than the Muses Nine, For they all love Wine: And by the Cup they may Divine, To this my Heart does much incline.

Barbary Gold is most fine, With this a man may Sup and Dine; And quite leap over Trent and Tine, Dear Cambridge, I am ever Thine!

Mark, Scholars Cambridge Cup is Gold, Call for a Reckoning, to be pawn'd or sold. To play such Tricks you may be bold, And then your Hostess will not scold. If you chance to be put to't tuff, There's Meat and Drink, and Mony enough. Sea-men in Storms can Stem or Luff, All this while you are Reckoning Proof.

How well does a lusty Bowl become A Scholar, when his Act is done? A good Omen to Dispute under the Sun. Sophister's Heat in wrangling we see; But a comly Cup makes 'um agree. Our Mum has prepared a kind Dole, To comfort her Sons when they come from School. Who can choose but love such a Mother? We shall never find such another. It is the Fashion of all Nations, To solace themselves after hard Disputations; How can this be done without good Collations?

Beat a Point of War for the King, Master Drummer, At the Fresh-man's Feast fill 'um a Rummer. Come along good Master Vicar, In all your life you ne're drank better Liquor. Down with it, let it lie to your heart next, 'Tis for your purpose, called Tear-Text. Never fear a Jolly supply From the dropping Clouds, hard by.

The Cup full of the Rarest Wine, Is that by which Scholars Divine. As long as we have such Juyce, leave wandering, Ne're go to Oxford to learn Conjuring. Beadle call a Congregation, The Cup must go round in Convocation.

Squire Beadles, you have always brave Fees, For Batchelors, Masters, and Doctors Degrees. When the Wine is commonly drawn from the Lees, And there's brave Hony among the Bees. Besides many a rare Collation, When the Ʋniversity Cup goes in Perambulation. Which is a Scholar's great Probation, Among the Learned Generation; 'Tis highly advancing to Contemplation.

Scholars are still the best natur'd Blades, Exceeding all other Mysteries and Trades; And commonly best beloved by Maids. The Muses are Wet-Nurses, And Apollo soaks your Purses. Scholars, though of different Arts, 'Gainst all Mechanicks take one anothers Parts.

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉. The Clark is envied by the Sexton. Wizard and Witch are Sister and Brother, Never envy one another. This Juyce I cannot but admire, Brew'd by the Sun's Celestial Fire. Culinary Coals make Drink for Fools; But this for Purple Doctors of the Schools.

The Golden Cup, and glorious Sun, Replenish many a stately Tun. Therefore our Wits must needs be Fine, Furnished with such a Magazine. This is our Theatre and School, Oraculous more than Delphos Stool.

Oxford, I leave thee and thy Sons, To quaff in Vintners and Tapsters Tuns. And then to satisfie your paltry Duns, Kick 'um down Stairs, put 'um all to the Runs, Send after 'um a brace of Pot Guns.