The short lines of whose life did to our eyes Tell them, whose stern decrees impose our laws, EPISTLES. TO SIR JOHN MENNIS, Being invited from Calais to Bologne to eat a pig. I. ALL on a weeping Monday, With a fat Bulgarian sloven, To Bologne is gone, Whom I think they call Old Loven. II. Hadst thou not thy fill of carting* Will. Aubrey, Count of Oxon, When nose lay in breech, III. A knight by land and water Esteem'd at such a high rate, When 'tis told in Kent In a cart that he went, They'll say now, Hang him, pirate. *We three riding in a cart from Dunkirk to Calais with a fat Dutch woman, who broke wind all along. IV. Thou might'st have ta'en example As thy predecessor Dory.. V. But, oh! the roof of linen, But the rain made an ass Of tilt and canvas, And the snow, which you know is a melter. But what was all this bus'ness? IX. For sure it was important; For who rides i' th' wet, When affairs are not great, The neighbours make but a sport on't. X. To a goodly fat sow's baby, The old driver of swine That day sure was thine, Or thou had'st not quitted Calais. TO SIR RICHARD FANSHAW, UPON HIS TRANSLATION OF PASTOR FIDO. SUCH is our pride, our folly, or our fate, While this great piece, restor'd by thee, doth stand That servile part thou nobly dost decline Cheap vulgar arts, whose narrowness affords It lost by change of times, or tongues, or place. Nor are the nerves of his compacted strength New names, new dressings, and the modern cast, He could have made those like who made the rest |