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

CANTO II.

A Poor man's Suit you must deny, With a Rich man's Request comply; Visit him at his sick Bed, Pray for him, and wish him dead. Send daily to know how he does do, H••ping he will ne're come too; After the Messenger throw an old Shoe. By all means you must be civil, And hold a Candle to the Devil.

Complement him while he has breath, And Caress him after Death. Carry the Pall, and wear the Black, And privately, for Joy, drink Sack, The veriest Knave in all the Pack. Entertain the Man you hate, If he be great, do it in State; Always keep a proud Gate.

But the Woman, you must know, Must be brought unto your Bow, Just as I us'd to be, With a Female Charity. The best thing a Man can give, Is to please a Woman while you live. She'l accept it from a Flale, In Fee-Simple, or Fee-Tail. For a Voyage set Sayl, Honest men never fail.

O this Rare obliging Sect, Like the Suns Beams on all Reflect.

A Dunghil they will not neglect, To Dirty Whores give your respect. Annyseed-Robin, or Pudding-Pye-Doll, You have them all in your Scroll. He that bears a Flattering Face, Obliges all the Populace.

These are the Men that prosper fair, Command in the Saddle, and Rule in the Chair. If you wont stoop to his strain, On the Dunghill complain. The Coast was clear, the World shew'd you the way, If you won't follow, behind for ever stay. Slaves in the World must be kept low, On their Dunghils the Cocks crow. But Flatterers wisely Aspire, Like Eagles, bravely to mount higher.

Fools are content to be honest and poor, Slaves to every rich Rogue and Whore: For want of a few broad Cheats and Lyes, The honest Ass pines and dyes. Is it not better to be rich and brave, (Tho a Man be, and be counted a Knave,) Than to be ragged, torn, and true, And never rise to get his Due?

They that won't the way of the World go, Must resolve to be crusht and kept low, All Affronts and Wrongs undergo: And 'tis well if they can 'scape so, Sometimes they're hang'd for't, I'le tell you but so.

I know not what I lack, tho I e're had a brazen-Face, Yet I could never endure to be base: For I came of a more generous Race. A Noble Tyrant I never knew, But scorn'd to flatter the ignoble Crew, And for this give the Devil his due. He is always a brave Fellow, That loves a brisk Bowl, and will sometimes be Mel∣low.

It is of Baseness, the lowest degree, To court the Rabble by Flattery. Like the Spaniel and the Fox, Of all Knaves they most deserve the Stocks. Or the Whip rather, and the Strap, 'Till the Pox at last gives them a Clap. Any thing for such Mongrel Curs, That pretend Conscience Demurs. And dare not by Falshood make Friends, To compass all unlawful Ends.

We sit at good Cheer, and warm Fires, Enjoy all our Lust requires; And laugh at honest hungry Fryars, That durst not bring about their Desires, For fear of being counted Knaves and Lyars, Or, if you please, Spirit Tryars.

Let 'um starve if they will, for my Part, I count my self a man of Art, When by base means I get the start. As for tender Consciences, tho by Birth And Learning, of Infinite worth. To their wilful Wills I leave 'um, They need no Witches to deceive 'um.

If these Rare men want Meat, Drink, and Clothing, As this World goes, I wonder at Nothing. They may thank their Honesty, if they be no Richer, They may thank their Folly, if they carry the Pitch∣er. Away with these dull Erra Paters, Their highest Preferment ••s to be Translators. So the World's well govern'd, as Matters do stand, When Knaves and Fools get all the Land, I shall ne're get so much by my Conjuring Wand.

The false Obliger, I shall ever know For a Rascal, as he is, and so let him go. 'Tis he, at long run, shall feel the Wo, And ne're know who 'tis gives him his Deaths blow. The Slave gets into every Dress, Is ready, and yare, in every Mess. He is always hatching Eggs, Throw him ev'ry way, he falls like a Cat, on his Legs.

In Musick he screws up all the Pegs, The Slave seldom or never begs. A Pox upon him, for a Dog Rogue, He does so palpably Collogue, That he carries away all the Vogue.

Of Obliging all, the true Constitution, Is the Conscience Prostitution, Without any least Diminution made; This must needs be a Devilish Trade. To please great Men, and for Preferments sake, Any thing of such you may make; Of such Knaves your choice you may take. Any Promise, Vow or Oath, Upon occasion break your Troth.

To spare none be loth, All Equity is but Froth.

See you there an honest Man, Strive to undo him, all you can. Such an one did but steal a Cow, Who look't o're the Hedge? Such a Rogue as you. Hang ye, Dam ye, cursed Dog, You leapt over a Frog, To take him that stole but a Hog. And now you're fallen into a Bog, You deserve a Chain and Clog.

Where there's gain or honour coming, Thither in haste ye must be running; We know this is all your cunning. Haunt their Ghosts, coming and going, Be importunately Woing, Tho it be to manys Undoing. There's no State, Warlike or Civil, But many sometimes lack help of the Devil.

