Acteon nam'd, a country gent, Who hard by somewhere liv'd in Kent; Faith, ladies, come,-let's have a song. To vindicate their injur'd honour; Strong charms, witchcraft, or something else, But I, who am less given to lying, Than jolly rakes to think of dying, Do truly tell you here between us, She only spoil'd the spark for Venus; Which soon his blood did so much alter, He car'd for love less than for halter: No more the sight of naked beauty Could prompt his vigour to its duty: And in this case, you may believe, He hardly stay'd to take his leave. He had a wife, and she, poor woman, Soon found in him something uncommon. In vain she striv'd, young, fair, and plump, To rouse to joy the senseless lump. She from a drone, alas! sought honey, And from an empty pocket money. Thus us'd, she for her ease contrives That sweet revenge of slighted wives; And soon of horns a pair most florid Were by her grafted on his forehead; At sight of which his shame and anger Made him first curse, then soundly bang her. And then his rage, which overpower'd him, Made poets say, his dogs devour'd him. At Cuckold's Point he died with sadness; (Few in his case now shew such madness ;) Whilst gossips, pleas'd at his sad case, Straight fix'd his horns just on the place, Lest the memory on't should be forgotten, When they, poor souls, were dead and rotten; And then from Queen Dick got a patent, On Charlton Green to set up a tent; Where once a year, with friends from Wapping, They tell how they were taken napping. The following age improv'd the matter, And made two dishes of a platter, With basket, shovel, pickaxe, stalking, [The following poems are extracted from the manuscript of Lord Lanesborough, called the Whimsical Medley. They are here inserted in deference to the opinion of a most obliging correspondent, who thinks they may be juvenile attempts of Swift. I own I cannot discover much internal evidence in support of the supposition.] On Mr Robarts, by the name of Peter Quince. As one Peter Quince, With Pacolet's horse Young Quince took his course, In the hazard of war, To prevent all mischances by flight. Let the nation's scum For the time that is to come, That head-piece of thine Will much better shine On one of the Parliament benches: But, on second thought, And Quince be thou safe among [wenches.] For all thy ill stars, In the house thou has peers, Or else the dull fools would ne'er choose you, Of taxes complain, But shun the campagne, For soldiers will always abuse thee. Thy pretty white hand Was never designed To meddle with dirty cold iron; You know you were made For another guess trade, When thy beauties the ladies environ. The noblest pride Always will ride, In Peter, top and top-gallant, And Cutler's coin* Made Quince for to shine, And scorn the poor rogues that are valiant. Upon the Pope's giving a Cardinal's cap to a Jesuit, on the death of Cardinal de Tournon. TOURNON, the illustrious cardinal, is dead! The pope, however, unconcerned stands, Altho' of holy church the head; And puts a Jesuit in his place. Men wonder at it; but the pope well knows Sir John Cutler, a noted usurer. The Fable of the Belly, and the Members. THE members on a time did meet, As factious members do, And were resolved, with hands and feet, The Belly to o'erthrow. The idle paunch they all decreed Which never did, in time of need, Aid or assist the heart. So 'twas resolv'd in Parliament, That trustees should be thither sent But when they found the Belly flagg'd, The Belly [to] a free trade, The whole should be decay'd. The humble Petition of gossip Joan to her Friend, a North Britain Lady, who had promised her some Snuff at her return out of Scotland. IN forma pauperis I to you Thus by petition humbly shew: Our little isle being barren of mundungus,* We praise the Lord you're come among us ; For, since by union we are the same, We plead a right to what you claim. "Whom he brings in among us, And bribes with mundungus."-Ludy's Lamentation. |