He who has play'd like thee in hell,
Might e'en do t'other thing as well;
And shades of our eternal night
Were not design'd for such delight.
Therefore, if such in hell thou usest,
Thy spouse immediately thou losest.
Quoth Orpheus, I am manacled, I see:
You and your gift be damn'd, thought he';
And shall be, if my skill don't fail me,
And if the devil does not ail me.
Now Orpheus saw importance free,
By which once more a slave was he.
The damn'd chang'd presently their notes,
And stretch'd with hideous howl their throats;
And two and two together link'd,
Their chains with horrid music clink'd;
And in the concert, yell and fetlock
Express'd the harmony of wedlock.
He, by command, then lugg'd his dowdy
To Acheron, with many a how-d'ye ;
But, as the boat was tow'rd them steering,
The rogue with wicked ogle leering,
Darted at her fiery glances,
Which kindled in her furious fancies.
Her heart did thick as any drum beat,
Alarming Amazon to combat.
He soon perceives it, and too wise is
Not to lay hold on such a crisis:
His moiety on the bank he threw,
Whilst thousand devils look'd askew.
Thus spouse, who knew what long repentance
Was to ensue by Pluto's sentence,
Could not forbear her recreation
One poor half day, to avoid damnation.
Her from his arms the Furies wrung,
And into hell again they flung.
He singing thus, repass'd the ferry,-
"Since spouse is damn'd, I will be merry.
Acteon; or the Original of Horn Fair.
SOME time about the month of July,
Or else our ancient authors do lye,
Diana, whom poetic noddies
Would have us think to be some goddess,
(Tho', in plain truth, a witch she was,
Who sold grey pease at Ratcliff Cross)
Went to the upsetting of a neighbour,
Having before been at her labour..
The gossips had of punch a bowl full,
Which made them all sing, O be joyful!
A folly took them in the noddle,
Their over-heated bums to coddle;
So they at Limehouse took a sculler,
And cramm'd it so, no egg was fuller.
With tide of ebb, they got to Eriff,
Where Punchinello once was sheriff.
Our jovial crew then made a halt,
To drink some Nantz, at what d'ye call't.
And thence, if any car'd a fart for't,
Went to a stream that comes from Dartford;
Where all unrigg'd, in good decorum,
As naked as their mothers bore them;
And soon their tattling did outdo
An Irish howl or hubbubboo.
"Ola," cries one, to joke the aptest,
"Methinks I'm grown an Anabaptist;
"If to be dipp'd, to Grace prefers,
"I'm grac'd and sous'd o'er head and ears."
Whilst thus she talk'd, all of a sudden
They grew as mute as hasty-pudding:
Daunted at th' unexpected sounds
Of hollaing men and yelping hounds,
Who soon came up, and stood at bay
At those who wish'd themselves away.
But, to increase their sad disaster,
After the curs appear'd their master;
Acteon nam'd, a country gent,
Who hard by somewhere liv'd in Kent;
And hunting lov'd more than his victuals,
And cry of hounds, 'bove sound of fiddles.
He saw his dogs neglect their sport,
Having sprung game of better sort;
Which put him in a fit of laughter,
Not dreaming what was coming after.
Bless me! how the young lecher star'd!
How pleasingly the spark was scar'd!
With hidden charms his eyes he fed,
And to our females thus he said:
"Hey, jingo! what the de'els the matter;
Do mermaids swim in Dartford water?
The poets tell us, they have skill in
That sweet melodious art of singing:
If to that tribe you do belong,
Faith, ladies, come,-let's have a song.
What, silent! ne'er a word to spare me?
Nay, frown not, for
you cannot scare me.
Ha, now I see you are mere females,
Made to delight and pleasure us males.
Faith, ladies, do not think me lavish,
If five or six of you I ravish.
I'gad, I must." This did so frighten
The gossips, they seem'd thunder-smitten.
At last Diana takes upon her
To vindicate their injur'd honour;
And by some necromantic spells,
Strong charms, witchcraft, or something else,
In twinkling of the shell of oyster,
Transmogrified the rampant royster
Into a thing some call a no-man,
Unfit to love or please a woman.
The poets, who love to deceive you,
(For, once believe them, who'd believe you?
Say that, to quench his lecherous fire,
Into a stag she chang'd the squire;
Which made him fly o'er hedges skipping,
"Till his own hounds had spoil'd his tripping.
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,
The tent where they used to repair,
Is now become a jolly fair;
Where ev'ry eighteenth of October,
Comes citizen demure and sober,
With basket, shovel, pickaxe, stalking,
To make a way for's wife to walk in:
Where having laid out single money,
In buying horns for dearest honey,
O'er furmity, pork, pig, and ale,
They cheer their souls, and tell this tale.
[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 one grain of sense,
And courage to equal his wit:
From a beau of the town
Went to purchase renown,
But returned without ever a whit.
With Pacolet's horse
Young Quince took his course,
Despising some fools that would fight:
And wisely took care,
In the hazard of war,
To prevent all mischances by flight.
Let the nation's scum
For the time that is to come,
Lose a leg or an arm in the fray:
War's at best but mere stuff,
Peter Quince had enough,
When his heels to Breda made his way.
That head-piece of thine
Will much better shine
On one of the Parliament benches:
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