Ri••le the Living, Ransack the Dead, A good Conscience is fled. Rather than not to have your ends sped, Leap over another Mans head. Then, if you can, quietly sleep in your Bed, This it is to be well Bred. Your Bed is strown with Lillies and Roses, Your Table furnished with Quelque Choses.

Rail lustily at a Thief that's poor, Because like a Rogue he got behind the door:

Or at him that got a Whore; Or a Drunkard that had not paid his Score, Tho he ne're did so since or before. You may ravish an Estate From Orphans and Widows, it is a good Bait, They were born to be poor by Fate.

He that is under a Threepeny Planet born To be a Cuckold, must wear a Horn; If by a Lord, let him not take it in scorn. Such a Slave must have no Entry, To climb up into the Gentry. Tis enough for a poor Rogue to live, To the Rich, you can't too much give. He may help you at a dead Lift, Season him well with a woundy good Gift, And he may leave you for your self to shift. And yet say, 'twas well bestown, To greaze a fat Sow, overgrown, Tho your Cause be overthrown.

For a poor Rogue to aspire, Does he think to be a Squire? Lay him over the Fire, Give him a Toss let him ne're grow higher. The way of the World I don't admire, To hinder an honest Desire. Poor Rogues must not look for their due, 'Tis in vain for them to Sue. Send 'um packing among the Crew, Starve him, beat him black and blew.

If he but offer to stand in your way, Take all he has, make him a Prey.

Send him packing to the Gang, The Poor are fit for nothing, but to hang. Stand not upon Terms of Charity, Such a Cockscomb is a Rarity; Levellers aim at a Parity. Charity and Justice begin at home, For an honest Man there can be no room, Let him not speak a word, for 'tis his Doom.

Have a care of your self, or ye deserve to be sham'd, The Rich care not if you be all hang'd and damn'd. What, tell a Rich man of his Fault? He'l not leave you worth a Groat. You're a Rogue all to Nought, 'Tis a sign you're better fed than taught. Not a word for your life, the Truth must not be spoke, The Weight's fell down, because the Jack Line broke.

Now this is your Obliging man, That will do for you all he can: He means for his own gain, 'Tis a folly to complain. If you will, he'l put you out of pain, At last come upon you fresh again. But if a poor Rogue he find you, Then be sure he never minds you, Turns you going with your hands behind you.

You that wou'd act the Dissemblers part, Must make use of the Black Art; But let not your Conscience start. You may put on a Disguise, And make a shew of Sacrifice, To hide all your Rogueries:

And wink with both Eyes; To shed Tears is Woman-wise.

He's not a Man now-a-days, That can't put on a brazen-Face. Be bold my Boy, be bold, ther'es all good feeding, Shrink not, when it comes to bleeding. To get your Ends make all the way, Put by all Rubs without stop or stay, All the poor Rogues are run away. The honest Fool is Tender-hearted, For which he deserves to be Carted.

I have seen a Fool play fast and loose, That was not able to say Boh to a Goose. A Petty-Fogger's a great Possessor, Or a Dupondio Professor, More than a famous Antecessor. A dull Mountebank▪ or Quack, Wealthy Patients never lack. To deal in mens precious Lives, for Gains, He's a sawcy Jack for his pains.

You say, I'm a bare Brazen-face-Witch, Because with my Work I go through stich. I know and believe all Truth in my Mind, But I never lov'd to practise it in kind.

I have seen a Clouted-Shun, Through thick and thin run, 'Till he hath many a Man undone. He shall haunt ye Westminster-Hall, With his Black-Box before'um all. Such a freez Thred-bare Coat, Shall leave you not worth a Groat.

He sneaks, like a simple Jack, Try him, he's Mettle to the Back.

He shall in Term time leave the Plow, To sue for a Horse or a Cow, Turn up her Tail, and her Arse kiss you. Shun him, for he's a more dangerous Knave, Than they that look big and go brave. He shall turn ye East, West, North and South, You'd think Butter wou'd not melt in his Mouth. His property is never to give out, For grubbing and rubbing he has a Hog's Snout.

This Freez-Coat, this Clouted-Shun, As very a Knave as is under the Sun. The Calling's Honest, but the Slaves Plow up honest mens Graves. At this my Satyr Frets and Raves, They follow him, with Clubs and Staves. But 'tis the sharp and false Pen, That undoes all sorts of Men. ‘ Therefore I have thus laid about, ‘ Labouring to reform the Rout, ‘ 'Till by o're heating, I've got the Gout.

Take a handsom Shee-Solliciter, She shall oblige Multipliciter. She's an admirable Visiter, You may send her to my Lord Inquisitor. She bewitches with her Looks, Men that use to write in Books. And with a Silver-Tongue besides, Every amarous Fop Rides. She constantly keeps her Tides, From Westminster-Hall to St. Brides.

Bring her to a Lawyers Bar, She opens the Case for Peace or War. If by her Tears she melt your Heart, Take her and comfort her apart. She has all her Lesson perfectly by Heart, As very a Whore as e're rode in a Cart. Nothing like her is so smart, I'le warrant your Cause shall never start, If she but offers to plead her Part.

