Æsopicks: or, A second collection of fables, paraphras'd in verse, adorn'd with sculpture, and illustrated with annotations. / By John Ogilby, esq; his Majesty's cosmographer, geographick printer, and master of revels in the kingdom of Ireland.

FAB. XXX. Of the Painter and the Devil.

AS in deep Extasie upon a Piece Must Modern Latium stain, and Ancient Greece; The Story various, many Figures in't, A Painter sate; 'mongst which, the Ftend in Print, As most concern'd, must take a special Place, In his own Colours, and true Devils Face: Yet to be Horrid, as the common Guise, Horns, spirie Flames, Fire in his glaring Eyes, His gaping Jaws wyre-drawn from Ear to Ear, Serpents contorted, mix'd with Elf-lockt Hair, Would not stand well: A Devil of the Times, A Demure Fiend, that holds forth Godly Crimes; That Smiling Stabbs, Cheating with Yea and Nay, A handsom Goblin for a Holy-day, He now must Draw: At last he falls to Paint What well might stand for Satan, or a Saint; A China Cacademon, the Fore-ground Fills with bold Shadows, like a Statue, round:

Which whilst he Finish'd, heightning touch by touch, Till, as he fancied, he had Pourtray'd such; Whilst his new Idol he licks o're and o're, A Person enters he ne're saw before:

[illustration] a young artist, surrounded by his tools and with other pictures on the wall, paints a portrait of a bewigged gentleman.

After some Formal Conges, Cap and Knee,

Let me, he said, Sir no Disturbance be; Pray keep your Place: A Virtuose I am, And your Admirer, hither sent by Fame: Though in this Town I long have frequent been, And me perhaps in Publick you have seen, Leading a Troop, or in the Pulpit, where You seldom Visits make; or if you e're To the Long-Parliament had your self addrest, Where nothing past without my Worships Teste, We might have ben acquainted, there I cou'd Have don a Person of your Worth some good; So I till now no means could find to own You, Honou'd Sir, nor make my self thus known.

Whilst th' Artist Eye scarce from his Work did stir, Answering to all, Ah Sir, Your Servant Sir, He thus went on; This Figure newly drawn, Which now you seem so much intent upon, Shews rarely well; you with no sparing Hands Here dropt your Skill: How boldly off it stands! Pray let me ask you, Sir, without offence, Are you acquainted with his Excellence, Or late from the Low-Countries got his Sketch? Howe're, the World the Work shall never match: Or should this be a Fancy all your own, Proving so like that Prince, to me well known, His Sitting spar'd, some means, Sir, might be made, That you may double be, and trebly paid.

Who scarce by th' Artist minded, thus went on, Attention rowsing in a lowder Tone:

Sir, Sir, look up, here stands he whom you paint, Monsieur Deveil, the old Low-Country Saint; In my own likeness thus my self I show, That you may such a Friend in Person know. At this the Painter starts up from his Place, On's Picture stares, then in the Devil's Face: To him affrighted, Hogen Mogen said, Be not so discompos'd, be not afraid; What see you here? no Tempest on my Brow, But all serene, just as you paint me now! There stands my Self, each Lineament as well As if the Picture had been drawn in Hell; And we have several Famous Painters there, 'Mongst whom e're long, You, Sir, expected are; Where we mad Devils, merry Boys, and Wags, Change Fire-brands, mounted on Infernal Hags; And when grown weary of those rougher Sports, We Antiques Dance beyond all Masques in Courts, And have our Poets in their several Desks, Writing Lampoons, Plays Riming, and Bourlesks; We act Ragooe there, Sandie, Tegue, and Thump, And merry are, as when you burnt the Rump. You by this Face my Character may find, These your own Lines are Tables of my Mind, Slight Fire-side Stories, and such idle Dreams: When we are pleas'd, we are in the Extreams. For me so well thus Pencill'd Fiend and fair, I would not Gold present, encreasing Care, Ask something may about your Heart sit warm, Against all Fears and Jealousies to Arm;

Bethink your self of some Rich Jewel, will Keep sweet Contentment in your Bosom still.

The Artist, though much troubled and dismaid, Thought if the Fiend for him a Favor had, He should uncivil be to slight his Grant, Though (thanks to God) he knew no Personal Want.

Then romaging his Brains, he cries, My Wife, O gracious Devil, dearer than my Life, Make her my onely Comfort, Joy of Joys, Else all this Worlds Felicities are Toys. Ah! out of your abundant Goodness grant That none in her Embraces me supplant.

The Fiend reply'd, You know not what you ask; To Translate Kingdoms is an easier Task! I that have plaid the Fiend since two years old, Studied this Point as much as Devil could, Ransack'd the Elements, Earth, Sea, and Hell, Could ne're find such a Charm, nor binding Spell, Nor Locks, nor Keys, nor Adamantine Wall, But when they sweeten once, they break through all.

Yet take this Ring, and put it on; so long As this you wear, none shall you ever wrong; This you of Fears and Jealousies will cure, And your fair Wife for your own Use secure, Safe from all loose Escapes, and wanton Pranks.

He on his Knees giving old Satan Thanks, The flattering Dream and Golden Devil fled, And he lay waking with his Wife in Bed:

〈1 page duplicate〉〈1 page duplicate〉

〈1 page duplicate〉〈1 page duplicate〉

The meaning of the Vision soon he found, His Finger with encircling Hymen crown'd.

MORAL.

Fond Jealousie, a Passion all Extremes, Makes us believe vain Thoughts and idle Dreams: Wives may be True or False to Husbands Beds, But Fancied Horns put Devils in their Heads.