And there Stamford came, for his honour was lamė Of the gout three months together; But it prov'd, when they fought, but a running gout, For now he outruns his arms and his guns, What Reading hath cost, and Stamford hath lost, Goès deep in the Sequestrations; These wounds will not heal with your new great seal, Nor Jepson's declarations. Now Peters and Case, in your pray'r and grace, Isaac and his wife, now dig for your life, A SECOND WESTERN WONDER. You heard of that Wonder, of the lightning and Which made the lie so much the louder: [thunder, Now list to another, that miracle's brother, Which was done with a firkin of powder. O what a damp it struck thro' the camp! It blew him to the Vies without beard or eyes, When out came the book which the newsmonger From the preaching lady's letter, [took Where, in the first place, stood the conqueror's face, Which made it show much the better. But now, without lying, you may paint him flying, And now came the post, save all that was lost; By a trick so stale, or else such a tale This made Mr. Case with a pitiful face Tho' his mouth utter d lies, truth fell from his eyes, Now shut up shops, and spend your last drops A DIALOGUE BETWEEN SIR JOHN POOLEY AND MR. THOMAS KILLIGREW. POOL. To thee, dear Tom! myself addressing, Destitute of my wonted gravity Making efforts with all my puissance, KIL. Come leave this fooling, Cousin Pooley, And in plain English tell us truly Why under th' eyes you look so bluely? 'Tis not your hard words will avail you; you, When young you led a life monastic, Now in your age you grow fantastic. POOL. Without more preface or formality, A female of malignant quality Set fire on label of mortality; The fæces of which ulceration KIL. Then, Cousin, (as I guess the matter,) You have been an old fornicator, And now are shot 'twixt wind and water. Your style has such an ill complexion, You that were once so economic, Yet be of comfort, I shall send-a Whether it pullen be or shanker, Or tho' your piss be sharp as razor, Nor shall you need your silver-quick, Sir; But you that are a man of learning, Once in a pit* you did miscarry; POOL. Give me not such disconsolation, Tho' it may gain the ladies' favour, And I will rub my mater pia, And put it in my litania. Hunting near Paris, he and his horse fell into a quarry. |