Take a graceful comly Wench, She shall dazle all the Bench; 'Tis better than our giving a Drench. A fair-Face under a Love-black-Hood, Your Cause for her sake must be good. Her amiable looks shall win ye, Better than many a golden Guiny; Use her well, 'tis pretty Jenny. A Lawyers Heart shall quickly melt, After he has her Pulse felt; But he must be no Eunuch Gelt.

What a sly subtil Witch am I, Such new fashion Witchcrafts to spy: Which no honest Body can deny, If they will but venture to try? When the World comes once to hear it, They'l ne're be able to bear it. Go on brisk, and never fear it, Win it, brave Lads, and wear it; To be sure the Cause will bear it.

I may lye a Bed till Noon, You'd as good throw your Caps at the Moon.

The Dog-Star at the Moon does Bark. You have got Venus in the Dark. The roguing Cur smells something, Hark, He finds you are a very Shark. A Blood-Hound will ne're leave hunting; A fat Hog will ne're leave grunting.

You may be sure, all is not right, When Rogues run abroad to steal in the Night. When drunken Sots make troublesom Stirs, This causes the Barking of the Curs, Even amongst them that wear Furs. All's not well, when we ring so many a Knell, Where can we in safety dwell? The World is the worser Hell, You understand this very well, I nothing but the Truth tell. The Blood-Hounds have a very strong smell, And I like my Humor well.

I do't to find out Rogues and Whores, That turn all Honesty out a doors, Not sparing Rich or Poors. I've lost my Wits with turning and winding, Knaves and Fools in all places finding, Never Honest Folk minding. Nothing I say, or do, is binding, I shall have a time to leave off grinding.

These are your Obliging-Men, That turn about 'fore and aft, too and agen. There's nothing but Knavish shufflling, Snearing, Toping, Ranting and Scuffling. I heard one complain, Sir, Where shall I find A Man that has an honest Mind?

I clapt him o'th' Back, and said, Be of good Cheer, If you will, you may find an honest Man here. In your own Clothes, 'tis your own fault. If you don't, you need not be naught, I am sure you're better Taught.

Let Honesty be ne're so much out of fashion, 'Tis better than Interest or Obligation. You never heard me talk at this rate, The Devil rebukes Sin, it seems, but of late; 'Tis sure, by some Destiny, or Fate. The Pot the Kettle black Arse calls, The Hypocrite stands, rises or falls.

‘ As bad as I am, I am for Truth pure and neat, ‘ Or any thing that will do the Feat. ‘ Cross Rascals make me all in a Sweat, ‘ Give me something to drink and eat▪ ‘ I hate to see Religion sold by the Great. ‘ My Spirits, I think, are ready to fail, ‘ To see so many Lyes sold by Retail. ‘ I labour against it Tooth and Nail, ‘ By this Rule Knaves will never fail: ‘ And then I resolve for some other Land to set Sail, ‘ But whereever I am, ne're to turn Tail.

‘ I'm forc't to be tedious more and more, ‘ Because I see of Falshood greater store. ‘ How I can hold out, if you ask, ‘ I say, none but a Witch can perform this Task, ‘ (I wont be known, lend me my Mask.) ‘ And still a Witch is more than their Match, ‘ Let 'um lock to themselves, Harm watch, Harm catch.

‘ I'm sure, I'm quite condemn'd by the Letter, ‘ Because I do worse, and know better. ‘ And besides, I do mischief my self, ‘ More than an ordinary Elf. ‘ I never lov'd to halt before a Cripple, ‘ To kill, not cheat the Common People. ‘ Nor am I of the Priest's Trade. ‘ To ride the Hackny Vulgar to a Jade.

You may find of Knaves good store, If you go down to Gravesend or the Buoy in the Nore. And if you'l further launch out to the Main, Youl see Pirates and Pickeroons ransack for Gain. From Dunkirk, Algier, Tripoly and Sallies, To furnish Slaves to run in the Gallies.

I find there's another great Flaw, Necessity has no Law. Necessity, I say, not forc't, but made, Is now become a most damnable Trade. It hides all Villany from Whelps, That never could invent better Helps. A Complement's one thing, Necessity's another, With both these Cloaks they'l cozen their Brother, And plead, 'tis lawful to undo each other.

They could not help't, they must comply; I beg your Pardon, I tell you no Lye, I was forc't to yield to Necessity. So they Baffle among the Throng, Cheating and Lying for a Song. In case of Compliance, Correspondence I love. In case of Necessity, my Valour I prove.

Mystical Rites, Priests keep close to themselves, And send the Laity to be taught by Elves. Oracles, and Sybills Books, are conceal'd, Because all Truth, forsooth, must not be reveal'd. Prophecies and Miracles, are most of 'um Cheats, Pretended by them that would seem to do Feats.

Constantinople, Turks call the Red Apple, And for it Christians shall one day grapple: Let Naples, as well, be call'd, the Horse Dapple, The Homage of Spain, led to the Pope's Chappel, My Flying-Horse Pegasus, lacks a Snaffle. Omnia Gladii Pedissequa, It makes all Cowards run away.