Ovid travestie, a burlesque upon Ovid's Epistles by Alexander Radcliffe ...

PENELOPE to VLYSSES, Lately translated out of OVID: Now BURLESQU'D

The ARGUMENT.

There hapning a Rebellion in Scotland, in that Army which went under the Command of the Duke; Ulysses went Voluntier. The Rebels being quell'd, the Army return'd home; but Ulysses lay loitring at some Inn on the Road; which when his Care∣ful Wife Penelope understood, she sent him this Epistle; giving him an Account how Affairs stood at home.

YOur poor Penelope admires that you Should ever use a Woman as you do!

Now every Souldier's at his own aboad, You, like a Sot, ly tipling on the Road: You are not left behind 'em as a Spy, T' inform, in case of second Mutiny: The Devil of Hell will have that Fellow surely, Who first began this plaguy Hurly-burly. Had it not been for this unlucky Fight, Y'ad stuck to work all day:—to me at night. Poor I must drudge at home all sorts of wea∣ther, And knit,—as Heaven and Earth would come to∣gether; Twirling a Wheel, I sit at home—hum—drum, And spit away my Nature on my Thumb: Thus, while I spin, you, like a careful Spouse, Go reeling up and down from house to house. Being you stay'd so long, I did conjecture, You had been maul'd by Sauny, the Scotch Hector: Old Nestor's Son, that Fool, stood just by you, When's empty Scull, they say, was split in two:

And, when he dropt, for all you are so stout, You wish'd your self at home, in shitten clout. Yet, after all, Vlysses, I am glad You are alive, though you're a scurvy Lad. Our Neighbours here all day do tittle tattle, And talk of nothing else but Bloud and Battle; Were you at home, you could not chuse but laugh To hear 'em crack and bounce, now they are safe: Perhaps when three or four of them are met, And round about a Kitchin-Table set, There's such a Noise, a Clutter, and a Din, The Rebel Scots are routed o're agen. Some with Tobacco-Pipes upon the Table, Do valiantly demonstrate to the Rabble The Foes chief Strength; with that another Spark Hamilton's House describes; a third, the Park; Another spils some Ale upon the Bench, And, with his Finger, learns you to entrench;

One acts how fierce our valiant Souldiers ran-on, Dismounts a Can, and tells you, 'tis a Cannon; Another cries, Neighbours, observe and look. This Pot's Sir Thomas, and this Glass the Duke. Thus while the Husbands draw this bloudy Scheme, The Wives, behind their Chairs, were in a Dream; Nay, some of 'em (I question whether'ts true) Do tell some mighty Deeds perform'd by you; That, being provok'd, you like a valiant Man-drew, And cut a Scotch-man's Luggs off—by St. Andrew. I'm ne'er the nearer, though they're overcome; If you'll not mind your Bus'ness here, at home: For my own part, I would not care a pinn If they were still in Arms, and you in mine: Pr'ythee, come home; I cannot chuse but wonder What-a-God's-name you can be doing yonder: By every Post and Carrier to the North I've sent more Paper then your Neck is worth:

I've sent to Hull, to Berwick, and to Grantham; I might as well have sent a Post to Bantam. Perhaps some Tapster's Wife subdues your Heart, Or else her Drink's so strong you cannot part: And, when you're drunk, Lord, how your Tongue does run, That you've a House well furnish'd here in Town, In which your Wife (or rather, Drudge) doth dwell As constantly at home, as Snail in Shell. (But yet, when I remember parting Kisses, Then, then, methinks, thou shouldst be true, Vlysses.) My Father says, you're drown'd i'th watry Main; The old Man joques, and bids me wed again; His Counsel, like himself, is still unsound, I'd rather he were hang'd then you were drown'd. Every day here comes a sort of Fellows, Enow to make a foolish Husband jealous, From Whetson's-Park, Moor-fields, or such like places, Fellows with Cuts and Frenches in their Faces;

There are but seven Fingers amongst four, And here they domineer, and swear, and roar: Two of 'em say, they have been vast Commanders, The other trail'd a Pike with You in Flanders; There's one of 'em, they call him, Merry Robert, He, in a merry way, broke up the Cubboard; Here hath been Irus too, that Irish Thief, W' hath eaten up a Surloin of Roast-bief; What signifies my Father or my Self, We can't secure our Meat upon the Shelf? What great defence can Nurse or little Boy-make Against a Fellow with a Horse's stomach? The little Rogue, your Son, was almost drown'd, Padling about, he tumbled in the Pond, But we recover'd him with much adoe, I hope, hee'll prove a better Man than you. In short, If speedily you do not come, You will be eaten out of house and home:

The old Man's crazy, we from him must part; And I have lay'd your usage so to heart, That I am grown so wither'd now with Grief, I look—more like your Mother then—

Your Faithful Wife, PENELOPE.