Versatile ingenium, The Wittie companion, or Jests of all sorts. From citie and countrie, court and universitie. : With an account of the life of the laughing philosopher Democritus of Abder̀a. / By Democritus Junior.

The Ladies answer to the praeceeding Love-Poem. Anno 1642.

WHAT, Latin, Sir? why there is no man That e're thought you an English Roman. Your Father horse could teach you none, Nor was it e're your Mother tongue: Your Education too assures Me, that your poem is not yours: Besides I thought you did detest The language of the Latine beast; But now your impudence I see Did hereby shew its modestie; Each sillable would blush you thought, If it had been plain English taught.

And that your foul debauched stuff Might do its errand fast enough. Forsooth its wisdome thought it meet, That words might run to give'em feet. Pardon me, Sir, I'm none of those That love Love-verse, give me your Prose. I wish each verse to make delay Had turn'd lame Scazon by the way; I read an hell in every line of your polluted Fescennine. Your verses stunck, to keep 'em sweet, You should have put socks on their feet' And that the answer which I shall Now write may be methodical, I'le briefly make, 'tis not amiss, An Anacephalaeosis. And first I look'd for Nestor, when Meer Cupid trickles from your pen; Who was your father you make proof By your Coults tooth though not your hoof. She that was great with you you hold Did not lie in, but was with fold. I wonder one so old, so grave, Should yet such youth, such lightness have; Of the five members you alone Shall be esteem'd the Privy one; Who (like the Gnosticks) preach, your text, Increase and multiplie; and next Convincing Doctrines you deduce, Put out the lights and so make use. You say I am a Maid exceeding Apt to be taught by you good breeding, But where there's Breeding, it is said, There's none, unless a broken maid: Turn Papist, Stallion, they'l dispense With whoredome by an Indulgence:

Turn Friar, that thou mayst be free At once with a whole Nunnerie, There 'twill be vertue to ride on The purple Whore of Babylon. Thou mayst as soon be Turk as King; And that, ô that's the tempting thing: Then thou mayst glut thy appetite With a Seraglio of delight. I am no Proserpine, that thus I should desire an Incubus: But you must vote (if me you'll win) No Fornication to be sin. You say the house takes it not well, The King 'gainst Rebels should rebel; And that's the reason why you stand To be Dictator of the land; Which put me to a mighty toil Of getting verdigrease and oil; 'Cause such Itch-medicine is a thing That's fittest to annoint you King. You say you'ld undergo and do Wonders, would I undergo you: For my sake you would Cobler play, Your trade should be to under-lay. For me you'd spend your chiefest Blood. Pray spend it on the Sister-hood. You wish to die in those great fights Of Venus, where each wound delights: And should I once to heav'n take wing You'ld follow me, though in a String; Thank you good Sir, it is our will, You your last promise do fullfill. There's nothing spoke that pleaseth us, Like your in funes sedulus. Next come those idle twittle twats, Which call me many God knows whats;

As hallow'd, beautifull and fair, Supple and kind and debonair: You talk of women that did woe, When I am mad I'll do so too; Then that my father may not spie The coupleing of you and I, He shall be guiltlesly detected As a true Subject ill-affected, And so the Protestant shall lie In goal for fear of Poperie. Such fancies as these I've thought best Should punish'd be by being press'd. And that this Body Politick May then be well, which lies now sick. May the Greek Π that fatal Tree This Spring bear all such fruit as Thee.